Battlesong--Book Three of the Icebreaker Trilogy

by Lian Tanner

  “Course you can,” whispered Sharkey. “It’s not far, Rain, honest. And you and I are leading the way, along with Mister Smoke. There’s probably”—cough cough—“a song about it somewhere. Rain and Sharkey dived into the water…”

  His voice was raw and tuneless, but it did the trick. Rain said, “Then can we go right now? Please? Before I…”

  Nat was whispering to Wretched, “You go back, boy. The way we came. Go back now, go on!” He pushed the dog gently, but Wretched merely pressed closer.

  Sharkey said to Rain, “Wrap your arms around my neck. No, don’t strangle me. That’s better. Now, deep breaths. It’s going to be cold, all right? Mister Smoke, you hang on to Rain. Everyone ready?”

  Petrel put her arms around Gwin’s neck. She was trembling too, which Gwin hadn’t expected.

  “Don’t like this”—cough cough—“swimming business,” whispered Petrel, in Gwin’s ear. “Where I come from no one even thought of it”—cough—“unless they were winter-mad. Turn you into a berg, a swim would. That’s if the leopard seals didn’t get you first.”

  Gwin had no idea what the other girl was talking about. And she didn’t ask; Sharkey and Rain were tumbling into the pool, and it was time to go.

  She took one last look at Wretched, then rolled into the water a second after Sharkey. She heard a splash behind her as Nat and Fin followed, and then she was kicking downward, her eyes fixed on the lamp.

  The water was shockingly cold, but she’d been expecting it, and it wasn’t the worst of her problems. Sharkey was a far stronger swimmer than she was, and that spark of yellow light was getting farther and farther away. Gwin kicked harder, afraid she’d lose sight of it. Her lungs were hurting already, from the smoke and the fear, and she was worried about Wretched and worried about Nat, too, following her in the darkness. If she failed, so would he.

  But we mustn’t fail. If Hob doesn’t come, then Papa’s depending on us, and so’s Hilde. And if I’m truly the Singer, then the world’s depending on us too.

  Downward. Downward, with Gwin’s heart beginning to struggle in her chest. Please don’t let it be much farther. Please don’t let it be much—

  Ahead of her, the light disappeared.

  Gwin squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. Where’s he gone?

  She knew that if she let panic take hold of her, she was lost. Her breath would go and so would her strength. Nat would drown. Petrel and Fin would die. Papa would be hanged, and Hilde too. The world would go on as it always had, harsh and cruel. And there’d be no one left to remember Mama.

  I’m a Fetcher, she reminded herself. I’m as strong-willed as Ariel, as stubborn as the blue ox.…

  Still no sign of the lamp, and now Petrel’s hands were starting to clutch at Gwin’s throat, as if the other girl knew they were lost and was giving in to fear.

  Gwin dragged the hands away from her neck. Where could the lamp have gone? Think, Gwin, THINK!

  And then she knew. Blindly she reached out and touched rock. With Petrel clinging to her, as helpless as a newborn kitten, she hauled herself downward, hand over hand, until she found the place that had to be there, the place where the rock curved under—and up again.

  With a single kick, she swam beneath it. And saw the lamp exactly where she’d hoped it would be: high above her and heading upward.

  She kicked harder, and the two girls shot up through the water, leaving a trail of bubbles behind them. Up and up, and Gwin’s lungs were burning, and her chest was heaving, and she couldn’t think of anything except air.

  But just as she thought she would burst, her head broke the surface. She sucked the air in so fast that she almost fell backward with the shock of it. Then Sharkey was hauling her out of the water, and Petrel too. Rain lay on her back next to the lamp, and Petrel fell down beside her, coughing and spluttering.

  Gwin’s breath sawed in and out, as hoarse as a frog. But she didn’t take her eyes off that dark water.

  “Nat,” she whispered. “Come on, Nat.”

  Sharkey bent over beside her. “Should I go and look for them?”

  “No, wait—”

  She saw a stream of bubbles, and for a moment she thought—

  “Nat!” she cried. And there was her brother, surging out of the pool with Fin on his back.

