“Two hundred and eleven of these.” Serena pulled air in, out. “But the water was very cold. That helps.”
“That’s seven minutes.”
“You’re quick,” Serena said, reaching up to touch his head. “You have a difference engine in there?” Gilchrist caught her hand and redirected it. Her fingers trailed down his stomach. “Some of the men, they hold twice as long,” she murmured. “More space.” She felt for his ribs, palm flat against him. “But that box is so small. I kept looking at it. Wondering how I’d fit.”
“You fit,” Gilchrist said.
“Did,” Serena said. She kissed under his jaw. “And you? How many breaths can you hold for?” Their lips mashed together, raw with the cold, and then they were pressing each other against the rail. The signal fire crackled and spat them a shared shadow. The waves marched on below.
* * *
Morning came quickly. Crane woke earliest, retreating to the most secluded corner of the chamber for his ritual. Serena had seen such things on the islands, the blood and the bowl and the incense, and she wasn’t bothered.
“We’ll need the luck,” she yawned to Gilchrist, stretching both arms over her head. Crane would have never called it luck.
Gilchrist helped her into the prosthetic, and by the time it was sealed against her skin Crane was ready with the powders and pigments. The scales that had rubbed off were returned to their silver lustre. Her skin returned to ghostly translucence.
“Truly unnerving,” Crane said. “Are you entirely certain your mother was not a sea sprite?”
“Never asked her, did I.” Serena looked across to Gilchrist and grinned.
“And I trust your sleep was adequate,” Crane said solemnly.
“Trust,” Serena said. “How was yours? Did you dream about me?”
“I never dream,” Crane said. “But if I were to sublimate, it’s entirely possible you and your lovely fins would make an appearance.”
Serena’s mouth twisted around a smile. She started breathing rapidly, in and out, very shallow. Gilchrist pulled the lid from the tank. The glass was chilled. The water would be cold. Serena’s breaths came faster. Crane delicately slipped a darkened lense under each of her eyelids. Her waxen body was shivering.
“Time,” Gilchrist said.
“We’re immersing you now,” Crane announced. He picked her up from one side and Gilchrist from the other. She was heavier with the prosthetic. They positioned her carefully over the tank. Gilchrist mouthed down from three, watching her black eyes, and then they plunged her under. The cold bit at his fingers. Crane gave a sympathetic shiver.
“Colder’s better,” Gilchrist said, sliding the lid shut.
“I can’t profess to envy her,” said Crane.
Gilchrist threw the shroud overtop and they carried the tank out into the hall. Another boy was waiting to show them to the audience chamber. Two armored giants hulked behind him, stripping off their gauntlets. They lifted the tank like bird bones.
The spiral stairs were wide and flat and splashed with watery morning light from the narrow windows. Crane was uncharacteristically silent, only snapping abuse once when the guards maneuvered the tank too quickly. The audience chamber had an arched entrance carved with runes, some architect’s idea of an homage to the Lighthouse’s original builders.
The magistrate was waiting again. “Ready?” he asked. “Did you pass the night well? I’m having a pool cleared out, we’re netting all the fish. Unless. Would she eat them?”
“We can discuss such details once the sale is finalized,” Crane said. “Which it currently is not.” He brushed the magistrate away. The small man smoothed his hair, looking slightly offended, then flitted over to direct the guards inside.
“Was it a good omen this morning, Crane?” Gilchrist asked, pausing.
Crane rubbed the fresh scab on his arm. “I believe this is the first time you’ve ever inquired, Gilchrist.”
“Curious.”
“Well.” Crane clapped him on the shoulder. “At least you passed the night well.”
Gilchrist snorted. They followed the tank inside.
* * *
The Baron was seated in a high-backed iron chair, pulling off a pair of gloves, but he stood up as they entered. He was still a large man, broad-shouldered, with blonde hair hanging lank curtains around his hard face and gnarled lip. The silk gloves flapped to the floor and Gilchrist, and Crane saw they were spotted with blood.
“Welcome,” the Baron said, picking at a dry red sliver under his thumbnail. “The mole rat over there says you’ve got something for me.” He massaged his wrist and grinned. His teeth were filmed yellow. “Ever flayed an ape? Strong little brutes. Beautiful pelt, though.” His eyes alighted on Gilchrist. “They howl almost like men.”
“I’ve never had the pleasure,” said Crane. The tank settled with a thud, and the Baron’s guards stalked back around behind him. Gilchrist bowed just slightly, then lifted the shroud.
A slab of light from the high window bisected the tank, illuminating a ripple of silver scales, a perfect white shoulder, a drifting halo of near-iridescent hair. The mermaid stirred sluggishly and opened both jet black eyes. One of the guards gave a surprised grunt.
The Baron hopped down from the plinth. Age had bent his spine but he moved quickly, coming to crouch in the front of the tank. His tongue worked against the split of his lip as he stared. “Bugger me,” he said. “Bugger me, I never thought I’d see one.”
“Brask’s sewers run deep,” Crane said. “One can encounter all manner of oddities in that aqueous labyrinth.”
