by Jen Williams
‘Don’t mess about with that!’ snapped the one with the scar. ‘You might scratch it, and those things fetch more when they’re perfect.’
‘I just want to try it out.’ The bearded one swung it again, poking at the air. The parts of his face that Frith could see were turning red. ‘How come it’s not working? I want to make ice like he did.’
‘You are a fool,’ said Frith in a low voice. ‘You think such knowledge is for everyone? The Edenier is art, poetry. Power.’ Frith blinked. His head was throbbing. ‘You are like a bear holding a lute.’
‘What’re you talking about?’ The bearded man screwed up his face in confusion. ‘He’s bloody mad, this one.’
‘Here, let me show you.’ Frith reached out and placed his hand flat on the staff. The magic inside sang, and he fed it the word for fire. Bright coppery flames erupted from the other end, blasting the bearded man directly in the face. For a moment the alley was filled with orange light, and the man fell back screaming, his head ablaze. Deftly, Frith snatched the staff from his arms as he collapsed, before spinning back and sending a wave of ice towards the scarred man, welding him to the wall up to his neck.
‘Perhaps I am not a street brawler,’ he said to no one in particular, ‘but I do have my tricks.’
He paused, checking that the knife with the mother-of-pearl handle was still safely in his bag, before leaving the alley. He took care to tread on the prone figure as he passed.
For Sebastian it was an unsettled night. His room at the Blind Pig was large and well furnished, with wide windows loosely covered in gauze – a nod towards Devinia’s standing and the Black Feather Three’s own infamy – but it felt stuffy and close, the wild jungle scent of the island thick in the air. Finally, after an hour of kicking blankets off and turning from one side to another, he gave up on sleep and went to the table instead. The Poison Chalice was due to leave at dawn, turning away from the safety of Two-Birds and heading past the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows, and from there deep into Euriale. It was going to be a long time before he slept anywhere other than a cramped ship’s bunk, and he should get what rest he could, but every time he started to drift towards sleep, the same images would swim in front of his eyes: a tiny green plant miraculously untouched by dragon fire, the look of horror on Prince Dallen’s face as the brood sisters swarmed the Narhl camp, the Second sneering at him, daring him to accept his true nature. Dawn was a long way off, but there would be no sleep for him tonight.
He poured some wine from the jug on the table and took several large gulps. It was sour, and too warm, but it eased some of the tension in his shoulders. He sighed and armed a layer of sweat from his forehead. It was enough to make him long for the winters of Ynnsmouth. Except that he couldn’t go back there, either.
‘Dallen would not like this place,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Too bloody hot by half.’
A movement by the windowsill caught his eye. Putting the goblet down he saw that there was a tiny lizard, no longer than his smallest finger, perched on the wooden ledge. At the same moment he recognised it for what it was – dragon-kin, part of his mind whispered – and he felt the thin sliver of silver in his mind. It seemed to thrum softly, a tiny slip of consciousness nestled within his own. He could feel its alertness, poised always on the brink of fleeing, and how it could hold itself utterly still until that moment. Sebastian swayed on his feet, unable to separate himself from the mind of that tiny creature, and then his awareness snapped back. He cried out, stumbling awkwardly into the table and the lizard fled, vanishing out the window with a flick of its tail. Wine ran across the wood where it had sloshed out of the goblet. It had almost been like being back with the brood sisters, the blood they shared with him making him constantly aware of their dragon nature.
‘Isu be damned.’
Sebastian ran a hand over his sweaty face, ignoring how his fingers were trembling. He tried to think of Isu, the great mountain of his home, the god-peak to which he had once sworn his sword – there had been so much solace in the snowy silence of Ynnsmouth. Instead, he went to the window, pushing the gauze aside. Outside the street was lit by a single oil lamp high on a post, painting the cobbles and the ramshackle buildings opposite in orange and black. There was no breeze, but at least the air beyond the window had a clear sky above it and … his breath caught in his throat.
At the top of the street a soft blue light was growing, building like some sinister sunrise. He’d seen that light before, outside The Blinkered Inn. He leaned out of the window, his heart beating thickly in his chest.
