A few minutes later they stood outside the door to the bridge, rain gradually darkening their clothes as they watched Timothy climb into the bell.
The bell was basically a suit, and it covered the entire body with airtight rubber. Held together with lashes of leather and steel couplings, it seemed a snug fit from the inside, but large and bulky from without. The helmet, a shiny stainless steel egg that fit perfectly with the seal around the neck, had a thick glass visor built-in. Tubing linked helmet to surface, supplying air. It could not, however, withstand high water-pressure; the chief couldn’t go much lower than a few metres, which was luckily all he needed.
They slung a ladder over the side, and Timothy tentatively made his way down, careful not to snag the air tube. His feet descended rung by rusted rung, encased in the heavy boots, until they went below the surface and began to feel cool. By the time the chief was chest-deep, the freezing water made him gasp inside the helmet.
‘Almighty,’ he whispered, pausing for a second before continuing. From inside the suit he had limited vision and only partial hearing (the communication system was also electric, and had fallen into disrepair with no-one skilled enough to mend it), which brought him to a state of claustrophobia that he had only twice felt before: once when he had been trapped for four hours in the head when some repair rigging had fallen against the door, and again the first time he had used the diving bell.
That first time the vessel had been all right, with only minor scratches that needn’t have been worried about. This time however, the chief wasn’t holding his breath.
~
‘This is what happens when we rush through the reefs instead of around,’ the captain growled angrily. ‘Your girl had better be worth it.’
‘Quiet!’ said Gabel. ‘He’s stopped descending.’
~
The bosun held onto the bottom of the chain ladder with a gloved hand and let himself hang for a moment in the shifting waters. There should have been a reef bank to stand on when he reached the bottom, but there was nothing. A few yards back there was a small rise about ten metres under the surface, but that—
He whirled around in the water, sending bubbles rushing past his faceplate. He could’ve sworn something had swum quickly behind him, brushing past the back of the bell as he clutched to the ladder.
‘Damn,’ he whispered hoarsely. He turned back to the bank, which was too deep to have caught the boat, unless the waves had risen then fallen sharply, dropping her a few more feet.
…othy Ya…
He spun again, causing another spiral of bubbles to cascade up the outside of his visor. Had someone said his name just then?
It was the darkness, and the claustrophobia … Up above, the light rain disturbed the otherwise clear surface. Tiny dots and ripples appeared randomly over his head and disappeared just as quickly. Maybe the weather was affecting the underwater currents that were rushing past the broken comm. plates by his ears…?
…Timothy Yarde, liste … o wh … have to s…
No doubt about it, that was his name someone was calling, and he couldn’t understand how.
Shaking his head, as if trying to purge the memory, he held on tighter and looked down at the lower keel. It was intact, completely undamaged. There were plenty of clamplets though, clinging stubbornly to the wood. He watched the tiny black creatures for a second. They were harmless descendants of mussels, or some form of crustacean that had evolved to be somehow primate in appearance, tiny ‘sea-monkeys’ as people called them in Goya, faceless and blubbery. They held onto the submerged bow with mechanical tenacity as they absorbed the salts and minerals that kept them sustained on their endless voyage. They were barely alive, unable to speak in any form, let alone Eng—
Do as we ask and we’ll ask you no more, sang a feminine voice in his ear. A fortune awaits on the dark Goyan shore…
The chief suddenly felt groggy, despite the immense fear that still rolled inside his stomach, but as his eyelids began to fall he suddenly felt air on his face, just gently, and soft lips pressing against his forehead.
~
The ghostly outlines of other sunken vessels could still be seen in the water around them, silhouettes in the mist.
‘If we’re not taking on water, aren’t we all right to sail?’ the magus asked the captain.
‘Best to make sure,’ the man replied, a little calmer now.
‘How long should it take?’ Gabel asked.
