"Hurry up," Ilya said, pointing with his nose to the gangway, which was dropping sand and water into the edge of the surf. "Get aboard."
Malachi ran up and grabbed the narrow rail, ignoring the bite of its iron touch as he leapt to the deck. Light began to spill from her frayed cable ends and the million eyes of broken wires. Ilya walked after him, keeping his focus on the melting ice in his hands. "To the Fleet then?"
Malachi took a last look at the beach, the house, the hill, and the woods. He took a breath of the air that swirled around, mingling scents of the sea and land. He knew why he stayed here. He liked these things, and he'd had no reason to go home. Until now. "To the Fleet, Master."
Ilya put the lens down on the control desk where Jones used to stand, her helm a smashed-up set of instruments nobody would read again, and placed his hand flat upon it. Malachi felt the ship shudder deep within itself. The elf's palm reddened at the edges with a thick line of blood, and the warm air of the day was cut in two by a savage chill. The water lapping at the hull stilled and the vessel groaned as she contracted in the cold. The sun and the beach faded away slowly and left them afloat in the darkness Malachi had grown to dread very well. A spherical shield of faint, blood-coloured light surrounded them, keeping their air in, he assumed, not that he was sure they needed air now. The Fleet's charm worked on its own to sustain its host. He looked up and around him and saw lights everywhere, heard the tolling of bells, the sharp call of those ships who were alive speaking to one another across the empty gaps and the lonely foghorn yodel of beasts farther out. Up, down, left, right, in all directions he could see nothing but the vessels of the Fleet. They seemed to go on for eternity.
"Where the hell is she?" He spoke now about Temeraire, the Admiral's ship. He couldn't see any sign of her anywhere.
"I cannot see her," the elf said gently, "but I can see him. They are higher up, to starboard and moving. His angels are with him."
"Moving?" Malachi looked at the destroyed remains of all the ship's instruments helplessly.
"The other ships part to make way. It looks as if he will take a leading position. The others form up behind him as he passes."
"Can you get close?"
In answer they began to rise slowly through the ranks. "I will aim to get into his draft and below him. Did you have a plan for after that?"
"No. You?"
"No."
"Good." He held the helm with his clawed hands, and the cold tore through him but didn't damage him. His fur was limned with the ghost hoar, and it stood on end as he turned around to the mouth of the cabin and saw the dead come walking out soundlessly and take their posts at the research stations. Where they passed the ship grew whole, and where they touched her ruined controls glasses and lights came to life under their fingers and feet and then spread their restoration across the decks and up the mast, along the deckhouse and into the stub of the harpoon gun until she was whole again, aether filling what material had lost. When he turned back he saw Ilya holding someone's hand. Then the elf turned and released his hold, the lens melting to watery blood as another pair of hands took the helm.
Shyly she looked over her shoulder, her shadowed eyes glowing and a brief smile for him on her lips. "Hello, Mal. Back with us again?"
"Jones," he said, finding something painful jamming his throat. "Captain."
"Thanks for looking after her," Jones said, turning her face towards the higher Fleet. "So. He got it back."
Malachi swallowed awkwardly. "I had to."
"I understand," she said, sniffing and wiping her nose on her sleeve. "S'okay. But we're going after him, en't we?"
"Yes." He reached out involuntarily and touched her. His fingers passed right through. "Oh, Jones."
"Don't worry," she said, and looked up at Ilya with a smile that was warm and feeling. "It was all right. I'm where I oughta be. Ironic, don'tcha think?" She rested her tough little hand on the elf's arm for a moment with more tenderness than Malachi had ever seen her possess in life and then let him go and took hold of her ship. "I get to sail one more time, right?"
Ilya nodded at her.
"Then we'll make it worth the trip, eh faery?" She gave Mal a sidelong glance. Her eyes were almost lost in their deep black sockets.
"Aye-aye," he said, and clipped his heels together and saluted.
