“I don’t believe so,” Lucy answered. “Though I am curious, is this a usual occurrence for you?”
“Not at all. However, your expression suggested that I might be infested with noxious creatures.”
“Not observably, no,” Lucy said. She could see why he was well liked. He had an easy air and his speech indicated intelligence. Which meant that he had brains enough. What he lacked was integrity. She turned her head, hiding her repugnance. She wondered that Jordan would keep his company.
“Ah, I see you disapprove of me,” he drawled in an offhand way.
“I did not say so.”
“Your face is quite expressive. Might I inquire as to how I’ve offended you in the mere minutes we’ve known one another?”
Lucy cocked her head at him. He looked back, his brown eyes impudent. She shrugged.
“Let’s just say that your reputation precedes you,” she said.
His eyebrows rose. “Your delicate sensibilities are affronted by my liaisons with women, is that it?”
Lucy shook her head. “Not at all. I do not castigate people for their adventures in the bedroom. Otherwise I’d never be friends with Jordan.”
His gaze turned speculative. “No? Then do enlighten me; what do you find so abhorrent as to cause such a look?”
“If you want the unvarnished truth…” Lucy waited for his nod, which he gave readily. “Very well, then. I am a customs inspector, Captain Thorpe. And I have a deep respect for the law. But you flaunt it. You’re a gambler. And it is my experience that men who gamble are like knucklebone reeds—only the barest hint of their true character is revealed above the black waters. What shows may appear beautiful, but it is equally treacherous. As for what is hidden below—well, that part of the man’s character is too often corrupt and cancerous.”
“And this is your opinion of me? Based on what, I wonder.”
“As I said, your reputation precedes you. If I am incorrect in my understanding, I apologize. But I doubt my opinion can matter to you.”
“No, indeed. I am fascinated. Would you care to know my impression of you?”
“Not really.”
Lucy could imagine well enough what he saw when he looked at her. She had no illusions about her looks or her own reputation. She was short, the crown of her head barely coming to the top of his shoulder. Her auburn hair was pulled back severely and anchored tightly to her head. Even the gale outside had not done much to loosen the coif that her jackdaw lady’s maid had fastened so securely in the early hours. Which was just as well. Lucy’s hair was coarse and ridiculously curly. It hung to her hips, its weight barely keeping it from standing out like a peacock’s tail. Dressed as she was in the saffron yellow customs surcoat, Lucy knew she looked like a lit candle. A plump one. The surcoat made her skin look sallow, and her lack of cosmetics didn’t help. Her eyes were an indeterminate smoky blue and probably looked red, squinty, and small with lack of sleep. She had no cheekbones to speak of, and a stubby nose. At least she had good teeth and a merry smile, though absolutely no inclination to demonstrate either at the present moment. Add to her unprepossessing appearance her reputation as a narrow-minded, unrelenting mad dog when it came to customs…She wasn’t a particularly appealing package.
“No?”
His tone was mocking. Lucy’s hackles went up. She didn’t back down from challenges.
“By all means, if you’d like. Let it not be said I could not hear the hard truths about myself.”
He paused, his eyes running over her from head to foot. Then he shook his head. “No. One day perhaps. But not today.”
“I don’t suppose we’ll meet again after today. Unless I happen to have the inspection of your ship.”
It was his turn to shrug. “Maybe the gods will smile upon me.”
Meaning what? That he hoped she wouldn’t ever inspect his ship and catch him smuggling? Or that he hoped they’d meet again?
“Shall we speak of something else, then?” Lucy did not wait for his response. “What’s going on out there?” She waved her right hand at the wall, indicating the harbor and the storm. “Are there any survivors at all?”
Marten’s expression altered. Gone was the affable rogue. In his place stood the captain who’d guided ships through the worst storms on the Inland Sea. Who’d outrun sylveth tides and maneuvered safely through the gauntlet of dangers on the black waters. He appeared suddenly grave. His eyes had an inward, haunted expression. It was a familiar look among sea captains. Lucy’s opinion of him rose a small notch.