Why this? Of everything I’ve seen, why does this move me?
The pale ghostly figure came into sight. Just as it had the night before, it moved slowly, almost as though it was lost. The robes flung across the figure’s back flapped and twitched as though caught in a wind blowing in another world. Despite the heat of the night Sebastian felt goosebumps break out across his arms. He watched the ghost walk down the street, hardly daring to breathe, until the figure was below his window. It stopped and looked directly up at him.
Sebastian jumped back so suddenly that he whacked his head on the window frame. Wincing, he leaned back out to look down on the face of the ghost. The figure was still looking back up at him, and although it was difficult to see his features through the bright glow, he thought he could make out the smooth planes of his face, the darker furrow of his brow. Sebastian thought the figure looked worried, or confused. And then, as he watched, the ghost began to fade away, evaporating like marsh mist. In a handful of seconds, the street was dark once more.
9
The Poison Chalice moved out of Two-Birds’ bay under a canopy of relentless blue sky, turning as she did to sail along the coast. Wydrin stood on the deck with Augusta, watching as the cliffs of Euriale surged up on their port side. Here the black rock was spotted with strange, brightly coloured trees that clung to deposits of dark brown earth, while thicker vegetation crowded the tops of the cliffs like a shock of unruly hair. Even from here it was possible to see life in that jungle; birds of azure and russet, the darker flicker of monkeys moving through the branches. The crash of the sea against the cliffs was a constant rush and roar. Wydrin took a deep breath of salty air, feeling a surge of excitement. This was a wild place.
‘What a shit hole,’ commented Augusta.
Wydrin looked down at the older woman. Never tall, she had shrunk with her advancing years, and the hands she looped through the belt at her waist were knuckley and swollen. ‘Where’s your spirit of adventure?’
Augusta raised her eyebrows, black eyes glinting. ‘Spirit of adventure? I’ll bloody give you spirit of adventure.’ She sniffed. ‘When we all get torn to bits by sea beasts, or someone eats something poisonous and I’m scraping up the leavings of their guts, then you can talk to me about bleedin’ spirit of bloody adventure.’
Wydrin smiled. ‘You always did hate this place.’ Next to them the island was curving gradually in on itself, and the Poison Chalice was following. She was fast and trim, moving through the sea with barely any effort at all. Around them the rhythms of rope and sail were smooth, almost comforting to Wydrin’s ear. When Augusta did not reply, she looked down to see the old woman frowning, a distracted look on her face.
‘It’s got a dark history this place, girl. A bloody one.’ She looked up at Wydrin then, squinting into the sun. ‘Your mother won’t have told you, I suppose. As she shouldn’t, it’s none of her bloody business.’
‘What are you talking about?’
The older woman took hold of her arm, squeezing none too gently above the elbow. ‘Come on, let’s sit down for a moment. I don’t have the stamina I used to have, although I’d thank you not to pass that around.’
They sat together on a couple of crates, Wydrin noting how the older woman winced as she sat. She’d never known Augusta to get weary; the old woman had always been an alarming powder keg of energy.
‘What is it, Nan?’ she asked quietly. ‘What is it about this place re
ally?’
Augusta smacked her smartly on the thigh. ‘Don’t be calling me that, I’m no one’s gramma.’ Her face had softened a touch though. ‘I came here once when I was younger than you. Much younger. I bet you didn’t know that.’
Wydrin shrugged. Augusta had always been a pirate’s medic. It did not seem that surprising that she’d visited Two-Birds as a youth. ‘That must have been a really long time ago.’
Augusta smacked her leg again, a little harder this time. ‘Cheek. When I was a girl, the biggest trade in these parts was slavery. Big ships with people stuffed down in the hold, packed in like cattle. Mostly they were from Bararia, these ships, and they would raid to the east, on the southern coast of Onwai, and down through the Farsky Islands.’ Augusta pursed her lips. ‘I say they raided, but of course this was mostly legitimate business then. Sail up, as bold as you please, and just take people. Rip them from homes and families, take them to the other side of the world.’