"Aye fuckin' aye," she said, laughing at him. "You daft bastard." Then her voice hardened to its natural gritty state as she shouted orders to her crew. "Power the generators, full throttle. All logistics online. Prep the 'poon and make fast the lines. Shock wave cannon to standby. Man your guns, babies, man your fuckin' guns!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
al landed on the rear deck of the Temeraire just as she got under way, when the sough and sigh of her sails lifting and the slide of rope on wood was enough to cover any sound he might make until he was used to his new shadow body. Her crew was busy and he was able to steal past them easily. Beneath him was the Admiral's cabin. He went over the side and climbed down to the struts where the leaded-glass windows were deeply set. There was a lot of fancy woodwork to hang onto. He tucked his hand around the figure of a leaping porpoise and bent close to the glass to see inside.
"Careful!" Glinda hissed, but she was too late. He'd already seen the figure at the chart table, compasses in hand, and around it the two figures that were barely more than rudimentary forms with heads, shoulders, and, possibly, wings. They were swirls of pale colour and they were restless. As soon as he looked they turned their heads and began to drift towards the windows.
"Away!"
"Ahead of you," Zal said, landing silently on the deck above. He crossed quickly, slid down the handrails that bordered the stairs to the main deck, and jumped through an open hatch into the lamplit gloom of the hold. He was delicate, light as a feather. He paused to peer at the flame of one of the lamps in its cage and lifted the glass so he could put out his finger towards it. He could see the fire through his own shadow flesh. He touched it to see if Mr. V had been lying.
For an instant he was transported from the ship's hold to a wooded glade. He was lying on his back staring at a pink-and-purple sky and a sun that wanted to undo him. He saw an arrow fly overhead and miss the girl with the red flash in her hair. Her silver eyes looked at him. She seemed horrified.
"Tsk!" Glinda snatched at him but he'd already pulled his hand back.
"Didn't she like me?" He felt confused. He was sure he liked her. The feeling of the fire connected him up. He felt stronger, lighter, if that were possible, more able. He wanted to carry on, but he could hear footsteps coming towards him and he flitted away, along the gangway and down another stair, searching quickly for any sign of the brig. He assumed that was where the Admiral would be. He was only hampered slightly by not knowing what a brig looked like. At least he knew Mr. V was good for his word. He carried on his way, hiding in the shadows, of which there were many, whenever someone passed him. At last he discovered a wooden room in the lower decks that had a locked door and a small openable porthole in the door. A bored sailor was apparently the guard, but he soon fell asleep at his place as the ship got under way and began to rock them. Zal moved to the porthole and opened it.
Inside the cell a boy he remembered was lying on a bench, his tricorne hat on his belly, eyes closed. His bare feet poked out of the bottom of ragged breeches, and an oversized shirt was rolled up at the sleeves and falling all around his rope belt. On the floor lay a dagger and a piece of whittled wood along with a fair lot of shavings. A plate held the remains of a loaf of bread-all crusts. The boy scratched his nose and rubbed his face with one grubby hand. He opened his eyes and looked around, peering myopically at the open port. "Hoy, Smith there, what hour is it? Where is that blackguard taking my ship?" It was the Admiral.
Smith snored, slumped over the crate he had used as a table for his dinner.
"It isn't Smith," Zal whispered. "Shh, quiet and come here."
The boy got up quickly, feeling around him fo
r his dagger with his foot and flipping it up to his hand with an astonishing dexterity. He slapped his hat on and came closer, but not within arm's reach. "Who the hell is that? If you're one of his fiends you can throw yourself overboard, I'll-"
"Shut up!" Zal hissed again. "I'm for you."
"Let me out!" At least he had understood. He was quiet.
"I can't. Not yet. I need to know about this guy first. Who is he?"
"Who the devil are you, sir?" the Admiral said with some rehearsed effort, coming no closer. "I say nothing more until you reveal yourself!"
Zal put his hand through the porthole. "I am an elf. A shadowkin. I am here to rescue you." He was aware of Glinda's strong objection but he ignored her. As he guessed, she wasn't ready to come forth and declare herself. She railed at him, but he took his hand away and put his face back there. "But I am afraid of this man in your cabin. He has with him-"
"Angels, yes I know! Oh they are marvelous! But why they are with him I don't know. They are not quite like the angels I have seen before in the deep. Shadowkin? But you look familiar."
