by Lian Tanner
He was willing to lie about any number of things, knowing that he was doing the will of the Circle. But there was one thing he was determined not to lie about, and that was his name.
Initiates like the boy and his fellows did not have a name, not until they had carried out some noble deed. Winning a name and taking their place in the Circle of Devouts was all they talked about. It filled their days, and their nights too, sliding into their dreams like a bright flame, and every single one of them yearning towards it.
Brother Thrawn was no fool, however. He had known that the boy’s lack of a name might arouse suspicion among the savages.
‘Hold them off for as long as you can,’ he had said. ‘Leave holes in your story so that your name is not the only thing missing, and fill those holes in gradually. If you are clever, you will be able to kill the demon before they press you too hard on the matter. But—’ Here he had fixed the boy with a granite stare. ‘But if it comes to the point where it threatens the success of the mission, then you must give yourself a name.’
The boy had nodded, of course; no one ever said ‘No’ to Brother Thrawn. But secretly he had promised himself that things would not come to that point. That he would not have to invent a name; that he was clever enough to win through without it.
As he listened to the footsteps walking away from his prison, he gritted his teeth and renewed his secret promise.
‘I am the best Initiate for years,’ he whispered fiercely. ‘I will never accept a name I have not earned.’ And he set out to inspect the cell, knowing that he could not afford to wait for Albie’s trust.
Instead he would escape. He would find the demon and kill it. And then – then he would summon the bright cleansing axes of the Circle to destroy the ship and everyone on it.
SECRETS
‘I couldn’t get near him,’ said Petrel, later that night. ‘Albie’s got him locked up tight as tight.’
‘And a good thing too,’ said Mister Smoke.
‘What’s the matter with your head?’ asked Missus Slink, craning her neck. ‘Is that blood?’
Petrel touched her scalp gingerly. ‘Skua chucked a wrench at me. His aim’s getting better.’
‘Hmph,’ said Missus Slink. ‘Let’s have a look.’
Grumbling quietly, Petrel lay face down on the hard deck of the workshop. Small paws patted her scalp, and she winced.
‘Hurts, does it?’ asked Missus Slink. With every movement her old joints creaked, and the tattered green ribbon she wore around her neck brushed Petrel’s ear. ‘He’s sliced you right open. Needs stitches.’
In Petrel’s other ear, Mister Smoke said, ‘So what’s Albie gunna do with the stranger, shipmate?’
‘You tell me, Mister Smoke, and we’ll both know.’
‘Hold still, girl,’ said Missus Slink. ‘Don’t jump around so much.’
‘Ow,’ said Petrel, as something stung her scalp. ‘What’s that?’
‘Grog,’ said the rat. ‘Make sure the wound’s clean before I stitch it.’ She dabbed at Petrel with tiny paws, muttering under her breath. ‘There’s always something. Stitch the scalp, scrape the turbines, patch the for’ard sea valves— No, I forgot, the valves are your job, Smoke.’
A tiny needle appeared in her paw. ‘Hold still,’ she warned again, and Petrel felt a pricking sensation that made her squawk.
‘Scalps is easier than valves,’ said Mister Smoke.
‘Rubbish,’ said Missus Slink, as the needle dived in and out. ‘Valves don’t talk back. Three stitches should do the trick. Seal gut, who’d’ve thought I’d end up using seal gut? Mind, it’s better than seaweed, which I tried a while back. Was it seaweed? I can’t recall.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Petrel.
‘Never you mind,’ said Missus Slink. ‘There now, that’s done.’
Petrel probed the tiny, neat stitches with her finger. There was no sign of the needle now, which didn’t surprise her. She had known the two rats for as long as she could remember, but there were mysteries about them that she had never got to the bottom of. Sometimes they answered her questions, sometimes they didn’t, and there was nothing she could do about it.
There was nothing she could do about the strange boy, either, no matter how much she wanted to see him. She rubbed her eyes and stood up. ‘I’m hungry. Ain’t eaten since yesterday.’
‘Hang on, hang on,’ said Mister Smoke, squinting up at her. ‘What about the stranger?’
‘I told you, I can’t get near him. And Albie’ll do more than slice my scalp open if he catches me hanging round the brig.’
