The ship was carvel-built, with a high poop and a corroded bronze winged-fish figurehead. Davis guessed it had a deep draught and a centerboard, to maintain freeway in these tricky waters. There was no mast, but a windmill arrangement turned idly amidships. What off Earth—? Otherwise the harbor held only a few boats, swift-looking, more or less yawl-rigged.
“Highest technology I’ve seen here,” he remarked.
“What? Oh, you mean their skills,” said Barbara. “Yes, they say the seafolk are the best smiths in the world. It’s even said their captains can read writing, like Doctors.”
Davis assumed that the pelagic colonies were old, founded perhaps before the final breakdown of castaway civilization. The sea held abundant food if you knew how to get it. “What kind of people are they?” he asked.
“We don’t know much about them in die uplands,” said Barbara.
“Well,” said Davis, “we’ll find out pretty quick.” His stomach was a cold knot within him.
Work at the dock was grinding to a halt. Women swarmed from the buildings and hurried down tortuous cobbled streets. “A legate, another legate, and who’s that with her?”
Valeria did not thank their guides, it wouldn’t have been in character. She stepped haughtily onto the quay. Davis followed. Barbara nudged die wrist-bound Trevor with a knife and urged her after. Elinor slunk behind.
There was a crowd now, pushing and shoving. A few must be police or guards—they wore conical, visored helmets and scaly corselets above their pants. Davis noticed flamboyant tattoos, earrings, thick gold bracelets . . . and on all classes. A Nicholson stood arm in arm with a Latvala, a Craig pushed between a Whitley and a Burke, a Holloway carrying a blacksmith’s hammer gave amiable backchat to a Trevor with spear and armor.
Valeria raised her staff. “Quiet!” she shouted.
The babble died away, bit by bit. A grav-haired woman, stocky and ugly, added a roar: “Shut up, you scupperheads!” She was an Udall, Davis recognized uneasily. She turned to Valeria and gave a crude salute.
“Are you in charge?” asked the girl.
“Reckon I am, ma’m, being the skipper of this tub . . . Fishbird out o’ Farewell Island, she is. Nelly Udall, ma’m, at your service.”
Joyce Trevor opened her mouth. She was white with anger. Barbara nudged her and she closed it again.
Valeria stood solemnly for a moment. It grew quiet enough to hear the waves bursting on the breakwater. Then she lifted her veiled face and cried: “Rejoice! I have brought a Man!”
It had the desired effect, though a somewhat explosive one. Davis was afraid his admirers would trample him to death. Nelly Udall cuffed back the most enthusiastic and bellowed at them. “Stand aside! Belay there! Show some respect, you—” What followed brought a maidenly blush to Barbara herself, and she was a cavalry girl.
When the racket had quieted somewhat, Davis decided to take charge. “I am a Man,” he said in his deepest voice. “The legate found me in the hills and brought me here. She knows you are a pious people.”
“Bless you, dearie,” said the Udall through sudden tears. “Sure, were pious as hell. Any Father-damned thing you want, ma’m, just say so.”
“But there is evil afoot,” boomed Davis. “Before all the Men can come, you must aid me to destroy the evil in Atlantis.”
A certain awe began to penetrate those hard skulls. The show was rolling. Davis turned to Nelly Udall. “I would speak with you and your counselors in private,” he said.
She looked confused. “Sure . . . sure, ma’m. Yes, your man-ship. You mean my first mate?”
“Oh. . . no authority here, is there? Well where does the Udall of the sea dwellers live?”
“What Udall? I’m just me.”
“Who is your queen, chief, president—who makes the decisions?”
“Why, why, Laura Macklin is the preemer, ma’m,” stuttered Nelly. “She’s at New Terra, that’s the capital. Did you want everybody to come there and vote, ma’m?”
A republic was about the last thing Davis had expected to find. But it was plausible, now that he thought about it. Even under Atlantean conditions, it would be hard to establish despotism among a race of sailors. The cheapest catboat with a few disgruntled slaves aboard could sail as fast as the biggest warship.
“Never mind,” he said majestically. “I’m afraid you misunderstood me, Captain Udall. Take us to a place where we can talk alone with you.”