"Amida brought me here," he said before he realized he had used the name of the goddess in her full form. Glinda's shock was rewarding. She hadn't mentioned it in her story. "A time ago. I was different then."
"You are the castaway! From the elemental shores!" The boy came forward suddenly and peered into Zal's face. "But you are darkness now. What happened?"
"Long story," Zal said. "Another time. What happened to you?"
The Admiral stood straight, his ankle bones touching, chin high. "I surrendered to save the Fleet." Then he added, "We found him, like you, floating in the Void. We brought him aboard. At first he was pleasant, for one of the death traders, and we took him to that shore, but he refused to leave and then he called them angels and they tore apart one of me ships, so I said they could stay but they threw me in here. He said he was only lending it. He said he was going to the Black Deep. I would never, but he wanted to go and so he put me here. There was another one here before you too. Dunno what happened to her."
"Who?"
"A woman, girl really. Real navvy-mouth she was and all. She said he was no good and she was going to stop him. Was a while ago, but when she left we stopped moving and we only just got under way again now. Was it you started them moving?"
"No." Zal wondered who she could be. "What did she look like? Silver eyes?"
"Eh? No. Ord'nary ones. Listen, there's things in the deep you don't go fishin' for. Where's this bloke going? What's he want?"
"I hoped you knew that," Zal said, sighing in disappointment. "There must be something. What about these angels?"
"What about them?"
"I never saw one before."
"They don't usually come here and never where you are really, so what? People say they's always good, but these two seem more like servants than leaders. They're just powerful in spirit, more than we are. They come and go as they like, I guess, got they own plans and stuff. I dunno." He shrugged and scowled. "What're you gonna do? Don't look like you could handle my cook let alone that bastard."
"I don't know," Zal admitted, "but I think the angels can see me, so I'll have to be careful."
The Admiral snorted his opinion of that and picked his nose thoughtfully. "Then you're as stuck as me. Rescue! Cuh!" He turned away and sat down on his bench again, picked up his stick, and began to hack at it with the dagger. Chips flew.
Zal stood back and looked over his shoulder at Glinda. She was glaring with her golden stare. "Any ideas?"
"Angels," she said with dislike. "This is much more than some little game about zombies and ordinary necromancers interfering with my work. The Deep. I don't like this at all."
"Who're you talkin' to?"
Zal turned back to see the Admiral's bony face struggling to get its chin over the porthole sill.
"Glinda," he said, leaning to the side so she would be visible.
The brown eyes squinted and his nose wrinkled. "Can't see anyone. You're not mad, are you?"
"No," Zal said cheerfully. "Look. She's my death. Glinda. Tall girl. Rude stare. Pointy ears." He held his fingers up beside his head but then realized how stupid that must be, since his own ears were there and equally pointy.
The brown eyes swiveled to look at him for a moment. "Just my luck," the Admiral said with deep contempt. "A looney. Well, in that case my advice is go up and talk to the new captain. Tell him about ... Glinda ... or whatever she's called. Introduce them. Maybe he'll tell you all about his plans and his angels and whatnot and then you can come back and tell me."
Zal took a breath to rebut this, hesitated, and turned back. Glinda was staring at him, her arms folded. She mouthed the words rude stare, and then looney at him. He turned back to the Admiral and considered the choices. "It's the best I've heard. I'll do it. Back soon."
"No, no! I di'n't mean it!" the Admiral began to shout as Zal reached up and closed the porthole on him. "Come back an' let me out, you lackwit! He'll eat you alive! Let me out! I demand it! Let me ou-utt!"
Smith woke up with snort. "Hey there, Captain, don't go getting worked up...." But Zal was already gone.
Zal jumped up the stairs, climbed out of the hatch, and walked across the gently swaying deck to the door of the Admiral's cabin. Glinda was speechless, either with contempt or some other emotion, but he was intrigued by anything that she thought was bad news, and the threat of being eaten didn't bother him as much as it used to. At least it sounded interesting. He didn't look to check Glinda's view; he knocked on the door instead. He had a feeling that he'd always preferred the direct approach to things in spite of whatever Glinda said about sneakiness.