‘But you’re the one ’oo found the boy,’ said Mister Smoke. ‘That means you got a responsibility to look out for ’im.’
Petrel stared down at the rat. ‘Why are you so worried about him all of a sudden, Mister Smoke? You said strangers are bad.’
‘And so they are. But don’t you want to know where ’e came from?’
‘He fell from the sky.’
Mister Smoke made a rude snorting noise.
‘Hungry,’ said Petrel, and she marched out of the workshop.
Mister Smoke limped after her, with Missus Slink hobbling in the rear. ‘You should go back and talk to the boy, shipmate,’ said Mister Smoke, his nose twitching.
‘Course I should,’ said Petrel, not meaning it. ‘Your leg getting worse, Mister Smoke?’
‘You should ask ’im questions. What’s ’is name? Where’d ’e come from? How’d ’e end up on that berg? Was ’e alone, or were there folk with ’im? If there were, where are they now? Get some answers.’
‘You trying to get me into trouble with Albie?’ said Petrel.
The rat’s eyes gleamed. ‘Answers.’
‘No.’
‘Answers.’
‘Why can’t you be nice?’ hissed Petrel, her irritation growing. ‘If I have to be friends with a rat, why couldn’t it be a nice rat?’
‘He’s a law unto himself,’ said Missus Slink gloomily. ‘I’m not saying he’s wrong, mind.’
Mister Smoke began to sing in a sandpapery voice, ‘Answers answers answers. Answers answers answers—’
Petrel bent down and scooped him off the deck.
‘Oy,’ he said, wriggling. ‘Lemme go.’
‘No, you listen, Mister Smoke,’ said Petrel, slipping into the shadows and squatting down with Missus Slink beside her. ‘You know what Albie said last time he caught me poking my nose into his business? He said I was as useless as feathers on a fish, and he might just do the whole ship a favour and chuck me overboard. So I’m not going near that brig, not for anything.’
The rat stopped wriggling. ‘Thought the boy was your friend. Cos you saved ’im from the ice.’
Petrel scowled. ‘When did I ever have friends, ’cept for you and Missus Slink?’
‘All the same—’
‘And besides,’ continued Petrel, ‘I tried to see him once. Not gunna risk my life trying again.’
Mister Smoke blinked thoughtfully. ‘Maybe there’s an easier way,’ he said. ‘A safer way.’
‘What do you mean?’
The old rat cocked his head to one side and peered at Petrel. ‘You think you know this ship? You think you know every bit of ’er?’
‘Careful, Smoke,’ said Missus Slink. ‘You’re getting perilously close to things that shouldn’t be talked about.’
Petrel looked from one rat to the other. ‘What sort of things?’
‘Never you mind,’ said Missus Slink firmly.
But Mister Smoke winked, and whispered, ‘Put me down, shipmate. This needs a bit of negotiatin’.’
The two rats retired to the corner. Petrel did her best to overhear their muttered conversation, but the clatter of the engines drowned out all but a few words.
‘. . . got to find out . . .’ said Mister Smoke.
‘. . . a sacred trust.’
‘. . . have to bend . . .’
‘No,’ said Missus Slink.
Mister Smok
e persisted. ‘. . . need answers . . . just in case . . .’
Whatever argument Mister Smoke was making, it eventually brought Missus Slink up short. She wrinkled her nose. ‘I can’t see how . . .’
‘. . . honorary . . .’
‘. . . mmm. Possible . . .’
They turned and inspected Petrel with sharp eyes.
Despite what she had said, Petrel did want to try again, if she could only do it without risking her life. After all, the boy wasn’t a part of the crew any more than she was. Maybe he would be her friend, if she could just talk to him.
At last the rats came to an agreement. Missus Slink was not entirely happy, but she seemed resigned. ‘Girl,’ she said, before Mister Smoke could open his mouth. ‘Will you dig out those answers for us, if we get you close to the stranger?’
Petrel nodded eagerly.
Missus Slink’s claws tapped against the deck. ‘This is serious business, mind. There’s no telling anyone about what we’re going to show you. Not even if they’ve got a knife to your throat. Not even if they’re dangling you over the side, and the Maw’s gazing up at you from below, all agape for a tasty meal.’
