All These Shiny Worlds

by Jefferson Smith

  The bar crashes into my legs, swill staining my beige bamboo pants, turning them red as blood.

  The crew members who were drinking are now shouting orders, scurrying up and out of the shell to find out what happened.

  But I know what happened. I knew at the first loud whine.

  The rakam have come.

  ***

  The crew know. You can see the truth on their normally dark, fierce faces, now drained of color, their eyes, blends of browns with some light blues, all wide and hyper-focused. Some scramble over the great shell, pulling on cords of kelp, tying things down, as others grab long spears made of the very creatures they now fight. Long poles of bamboo with the deadly chiseled swords that make the rakam so dangerous. They are fierce creatures of medium to large build, made for fast swimming and lethal hunting, with long protruding faces that come out like a sword with teeth. They are nearly unbreakable, those mouths, and make excellent weapons, if you’re lucky enough to kill one before it kills you.

  Taking on one rakam is doable, if you have a team working together. But they rarely hunt alone. And when they come in a swarm, feeding on the full belly of the kiasheen, that’s when you know you’re in trouble.

  If our kiasheen dies, we all fall in the water. And in the depths, where the rakam are faster and stronger, they do not worry about killing. They eat their prey alive.

  I have seen a fallen ship once, heard the bone chill screams and swum in the blood red water. It was enough death for three lifetimes.

  I take in the scene around me: Calla thrusts a spear into the depths, hitting a rakam in the belly as it snaps at the kiasheen’s wing. Kanen shouts for someone to fetch the nets. Clam fires precious arrows into the waves. Garen, the storyteller from the mainroom who is by far the biggest of the crew, howls and jumps onto a rakam, drives a spear into its head, and jumps back onto the shell, laughing. The man is insane.

  Something doesn’t make sense. I grab the arm of someone scurrying by, stopping him. “Why didn’t we fly over this section?” I ask. The kiasheen can fly. Not high and not for long stretches, but that is the beauty of their breed. They can fly over dangerous waters—rakam-infested waters—and land their crew in safety.

  The man looks at me wild-eyed. “There ain’t been no rakam in these parts in over two hundred years. We ain’t ne’er had to fly over these waters. It don’t make sense. The goddess is angry. She has cursed us.” He taps three fingers on his chest and pulls out of my grip, running off with spear in hand.

  In the distance, amongst the dark clouds, I see a shadow drift over us. It could mean the death of the rakam, but no. Not now. I can’t reveal myself just yet.

  Instead, I find my own spear and aid in the best way I know how.

  By killing.

  The kiasheen is crying into the night, its dark blood seeping into the water, attracting more and more deadly rakam.

  Their fins break the surface of the choppy water as they surround us, dozens of them hungry, their sword mouths tearing at the flesh of the gentle whale who cannot defend itself against the onslaught. Who is trapped by shell and humans and the very girth of its body.

  We are its only defense.

  The spears, too precious a resource to be squandered, have a strand of tightly wound kelp at the end of them. I tie it around my wrist as the sky opens up, drowning us in the freshwater of rain even as the ocean swells up to swallow us.

  I squint through the night, the crone moon now full in the sky. I take a breath, my vision focusing, my heart rate slowing, and I aim. A rakam sinks into the ocean, and I use the kelp to yank the spear out of the body and bring it back to my side. Again and again I aim, throw, kill.

  I never miss. If anyone were to notice, I would be questioned—suspected of being more than I claim. But no one is paying attention to the mysterious stranger on their boat. They are all fighting to survive. As long as I don’t hinder their survival, I am free to be myself—at least for now.

  And so I continue my slaughter, killing one after another after another.

  I hear a scream that is too human to ignore and see one of the crew members fly overboard, his spear not pulling free of the rakam in time. Before anyone can react, he is devoured by the great beasts, their long sharp mouths crunching into bone and flesh, making a quick meal out of the big man until his screams are only echoes in the sea, lost forever to his goddess.