Wydrin looked up at the cliffs passing slowly by. Slavery was a dirty word in Crosshaven. Ships thought to be trading in human lives were either chased out of the archipelago or forcibly boarded. ‘Even in Crosshaven?’
‘Oh yes, even in your precious Crosshaven. And it still goes on, girl, so don’t you be getting any high ideas about how much better things are now. It’s just that those that do it stay out of civilised waters.’ Augusta scowled, creasing a new pattern of wrinkles across the wine-coloured birthmark on her cheek. ‘There are still plenty of us what remember the Storm Days very clearly, very clearly indeed, but back when I was a girl, that was just simmering under the surface. Back when I was a girl, you could sail into Two-Birds with four hundred men, women and children in the belly of your ship and no one would turn a hair.’
The Storm Days. Long before Wydrin’s time, but she’d heard the stories often enough; a great uprising against slavery that had spread from the outer islands of Crosshaven right across the Torrent. Ships burning, blood in the water.
‘It gives me no pleasure to tell you this, girl, but I served aboard one of those ships myself. A lone woman in Two-Birds – you took what work you could.’
Wydrin glanced down in surprise, but Augusta wasn’t facing her. She was looking down at her boots. ‘You served on board a slaver?’ She couldn’t quite keep the disapproval from her voice. Augusta’s head snapped up, a familiar glint of fury in her eye.
‘Like I said, I took what work I could get. I served as a bone saw, mainly for the crew, but there were times when I was sent below too. When a woman was pregnant, or there was an illness below the decks.’ She touched a hand to her forehead, and her fingers were trembling slightly. Wydrin felt a stab of unease. In all the years she’d known Augusta, she’d never seen her so unnerved. ‘The things I saw, girl.’ She shook her head abruptly. ‘We were in dock at Two-Birds, and another ship came in. It was called the Starworm, and it quickly got around that it carried a terrible illness with it, something that was burning through the cargo like a wildfire. The people. It was killing them.’
Augusta sniffed again, shifting on the crate. Her tough brown boots were peeling at the toes.
‘I had a bit of a reputation by then, you see, and the captain of the Starworm sent for me. Asked me what I thought he should do. By then, more than half of them were sick. The smell of that place, down there in the dark. I knew, girl, I knew I couldn’t do it any more when I smelled that, when I saw their faces. I’d seen a lot of illness by then, but I didn’t know what it was. Something they’d brought with them from Onwai, no doubt, growing thick and nasty in the dark and heat. I told him that he needed to clean the lower decks thoroughly, wash everything down with vinegar and scorpion oil, scrub it till the place squeaked—’ The old woman paused. Wydrin kept her silence. ‘That same day he sent off for the oil and the vinegar. I saw them roll the barrels up from the dock. And then I watched them throw the sick overboard, still all chained up together, hands and feet bound with iron cuffs.’ Augusta’s voice shook, just a touch. ‘All of them into the water, anyone who was ill, or who looked ill. More than a hundred, a good portion of them children, drowned in Two-Birds dock.’
Wydrin swallowed hard, feeling cold despite the hot sun overhead.
‘It was one of the things that led to the Storm Days, of course. Stories passed from slave to slave, leading to the bloodiest uprising the Torrent has ever seen. But I shall never forget that. Watching the barrels roll up the deck, and watching the men and women fall, most of them too sick to scream. There are sharks in these waters, of course.’
‘What did you do?’
‘What could I bloody do?’ Augusta gestured angrily at the cliffs as though it were their fault. ‘I told them to stuff their job, and never worked on a slaver again. Too bloody late, of course. I have blood on my hands, as much as I tried to wash it off with good honest piracy. Some things you can never really leave behind.’
Wydrin felt a stab of real alarm. The colour seemed to have drained from the old woman’s face, and she thought she’d never seen her looking so frail. And on the back of that fear, she felt a surge of anger. Did Devinia know about this? If she did, what business did she have bringing Augusta back here?
‘Are you all right, Nan?’
