The Coldest Sea

by Marian Perera

  Someone groaned nearby, and there was a quiet whine from the dog. Tearing her glove off with her teeth, she felt beneath her. The snow stung her fingers, but her hand went in up to the wrist without her nails scraping rock. That was probably the only reason she’d survived—that and the ropes, which had broken some of the fall.

  “Jak!” a man called out. “Micull! Where are you?” The sound bounced off unseen walls, echoes chasing echoes, and in the distance, ice splintered. Someone else prayed aloud to the Unity, and in the dark, the scuffling movements could have been animals creeping closer. Fear choked off her throat.

  “Everyone shut up!” Vinsen’s voice cut through the noise like a knife, and in the silence that fell, he went on. “And don’t move. Understood?”

  There were a few muttered yessirs, but Maggie felt a little safer. He didn’t sound hurt, though knowing him, he’d have tried to speak the same way if he’d broken his neck.

  Now that the panic had faded, her body ached from the landing. Her case seemed to have taken the worst of it, and she longed to see if the flute was safe, but the thought of Vinsen hearing her disobey his orders by moving was enough to keep her still.

  Flint scratched on steel. A spark flared, and Vinsen lit two lanterns before he took one, stood and went to the crew, each man in turn. Though first he stopped at the dog and took its muzzle off. The dog jumped on him and licked his face.

  Maggie looked up, but the lanterns’ glow didn’t reach far, and not so much as a pinpoint of sunlight showed from above. Whatever cut them off from the surface seemed solid, and might be too thick to chip through even if they had a way of climbing up to it.

  The nearest walls might have been chopped with axes, raw and blue, but it was too dark to tell if the cavern was completely closed. Most of the dozen men Vinsen had brought with him shifted closer to the lantern he had left in the midst of the scattered group, but two of them didn’t move at all. One man’s eyes were open and unblinking. Either he’d fallen on bare rock or the rope had snapped—perhaps both.

  The second had a broken leg. Once Vinsen had seen to all the crew, he posted Jak on watch and sent two scouts off with the dog. “Cut wood for splints,” he said to those remaining, “and prepare a stretcher.”

  Maggie hoped he would allow them to rest and eat, although they couldn’t risk lighting a fire and choking on the smoke. Or worse, weakening the ice overhead until it caved in—which the Bleakhaveners might do to them anyway. She pressed back against the wall, then felt angry. No one else was trying to hide, were they?

  At least her flute seemed to be safe. The case was cracked, but the thick padding inside meant the parts of her flute were untouched, though she reflected gloomily that in the poor light she might not notice damage. She closed the case and tucked her hands beneath her arms, her breath misting out before her.

  Vinsen came over to her. “Are you hurt?”

  Maggie shook her head. Her shoulder and hip hurt where she had landed, but she was alive. “What about you?”

  “I’m fine.” He gave her a hand. “Come. We’ll hold the funeral.”

  It didn’t take the rest of the crew long to dig a trench—mostly because they hit ice before they could dig too deep. Everyone except the man on watch and the one with the broken leg gathered around. The dead man’s eyes were closed, and someone had dusted away the snow from his clothes and hair; he might have been sleeping, until Vinsen knelt to draw a circle on his forehead with charcoal-blackened grease. The others lifted him into the grave and then knelt as well, forming a circle around it like an honor guard.

  “Jefree Hald,” Vinsen said, “loyal son of our land. We lay you to rest with the honor that was your due, with the blessing of that which watches over us all, and with our sorrow at the loss of a friend. May your body return to water and your memory endure for all time.”

  “In the name of the Unity, and for the glory of Denalay,” the crew said as one. Maggie could play dirges and elegies—“Strange Gates” was her favorite—but she wouldn’t have trusted the music. The last thing they needed was a hand thrusting up through the snow being piled over the grave.

  Vinsen placed a flat stone over the snow, then traced another circle over it. Only then did the crew move to the other lantern in the center of the cavern, and they were unpacking rations when the scouts returned.

  “Sir, there’s a tunnel leading off from here, going north maybe a hundred yards,” one said. “We didn’t follow it all the way to the end, but—well, it could be a way out.”