  CHAPTER 27

  THE DOOR

  Fin’s wounded arm ached, and his legs were still weak from the horror of that underwater journey. But there was no time to waste. He staggered to his feet and almost banged his head on the low ceiling.

  The pool on the other side had looked like an accident, a place where rainwater had filled up a crack in the ground.

  On this side, it was clearly manmade. What’s more, although the stone walls around him were blackened with age and festooned with moss, they made up a narrow corridor that had never been destroyed.

  “The root still lives,” whispered Rain. “Someone left this place for us to find, all those years ago.”

  “But what”—Fin’s voice cracked—“what do we do with it?”

  “There’s stairs, shipmates,” cried Mister Smoke from some distance away. “And they go down.”

  Fin grabbed the lantern, and the six children followed the sound of the old rat’s voice. The ceiling was so low they all had to stoop, even Petrel. As they passed, spiders the size of Fin’s hand scuttled away from the light.

  The stairs went down and down and down, heading first in one direction, then another. Mister Smoke led the way, issuing instructions.

  “No laggin’ behind, shipmates. Turn to port, that’s the way. The roof’s nice and ’igh, you’ll notice, so you don’t ’ave to worry so much about crackin’ yer ’eads. Now take a sharp turn to starboard, and then down a few more steps. Keep up. ’Cos at the bottom of the steps, we ’ave a room, very like the corridor up top only not so cramped. And on the easterly side of the room, we ’ave—”

  “A door!” said Petrel.

  The children gathered in front of the door, staring at it in awed silence. Unlike the walls, it was made of metal. It was no taller than Petrel and completely plain.

  No. Fin looked closer. Not completely. Instead of a handle, there was a small raised section with nine metal wheels set into it edgeways. Each wheel had numbers on it.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “Control panel of some sort, I reckon,” said Petrel. “There’s one a bit like it in the Oyster’s engine room.”

  “Aye,” said Sharkey. “You have to turn the wheels. And if you get the right numbers in a row, the door opens.” He looked around. “Is there another way out of here? No? Then we’d better get started.”

  He turned the wheels. Nothing happened, so he tried again. And again.

  A small claw tapped Fin’s ankle. “Lift me up, shipmate.”

  Fin picked up Mister Smoke and brought him closer to the control panel. “Hmph, just as I thought,” said the rat. “No use tryin’ to guess somethin’ like this. It could take you a couple of lifetimes, and we ain’t got that long. We need the code.”

  “Code?” said Sharkey, still trying different numbers. “Where do we get that from? Could you work it out, Mister Smoke?”

  “Not a chance, shipmate. Gimme a busted sea valve, and I’ll have it right in two shakes of a gull’s feather. But codes ain’t my specialty. Maybe the cap’n could do it if ’e was ’ere. Maybe not.”

  “Then we must guess it,” said Fin. “Otherwise we will have to turn back.”

  “No.” Rain shook her head. “The trunk is gone, the root still lives. Whoever wrote that was clever. They would not have left us to guess the code. They would have pointed us toward it in some way.” She turned to Gwin. “There is not a third verse to the Song, is there?”

  “No,” said Gwin. “Just the two.”

  Sharkey spun the wheels, again and again. Beside Fin, Petrel turned in a circle, inspecting the stone walls. Unlike the corridor, the ceiling here was so high as to be out of sight in the darkne
ss.

  “D’you reckon this was built by the same feller as made the Oyster?” said Petrel. “Serran Coe?”

  Nat stiffened. “Coe? Your ship was built by Coe?”

  “Aye,” said Petrel. “He made it three hundred years ago to carry the cap’n away to the southern ice. To hide him from the ancestors of the Devouts. He made the cap’n too. Why?”

  “He was a friend of Ariel, the first Fetcher,” said Nat. “Papa has his timepiece. Or at least he did before Poosk took it.”

  Petrel let out her breath in a slow hiss. “Starting to fit together, ain’t it? Let’s get this door open, quick as we can.”

  But there was nothing quick about that metal door. Fin sat on the bottom step, twisting his fingers together and trying to contain his impatience. Every now and again one of the other children said something, but he barely heard it. Brother Poosk’s voice lingered in his ears.