The door opened. A demon stood there, one of the humanoid kind. It was tall and solid with it, and if it hadn't been as part-substantial as he was and a ghost he would have said it was intimidating. It had a long, stretched face, with big carnivore's teeth, a beard, and several long tentacles on either side. More tentacles hung down in its thick dreadlocked hair. Ironbound horns swept back from its skull in two pairs, one short, one long enough to scrape the ceiling. In spite of all this it gave an impression of narrowness, agility, and ease. He was purple, dark green, black, and crimson; the colouration of deep introversion, spirituality, and corruption. The palette gave away little from one like him; only the black was interesting-creativity. His eyes were a dark cowlike brown with a red tint and horizontally slit pupils that were large in the glow of the lamps. "And who are you?" he said, not so much asking as looking and making known the nature of his enquiry. "Ah. I see. Zal Ahriman. How unexpected. Come in."
Zal held out his hand, "I haven't had the pleasure."
"Who I am is not important," the demon said with ease.
"It's important to me; you stole my stuffing," Zal said, still pleasant but not moving. He saw the angels in the background, their energies gathering strength as they moved near the lights.
"I am Xavien," the demon said, "but my house name is lost these days, of no account. I left society a long time ago and I don't like visitors, but since you have come so far, please." He opened the door wider and held his arm out.
Zal went inside and felt the demon's stare on him as acutely as if it were a touch.
"You have survived an extraordinary fate," Xavien said. "True shadow, yet not of the shadow world. Either you have a strong nerve to come here or you are misinformed about me."
Zal was watching the two beings who moved around at the periphery of the room. He'd seen demons before, and Xavien showed no unusual characteristics. "Who're your friends?"
"My guardians," Xavien said. "They would introduce themselves if they felt you warranted it. I can only follow their judgement in these matters."
Zal flicked an eyebrow but he was used to insults and he knew better than to take it personally. "Okay. So, what are you doing with my stuffing?"
"Do we have some business?" The demon's affability was starting to falter, Zal felt. A point against him if he w
as going to simply refuse an answer. Civility was an important skill when you were out to kill someone.
"I thought I could spy around and figure out what you were doing, but then it seemed easier to ask you," Zal said. The cabin was much more luxurious than he remembered. Beautiful rugs were spread beneath a table at the centre of the room, which held an array of charts and instruments, including a large gold-and-brass object he thought must be some kind of star finder. "That's nice. What is it?" He moved across to the table, noticing how his presence bent light in towards him and swallowed it. He was transparent, but less than he used to be. A slight aura of darkness blurred his edges. He admired the effect against the pale cream colour of the map parchment.
"None of your business. Might I ask what you hoped to achieve?" Xavien had moved near to the table. Zal got the impression he would have liked to hide something on it, but it was impossible to say what that might be.
"Yes. I came here to find out what you wanted with my stuffing, but then, seeing you had taken this ship off my friend, I thought I'd find out what you wanted with that too, but he said something about sailing into the Deep Black or whatever, so now I need to ask you what you want to do there or if you're going to just hand the ship back, I suppose. I mean, if you've got good explanations"-he looked up at Xavien's stoney face, took the measure of the two angels burning at the sides of his vision, and grinned-"then I'm sure we can sort it all out without any trouble." It was the happiest he had been in a long time.
Xavien looked speculative, and his hesitation let Zal know he was taking what he thought was a gamble. "Do you know about the Weapon of Intent?"
"No," Zal said, sorry he couldn't exploit the moment. "But then, I've lost most of my memory, so I don't know about much. Is it good? It sounds good."
The demon watched him, looked out the windows, and looked at his charts. The angels moved slowly like drifting fish in an unseen current. Zal could feel them as a burr of soft vibrations in his own skin. It was a strange and unnerving sensation. He had never been close to beings who operated at those kinds of frequencies and he'd have liked to debate the alleged superiority of such things, but he wasn't sure how to talk to them. It seemed that they followed the conversation, but he was sure they were having one of their own, at a pitch he couldn't hear but that created the feeling in his skin.
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