  I don’t let that break my concentration. If the tide doesn’t turn in our favor soon, I will have to reveal myself, and all my efforts, all my planning, will be for naught.

  But none of that will matter if I am dead.

  I am close to revealing myself, but I do not. I throw my spear, again and again. Then a young man of no more than sixteen years stumbles into the water, and the rakam impale him in the gut, spilling his intestines into the murky water even as he still lives.

  His suffering does not end until they tear the limbs from his body. He then falls silent, sinking into the Deep Mother’s embrace at last as the rakam feed on his remains.

  I break. I need to rush back to my room, back to the box within my chest. As more of the crew fall to their death, as the kiasheen is torn apart, piece by piece, floating into the dark waters, as the storm hits us harder, as if the heavens themselves are in collusion with the rakam… I cannot let more die.

  But before I can move, before I can act on my new plan, another ship enters my line of sight. Their kiasheen is enormous, at least three times bigger than ours. The night sky lights up with brightly-lit torches as spears shoot out from their whale-ship, impaling the remaining rakam and leaving the sea suddenly silent save for the low moaning of the still-injured kiasheen we ride atop.

  Calla is already mustering a crew to administer healing to the kiasheen as the other ship approaches. They show the flags of the Great House of Ruu—a red volcano framed by a white, cloudless sky—marking them as one of the three Great Families of the Shattered Islands. My heart trips over itself when I see those flags, and I peer into their great shell, trying to identify their leader, to see if I recognize him. Or more importantly, to see if he will recognize me.

  ***

  There is a pause in the flurry of movement as Captain Kanen assesses our new allies.

  “Permission to come aboard!” A voice calls from the larger whale-ship.

  The captain looks around, seeing the injury and toll this attack has taken on his crew. Those not killed were injured or exhausted in a fight that felt hours but lasted no more than minutes.

  “We have supplies we will gladly share!” The voice calls again.

  “Permission granted,” the captain shouts back, gesturing with a nod of his head for a member of his crew, who scrambles to untie the kelp that holds the bridge shell up.

  As the bridge falls to the side of the ship, the other boat latches itself onto us and stabilizes in the water, and three members of its crew walk across the shelled planks to greet our captain.

  The man in the lead is tall, with strong streaks of blue in his hair, nails and eyes. His eyes are sharp as he takes in the state of our ship. “I am Han’Ruu, of the Great Family, captain of this ship. We were traveling to a nearby port for trade when we heard the cries of your kiasheen.”

  He looks around, noting the injuries, the blood splashing against the great shell. “We have supplies, food, healers. We are happy to help if you’d like to take sanctuary on our ship while you make repairs and heal your kiasheen.”

  Captain Kanen nods a head. “Yer generosity and the generosity of yer great family will be remembered,” he says.

  It doesn’t take long to move most of the crew to the larger ship while the healthiest members of the crew stay behind to make repairs. Han’Ruu sends his own men and women to help.

  I stay to the side, observing, noticing. When Han’Ruu’s eyes land on mine, I nod as a submissive to a greater house, and he acknowledges, giving a half nod. “You do not look like crew,” he says.

  “Just a passenger,” I say.


  “And yet you speared the rakam like one born with a blade in his hand,” he observes.

  Why was this man paying so much attention to me, I wonder. “I come from one of the lesser houses of the Shattered Islands, trained as a hunter. It comes in handy.”

  He studies me, then nods. “Fair enough, brother. I hope you will enjoy the comforts of our ship until yours is seaworthy again.”

  “Of course.”

  He speaks as one of the Ruu, his accent faint, sophisticated, but I don’t recognize him. It’s been many years since I last set foot in the Shattered Islands. Much has changed, it seems.

  I disappear onto the Ruu ship, nodding to their crew, who are well-kept and well organized. They wear the ornaments of traders, beads and shells that clank and clatter on their clothing, suggesting wealth and haggling abilities. I can smell the spices they have stored within the shell, cinnamon and nutmeg and more exotic flavors floating on the wet wind. The rain has stopped, and the damp world picks up the secondary scents more strongly now, with the cleansing of the clean water.