The Baron looked up sharply. “Brask. One of my old bastard’s wives was from Brask. She told me all the stories. How they come up to the canals at night. How they fuck sleep-walking boatmen.” He gave a thick laugh, still incredulous. “Blood and shit of a god. A mermaid.” He peered close to the glass, gaze narrowing, and the black eyes stared back unblinking. He ran his meaty hand overtop of the tank. “Best fakery I’ve seen yet,” he said.
Gilchrist’s hand tightened inside his pocket.
“It’s no trick,” the magistrate protested. “I searched for a tube, like you said. And, I mean, look at her. How could she be anything else?”
The Baron stared long at the tank, and Crane and Gilchrist saw for the first time an unfocused quality to his eyes, a faint gray fog. “I want her to be real,” he muttered, folding his scarred hands together. “She does look real.”
“Forgive us, gentlemen, but the mermaid’s eyes are not accustomed to sunlight.” Crane picked up the shroud. “I would rather not cause her unnecessary pain.”
“Stop.” The Baron’s eyes had come clear. “Throw a cloth over so she can suck from an airbladder? Or slip out a false bottom?” He rose to his feet with a clicking of joints. “No. In fact.” His finger whirled in the air, then towards his guards. “Drag that over here.”
Crane and Gilchrist did not look at each other as the guards wrestled the great iron chair off its stand. Rusted metal scraped granite, and the noise carved the marrow from their bones, shivered the floor. The guards heaved and hauled. Serena shifted in the tank, face angled for a moment towards Gilchrist. He watched impassive as the chair clanged down on top of the lid. The sound reverberated all through the room.
“We want her to stay put, don’t we?” The Baron clambered up and took a seat on his inverted chair. His grin was feral. “Now we’ll just wait a while. Hold them.”
“Cassius, is this really necessary?” the magistrate demanded, as the armored guards seized Crane’s arm and Gilchrist’s shoulder, prying them away from the tank. The Baron spat at him in answer. Gilchrist finally looked at Serena and found her looking back, ebony eyes impenetrable. He began to mouth the numbers.
* * *
There was no clock in the audience chamber. The bodyguards held Crane and Gilchrist like living vices while the magistrate fluttered between them, still apologizing. Crane’s face bore an amused smirk. Gilchrist’s was carved wood.
The Baron thumped his feet on the lid. “Who are you?” he demanded. “The pair of you.”
“We are purveyors of the exotic,” said Crane. “Not entirely unlike yourself.”
Gilchrist’s lips formed two hundred. Serena’s expression was blind behind the lenses.
“You’re hard-stomached men,” the Baron said. “Bringing a girl in here to drown. Maybe you aren’t entirely unlike myself.”
“We’re men of business.” Crane shrugged irritably against the guard’s fingers. “Why would we risk our credibility on such an easily-penetrated deception?”
Two hundred and twelve. Gilchrist could see Serena’s face changing color, mottling through the makeup.
“That I don’t know, merchant.” The Baron swung himself down and paced the length of the tank. “Maybe you knew. Somehow. That my mother was from Brask.” He stopped and turned. “Maybe you thought I would leap at the chance.”
“While we escaped with your silver? To where?” Crane half-laughed. “You and the Doge control the ports. Once you uncovered us, you’d have us black-flagged at any dock from Colgrid to Lensa.”
Two hundred and twenty, or else twenty-one.
“Bugger me,” the Baron hissed. He knelt down in front of the tank and pressed his face against it. His tongue left a wet trail along the glass. The mermaid recoiled slightly. Gilchrist’s hand moved in his pocket, felt the polished handle of his knife.
“I’d prefer that carnal endeavors do not feature in our contract of sale,” said Crane. His eyes flicked to Gilchrist and he shook his head in fractions.
The Baron threw up his hands. “Does she sing?” he demanded.
“For us,” Gilchrist said. “Too many in here.” The count thrummed through his head. Serena was drifting now, nothing in her limbs.
“A matter of trust,” Crane said simply.
Serena’s eyelids were quivering. Gilchrist saw a vein in her neck he’d never noticed before.
“Then get the hell out of here, mole rat,” the Baron said, clapping his hands together. “And you two, get your ugly hands off our guests. Put the damn chair back.” The bodyguards crossed the room. Gilchrist was barely aware of it, he couldn’t take his eyes from the tank. The chair crashed to the stone floor and the Baron swore.
Serena had shut her eyes.
“Leave it,” the Baron snapped, as the guards struggled to turn the chair upright. “Go down with the mole rat. Make yourselves useful. I want the pool cleared. I want it widened. Get a mason.” His face was fevered, manic. His cut lip flapped with his tongue.
Gilchrist had seen drowned men, their skin bloated with the water. Gulls had eaten their eyes out.
The bodyguards trooped out the door, dwarfing the magistrate between them, and Crane threw the bolt. Gilchrist came to the tank on unsteady legs.
“Now let’s hear her,” the Baron said, smoothing his greased hair. “Let’s hear the sea-bitch.”
Gilchrist’s knife drove up under his jaw like a thunderclap. The Baron fell back, a gurgling wet shout, and then the tank overturned. Glass spiderwebbed as it cracked against the stone; water gushed. Serena rolled limp into the puddle. Gilchrist saw her hands tremoring.