  As hope went, that wasn’t much, but it was better than doing nothing, and Vinsen nodded. “Good work. Sit down and fill up. We’ll start after we’ve all eaten.”

  Maggie gulped down cold bacon, dry bread and a slice of cheese, while Vinsen passed a flask around. Rum, of course—she’d drunk more in the past few days than she had in the rest of her life. It occurred to her a little belatedly that too much alcohol was another thing Anthny wouldn’t like, but she’d worry about it later, if ever. He’d need to have lived through all the same experiences if he wanted to disapprove of anything she did and expect it to make a difference to her.

  Besides, she seemed to be getting further and further beyond the pale. Setting out on a mission of mercy would have been acceptable in Skybeyond, but sharing Vinsen’s bed and dabbling in Bleakhavener magic would not. Still, whatever Anthny thought of her, her brothers would have approved.

  A pang of homesickness went through her, and she pushed the memory of her family to the back of her mind. She couldn’t afford to let that distract her.

  They started off moments later. Jak Tuller took the lead, with the dog on a leash, but Vinsen followed with a lantern, and a huge bruiser called Keet brought up the rear with the other lantern. Maggie helped carry the stretcher, since it was best for the other men to have their hands free.

  They made their way through a long hollow in the ice. Vinsen had a compass, so with or without the sun, they could be sure they were following Ruay—in the direction she had originally headed, anyway. The man with the broken leg had been given a few drops of laudanum and was asleep, but Maggie was only too aware of the tons of ice overhead. When a freezing drop struck her cheek, she jolted, but managed not to make a sound.

  The dog let out a bark, and Vinsen stopped in his tracks. “Back, Sheill!” he said, and flung up a hand to halt the rest of them.

  Maggie couldn’t see anything barring the way, but Vinsen slowly paced ahead, the lantern glowing against the walls of the cave. Another drop fell from the roof.

  “All right.” Vinsen’s voice echoed distantly and the men started forward again. Maggie caught a faint meaty stench and saw where it came from. Against a wall lay a skull, gnawed but still recognizably that of a seal.

  What killed that? No one spoke, which meant they were wondering too. When they passed another tunnel snaking off sideways, all the crew gave it a wide berth, although there seemed to be nothing in that tunnel except darkness and cold air.

  Maggie studied the ground for paw-marks, but quickly gave that up because it wasn’t ice—it was rock too hard to show anything. She guessed the iceberg had split off from a rock glacier, so it would be even more difficult to damage by ordinary means, though once the ice melted, nothing would keep the rocky parts afloat.

  If the ice melted.

  The walls were so cold they smoked in the lantern’s glow, and the winding tunnel seemed not just endless but narrower. She tried not to imagine it shrinking down to the diameter of a rabbit hole. Only one thing steeled her—Dannel, the man on the stretcher. Her arms ached, but she couldn’t afford to indulge that, or to be squeamish if someone depended on her.

  Sheill let out a growl and Vinsen stopped. The lantern’s light bobbed as he crouched, and shadows slid along the walls like living things.

  “What is it, sir?” Micull asked.

  “Scat, but it’s cold.” Vinsen st
raightened up and kept moving.

  Before that day, Maggie’s only concern about such substances in her path was that she wouldn’t step in them. Now she looked down and wished to the Unity that she hadn’t; the dark mound seemed to be the size of a melon. Never mind that. She would follow at a steady pace, holding the stretcher level so Dannel wasn’t jolted. She was not going to think of whatever had left the scat there.

  She breathed a little deeper once she was well past it, smelling the crew’s ragged furs and the sourness of fear-sweat instead. Unity, let this be over soon. The Unity might have heard, because the sound of Vinsen’s footsteps ahead changed, became quiet in a larger and emptier space. One by one, the crew left the tunnel, stepping cautiously into a cavern.

  It was like nothing she had seen before, a mosaic of ice and sparkling rock. In the center was a stone column thick as a man’s body—perhaps a stalactite and stalagmite fused together over thousands of years—and every ridge in the roof was bearded with icicles. Crystals veined through the walls, clear and pallid purple and a blue that made her long for the sky.

