He’d been ready.
As the alarm pealed, Gale stomped over to the man, furious. “If he doesn’t come up, you’ve murdered two people instead of one.”
“It was wine,” he said, tone sullen, and the thing that made her want to punch him was that it was true: without the scripped bottle bearing Rasa’s name, it was only his word against hers.
Lights were cast downward, at the sea on the port side. Gale joined the spotters, staring downward. At least Parrish wasn’t floating on the water in a heap of bones and linen.
What if he just never surfaced?
“How long has it been?” one of the Watch asked, and she tried to think. Ten ticks? Thirty?
“Fifteen since the alarm,” someone else responded. Of course: nobody was speaking to her.
Constitution‘s aura of discipline kept civilians off the deck while the rescue attempt was underway, but faces crowded all her portals. The upper decks, where Convenors strolled among small gardens and discussed affairs of state, were filling with people.
Among them were the glass woman, Rasa, and the reporter, Pyke. It was good politics: show the pitiable victim of the Patents office to the crowd. Rasa’s glowing eyes were fixed on her former lover. Did she know he’d thrown the flask away?
“Sixty,” said the Watch.
He’s a sailor. He’s a good swimmer. He’s athletic. Gale stared at the obsidian waves. Don’t vanish on me now, cub.
Perhaps I should fire him. I am getting stupidly attached.
“Kir,” the Watch said. “The person thrown overboard…”
“I threw nobody!” protested the clerk suddenly. “This servant is making a fuss for no reason.”
A frown. “A false alarm…”
“He’s down there,” Gale insisted. “Look, his clothes.”
The Watch took them in. “Shoes off? You say he was thrown?”
“He dove,” she conceded, “But—
“Eighty ticks.”
Surely he could hold his breath for a couple of minutes.
“There!” Searchlights to the stern of Constitution swivelled and there was a rush of personnel. Gale moved to join them, but the Watchman held her back. “Sorry, Kir. Until this is straightened out—”
She shook her head, not caring. They were bringing something up now. Alive, or dead? It was all shadows; she couldn’t make him out.
Then he was walking toward her, under his own power … and he had the bottle in his hand.
Parrish locked eyes with the clerk, then looked up at the glass woman, Rasa. She seemed to realize what was about to happen, but it was too late to vanish into the mob.
Raising his hand, Parrish hurled the bottle to the deck, shattering glass, sending black sand everywhere. People covered their ears; a few swooned.
Rasa gasped, clutching her chest. She fell into a crouch, color and softness returning to her face, all in front of the reporter and innumerable witnesses.
Parrish handed over the neck of the shattered bottle. “Everyone gets to live,” he said to the clerk. “You feel better, don’t you?”
The man spit on the deck at his feet, but the gesture was half-hearted.
“That’s enough,” the head of the Watch said. “You, Kir, come with me. And you—” He glowered at Parrish— “Wait over there until I sort this out.”
“Might I trouble you for my shoes?” Parrish asked.
“Get something warm for him to drink,” Gale added loudly. “Before he freezes.”
“Sit,” the Watch officer said, in a voice that might in itself have caused hypothermia. The two of them made their way to the indicated bench.
“You are appallingly bad with people,” Gale said.
“I know,” Parrish said.
“Good swimmer though.”
“I won the Slosh, at my Graduation.” He beamed. The memory of the dangerous swimming contest must be a good one. Then his face closed. “What happens now?”
“Word’ll get out that the girl and the clerk were in on the scheme, and the Patents debate will ease down to a simmer. With luck, one or the other of them will avoid arrest.”
“With luck?”
“Whoever roped ‘em into the scheme is probably pretty slick. There’s a chance they’ll come away without facing charges if they keep their mouths shut.”
“You’re all right with that?”
“In the first place, it’s out of my hands. In the second it’d be a shame, for their daughter, if they were both convicted of interfering with the Convene. They must have been in terrible financial straits to agree to the scheme.”