  Another scent tickles my nose as I make my way deeper into the ship. I raise an eyebrow, intrigued, before I’m pulled into the mainroom where food and sea swill are being handed out liberally. I take my plate and cup from a burly woman with a thin mustache over her broad lips, and find a seat alone.

  I eat slowly, quietly, watching as the crews from the two ships mix and mingle. Some have just returned from having wounds bandaged and are slugging down the swill as if they haven’t drank in months. Others are inhaling their food like it’s the last they might ever see. There’s a rush that fills the blood after a life-threatening experience, and I see it playing out around me. People who held on too tightly are now letting loose, relieved that they don’t have to be in charge, that someone else is here to fix things so they can stop shaking and find a way to breathe again.

  I never stopped breathing, myself, until the woman walks in, her long white and blue dress teasing at her bare ankles. I catch a small design on her right ankle, made with pigments of red, before her dress moves to cover it once again. She fills a tray with clams, steamed fish and fried seaweed, and fills a large mug with sea swill, her eyes darting around as she works. Her long black hair is streaked with light strands of blue and piled high in a bun on her head. When she looks up, our eyes meet. Hers are striking, deep blue—almost turquoise—and so sad. She reminds me of the woman in my dreams, but only for a moment. Her eyes are too sad, her body too pulled into itself as she averts her face, grabs the tray and scurries out of the room before anyone can speak to her.

  But as she closes the door behind her, she glances at me one more time, briefly, and I feel a voice form between us. A message. A plea.

  I stand and slip out of the room, leaving my food and drink on the table.

  I don’t know where I’m going or why. I know only one thing.

  I must speak to the woman with the blue eyes.

  ***

  When I enter the side shell, the woman is gone.

  I walk through halls, past doors to private cabins, the eyes of the local crew regarding me with suspicion as I continue my search with a casual nonchalance I don’t feel but must fake. By the time I give up looking for her, I have traversed most of the ship, including the armory and a rare bathing room. This kiasheen and crew must be at least three times the size of the one I commissioned. Their gear is of top quality: thrice-thickened nets, stone-tipped arrows, and even an iron pot in the kitchen. This is the opulence that comes with being part of a great family. I do not care for it, but I find myself wondering if they have any pillows.

  I have not found the woman, nor the pillows, when I’m deep in the belly of the shell, and I hear a scraping sound coming from a deck below me. I follow the noise and find a set of stairs protruding from the wall, part of the shell, part of the original carved design. I take them down and reach a door that does not lead to a private cabin or deck. It is guarded by two crew members playing a popular game, Shells and Stones. It’s a betting game, and they have a small pot of coppers piling up between them as they toss their shells and stones and pray for luck to guide them.

  The bushy-haired thin man looks up when I approach. He has a long goatee growing from the center of his pointed chin, the rest of his cheeks smooth as a child’s. Bits of colored cloth are woven into his dark beard, with matching bits tied into his hair. He raises an eyebrow when he sees me. “You from the other ship.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  I nod. “I think I got myself turned around looking for a place to piss.”

  The small round man with him guffaws and looks to his partner. “Man’s got to piss, Mal’Ruu?” He turns back to me. “Ain’t you ever heard of pissing off the side of the ship?”

  His words are slurred, as if he’s had too much sea swill while on duty.

  “I’m a private man,” I tell him.

  “There be a latrine near the fluke,” Mal’Ruu offers. “If you can’t wait, there’s a bucket in the kitchen. Tel’Ruu here just took a dump in it, so it be nice and fresh for you.”

  Neither man has moved from his seat, but I feel the tension in the air thicken when I don’t immediately leave. “What’s behind the door?”

  Tel’Ruu sighs, seemingly annoyed, but Mal’Ruu smiles and leans forward. “We recently came upon a nest of drakruu,” he says quietly. “Caught us a young’in.”