‘He should be up any minute now.’ His words had come out composed, but his hands were grasping the side very tightly, and his knuckles were pale as paper. He could see that the vessel wasn’t sinking, but there was no point in continuing if there were immediate repairs to be made. Any premature advance would only worsen any damage.
Just then the surface broke, and the bulky helmeted figure clambered slowly up the bow of the boat. He stood dripping while the others gave him room, then unfastened the seals on the neck and pulled the helmet away with a hiss. A few droplets of water slid down the inside of the condensed visor and dropped to the deck with the rest.
‘Any damage?’ the captain asked.
‘Nothing,’ said the chief, shaking his head. ‘Not a scratch. Has anything turned up on the inside?’
The captain turned to Caeles, who shook his head. ‘Nothing we’ve seen.’
‘Could you check?’ Timothy asked. He waited patiently until Caeles gave the eventual nod, and then said his thanks. Caeles and Gabel went below deck, followed by the magus.
Timothy and the captain were left alone. ‘Are you sure there was nothing? They weren’t bubbles we hit just then.’
‘There is absolutely nothing. I could only see the one side, but if there’s no internal damage, then it can’t be too bad.’
The captain nodded in reply.
‘Where’s Lanark?’ Timothy inquired.
‘Getting her ready again. I had a feeling it wouldn’t be too serious, if there were no leaks. I can’t wait to leave this place.’ Turning to look through the bridge windows, the captain didn’t see the chief raise the heavy stainless steel helmet over his head. ‘And I figured we’d have to get moving again anyway, what with that sick girl aboard.’
The captain turned at exactly the same time Timothy brought the heavy helmet down onto his skull. With a dull thud the captain slipped on the deck, desperately scrabbling for purchase on the wet cabin wall but finding none. The helmet dropped again, and the captain’s skull fractured audibly. He fell at an unusual angle, and the water on the deck immediately began soaking up into his clothes and hair. The helmet landed with a thud beside him.
‘Lanark,’ the chief called, stepping over the body. ‘No damage, to the ship at least. The captain’s giving control over to me.’
Through the window Lanark looked around, hands on the wheel. He could see his chief, cumbersome in the diver’s bell, but not the captain.
Must be in the head, he thought, and waited patiently for his superior to take over. The door opened and closed, and the sound of the quiet rain was blocked out immediately. The chief dripped.
‘So no damage at all then? There weren’t any leakages, so it looks as if—’
Timothy smashed a gloved fist into the mate’s jaw, and Lanark, just for a moment, saw stars burst before his eyes.
Coming up the stairs from the lower berth, Gabel hesitated in shock as he saw the two men wrestling. Both were strong and healthy, but the chief had the upper hand and took the opportunity to throttle the other man.
Gabel saw Lanark’ss eyes roll back in his skull and his strength rapidly drain from his grasping arms. Then Gabel reached for the pistol waiting across his chest, and lodged twin bullets between the chief’s shoulder blades, spouting blood from some artery or other, spraying the floor by the top of the steps. Timothy turned, eyes wide, and unwittingly sprayed his recovering friend, who, coughing violently from the attack, managed to knock the chief down and pin him to the floor.
Timothy gagged and seemed dizzy, hi
s eyes blinking continuously, and though being pushed against the floor was staunching some of the flow from the wounds in his back, he had already lost too much of his life’s blood to survive.
‘They … promised…’ he managed, but his strength left him, and he went slack.
*
Fourteen
CRUX LUAL
The rain over the Lual slowed to a stop, yet the air remained loaded with moisture, which confounded Lanark’s attempt to mop up blood. He, Gabel and Caeles had argued bitterly for a few minutes before deciding to throw Timothy’s body overboard. There was no room to keep him, and since all the food on the boat was dried, there was no refrigeration to slow down the body’s decomposition. Curiously, Lanark had saluted his captain’s attacker as he vanished under the surface.
The captain was still alive. Blood leaked from a huge split in his scalp, and he was unconscious, but not yet dead. Gabel went immediately to work bandaging his head with the only cloth available. It was dirty and stank, and had probably been used for tarring the ropes, but Gabel pointed out that blood loss would sooner kill the captain than any infection.