He puzzled this one out, probably weighing pity for the child against the fact that her parents were criminals.
“I don’t know that I approve of you leaping off a moving ship in the dead of night on the off chance you might catch the inscription.”
“The seas were calm. The prospect of Rasa dying, crack by crack, slowly—”
“Would’ve been terrible,” she agreed. “But how’ll I face Sloot if you drown?”
“You’ll tell him to find another first mate.” Color blotched his cheeks. “Speaking of replacing me. I’m sure there’s been a suggestion that you…”
“Yes?”
“I’d consider it a favour … I’d be in your debt, Gale … if you kept me on the Nightjar crew.”
It cost him. It was a visible effort for him to utter the words.
Swallowed your pride, boy. Good for you.
“Pish, cub,” she said. “I was never going to fire you.”
“Kir Gracechild—”
“Nella ain’t my employer, officially or otherwise.”
“No?”
“I’ll explain my complicated government position when we’re out at sea, far from prying ears. And you can tell me all about your big disgrace. Or not, as you choose.”
He ran a hand through his wet hair, keeping his gaze on the sea and letting out a long, shaky breath. When he spoke, it was with his usual composure: “Thank you.”
By now the hubbub was clearing. The Watch was taking the clerk into custody: Rasa was bound for medical. Annela glided up.
“You gave that jackal from the Foghorn a scoop, Parrish.”
“She’s not so bad,” he said.
“I’m going back to Nightjar, Nella,” Gale said. “Sleep in my own berth. Was there anything beyond this particular muckslide you were hoping to get from me?”
“Not in Fleet. I have dispatches for Erstwhile, and there’s a situation on Drake’s Shoal that I thought you might interest yourself in.”
“Ah, Drake’s. Been there yet, Parrish?”
“No.”
“Their beaches are lined with bizarre trees—a mandrake variant—that live in harmony with burrowing molluscs whose shells conduct electricity. At night, they sizzle. It’s the damnedest thing.”
“Dragon mussels,” he said, lighting up. “I’ve seen drawings.”
“‘Course you have. Scare us up a ride out to the Wake. Something comfortable; you’re soaked and I’m tired.”
With a bow, he vanished to the rear.
“Boy’s a naturalist,” Gale said to Annela.
“You’re keeping him, I take it.”
“Him and the bushbaby, unless you need the thing.”
“Please, take the chattering monkey before Bettona quits her post.” Her tone was sober. “You’re making a mistake.”
“It won’t be the last.”
“You can’t know that.
“Nobody can,” she said, giving in to a sudden urge to wrap her arms around her cousin, to squeeze the heated, cushy mass of her and breathe in that odd spicy scent she wore, a gingery perfume that made Gale think of home. “Why don’t you pack in the politics and come with us? Forget about factions and dead Convenors and sail with Nightjar. Taste the electric molluscs?”
“Change what I am?”
“Should be easy enough.”
“The boy’s right—you’re terrible overt when you’re sermonizing
.”
“All part of my charm,” she said, and then the galago was scampering along the rail, waving a stinking date and hopping into her arms, feather-light, its pulse a rattata under its short grey fur, and she kissed her cousin one last time and let the beast pull on her hair as she went astern to join her first mate and, together, find their way home.
About the Author
A.M. DELLAMONICA is the author of Indigo Springs, which won the Sunburst Award for Canadian Literature of the Fantastic. Her short fiction has appeared in Asimov’s, Realms of Fantasy, Sci-Fiction and Strange Horizons, and in numerous anthologies; her 2005 alternate-history Joan of Arc story, “A Key to the Illuminated Heretic,” was shortlisted for the Sideways Award and the Nebula Award. Dellamonica lives in Vancouver, British Columbia. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Begin Reading
About the Author
Copyright
Copyright © 2016 by A. M. Dellamonica
Art copyright © 2016 by Richard Anderson
The Glass Galago Page 3