“Yes, ma’m!” Nelly’s eyes came to light on Joyce Trevor’s sullen face. She jerked a horny thumb toward the prisoner. “Enemy of yours, ma’m? I’ll chop her up personally.”
“That will not be required,” said Davis. “Bring her along.”
Elinor cringed back, looking at the Udall from terrified eyes.
“Awright, awright, clear a way!” roared Nelly. “Stand aside there, you bilge drinkers!” Her fist emphasized the request, but nobody seemed to mind. Tough lot.
Davis led his party after her, through a narrow street to a smoky kennel with an anchor painted on the gable. “We’ll use this tavern,” said Nelly. “Break open a keg of—No, you fishbrains! This is private! Git!” She slammed the door in a hundred faces.
Davis coughed. When his eyes were through watering, he saw a room under sooty rafters, filled with benches and tables. A noble collection of casks lined one wall, otherwise the inn was hung with scrimshaw work and stuffed fish. A whole seal-bird roasted in the fireplace.
Nelly fetched heroic goblets and tapped a brandy cask. “Now then, your maledom, say away.” She leaned back and sprawled columnar legs across the floor. “Death and corruption! A Man, after all these years.”
Formality was wasted on her, Davis decided. He told her the same censored tale he had given Lysum.
“Heard of those wenches.” Nelly snorted. “Well, ma’m . . . sorry, you said it was ’sir,’ didn’t you? What happened next?”
“This Trevor showed up,” said Davis. “She was one of the agents of evil, the same who had whipped Greendale and the other towns into attacking Freetoon. She stirred up Lysum against me. I made her captive and we went down the river till we came here.”
“Why didn’t you see her gizzard, sir?”
“The Men are merciful,” said Davis with a slight shudder. “Do you have a place where she can be held incommunicado?”
“A what? We’ve got a brig.”
“That’ll do.” Davis continued with his demands: passage to the Holy River mouth and an escort to Freetoon, where the lady legate would give the orders of the Ship.
Nelly nodded. “Can do, sir. There are twenty good crewgirls on the Fishbird, and a causeway from the Ship over the swamps—”
“We needn’t stop at the Ship,” said Valeria quickly. “In fact, I’m commanded not to come near it till the rest of the Men arrive. And you understand, this has to be kept secret or we may have more trouble with the, uh, agents of hell.”
“Awright, ma’m. We’ll just leave the Fishbird at Bow Island and get orspers and ride straight to Freetoon. There’s a ridge we can follow through the marshes.”
Davis frowned. Whatever legate had gone to Freetoon might have planted a story that he really was a Monster, to be killed on sight. Or no, probably not . . . that legate had no way of knowing he was the only male human on Atlantis; she’d have to ride back for orders . . .
“The faster the better,” he said.
“We’ll warp out at Bee-rise tomorrow, ma’m,” said Nelly Udall. She shook her head and stared into her goblet. “A Man! A real live Man! Father damn it, I’m too old . . . but I’ve seen you, sir. That’s enough for me, I reckon.”
After Joyce Trevor had been safely locked in the town jail, with the guard ordered not to speak to her or let anyone else do so, Nelly led Davis’ party down to the dock, where he made a short but telling speech to the assembled women. The inquiries of the preceding legate as to whether a Man had been seen had paved the way for his arrival; no one disbelieved him.
Cloud masses
piled blackly out of the west, wind skirled, and scud stung his face. He felt the weariness of being hunted. “I would retire,” he said.
“Yes, sir, this way, sir,” said Nelly. She gave him a wistful look. “Sure you won’t come down to the Anchor with us and fer—”
“Quite sure!” said Barbara and Valeria together.
The crowd trailed them to a long house reserved for ships’ captains. Beyond a common room, there was a hall lined by small bedchambers. Elinor slipped into die first, then Valeria, then Davis, then Barbara . . . he closed the shutters against the gale, turned off the guttering oil lantern, and crept through a sudden heavy darkness into bed. Ahhh!
