The White City

by Simon Morden

  He put the egg back in its hollow and went to look out to sea.

  There was a boat – no, a ship – off shore. In the moonlight, he saw its long, low shape and single mast, and the way both prow and sternposts arced towards the sky. It was big, too, judging from the small rowing boat that had been lowered over the side and was slowly splashing its way towards the gently sloping beach.

  Now here was a dilemma worthy of the name. Other people had, without fail, brought nothing but trouble. Dalip should simply hide from them, wake the others and skip further into the forest. If these sailors had been drawn by the light, they could take it – if that meant them leaving him, Mama and Elena alone.

  And yet, hadn’t he just been thinking about the gifts that Down gave? Here, unbidden, was a ship that might take all of them to the White City, and it looked fast. Perhaps they might even beat Crows there.

  If he was a good man on Down, then there had to be others, eventually. If it all went sour, then he could escape and go with his first plan. He took his courage in both hands, and his machete in one, and walked down to meet them.

  There were three people in the rowing boat. The two rowers had their backs to him, but a man sat in the stern and spotted Dalip’s silhouette on the shoreline.

  ‘Hello!’ he called brightly. ‘Friend or foe?’

  ‘That depends,’ Dalip shouted back. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Pirates,’ came the reply, ‘but the good kind.’

  ‘I know enough about pirates to think you’re lying.’

  ‘Very well. I’m lying about being a pirate. But we do have a pirate ship.’ The man got up from the stern and crabbed his way towards the bow, stepping over and between the rowers. ‘If I throw you a line, will you take it?’

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Dalip, and a wet rope uncoiled through the air and smacked down at his feet. He scooped it up and wrapped it through his fists, pulling the line taut. The boat bobbed as the rowers lifted their oars clear of the water, and he walked backwards, pulling the boat through the last of the surf until the keel grounded hard against the sand.

  The pirate captain jumped to the beach and scanned the rest of the shore cautiously.

  ‘No one else? Just you?’

  Dalip didn’t know how to answer without knowing the man’s intentions. He said nothing, just rested his hand on the handle of his machete.

  ‘Can’t be too careful, old man. Calling ourselves pirates usually scares away the baser sort of cove, but there’s always one or two tricky blighters who spring something unexpected.’

  The man nodded to his crew, and they stowed the oars.

  ‘Yonder is the Ship of Fools,’ said the man, ‘and I am Captain Simeon. We saw your beacon light at sunset, and determined we’d see what great wonder or great peril caused such illumination.’

  ‘Dalip Singh,’ said Dalip. ‘I’ll take you to it if you like.’

  ‘Gods,’ said Simeon and leaned forward. ‘A Sikh chappie. What a stroke of luck: Pater was ten years in the Punjab and had nothing but respect for your people. Came back riddled with malaria and a fondness for curry, mind. Forever going on about how bland our food was – drove Cook to despair.’ He turned to his crew. ‘Come on, then, men. Look lively.’

  The two sailors clambered out of the boat and heaved it a little further up the beach. Both were shorter than Dalip, but considerably wider. They looked more than capable of being pirates.

  ‘Right then, Singh. Lead on.’

  Dalip started towards the dunes, and Simeon fell into step beside him.

  ‘Why do you call it the Ship of Fools?’

  ‘Well, it was called that long before I ever set eyes on it, long before I became captain, so I can’t take credit for it. But everyone on board is a fool, so the name is most peculiarly apt.’

  ‘I don’t …’

  ‘Fools for ever stepping through that door, Singh. For accepting this fate rather than the one God ordained for us. Cowards and fools, every man jack of us. Still, we make the best of it, right, Dawson?’

  The square outline of Dawson gave a grunt that could have been yes.

  ‘There was a fire. A big fire.’

  ‘And you were at your wits’ end, trapped like a rat, and opened a door. Was that it?’

  ‘Pretty much. You?’