  “Wait there.” Vinsen set off across the cavern, skirting the great column in its center. Although he disappeared into the dark, the small glow of his lantern was reflected off a hundred shards of icicles and quartz in the roof and walls.

  Micull had the other lantern, so Vinsen could make his way back to them easily enough, which he did in a few more minutes. When he said, “We might as well rest,” most of the crew flopped down.

  “For how long, sir?” Jak asked.

  Whether it was the pause before Vinsen replied or the set look on his face, it was clear he hadn’t found a way out. “I’ll let you know,” he replied, but the men had noticed too.

  “This is a dead end, isn’t it?” Micull said, and she wondered whether the lack of a sir had been deliberate.

  Vinsen leveled a look at him. “That’s right.”

  “What now?” someone else asked. She wasn’t sure who it was, because she didn’t dare look away from what was happening. Any moment now, Micull would go too far, and then…then she had no idea what Vinsen would do.

  “He doesn’t know.” Micull spat. “He’s taken us into this—”

  Sheill snarled.

  The sound was long and low, and everyone looked in the dog’s direction. Sheill faced the dark mouth of the tunnel they’d all emerged from. Black-and-white fur bristled and long legs turned stiff as sticks. Growling, the dog backed away.

  Something else lumbered forward, still in the darkness but matching Sheill step for step.

  “Move!” Vinsen grabbed the nearest lantern and smashed it to the ground before the mouth of the tunnel. Flames leaped up from the spilled oil. Maggie caught up the handles of the makeshift stretcher and hurried to obey. The men drew their knives.

  Sheill broke into a volley of fierce barks that rebounded from the walls. The answering rumble from the tunnel was the sound of rocks grinding together, deep beneath the earth. The dog fell silent, panting. Or maybe that was the sound of Maggie’s own breath. Almost stumbling on icy patches on the floor, she retreated to the central column—the only thing in the cavern to hide behind—but Vinsen stopped when he was halfway there, facing the tunnel’s mouth.

  The pool of fire burned brightly. That and the broken glass might deter whatever was inside—

  It came out.

  Joama bit down on an order to start smashing the shell that trapped them—as if breaking through one barrier hadn’t been enough of a challenge, now she had two. Struggling beneath the shell would use their air up faster, and the last thing the crew needed was to wear themselves out chopping a gap, only for the ice to close once again.

  More of the men crowded up through the hatch, and Cutwater left his pots and pans to take a look. Joama didn’t need them gawking, but that might be better than them huddling belowdecks, imagining worse and worse things happening above.

  She made a circuit of the deck, studying the ice that seemed to be just as thick everywhere. One decisive strike which shattered the shell would be much better than chipping away at it from all sides. And more importantly, even a hole in the shell would buy them a breathing space—literally—during which she could think of the next step.

  But what to do, exactly? Load every projectile into the catapult, then pound those against the inside of the dome? If they all suffocated, Fallstar wouldn’t need ballast anyway—

  A deckhand who’d been staring straight up, his head tilted back on his neck, came over to her and pointed. His voice was hushed.

  “Over the crow’s nest, sir,” he said.

  Joama looked, and her heart turned to a ballast stone. The barrier of ice curved smoothly over them, and it hadn’t touched any part of the ship—except now it did. The top of the mainmast disappeared into the dome, turning the mast itself into a great pin that held the rest of the ship securely in place.

  “When did that—” she began, before she saw it happen. Filaments of ice crawled out to the flag that hung down, empty of wind. When the clear tendrils closed around the flag, the air solidified around them, and the flag was now locked beneath ice as well.

  It was happening at the stern, the prow, everywhere. The tip of the jutting bowsprit disappeared into the dome. The walls were closing in on them. Not at speed, so the ship wouldn’t be damaged, but soon enough they would all die.

  “Come with me, quick,” she said to Dray, and at the hatch, she turned to snap a last command. “Everyone except the catapult crew belowdecks!” Then she swarmed down ladder after ladder at a breakneck pace. Dray paused once, reaching for a lantern.