“A few have made it through the weir. Crawling over the wreckage and the bodies of their mates. Most won’t survive their wounds. It’s difficult for even majicar healers to close wounds caused by knucklebones.”
Lucy nodded, toying absently with her necklace. “And the rest?”
“Unvarnished truth?” he asked in that same dead-pan voice.
Lucy nodded, tensing.
“There’s a sylveth tide rising.”
The breath went out of her. She tipped her head back, closing her eyes. “What are the gods thinking?”
“Thinking? Oh, no. This is mindless fury. Braken and Meris. Hunger and tease. Jealousy and passion. They fight their vicious battles and we get caught in the middle.”
Lucy raised her head, surprised. “I’d not have suspected you to be a believer.”
He smiled, losing a little of that hardness. “I am a sailor, Miss Trenton. I have to believe.”
Just then Jordan returned, carrying a tray of food and a carafe of tea. Lucy’s smile of thanks faded as she watched his silent, grim approach. His lips were pulled in a rigid white line, his movements jerky. He set the tray down with a hard thunk. The dishes jumped and clattered. Saying nothing, he reached for the tea, filling the mug halfway. Reaching into the pocket of his coat, he pulled out a silver flask. He opened it and filled the cup to the rim.
“Jordan! What are you doing? She can’t handle so much!” Marten pushed to his feet, reaching out to stop the other man.
The look Jordan turned on his friend could melt iron. He handed the cup to Lucy.
“You’re going to want this.”
Lucy held the cup a moment, staring up at him. His black eyes were stormy, swirling with hard-held emotions she couldn’t read. A rush of anxiety filled her. What had happened? Jordan was one of the most level-headed men she knew. He rarely lost his temper, and bad news only made him calm. He was a rock.
“Trust me, Lucy. You’ll need this. Drink it all.”
She nodded and drank. The liquor had cooled the tea so that she could swallow it quickly. The liquor burned her tongue and throat and trailed fire down into her stomach. She forced herself to finish.
“What was that stuff?” she gasped, pressing her hands to her abdomen. A furnace roared inside. Her head swam and her vision turned fuzzy. Her muscles felt soft and fluid.
“Meris’s tears,” he said with a thin smile.
“Meris’s—what?” she said, slurring her letters.
“The liquor of the sea. Don’t worry, things will settle in a moment. They’ll just seem…farther away.”
“What’s going on, Truehelm?” Marten demanded.
Jordan grimaced. “Weir’s gone. The customs majicar has just been called out to help the cordon with the spawn and no more majicars can cross to the mainland until the sylveth tide disperses. Lucy is the senior government official on-site. She’s going to have to handle the retrieval and decide—” He broke off and glanced at her. “I’m going to stay with her until it’s done.”
Now Lucy found Marten’s gaze settling on her, his eyes heavy-lidded as if he were half-asleep. It felt like he was looking inside her, measuring her. And she suspected he found her lacking. Her heart pounded. She opened her mouth to take a breath and found she couldn’t. Her tongue felt swollen and her body unwieldy. She sagged when at last he turned back to Jordan.
“I’ll come too. Keep that flask handy. What you gave her won’t be nearly enough.”
Jordan was right. Lucy needed Meris’s tears—it kept her sane.
Pewter clouds scudded across the night sky. Sand swirled in stinging clouds. Lucy wrapped her face with a handkerchief, her two escorts buffering her against the wind as she pushed her way down to the salvage docks. She knew what had to be done. She’d learned the protocols early in her apprenticeship and suffered twice-yearly drills since. She knew exactly what to do, if only she could bring herself to do it.
The first order of business was to draft a knacker gang. A silent crowd had gathered, waiting. There was a healthy wage to be earned in the grisly business. Lucy selected a cadre of mostly seasoned sailors who were not likely to panic. Their bleak faces and blank gazes said they knew all too well what was coming.
Next she led them to the black building at the end of the row of salvage sheds. It was set well apart on a rocky shelf high above the tide, its sides square, its roof domed with silver ridge beams ascending from each corner and fusing at the top. The doors were made of ebony. Fine silver wires crisscrossed the entire exterior in a complex pattern. The building radiated cold and darkness that had nothing to do with the storm or the night and everything to do with majick.