  Simeon laughed. ‘Oh, nothing so dramatic. My gambling debts had caught up with me, I’m afraid, and I was hiding in a broom cupboard under the stairs. The, shall we call them gentlemen, I owed money to – several hundred pounds at the time – were searching my lodgings upstairs. And when I say search, I do mean they were very thorough. I could hear my worldly goods breaking through the stout planks, and then heard their feet above my head. Some urchin, damn his eyes, on the promise of a shiny sixpence or two to keep mum and direct the dastards back on to the street, gave me up and gained a shilling for his troubles. Nothing for it, I thought. They could drag me out and do whatever they wanted to my mortal frame, or I could show them a clean pair of heels.’

  ‘And you saw Down.’

  ‘Indeed I did. I couldn’t work it out at first, then like the impulsive idiot that I was, thought I’d chance it. Many adventures later, here I am. Not the same man, either.’ Simeon paused long enough to twist his mouth into a sour smile. ‘But everyone here changes, eventually.’

  They were at the top of the dune, and Dalip pointed to the brightest part of the luminous fog.

  ‘I buried one of my friends yesterday. I took the light from the man who killed her.’

  Dawson slid down the slope and retrieved the egg, and held it up for Simeon to see.

  Simeon rubbed his pointed chin for a moment. ‘Just one question, old chap. Why did you let it shine?’

  ‘We left it here to mark the grave, not knowing it was a light. But when I woke up, and found it like that, I … what was the worst that could happen? We’re pretty much beaten. We’ve nothing left but hope.’

  ‘You do realise that one of those damned geomancers could be along in a minute to stitch you up like a kipper and drag you away to their lair?’

  ‘We’ve already done that. Didn’t fancy it much, so we escaped. Are you,’ asked Dalip, trying to stop himself from pleading, ‘taking on crew?’

  ‘Who are the we?’

  ‘There’s three of us left. Everyone else is either dead or missing.’

  ‘We have berths. It’s an uncertain life, being a pirate, but I’ve found it’s safer on the briny than land, and we’re a merry band – Dawson notwithstanding. The rules are few, but we have to work together to protect our freedom. Jeopardise the ship and you’re over the side, which is somewhat unfortunate if there’s no land around. If you agree to follow my orders and learn to be useful, we’ll take you aboard. What do you say?’

  ‘I’ll put it to the others.’ Dalip thought for a moment, then dug through his pockets. ‘I don’t know if this means anything but I can pay our way.’

  He held out two fistfuls of coins and let them fall into Simeon’s cupped hands.

  ‘Hah. I told you. Sikhs: good, honest men.’ He tipped the treasure into his three-cornered hat. ‘Go and fetch your fellows. We’ll wait for you by the boat. Dawson: hide that light.’

  11

  ‘You are very quiet, Mary.’

  She’d made shit up, about finding everyone dead and there being a slow, smouldering fire on which they all burned. It was close enough to the truth that she didn’t have to tell him about the portal, because knowledge of the portal was power. If there wasn’t a map of it in the crate, she’d draw it herself when she could. For now, she’d have to remember the shape of the land and the directions of the lines of houses.

  What she said she’d found was excuse enough not to talk. The truth was, she didn’t know how easy plague was to catch. She hadn’t seen any rats, and the men hadn’t got anywhere near her – but she�
�d touched the stone Nathaniel had thrown at her. That, surely, wasn’t enough?

  And if it was, she’d be making damn certain she gave it to Crows before she died.

  How long? A day? Two? She should have asked. Or she shouldn’t have hung around long enough to ask. All she had instead was uncertainty.

  So, yes. She was quiet. Checking herself for fever, or a cough, or feeling sick. She felt fine, though. Tense, nervous, sad, but not ill.

  ‘Just leave me alone.’

  ‘Very well. I will, I believe, catch myself some breakfast.’

  He hadn’t taught her how to power the boat – not refused as such, more simply neglected to pass on the information – so when he collapsed the standing wave that pushed it forward, the wave travelled ahead of them and washed into the swell. The boat began to slow, and to bob.