  “No lights!” Joama kept moving and he followed. He had the good sense not to ask her what she intended to do. When she stopped outside the hold to tie a rag around her mouth and nose, there was just enough light for Dray to see her, so he did the same with a handkerchief.

  She hurried down into the darkness of the hold, relying on her memory to find the corner where empty casks were stored. The first one she found smelled faintly of dried fruit and was large enough that she would have needed to balance it on her shoulder to carry it out.

  “Coal dust?” Dray whispered.

  “Yes.” The fine dust that seeped out of any crack in the crates could catch fire from a spark, and there was always far too much of it, because the lumps of coal shifted and scraped against each other as the ship moved. The penalty for cigars or pipes anywhere near the hold was a lashing.

  Her knee struck the edge of a crate, since she couldn’t see where she was going, but she hardly felt the pain. The coal should have been wetted down periodically, to reduce the risk of fires, but after the ship had become trapped, normal routine had gone out of the window. For the first time she was thankful, because it meant the dust was dry.

  It puffed into the air as she and Dray hastily scooped the lumps out, then emptied the powder into the cask. Her eyes were shut, but the dust settled on the rest of her, grainy beneath her fingernails. “More,” Dray said in a choked voice. They emptied all the dust from a second crate and then a third into the cask, before breathing became near-impossible and she had to close the cask. Coughing, Dray hefted it up and Joama staggered to the nearest hatch.

  We’ll be lucky if the hold doesn’t explode. They made their way topside and she tore the filthy rag from her face. Her panting breaths echoed deep and hoarse inside her head, and yet her chest burned with the need for more air. Whether that was from fear and exertion, or airlessness in the cramped quarters of the ship, she couldn’t tell. She could only imagine how much worse it was for Dray, who had the cask to carry.

  He stumbled as they cleared the final ladder, but the catapult crew hurried over to him. So many strands of ice had sprouted that the dome itself was no longer visible; it was like being under a million cobwebs that interwove through each other in patterns upon patterns. It had to be afternoon, and yet it wa
s dusk beneath the ice.

  The men loaded the cask into the catapult’s cup, which had already been winched back as far as it could go. Dray had all but crawled back below the hatch, but he called for one of the crew to hand her a lantern. Now. She nodded at the men.

  The catapult’s crew cut the rope.

  The throwing arm whipped up so hard it smashed into the padded crossbar. The cask flew out and shattered against the wall as the men turned to run. Joama lost sight of them in the black cloud, but they reached her in moments, squeezing past her to get belowdecks. Nothing was visible except for the mainmast, closest to her. The dark mass of coal dust spread out to fill the shell.

  Joama whirled an arm as she would have done a sling and flung the lantern out with all her strength. Then she dropped lower down on the ladder, pulling the hatch closed as she did so. It slammed home. The men threw themselves flat, covering their heads.

  She never heard the lantern break, but the explosion shook the ship. Her fingers, covered with dust, jolted free and she fell the rest of the way to the deck below. Pain stabbed through her ankle. She bit down on her lip, fighting to stay conscious, as the split of ice and a hot crackling echoed down from above. Falling chunks of ice thudded and hissed where they struck the deck, and she knew everything topside of Fallstar was on fire.

  Vinsen took a step back. The flames made no difference—perhaps because the creature’s thick fur was soaked and dripping, perhaps because nothing, not even fire, could hold it at bay.

  Its shoulders filled the tunnel, claws clicking off stones, and a moment later it was out of the tunnel entirely. A snow bear, humped between the shoulders and easily five feet tall at its flank. In the light of the burning oil, the fur showed a pale cream except for its muzzle. That was red, as were its teeth when it bared them.

  With a snarl, it lunged straight at him.

  The broken glass scattered on the floor didn’t slow it down. Vinsen jerked aside. The bear’s charge missed him by less than a handspan; if it had been a little smaller, a little more maneuverable, it might have twisted in time to change direction and slam into him. His knife flashed out and carved a line along the bear’s side.