The Baron’s arm came for Gilchrist’s windpipe from behind. Gilchrist turned and dug his shoulder in, sprawling them both onto the slick floor. He saw in a jumble: Crane bending over Serena, the Baron’s groping fingers, water beading and racing down the side of the tank.
“Flay you,” the Baron snarled. Carmine bubbled out his lips. His throat bobbed, welling blood, and Gilchrist dug his fingers into its ragged hole. Pulled. The Baron’s hands thrashed, nails caught on Gilchrist’s ear. Their faces pulled close, close enough for him to see the raised brand of pink flesh that Gilchrist’s hair usually covered. Recognition pierced the Baron’s wild eyes.
“Bleed you out,” Gilchrist said. “Like a sheep.” The Baron kicked once, twice. Gilchrist shoved him away. He splashed. Bright tendrils curled out under his bulk and diluted pink in the water.
“Alive.” Crane’s voice came distant. Gilchrist braced himself on the Baron’s slumped back and hauled upright. He rubbed his neck. Blots of oil shimmered over his eyes, inside his skull.
“Alive but unwell, Mr. Gilchrist,” Crane repeated. “And you?”
“Wet.”
Crane had eased Serena’s legs out of the prosthetic and wrapped her with the shroud. Her skin was corpse-white on the damp black fabric. Crane slipped one of the tinted lenses out from her eyelid. She twitched. He removed the other more gently.
Gilchrist crouched. “Three hundred even,” he said.
Serena’s eyes blinked open. Her whites were flecked red. She wriggled three fingers.
“Maybe,” Gilchrist said. “Maybe I lost a few at the end.”
She nodded.
“That was a truly remarkable performance,” Crane said. He mopped a line of sweat off his brow. “One to make you a legend on the islands, I imagine.”
Serena’s mouth shuttered open. Her chest heaved and she inhaled one long breath. Another. “Don’t remember it,” she murmured. “Never do.” For a moment her lungs were the only noise in the room.
Then the Baron’s hand smacked wet against the floor. Crane and Gilchrist turned. His chin was burrowed in his chest, squeezing the hole torn there. His breath whistled.
“The Doge hangs smugglers,” he said thickly.
“Pardon?” Crane said.
“The Doge hangs smugglers,” the Baron croaked. “The Doge will hang you.”
“I very much doubt that,” Crane said. “Who do you think sealed our trading papers?”
The Baron’s eyes became slits.
“Such a shame, after years of exemplary service. Squandering his money on twisted exhibition. Turning the ancient pride of Lensa into a glorified zoo.” Crane stood. “You understand better than anyone what one does with an animal that is no longer useful,” he said. “It’s hardly a wonder the Doge wished to euthanize you.”
The Baron sprayed blood and mucus over his chest. His mouth fished open, shut.
“A violent assassination carried out by vicious criminals with clear motive,” Crane continued. “Exchanged for official papers to carry us anywhere we wish. Apart from Lensa, naturally. May no man call the Doge ungenerous.”
They couldn’t know if the Baron heard the last words or not. His chest had stopped heaving, and his eyes were vacant.
“Doesn’t quite remove the sting, does it, Mr. Gilchrist?” Crane asked.
“Fractionally.” Gilchrist looked at the overturned tank. Water was spreading across the floor and would soon be seeping under the door. Serena sat up. Her face was still oddly slack, but her eyes were focused.
“How do we get back out now the tank’s smashed?” she asked. “I’m naked. And you’re bloody.”
Crane flexed his fingers. “A diversion of some sort, preferably.”
Serena grinned up at Gilchrist. “The zookeeper was up there last night,” she said.
“What?”
“The zookeeper,” Serena repeated. She thrust her arm down inside the prosthetic and came up with a dripping ring of iron keys. They jangled in her fist and caught sunlight. Crane looked over to Gilchrist but lacked the usual remark. He took the keys. Serena was light as a bird but clung fiercely to Gilchrist’s back, wet hair draped over his shoulder.
Crane opened the door and then the three of them were gone, leaving the magistrate to find the Baron in his rosy puddle and his mermaid vanished back to sea.
Copyright © 2013 Rich Larson
Read Comments on this Story on the BCS Website
Larson Rich Larson was born in West Africa, has studied in Rhode Island, and now lives in Edmonton, Alberta. His novel Devolution was selected as a finalist for the 2011 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. His short fiction appears in magazines such as AE: The Canadian Science Fiction Review and Daily Science Fiction and is forthcoming in the anthologies Here Be Monsters and Futuredaze: An Anthology of YA Sci
ence Fiction.
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COVER ART
“Marching Off,” by Maciej Wojtala
Maciej Wojtala is a Polish concept artist who works in the video games industry. For the last seven years, he has been working at People Can Fly, the studio responsible for Bulletstorm and Gears of War : Judgment. He creates environment concept art, prop designs, illustrations, and graphic design elements. View more of his artwork at www.wojtala.com.
Beneath Ceaseless Skies
ISSN: 1946-1076
Published by Firkin Press,
a 501(c)3 Non-Profit Literary Organization
Copyright © 2013 Firkin Press
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