  Crows moved from the stern seat from where he controlled the rudder, to perch on the side. The boat tilted, and the waves lapped at the rail. Crows lifted his feet and pitched backwards into the green, churning sea. The splash he made was lost almost immediately. The boat righted itself and, just like that, he was gone below the surface. Moments later, a loop of scales rose from the surface, the water cascading from the edges of their overlapping edges, and a head, sleek and snake-like, leaned over Mary from a great height.

  Mary stared into the glassy black eyes, determined not to look the least bit concerned. He could, easily enough, eat her. But she wouldn’t go quietly: he could fit a small brown girl in his maw, but not a giant falcon. He risked the maps, if nothing else, and he didn’t dare.

  ‘Go, if you’re going. It’s not like we’re moving while you’re pissing around in the water.’

  The head turned away and scanned the horizon. Looking for land, or the best place to fish? Who knew? The waves closed over the crown of Crows’ black head and he was gone.

  She waited a minute – actually counted out the seconds, one elephant, two elephant – then searched the boat from stem to stern.

  Down had provided a locker at the pointed bow, and it was almost big enough for her to climb completely inside. She found coils of rope, heavy parcels of thick white cloth, and odd-shaped pieces of wood as long and thick as her forearm, square at one end, rounded at the other. There were paddles, too, short and broad.

  A sail, then, and something for when the wind didn’t blow. Dalip hadn’t expected to move the boat by magic, and if there was a sail, there had to be a mast – she knew that much. When she turned around and looked properly beneath her feet for the first time, she saw the long tapered pole lying in the bottom, next to the beam of the keel. In the centre was a wooden bung, which she heaved out, and there was the hollow to receive the mast.

  She couldn’t lift it upright on her own. There were other lengths of wood too, but she’d exhausted her knowledge. There’d be no sailing away for her, and even if she could, she couldn’t outrun Crows in serpent form. If she got the better of him in a fight, tied him tight with the rope so he couldn’t change, then she was still stuck. Unless she was able to recreate the wave which chased them across the bay, that was.

  Too many ifs. Her head was starting to hurt. What she could do, was what she’d already thought of: make a bag from sail cloth and carry the maps aloft, out of Crows’ reach. She’d never been one for needlework, but she was willing to give it a go and, somehow, she was going to have to do it right under Crows’ nose and not have him suspect anything. It was a plan, but she needed tools. A knife, at least.

  She traced an uneven path, past the crate, to the back of the boat, and found two more cupboards, closed with little brass catches.

  If there were sails, there might be a way to repair them. And there was: a series of thick, hooked needles as long as her finger, thread that was as stiff as wire, spring-gripped shears, curved knives with bone handles, squares of spare cloth.

  At the very back of the cupboards, which shared one space between the two doors, was something like a small biscuit tin. She had to duck under the rudder arm in order to reach it, and she almost dropped it when she finally got her fingers to it, it was so surprisingly heavy.

  She checked the four quarters of the sea for sight of Crows. He wasn’t there, so she sat down with the tin in her lap and wrestled it open.

  It was a clock. No, not a clock, because it only had one long hand and there were no hours marked out. Well, it could be a clock, a Down clock that worked by its own rules. She lifted it up to listen to it and check for ticking, and as she did so, the hand pivoted about its middle, and the whole glass face rocked.

  She put it back down and poked the dial, which not only moved under her touch, but turned every which way. The hand swung back and forth across the markings on the dial.

  This was treasure. Not just the boat and the sails, but the needle and thread and this … thing. And it had all been grown out of Down’s land. She looked at it through half-closed eyes and it reminded her of Bell’s brass instruments. Had Down given them to Bell, just as it had given her this?

  A compass. There was only one direction marked, west, but if she gave it some thought, north and south should be easy enough to work out.