  My eyes grow wide like a child’s on drowning day. The blue shadow, the sapphire scale, the winged reptile that, when fully grown, can carry a man or woman over the seas, lies behind that door. They are born black, but once they feed on the sapphires deep within the ocean their scales begin to turn blue. A merchant once told me the beasts cost more than a small island, and only a few have ever seen one up close. Seen one and lived, that is.

  I grin, sheepishly. “You think I can—”

  “Sorry,” says Mal’Ruu, raising a hand to his bearded chin. “But no one goes in. Not even us. You understand.”

  I nod and turn to leave.

  “Hey,” says the tall man. “Mind keeping this to yourself? Some men feel the gold calling when they hear of drakruu, yes?”

  I think of people like Clam and nod again. “Be at ease, searunner. I shall tell no one as I search for that bucket.”

  The men chuckle and return to their game as I drift back down the hall I came from, my hope of finding the mysterious woman with blue eyes lost for the time being.

  But knowing there are drakruu on board piques my curiosity. This crew is like me. We are both full of secrets, and we are both lying.

  ***

  When I return to the great shell, I’m not surprised to find a section of the surface covered with dead rakam. In life they are fierce, deadly, terrifying. They do not lose their awe in death. If anything, they are more terrifying, their ever unblinking, unclosing white eyes still staring at you as if the fight isn’t finished and they will prevail.

  They are brutal hunters, first impaling their victim with the tip of their spear-like mouths, usually in the gut. As their victim bleeds out, releasing intestines in the process, they begin to feed, slowly. Some say, you die from the pain before the wounds.

  But this time, the rakam are the dead ones, lying in small pools of water as crew members from both ships strip the beasts of their skins and mouths for use in weaponry and clothing. The meat is saved for rare stews and broths—said to give a man a pair of fighting balls if eaten raw—and the useless bits are tossed back into the sea as food for other species.

  The smell is strong, the stench carrying with the winds. I step away, letting my eyes fall back to the injured kiasheen. It’s resting peacefully in the water, the healers doing their work to give the great whale its strength back as they use ancient balms and seaweed strips to close the wounds. I find the captain of my own ship supervising the process.

  He looks up and grunts when he sees me. “If yer here to ask for those stones back, yer wasting yer breath. I told ye when we started this t
rip, once a man sets sail on these waters, his fate be in the hands of the goddess.”

  I shrug idly, never having intended to ask for compensation. It says much about the captain and the people he’s dealt with that he thought I would. “We were lucky the Ruu ship came when it did,” I say, eyeing the grizzled old man.

  He glares at me from the side of his eyes, his scar twisting over the clenched muscles of his jaw and neck. “I taught them, you know,” he says, glancing back at the healers. “Taught every one of them.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “You were a healer?”

  “Still smell the healing sap on my hands.” He takes a swig from his flask. “Back then all I wanted was to be captain, but now, I think that was a simpler time. A better time.” He smiles and points at the working crew. “See how they apply the balm in layers, not all at once like those big island folk? That’s the right way.” His words focus on the healers, but I see his mind is elsewhere. I see it in his stone heavy shoulders, in the way his smile never reaches his eyes, in the way his hands cradle his flask like a lover. His mind is yet to forget. His mind is yet to forgive.

  “Any idea when we’ll be back on the water?” I ask.

  “If all goes well, two suns’ time.”

  I mentally calculate all that could happen in two suns’ time.

  Too much.

  For a moment, we sit silently in the darkness. Before I leave, I grip the captain’s shoulder and use my softest voice, the one I learned from my mother. “You led your men well,” I say. “No other captain would have saved as many.” Then I walk away swiftly, for it is a rare thing to hear words of kindness and know that no words are needed in return.

  ***

  I spend the rest of the afternoon exploring this new ship, talking to the crew, getting to know as many of them as I can. My cover as “Sev,” a lower-family cast off, stands. No one questions why my eyes are so bright, why I wear gloves to hide my nails, why I’m on this trip at all.