But it wasn’t easy to sleep. Too much to think about . . . it would be good to be among men again . . . what to do about the Whitleys?—oh, blast, face that problem later . . . he’d be coming back to Atlantis, surely, to help these forlorn female devils through the difficult period of readjustment . . . Hello, Dad! I seem to’ve been pounded into a sober well-integrated citizen after all . . . But nobody mated to a Whitley would ever get too sober—
Drowsiness spilled from him when the door opened. He sat up. “Who’s that?” Bare feet groped across the floor. His scalp prickled.
“Shhh!” The husky voice was almost in his ear. He reached and felt a warm roundedness. “Bertie, I just had to come to you—”
Davis made weak fending motions. The girl laughed shyly and slid under his blankets. Two strong arms closed about him.
His morality stood up in indignation, slipped, and tobogganed whopping down his spinal column. “C’mere!” he said hoarsely.
Her lips closed against his, still inexpert, her hands shuddered their way along his back. Well, he thought with an intoxicating sense of release, if Valeria chose to enter his bed, why, Val was a wonderful girl and he’d make a more or less honest woman of her when he got the chance.
“Bert . . . Bert, darling, I don’t know what . . . what this is, to be with a Man. . . but I care for you so much—”
“I told you the word was ‘love,’ ” he chuckled.
“Did you? When was that?”
“You remember, Val, sweetheart . . . you didn’t fool me—”
“Val!” She sat bolt upright and screeched the name. “Val? What’s been going on here?”
“Oh, no!” groaned Davis. “Barbara, listen, I can explain—”
“I’ll explain you!” she yelled. Davis scrambled to get free. The blankets trapped him. Barbara got her hands on his throat.
The door opened. The tall red-haired girl carried an ax in her right hand; the left, holding a lantern, was scarred.
“What’s happening?” barked Valeria.
To the untrained eye, a wrestling match is superficially not unlike certain other sports. Valeria cursed, set down the lantern, and strode forward with lifted ax. Barbara sprang out of bed, snatched up Davis’ knife, and confronted her twin.
“So you’ve been mucking around!” she shouted.
“I wouldn’t talk,” answered Valeria from clenched jaws. “The minute my back is turned, you come oozing in and—and—”
“Now, girls,” stammered Davis. “Ladies, ladies, please!”
They whirled on him. Something intimated to him that this was not just die correct approach. He got out of bed one jump ahead of die ax and backed into a corner. “It’s all a mistake!”
“The mistake was ever bringing you along,” snarled Valeria.
The wind hooted and banged die shutters. Above it, suddenly, he heard a roar. It swept closer, boots racketing on cobblestones, clattering iron, a mob howl.
The Whitleys reacted fast. Valeria whirred her ax, Barbara darted back to her room for a bow. The vague light threw their shadows monstrous across the walls.
Feet pounded down the hall. Nelly Udall burst into the chamber. There were gashes on her squat body, and the ax in her hand dripped blood. “Hell and sulfur!” she bawled. “Grab your weapons! They’re coming to kill you!”
A Macklin and a youthful Lundgard followed her. They were also wounded, hastily armed, and they were crying.
“What happened?” rattled Davis.
“I bolted the outer door,” panted Nelly. “They’ll break it down in a minute.” A groan of abused wood came from behind her. “I believe you’re a Man, dearie . . . that’s how I got these cuts . . . but the Trevor—Why didn’t you kill that snark when you had the chance?”
“Trevor!” Davis grabbed the Udall’s shoulders. “Is she loose?”
“Yeh,” said Nelly in a flat voice. “We was all down at the Anchor, drinking your health, and this Trevor walks in with that Dyckman of yours, says she’s the legate and you’re a Monster. Proves herself by running through the rites every mother knows are said at the Ship—challenges your Whitley to do the same—” Nelly shook her head. “It was quite a fight. We three here beat our way out o’ the tavern and got here ahead of ’em.”
“Elinor!” Barbara’s voice seethed.
“She must have sneaked out,” said Davis wanly. “Gone to the brig, told the guard she had new orders from me, set Joyce free . . . Oh, almighty Cosmos, what’re we going to do now?”
“Fight,” answered Nelly. She planted herself in the doorway.
There was a final crash, and the mob came down the hall. A Salmon leaped yelling, with drawn knife. Nelly’s ax thundered down, the body rolled at her feet. A Hauser jabbed at her with a spear. Barbara shot the Hauser through the breast.