The captain didn’t wake until two hours before dawn, and was dreamy-eyed. Gabel had been on watch, keeping an eye on both him and Rowan – ‘We are a sorry bunch, aren’t we?’ Caeles muttered – and turned when the captain mumbled something about mermaids. Gabel watched for a few seconds, until suddenly the captain spasmed in the bed and let loose a terrific scream, heard by all on board. It was obvious that he was in tremendous pain, and didn’t have the capacity at the moment to understand why.
‘Are there any drugs on board?’ Caeles asked Lanark.
The man closed his eyes for a second, and then looked down the stairs where the captain was. Caeles had to ask him twice.
‘Are there any drugs, painkillers? Answer me.’
‘There’s some thorazine and diazepam in one of the chests downstairs. I’ll get it.’
Caeles nodded and followed the man. He watched as Lanark unclasped the chest and pulled out diazepam in a round two-inch jar with a foil cap.
‘You have it in liquid form?’
Lanark nodded. ‘We have hypodermic needles…’
‘Better give me the thorazine,’ Caeles said, listening to the screams. The captain was clutching his skull.
How can anything hurt that much? he thought. There’s only so much that screaming aloud can achieve.
He took the second jar Lanark gave him and a hypodermic in a plastic wrapper.
‘Take this one, it’s the right volume for that.’
Caeles knelt by the captain and fed the glass needle into the jar. The cap gave a gentle pop as it was punctured.
‘Find a vein while I do this,’ he asked of Gabel. A few seconds later he pushed the needle under the captain’s skin and dropped the plunger. The captain stopped screaming immediately.
‘Shit.’
‘Did you give him too much?’
‘I dunno, I don’t know how this works…’
He tested the pulse: thready, but that was to be expected. He put his cheek over the captain’s mouth, just like he had done with Rowan, and the microscopic sensors in his pores detected airflow.
‘He’s okay, I think.’
‘The bandage has nearly come off,’ Gabel said quietly, and carefully began fastening it again.
‘You think all that screaming was something physical?’
‘You’re asking if his mind might have been somewhere else?’
‘Yeah, something like that. Like he was hallucinating or something. You just don’t scream like that ‘cause you’re hurting.’
Gabel shrugged. ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ he said. ‘That’s something that we will have to ask him, when he awakes. We cannot allow something like this to happen to anybody else onboard.’
Lanark sidled over, and Caeles turned to face him. ‘Did the chief say anything before he attacked you?’
‘Only something about the captain giving him command of the vessel. You think Timothy was crazy?’
‘Well, he wasn’t right.’ Caeles looked down at the captain, the blood already soaked through half the bandage. ‘Has Timothy acted weird before?’
‘Weird?’
‘Strange; odd.’
‘No, not normally. He sulks sometimes, and I heard him mumbling in his sleep the other night.’
‘What did he mumble?’
‘I couldn’t make anything out. Something about falling stars, I think. Maybe that’s it.’
‘What are you thinking?’ Gabel asked Caeles.
‘I’m not sure,’ he replied slowly.
~
Caeles slapped his bread crust onto the table and crossed his arms, eyes wide and hard from beside that vicious scar. ‘You remember what the captain said a few days back? There are a thousand myths about this place, especially the graveyard, and any one of them might just be based on actual truths.’
‘You’re not saying that there’s some kind of monster out there?’ Lanark asked.
‘What makes you think “monster”?’
‘Well…’ His eyes dropped to his food again. ‘Well, I’ve heard the stories too, you know. I’m a sailor, I know all the myths and legends surrounding this place. You don’t have to tell me that there’s something weird out there, ‘cause I know it, and I fear it just as surely as I’m certain there are things here that aren’t supposed to be.’
‘That’s what I’m saying,’ Caeles continued. ‘Everyone around here knows the stories, especially the sailors. Surely there might be some real truths in the stories that are told.’