Petrel gulped.
Missus Slink turned away, saying, ‘Ha, she can’t do it.’
‘I can!’ said Petrel quickly. ‘I – I’m used to keeping secrets, Missus Slink. My whole life’s a secret, and there’s no one else on board who can say that.’
Mister Smoke chortled. ‘She’s got you there, Slink. She’ll do.’ He scrambled up onto Petrel’s knee. ‘So, give us your promise, shipmate.’
Petrel shut her eyes, and opened them again. ‘I promise. I won’t say anything to anyone. Ever.’
‘Good,’ said Mister Smoke. ‘You is now an honorary rat, and a servant of the Sleeping Captain.’
‘Tsk,’ said Missus Slink. ‘We never agreed on that last bit.’
‘She can’t be one without the other,’ said Mister Smoke. Then he leaped down from Petrel’s knee, saying, ‘You come with us, shipmate.’
As they made their way for’ard, they hardly saw a soul. It was just coming up to midnight, and any Engineers who weren’t working or asleep were sticking close to quarters in case of an attack. The whole ship felt jittery, the way it did when the weatherglass was dropping fast and the pipes rattled with storm warnings.
‘How much further, Mister Smoke?’ asked Petrel.
Mister Smoke nodded towards the for’ard store cabins. The door of the second one was ajar, and when Petrel put her head around it she saw a pile of driftwood and whale bones. They filled the cabin from deck to overhead, crammed so tight that she could barely see between them.
‘How am I sposed to fit in there?’
‘Maybe you won’t,’ sniffed Missus Slink.
‘How far do I have to go?’
‘Right to the back,’ said Mister Smoke. ‘There’s a cupboard.’
He scrambled up onto the nearest bit of driftwood and launched himself into the pile. Missus Slink followed him, and the two rats disappeared. Petrel edged into the dark cabin after them.
It was a tight fit, even for someone as scrawny as she was. She squeezed between the bits of wood and bone, crawling over the top of some of them and underneath others, and hissing whenever a bone-end jabbed her in the ribs. ‘Stupid thing, get out of my way.’
At last, bruised and panting, she reached the far wall. She was right up high by then, on top of the pile, and she had to fumble downwards to find the cupboard. There it was – she could feel the top edge of the door. And there, all ragged fur and whiskers, was Mister Smoke.
‘You won’t do any good up there, shipmate,’ said the rat.
Which meant that Petrel had to wriggle down, like a seal sliding off a rock, only not as graceful.
The cupboard door was open far enough for her to squeeze through the gap. She twisted and squirmed until she was the right way up, then drew in a deep breath.
‘What now?’ she asked, but she was talking to thin air. ‘Mister Smoke? Missus Slink? Where are you?’
She heard the scrabble of claws, and Mister Smoke said, from somewhere in front of her nose, ‘Whatcha waitin’ for? Get a move on, shipmate.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Petrel, and she put her hands out and fumbled blindly towards him.
There was a ragged hole in the back of the cupboard, but it did not lead to the cabin on the other side of the bulkhead as it should have done. Instead, it opened into a cramped tunnel.
Petrel drew in a sharp breath. This was a fine secret! She had never even suspected that such a tunnel existed.
‘Where does it go?’ she whispered.
‘Where don’t it go might be a better question,’ said Mister Smoke.
‘Will you show me? Are there other places where I can get in and out?’
‘Mebbe.’
‘I could creep along inside the bulkhead and watch Dolph, and she’d never know I was there,’ whispered Petrel. A fierce glee took hold of her. ‘I could watch Albie!’
‘Enough chatter, shipmate. Come on, keep your ’ead down and don’t lag behind.’
The tunnel was not made for humans. It was narrow and cramped and pitchy dark most of the way, although every now and then there was a crack where light seeped through from a cabin or a passageway. Petrel wanted to stop and peer through those inviting cracks, but the rats hurried her on.
She felt as if she was crawling through the innards of a whale. The familiar rumblings of the ship were magnified and strange, and the darkness seemed to pulsate around her. At one point she had to stop and breathe deeply before she could continue.