  If she only knew how, she could now sail the oceans of Down, and navigate at the same time. Her breath came in quick, shallow pants. In the right hands – not hers, obviously – this was almost as good as a map, and she had it. She couldn’t remember Crows showing any interest in the contents of the lockers. For him, the boat was simply a means of transporting the maps across the bay without getting them wet.

  First things first. She checked again for Crows, and saw him in the middle distance, loops of his body rising and falling in the water. She had time, then.

  The compass: lid on, and moved to ‘her’ end of the boat. Then she heaved up a corner of sailcloth and tucked it securely underneath. She went back for some of the spare cloth, the needles, the shears and one of the knives, and stowed it as far from the door as she could reach. It seemed dry enough in there, despite the sea being just the other side of the planks.

  Then she dragged it all back out. That wouldn’t work – she didn’t need to hide the sail-making equipment, but to have a reason to have it out, on show.

  She’d been cold last night. She’d make herself a cape: a big, all-encompassing cloak that she could turn, with a few tugs and folds, into a giant carrying bag. What could Crows do about that? He would gaze at her, and she at him, and she’d go back to her stitching.

  There was only one problem with her plan. She didn’t know how to sew. For sure, they’d tried to teach her but, as with so many other skills she’d been shown by well-meaning teachers, she’d abandoned the lesson because she didn’t want to learn something so mundane. She could get her clothes from market stalls, or nick them from department stores, so why learn to hem and stitch and shape?

  If they’d presented the task with a warning that her life depended on being able to make a buttonhole, she might have approached it – and her whole life – differently. As it was, she’d have to guess as she went along.

  She took one of the squares – a piece big enough to cover a restaurant table – and cut it in two, then into four, so she had something to practise on. The needles were too fat to slip between the weft of the cloth, even when she wedged one against the side of the boat and tried to ram the cloth over it. She went back to the stern lockers and searched. She found one of the needles wasn’t a needle, but a metal spike which would punch a hole clean through with a grunt of effort. The hole was big enough to squeeze one of the needles through, and the hooked end could work the cord-like thread after it.

  She realised that whatever she was going to make, be it simple or complicated, it was going to take a fuck-load of time and energy. She almost gave up before she started, looking for an easier solution. Or she could just not do it, because she always avoided doing anything difficult.

  Mary scowled at the
cloth, the needle, the cord, and picked up the hole-maker. It was sharp enough in its own right to qualify as a weapon. Useful. Crows had better not come too close.

  It was only when the boat tilted rather than rocked that she looked up from her work. Two brown hands were clinging to the side rail, the nails pinked with effort. An elbow hoisted itself up, and Crows’ head appeared, then his foot hooked over. He tumbled, soaked, into the bottom of the boat, and lay there for a moment, before turning over to look at her and what she was doing.

  ‘You took your own sweet time,’ she snapped. She glanced up, then concentrated on getting the tension in her thread right. Too loose was no good, but too tight made the cloth bunch.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m doing something that’s not quite as boring as staring out to sea, while waiting for you.’

  ‘All that was here? The cloth, the needles?’

  ‘Came with the boat.’ She held up the piece she was working on, and gave the two halves an experimental tug. The seam stretched. It looked pretty amateur – she wasn’t even sure she’d used a recognised stitch, and from Crows’ expression, she hadn’t – but at least it held.

  ‘Is that so?’ He raised himself up, and concentrated on driving the moisture from his clothes. Mist rose around him, as if he was steaming. A neat trick, and another she’d have to learn. He was joined at the rudder by a pair of crows, who rattled their beaks and clattered their wings before rising into the sky. ‘We may have drifted,’ he said. ‘I must see where we are, before setting a new course.’

  ‘It’s almost like you know where you’re going.’ She didn’t look up this time. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Whether I do or not remains to be seen,’ he replied, not admitting one way or another.

  She snorted. ‘What is it with blokes and directions? Always too fucking proud to admit you’re lost.’