‘The theriopes exist, and at one time they were only myths,’ the magus said.
‘So it’s plausible that there are other living legends out there,’ said Caeles.
‘Out here,’ Gabel corrected. For a moment, the conversation stopped.
Then Lanark said, ‘Every place that has water also has life.’
‘What life do you think is out here?’
‘Before the great Conflict,’ the magus said, rubbing the frayed fabric of his sleeve between his fingers, ‘this lake was little more than a system of rivers and swampland. The edge of the water was thick with trees, much like the forests on the other side of the Lual, beyond the Plains. The foliage was dense and impossible for a man to navigate without help and tools. Places like that are always swollen with life – animals, birds – and, in the river network that sustained the vegetation, the waters were clogged with life as well.’
‘So you believe that some of the life from back then remains here now?’ Gabel asked.
‘Impossible. The river network opened up because of the weapons that were used in the Conflict,’ Caeles explained irritably. The talk of mysterious entities frustrated him. ‘Until a generation ago this place was buzzing with radiation. No indigenous species would have bred through that.’
‘They may have,’ the magus said. ‘You know that they may have. Even our own species has its divergent races.’
‘You’re talking about errants.’
‘What’s an arrunt?’ Lanark asked.
Caeles ignored him. ‘If there’s something out here, it’s animal, not human, however warped a race you’re talking about. Animals might get in our way, but they won’t stop us for long. And on a lake, you can’t back an animal in a corner. We’ll continue as planned and get off this damned lake as soon as we’re able. It feels like we’ve been on it forever.’
Lanark agreed with a nod, and the magus seemed to comply only by spreading his hands for a moment before interlacing his fingers again. Gabel took a slow bite out of his stale bread, no doubt thinking of Rowan and the degenerative illness caused by the bolt-hornet.
Caeles’ decision to continue as though nothing had happened drove the discussion into silence. No-one felt like finishing the food, and they all left the table. Lanark went back to steering the ship, under the guard of Gabel.
‘How come it’s taking so long?’ the hunter asked.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means we can get the hell out of here a lot faster than we came in. I’m putting us up to sixty; any faster and we’d risk scudding a bank and flyin’ right out of the water. And,’ he added needlessly, ‘we don’t want that.’
~
It was already evening and clouds swarmed once more. The Tractatus sailed further and faster through the graveyard, and once night fully set in the shipwrecks stopped appearing. Sensors displayed a vast empty circle with nothing but mysterious shadows here and there. It was past midnight when the first of the sensor-wraiths became visible from the deck: they were coral formations, sometimes as high as ten feet, curling upward like an octopus’ tentacles, sometimes tree-like or man-like or simply vague structures formed by the reef that meant nothing to the people seeing them.
It was then that Caeles heard the singing clearly for the first time. Wonderful voices, like silk ribbons that swept and spiralled when dropped from a great height, twisting down through the air, then caught on warm breath and taken up again.
Apart from the pure elegance of those voices, they had no effect on Caeles.
Gabel was another matter entirely.
~
The mist surrounded him, spinning in colourful formations on all sides, illuminated by what sounded like fireworks not too far away. He was standing on the water, and it felt like stone to his naked feet; marble, or maybe glass, it was so smooth.
In the dream he looked down between his feet and saw what was beneath the surface, dark and foreboding, just like the stormy sky above him. A black shape, claw outstretched, slowly advanced through the murk, but Gabel ignored it, and it was instantly forgotten. It was like a submerged memory, a demonic shape reaching toward him through fire. A nightmare so familiar it could only have been real. But when had he ever seen anything like that before? He had no memory of it…
There was a light nearby, and it shone in warm hues of red and pink, edged in purple. He arrived quickly, running over the smooth surface of the lake. It was frozen, he could see it now and feel it; the cold scalded the soles of his feet. They stuck to the ice as his porous skin was vacuumed against the frozen water.
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