As she approached, Lucy marveled at the numbing strength of Meris’s tears, which dampened all but a slight zing! at the power emanating from the building. Even unlocking the doors was painless. She might as well be wearing thick leather gloves.
Once inside, Jordan and Marten helped her distribute the protective gear. It included trousers, a tunic, gloves, a hood mask, and stockings that slid over the boots and the cuffs of the trousers. They were made of a black material, soft and clingy—almost silky. Lucy turned a mask over in her hand, wondering how such light material could possibly shield against sylveth spawn.
“Are you well, Miss Trenton?”
It seemed to Lucy that there was a none-too-subtle note of condescension in Marten’s voice, as if her hesitation was fulfilling his rather low expectations of her competence in this situation. Her back stiffened and she glared at him.
“You’re looking fatigued, Captain Thorpe. Perhaps it would be wise to retire someplace less hazardous. I should not like to see you harmed because you took foolish risks.”
She went back to work with aggressive energy, hearing Jordan’s chortle and a sound from Marten that was anything but happy.
The members of the knacker gang donned their gear quickly. Even their eyes were covered, the majicked material becoming transparent to the wearer. The group of forty looked very much like a mob of thieves about to go on a spree. Lucy was the last to dress, skeptical of its ability to protect her. Becoming aware of Marten’s appraising gaze, she pulled the garments on, feeling only a faint tingle of majick. She frowned, looking at Jordan.
“Meris’s tears—what has it done to me?”
“It’s deadened certain reactions so that you can think. Don’t you feel well?”
She considered herself. In fact she felt energized. The sensation of being drunk had passed, and now she felt clearheaded and calm. Nor did she have a tormenting headache from being inside the majicked building and wearing the bespelled clothing.
“I’m well enough,” she answered finally.
The next order of business was to supply the knacker gang with weaponry and collection containers. A selection of clubs, hooked poles, nets, mesh scoopers, and various ropes hung on racks along the north wall. The containers were piled from smallest to largest, ranging in size from small jars to shipping containers designed to carry furniture or carriages. Lucy hoped the latter would not be necessary; she didn’t know if the knacker gang could handle sylveth spawn that big without a majicar’s help. Everyone chose what weaponry they wanted and lugged a pile of containers out to the beach in readiness.
Lucy searched the black brine. The waves rose black and thunderous, capped with white foam. Half a league away the watery green lights of the Pale bisected the strait. Beyond them sylveth coiled like a predatory mass of shining sea snakes. It spread through the strait, besieging Merstone Island, preventing the majicars from coming to help the body collection. Lucy glanced at the knacker gang, like assassins in the gloom. There didn’t seem to be nearly enough of them.
“Meris be merciful.”
Sylveth was the source of Crosspointe’s great wealth and power, but it was also its curse. In its terrible raw form, it flowed through the Inland Sea, snaring ships in its snaking coils and streaking nets. Anyone it touched, it changed. Usually in dreadful, monstrous ways. Ships had been known to transform into living beasts. They dived out of the skies and surged from below.
Lucy tried to imagine what it would be like to be aboard a ship that suddenly turned into a vicious sea beast. To become your erstwhile ship’s first meal, or else be dumped into the sylveth and be transformed yourself. She scowled. It was too early in the season for sylveth to swarm Crosspointe. There was still another seven sennights until Chance, when sylveth ruled the sea and winds, spreading its taint from shore to shore. Protected by the Pale, Crosspointe was the only safe harbor on the Inland Sea.
The problem was, the Pale kept the sylveth out, but not the things it spawned.
It was not long until the shredded bodies of the dead began to wash up onto the headland shore. At first they were just normal body parts. An arm, a hand, a head, a pair of barefoot legs. The wounds were ragged, meaty, and bloodless. It was difficult to connect the pieces with the idea of a man or woman. Most crew contingents were comprised of one or the other, superstition arguing against two sexes sharing the same ship. The Vacubyr, the last to fall prey to the knucklebone weir, had been crewed by women.