  She thinks you do not care about her, Initiate. Saving the Fetcher cubs and leaving her behind to hang.

  Fin’s stomach turned over. He wished more than anything that he could have that moment by the oxcart all over again. He would tear his mama away from the Devouts by brute force. He would sacrifice himself to save her.

  But it was too late for any of that. He stood up and pushed Sharkey gently aside. “Here, let me try.”

  And he began to spin the wheels.

  * * *

  Gwin was exhausted, scared and sick to death of confined spaces. She wanted to feel the wind on her face. She wanted to sleep for a week. She wanted to curl up in a ball and grieve for Mama.

  But more than any of those things, she wanted to save Papa.

  Nat sat on one side of her with his back against the wall. Petrel half dozed on her other side. Something had shifted between the two girls since that water-filled tunnel. Petrel was as fierce and determined as ever, but the hostility was gone.

  “That was just plain horrible,” she’d said to Gwin as soon as they’d got their breath back. “I’m never going back in the water again. Not unless you’re there to save me.” Then she’d ducked her head as if she was embarrassed. “I’m sorry I treated you so bad before. Rain was right; I prob’ly would’ve given up the cap’n too if I didn’t know him. And if it was my da’s life at stake.”

  Despite everything, Gwin had found herself smiling—a real smile, for the first time in two months.

  She wasn’t smiling now. None of them were. The door was as stubborn as ever, though they’d been spinning the little wheels for hours. At first, they’d done it systematically, following Sharkey’s instructions. But tiredness, frustration and a desperate fear that they were running out of time had taken their toll, and now they slumped against the door when it was their turn and let the wheels fall where they would.

  At last Mister Smoke said, “Dawn’s not far off, shipmates.”

  “Dawn?” said Petrel, sitting up and stretching. “Is it that late?”

  “Aye, shipmate. I’m gunna see if I can find a way out, check on the cap’n.”

  “And Mama?” Fin said quickly.

  “And Papa?” added Gwin. “And see if there’s any sign of Hob?”

  “I’ll do my best, shipmates. No promises. Now give me a leg up. That bit of moss just above your ’ead looks likely. I can make my own way from there. Easy now, that’s it.”

  “Have you got your footing?” asked Petrel, peering upward with her hands still hovering over him. “You’re not gunna fall?”

  “And bust all these nice circuits? Perish the thought.” And Mister Smoke began to clamber up the moss.

  Within seconds he had disappeared into the gloom, and the children turned back to the door. Sharkey spun the little wheels. Fin chewed at his knuckles.

  Rain yawned. Then, as if they’d been in the middle of a conversation rather than all half-asleep, she said, “What I do not understand is why the captain needed the Singer as well as the Song.”

  Sharkey didn’t look up from the little metal wheels. “To get both verses.”

  “But the second verse does not tell us anything more than the first,” said Rain. “There must be another reason.” She nibbled her lower lip. “I wonder if you know the code, Gwin.”

  “No,” said Gwin, startled. “I’d have said so hours ago—”

  “If you knew you knew it, you would have said so. But if you did not know? Perhaps it is in another of your songs. Are there any with numbers in them? Nine numbers?”

  “I don’t—” began Gwin. “Wait, let me think.” She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. She knew dozens of songs, but she couldn’t think of a single one that contained nine numbers.

  “No,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  She thought that was the end of it, but Rain hadn’t finished with her. “What else do you do apart from sing? When you came to our village, years ago, you folded yourself up into a little box and slowed your heartbeat down until we all thought you were dead.”

  “That was just a trick,” said Gwin. “I haven’t done it for years.”

  She felt Nat sigh. Sharkey spun the wheels again.

  Gwin rested her back against the stone, wishing Papa was here with them. She wanted to see him so much that she could hardly bear it. She wanted him safe, that was a huge part of it. But she wanted to talk to him, too.

  When Mama died, Gwin had thought she might die too, of a broken heart. But at least she and Nat and Papa had had each other to cling to, and they’d all agreed that they must keep going because that was what Mama would have wanted.