It dampened them. The women milled sullenly in the narrow corridor, the noise quieted to a tigerish grumble.
Davis stepped forward, trying not to shake. A scarred elderly Damon faced him boldly. “Will you call a truce?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Davis. “Hold your fire, Barbara. Maybe we can—” Joyce Trevor pushed her way through the crowd and regarded him over Nelly’s shoulder. Ragged skirt and matted hair took away none of her frozen dignity. “I say you are a Monster,” she declared.
“Elinor,” said Davis, very quietly, still not believing it. “Elinor, why did you do this?”
He glimpsed her in the mob, thin, shaking, and enormous-eyed. Her lips were pale and stiff. “You are,” she whispered. “You attacked a legate. The legate says you’re a Monster.”
Davis smiled wryly. “I was alone, and there were a lot of Doctors,” he murmured. “That’s why, isn’t it?”
“Shut up, you Monster!” screamed Elinor. “You and those Whitleys kicked me around once too often!”
“This is a waste of time,” snapped Joyce. “If that Whitley is a true legate, let her prove it by reciting the rites.”
“Never mind,” sighed Davis. “She isn’t. But I am a Man. I can bring all the Men here. The legate lies about me because the Doctors don’t want them. It would mean the end of Doctor power.”
“I sort of thought that,” muttered the Lundgard beside him.
“Let me go to my spaceship,” said Davis. “That’s all I ask.”
Joyce whirled on the crowd. “Let him summon die other Monsters?” she yelled. “I lay eternal barrenness on anyone who helps this thing! I order you to kill it, now!”
Nelly hefted her ax, grinning. “Who’s next?” she inquired.
Davis heard feet shuffle in the corridor, voices buzz and break, spears drag on the floor. And there was the sound of new arrivals, a few pro-Davis women stamping in and making their own threats. Women have slightly less tendency to act in mobs than men do; the crowd was wavering, uncertain, afraid.
He straightened, licked his lips, and walked forward. “I’m going out,” he said. “Make way.”
Barbara, Valeria, Nelly and her two companions, followed at his heels. A handful of determined roughnecks shoved through the pack, toward him, to join him. Otherwise no one stirred. Joyce boiled under the menace of Barbara s cocked bow, Elinor hid her eyes. If nothing broke this explosive quiet—
The wind raved in coalsack streets. A lonely score of women tramped in a circle about Davis, toward the dock. He hea
rd the crowd follow, but it was too dark to see them.
Barbara—he felt the hard stock of her arbalest—whispered venomously: “Don’t think I’m coming along for your sake, you slimy double-face. I haven’t any choice.”
When they emerged from canyon-like walls, onto the wharf, enough light to see by trickled down from the pharos. Nelly led the way to her ship.
“I’m staking one hell of a lot on your really being a Man,” she said desolately, into the wind. “I don’t dare believe anything else.”
The Shield Skerry folk swirled on the edge of darkness, still paralyzed. He had to get away before the shooting began. He crossed the gangplank to the deck. Valeria edged close to him and hissed: “Yes, I’ll believe you’re a Man too. . . and the hell with all Men! I’m only coming because I haven’t any choice.”
Nelly seemed to draw strength from the planks booming beneath her feet. “All aboard, you scuts!
Man the capstan! Look lively now!”
She went aft, up on the poop to a nighted helm. The other women scurried about, doing incomprehensible things with ropes and pulleys. The great windmill jerked, gears whined as they engaged, there was a white threshing at the stern. The Fishhird moved slowly out of the harbor.
XII
Morning was gray over an ice-gray sea, where waves snorted from horizon to horizon and the ship wallowed. Davis emerged from one of the little cabins under the poop to find the crew—mostly young women of the more warlike families—chattering happily. Barbara and Valeria sulked on opposite sides of the deck, elaborately ignoring him.
The windmill, facing into the stiff gusts, turned, driving a propeller through a set of gears and shafts. As he waited for breakfast, Davis tried to lose his gloom by admiring the arrangement—it made the ship independent of wind direction. Evil! Who cared?
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