Still the tunnel spun out ahead of her. Her knuckles scraped against the decking. She bumped her elbows and her nose, and flakes of rust stuck to her face like snow.
And then suddenly Missus Slink was whispering in her ear, ‘Nearly there, girl. Hush now. The brig’s just ahead of us.’
‘You come and ask those questions,’ said Mister Smoke. ‘Slink and I’ll grab ’old of the answers as he gives ’em. Come on.’
‘No, wait,’ hissed Petrel. Now that the moment was so close, her heart was beating right up in her throat. ‘What if he won’t talk to me?’
‘Course ’e’ll talk to you. Why wouldn’t ’e?’
‘I don’t know. My mouth’s gone all dry. What if I can’t talk to him?’ Petrel bit her lip. It was true; her mouth was dry. She couldn’t remember the last time she had spoken to anyone except the rats. But that wasn’t her only reason for saying what she said next. ‘Maybe you and Missus Slink should stay back here. Not sure if I can do it with you listening. Not sure at all.’
Missus Slink and Mister Smoke muttered to each other, so quiet that Petrel couldn’t pick out a single word. The ship gurgled and crunched. Petrel knelt in the darkness of the tunnel, thinking about the questions she wanted to ask the boy, questions that were far more interesting than the ones the rats had in mind.
At last Missus Slink turned back to her and said, ‘Go on then. But remember everything he says. Don’t lose a word of it.’
‘I won’t,’ said Petrel. And she crawled towards the brig.
LIES . . .
The boy picked stubbornly at the patch of rust on the wall behind his cot. His fingers were scraped and sore, but he did not even think of giving up. He had already made a small hole. All he had to do was keep working until it was big enough to climb through.
And hope that Albie didn’t come back too soon.
He had no idea where the hole would take him, or how he would find his way unnoticed through the corridors of the ship to the place where the demon was hidden. But he would do it somehow.
He dug his fingers into the rusty iron, wiggling bits of it back and forth. ‘I am going to beat you,’ he said to the wall.
To his horror, the wall replied. ‘Boy,’ it whispered.
His first thought was of the demon and its imps, and he took an involuntary step backwards.
‘Come here,’ whispered the wall.
‘I want to talk to you.’
With a stab of relief the boy realised that it was not the voice of a demon after all. Nor was it an imp.
It was a girl.
His mind raced. Should he reply or stay silent? What did the girl want? Was it a trick? A trap? Had Albie sent her?
It seemed very likely.
But surely, thought the boy, I can outwit a savage girl, no matter who sent her. Perhaps I can even persuade her to help me. It would be far quicker than trying to dig my way out through the rust . . .
‘What do you want?’ he said.
‘Come here,’ whispered the girl. ‘Come close so we’re not yelling at each other. That guard of Albie’s has got sharp ears.’
The boy crept back to the wall, trying to pinpoint the direction of her voice. ‘Where are you?’
‘Nowhere,’ whispered the girl.
The boy put his eye to the hole he had made. There was nothing but darkness on the other side, and the oily stink of the ship’s crew. He supposed the girl must be standing in an unlit corridor.
‘What do you want?’ he said again.
‘Your name for starters. Mine’s Petrel.’
‘I cannot tell you any more than I told Albie,’ said the boy. ‘I do not remember my name.’
He braced himself for an onslaught of questions, but instead, Petrel whispered, ‘I’m not surprised. It’s hard to remember anything when Albie’s shouting at you. He’s the worst shouter on the ship, worse than Orca even. Course, she doesn’t really shout. She just goes all quiet and nasty, but it feels like shouting, cos it pierces right through you and you end up feeling no bigger’n a shrimp.’
Her husky voice was soothing, and the boy was still tired from his ordeal on the ice. But he knew better than to let down his guard.
‘Crab’s just as bad,’ whispered the girl. ‘Only he’s all buttoned up and trim, even in midwinter, which is not a trim sort of time. Now Skua’s a shouter like his da. Lots of bluster and noise, only not so dangerous as Albie. You can get away from Skua if you’re tricksy enough, but hardly anyone gets away from Albie unless he feels like letting you go – what’s your name?’
The question was thrown in so neatly that if the boy had not been expecting some such ruse he might have answered truthfully.