  But as the days passed, they’d each retreated into their own world of anger, sadness or busyness. They hadn’t spoken about Mama for weeks. It had hurt too much.

  Gwin swallowed. She couldn’t do a thing to help Papa, not until the door was open. But there was one thing she could change.

  She leaned toward Nat and whispered, “Do you remember when—when Mama found Wretched?”

  Nat’s blind eyes blinked. Once. Twice. Gwin thought he wasn’t going to answer, but at last he nodded and said, “She was returning from a Fetch.”

  “And she saw a dog,” said Gwin, “lying in a ditch with his leg broken. So she picked him up and carried him all the way back to us, slung over her shoulder…”

  “He drooled and dribbled and covered her in dog hair.”

  “And when Papa saw them coming up the road he laughed and said…”

  The ghost of a smile touched Nat’s lips. “He said, ‘Is this the gorgeous woman I married or a wretched changeling?’”

  Gwin closed her eyes. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she slid her hand into Nat’s. “I’m sure Wretched got out safely,” she whispered.

  “Course he did,” said Nat. But his voice was uncertain.

  “My mama,” Rain said quietly, “knew the names of the stars. We used to sit outside at night and she’d teach me.”

  Sharkey spun the little wheels, his fingers so quick that Gwin hardly saw them move. “My ma didn’t like the stars. They made her feel queasy. But she could dive to a hundred feet or more on a single breath and come back with enough shellfish to feed three families. And Fa was the best navigator in the fleet, even Adm’ral Deeps said so.”

  “I don’t remember my mam and da,” said Petrel. “But Squid reckons they were as brave as a couple of sea lions protecting their pups.”

  “Like you,” said Fin. Then he flushed and added, “Perhaps we have all inherited such things from our parents. Courage, and the names of stars. The ability to dive—”

  “Songs,” said Nat, “and stories.”

  “My white hair,” said Rain.

  “Mine too,” said Fin.

  “My beads.” Gwin shook her head till her plaits rattled. Now that she’d started talking about her mother she didn’t want to stop. “They used to be Mama’s, and before that they were—”

  She froze, but in her head the sentence continued, as clear as daylight.

  Before that, they were HER mama’s, and right back for as long as any
one can remember. I got them when I turned ten. Mama said, “Never change the pattern, my lovely. It came from Ariel herself.”

  Gwin wasn’t sure if she could speak. When she did, her voice seemed to come from miles away. “My beads. Nat, my beads!”

  Sharkey, Rain, Fin and Petrel were staring at her, with no idea what she was talking about. But Gwin’s brother understood; she knew it even before he spoke.

  “Could it be?” he whispered.

  “I think it—it must.”

  The others caught on quickly. Sharkey’s fingers stopped moving, and an awestruck silence fell over the little group.

  Rain whispered, “How many plaits do you—”

  “Seven.”

  “Oh.” There was a world of disappointment in Rain’s voice.

  Gwin added quickly, “But don’t you see? The middle one has three sets of beads. Which makes nine sets.”

  Her hand rose to touch her hair. She didn’t really need to count the beads in each set—she had woven them for Mama so often, and then for herself. But her heart was beating so fast, and there was such a lot resting on this that she was afraid of getting it wrong.

  “Four,” she whispered, touching the first plait.

  Sharkey turned the first wheel.

  “Seven.”

  The second wheel.

  “Two.”

  The third.

  “Five. Eight. One.”

  The fourth, fifth and sixth wheels rolled into place. Everyone was holding their breath.

  “Three.”

  Sharkey’s fingers trembled, but they didn’t pause in their task.

  “S-six.” Gwin could hardly speak. What if I’ve changed the pattern without realizing it? What if I lost some?

  It was such a terrible thought that her hand stopped, halfway to the last plait.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Petrel.

  “I—”

  Nat whispered, “You haven’t changed it. I would’ve known.”

  Gwin swallowed. “F-four.”

  Sharkey turned the final wheel. Nine numbers lined up, numbers that had been handed down through generations of Fetchers for this very moment.