The knackers collected up the remains quickly and efficiently. They put them in sacks and bins to be sorted out later. Lucy edged closer; to help or just to witness the tragedy, she didn’t know. Jordan grabbed her arm.
“Keep back. Let them do their job. It’s going to get plenty ugly soon. You’re going to want your strength when it does.”
He was right. Before long, things got worse—the collection turned to capture.
Things swam on the inky waves. They came crawling over the sand. Shambling, wriggling, shivering, twitching, scrabbling, burrowing. Tiny, like fleas. Bigger, as large as a cow, and every size in between. None were alike. Lucy’s stomach flipped as she watched. Fear razored through her lungs. Beside her, Jordan and Marten tugged on their masks, securing them. She checked her own, yanking it down more firmly. She made sure her gloves and stockings overlapped her sleeves and the cuffs of her trousers.
The knackers formed two loose lines on the beach. As the creatures came on shore, the hunters ran to catch them. No one wanted even one to get loose in Crosspointe. It happened, of course. Inevitably the creatures washed ashore from the open sea, wreaking certain havoc until they were captured or killed. A constant patrol was kept against them. Even now the waves were carrying spawn into the harbor. The cordon that kept salvagers from making off with what they’d rescued would hopefully keep the spawn from reaching ships or shore. It was more difficult to stop them in the water, which was why Brithe and likely every other majicar on the mainland had gone to help. Ordinarily, they would be stationed all along the beach and across the harbor. But the majicars were trapped on Merstone and no spells could keep boats safe from a sylveth tide.
More and more of the creatures came. Some were near helpless on land, seemingly without bones to animate their limbs. Others were fast. Some shook out wet wings and leaped into the air. The knackers swooped with clubs, hooks, nets, and scoopers or grappled with their gloved hands. The latter made Lucy gasp, her stomach knotting with fear.
When the knackers called for the majicked crates and caskets to contain their captured prey, Jordan and Marten responded. They waded into the fray, helping to shove the unwilling creatures into the containers. The lids were made so that anything inside couldn’t escape.
A knacker ran past Lucy, grabbing a scaly thing that rippled and bobbled
flaccidly over the ground. It had a long tail that twisted and bent like something sentient. The knacker grabbed the prehensile appendage and yanked the thing into the air. A sound erupted from it, almost beyond hearing—a noise like a rumble from deep underground.
Lucy saw the knacker’s lips move as he called for help. But everyone else was busy fighting their own battles. She reacted without thinking, snatching up a casket and circling it with her arms, holding it tight to her stomach. She dashed forward. The rain at least had done that much—it hardened the sand, making it easier to walk on.
The creature dangled from the knacker’s fist by its tail. Now that she was close, she could see that the scales were really eyes. The hair on her arms and legs prickled. Thousands of human-shaped eyes in all shades of green, brown, blue, and gray blinked and rolled. Its skin was smooth and pink, freckled with glowing white spots. Suddenly it began to pulse and roil, as if its skin contained something fighting to escape. Fighting hard. Lucy took an involuntary step back.
The knacker was less cautious than she and retained his grip, though it was a struggle. The beast was heavy and difficult to hold, jerking from side to side, so that he nearly dropped it. Lucy thrust forward, remembering the container she held. She almost lost her nerve when the tail began to shrink and a dozen nubs appeared on one side of its flabby body. These quickly grew into thin legs, each ending in a limp human-shaped hand, as flaccid as the rest of its body.
The knacker gripped the stump of the tail and pushed the creature at the mouth of the casket. Lucy held it tight under one arm, reaching out to help. She grasped one of the limp arms and was surprised at the strength she felt beneath its skin. It pulled against her. Wicked talons erupted from the fingertips. Startled, Lucy almost let go. Her hand shook and she steadied it with an act of will. All the creature’s eyes seemed to be looking at her. They blinked separately from one another, resembling a flurry of carrion-moth wings.
The Cipher Page 4