Augusta snorted. ‘Am I all right? I’m an old woman, that’s what I am. An old woman who got to live out the days of her life and didn’t die vomiting in the hold of a ship, iron cuffs round my ankles, or drowning with my family chained up next to me. Of course I’m bloody all right.’ She shook her head abruptly. ‘My point is, this place is cursed. It’s not a place where people should be.’
At that moment, a shadow fell over them both. Wydrin looked up to see towering black cliffs on either side of the ship as the Poison Chalice turned inwards, following the wide waterway into the interior of the island. Suddenly out of the wind it was possible to hear the cries of birds and monkeys all around.
Wydrin stood up. A cold feeling had come over her as they sailed out of the open sea and into the shadow of Euriale. She tried to put it down to Augusta’s horrifying history lesson, but there was a sick twisting in her gut, a feeling she’d long since come to trust as a warning. Every instinct was telling her to leave this place, to put her back to it and get away as fast as she could. There would be an ending here, she could feel it. A severing of bonds.
By the Graces, she thought, there is something terrible here, and it’s looking for us.
She looked around and saw Sebastian and Frith sitting together on another cluster of crates. They were playing cards; Frith’s head was bent to his hand, an expression of fierce concentration on his face, while Sebastian was looking past him, watching the ebb and flow of activity on the deck. On the back of her sense of unease came a wave of affection for them both, and her hand drifted down to Frostling. The worn leather of the grip was a comfort to her.
Whatever it is in this place that means us harm, let it come, she thought. I’ll tear its throat out.
‘Sebastian, pass us the bottle behind you.’
It was late, and they were gathered in Devinia’s cabin. Wydrin was fetching goblets from a chest filled with sawdust, while Frith and Devinia herself stood over the map table. Sebastian passed Wydrin the bottle of wine from the table behind him, and she swiftly removed the cork and poured them each a glass. The Poison Chalice had made anchor, and in the morning Frith would begin his duties with the Edenier, providing the wind that was now hidden from them. They had already practised twice, on the way from Crosshaven, and Sebastian thought the young lord was eager to get started.
‘I’m still not sure why this is considered such a dangerous journey,’ said Frith again. He was glaring at the map as though it were refusing to give up its secrets. ‘I’ve seen nothing especially threatening so far, save for the occasional angry monkey. Judging from your map, the Poison Chalice should have little difficulty navigating to the centre of the island. And you’re telling me this has never been achieved previously?’
‘Lots
of people have taken their ships this way, certainly,’ said Devinia evenly. ‘It’s just that none of them have ever come back.’
‘There are monsters,’ said Wydrin. She shrugged at the look Frith gave her. ‘Really Frith, who are we to scoff at rumours of monsters? We passed two wrecks already today. We were lucky that the Chalice can wriggle around them.’
Sebastian took a sip of his wine. He had seen the wrecks too – black skeletal fingers covered in green seaweed, poking out of the sapphire water. There had been no obvious explanation for them, no rocks in the shallows or signs of fire.
‘She also has eight cannon, the Black Feather Three, and a crew made of flint and knives,’ said Devinia. She poked at the map. ‘We’re going to do it. I will be the first to reach the centre of the island.’
‘It will still be dangerous,’ said Sebastian, his voice low. They all turned to look at him. ‘There will be monsters, or other pirates, or dark magic. Things hidden in the hills, history we shouldn’t be disturbing.’ He met their eyes, one by one. ‘And men and women will die. Your crew will die, Devinia. Screaming, frightened and in pain. If it is one thing I have learned, it’s that death is everywhere. Is gaining the centre of Euriale worth the price, Devinia? Are you willing to let your own people die for it?’
Devinia’s dark blue eyes narrowed. The edge of her mouth curled in what was almost a smile. ‘These men and women your heart bleeds for, Sebastian. Who do you suppose they are? Priests and nursemaids, perhaps? A pack of frightened children?’ She threw back the rest of her wine in a single gulp before she continued. ‘They are the crew of the Poison Chalice, the crew of Devinia the Red, Terror of the Torrent. Men and women who live for battle and plunder.’ She cocked her head slightly. ‘Not so different from yourself, from what Wydrin has told me.’