No Present Like Time

by Steph Swainston

  I checked his pockets, finding a damp paper bag containing sugar-cake, a wet box of matches and a very damp and fragile white envelope. It wilted and started to disintegrate in my hands. I flipped it over, seeing a crimson seal. Behind me Lascanne dragged the body out, intending to drop it over the edge of Scree gorge. Outside in the mountains, the dead are left where they fall. No Rhydanne cares about the dead in Darkling, where the living have so much to contend with.

  I went back to the bar and slapped the letter down on its stone slab. Chamois-fat candles guttered in their horn holders. The script read: “To be delivered to the hand of Comet Jant Shira. From Mist, Sailor and Captain of the Fleet. Send to the Filigree Spider, Scree. Please note-this envelope does NOT contain any money!!!”

  “Oh, bugger!”

  Just a few degrees colder, or another half hour out in the drifts, and Mist’s courier wouldn’t have reached me, and I wouldn’t be sitting here in a hot, weltering caravel.

  I perched on the ladder between poop deck and half-deck, watching a severely freckled Serein do stretches below in the main area. In order to impress Mist, he had learned the names and actions of every part of the ship. He thrust his rapier through imaginary combatants who obviously didn’t stand a chance.

  He took a break and trotted over, swinging the rapier. “Hello, Jant. You look a bit spaced out. What are you daydreaming about?”

  “Darkling,” I said. “And Tern.”

  “Don’t blame you. I’d miss her too.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Yeah. You’re very lucky. In fact one of my mates in the fyrd had her picture as a pinup. Just a tatty etching, of course, on the barracks wall. Tern is much, much more beautiful in real life. She’s stunning. I wish my mate knew that I’d met her…Jant, are you all right?”

  “I will be, if you don’t ever speak to me again.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Very well,” Lightning said to Wrenn. “I will spar with you. But I am only ranked sixth best with the rapier in the world, so a duel won’t last long before you win. Give me a few hours to organize these men”-he gestured at the main deck where the Petrel’s sailors were hard at work-“to make a more interesting game for you. After all, Insects don’t play fair.”

  “Agreed!” said Wrenn. He drew his sword and eagerly poked the point into the Insect-paper caulking between the deck planks.

  Mist looked up from her ledger. “Good, Lightning. That’s better than you and Jant spending another night getting pissed on Micawater port in my office.”

  “I blame Wrenn for not drinking…We had to finish the open bottles.”

  “Ha. I have to leave you boys to it every midnight to check navigational readings against the stars; when I come back in you’re still carousing and reminiscing. Well, entertain my deckhands by all means, they need some leisure time, but you had better not injure any.”

  Lightning leaned on the rail and nodded. He was enjoying the novelty. “Then here are the tournament rules: I’ll do my best to hit you. We’ll use buttoned rapiers and flat of the blade only. Every sailor you touch will play dead. Mist will arbitrate. The whole of Petrel is the arena.”

  “And the Melowne,” said Mist. “I’ll bring her alongside and rope her to Petrel to make a gam. Then I can spare up to one hundred sailors. How many do you want?”

  “All of them, of course.”

  That afternoon, I circled above the lashed-together caravels. The sails were furled on all but the rearmost masts, which Mist said were mizzen masts with lateen sails set to keep the ships’ prows into the waves. I took her word for it. My shadow flitted over as everyone on the Melowne crowded at the railings and clambered into the rigging to watch the Petrel’s main deck.

  Wrenn and Lightning faced each other in the most spacious area by the foot of the mainmast. They raised their swords in salute, turned to honor the audience and Mist. Then they began to circle warily, watching each other with deliberation. Wrenn trod cautiously but didn’t strike.

  “Don’t be afraid, shorty,” Lightning taunted. “Besides, call that a haircut? Allow me to improve it.”

  Wrenn tested Lightning with a pass; Lightning deflected it. Wrenn realized that Lightning was good, very good. He ran straight in with a diagonal attack. Lightning parried, let Wrenn run past him, turned-thrust-missed.

  They circled. Lightning stabbed at Wrenn’s chest, a killing blow had it landed. Wrenn regained the initiative, made a prolonged attack but Saker forcefully parried the blows.

  Lightning gave a shout. At the signal, sailors rushed from the edges of the deck and open hatchways, straight at Wrenn from every direction. They all brandished the new broadswords. Some held them two-handed. Wrenn gasped-ran to back himself against the ship’s side. Men clustered close, their mint-condition swords gleamed but Wrenn’s rapier danced around them with agility. He parried every single one on his rapier’s forte to protect his lighter blade.

  I wanted a better view. I glided down to the crosstrees, curled my bare toes around the thick wood spar and then settled on it, legs dangling. Ten meters directly below me Awians and Plainslanders churned about, pushing Wrenn back against the gunwale. He jumped to the top of the railing, grasped a rope with his free hand, swept his rapier, clashing off all their raised staves and blades. He touched the padded knee of a woman’s breeches. She backed away to the forecastle where she sat down. A cheer went up from the eager audience on the Melowne: “You got Sanderling! Get Lightning! Go on!”

  The sailors moved back on one side as Lightning pulled himself up to face Wrenn on the railing. The sailors cut off Wrenn’s retreat. He held his rapier over his sturdy shoulder and climbed with his free hand, up the rope netting toward me. Lightning tested his foot on the lowest taut ratline. He stretched up and slashed with his point but Wrenn reached his rapier down and spun circles around it.

  Wrenn hauled himself onto the crosstrees. I slipped into the air out of his way and glided over the ship as he ran lightly along the spar and climbed down the shrouds at the other side. He swung himself down to the half-deck leaving the sailors behind but Lightning dashed sternward, scaled the half-deck ladder and confronted him there. He attacked Wrenn with a cut to the left shoulder. Wrenn retreated behind the helm to catch his breath. Mist was standing at the wheel but she didn’t flinch or move a muscle. Behind her back, Lightning lunged, Wrenn gave more ground and came up against a rack of fire buckets.

  Lightning made strong cuts to Wrenn’s head; every time Wrenn parried his sword blurred with vibration. The furious clangs rang out over the ocean.

  Wrenn caught a blow on his rapier’s tip close to the round leather button. He twisted, almost disarmed Lightning. Lightning stamped his foot to distract him, rushed in with a flèche aimed at the solar plexus but Wrenn dodged.

  Sailors started to climb the ladder from the main deck. Wrenn struck the first one at the top; the man jumped down. Wrenn “killed” the next two and the third became uncertain how to attack. Three men on either side of the main deck spread out, anticipating Wrenn’s escape route. They braced themselves by holding the sail lines above their heads.

  Lightning called, “Hey!” Five men jumped down off the topcastle, two burst out of my original cabin underneath. Wrenn ducked behind the helm. They charged at him; he touched them dead in seven seconds, his blade moving too fast to follow. Wrenn whipped around, rapier arm at full stretch, and arrested Lightning’s blade midthrust.

  Mist grew exasperated with ten men cutting around her and the helm. She yelled at the sister ship, “Fulmer! To starboard!”

  At the Melowne’s helm, Fulmer jumped. He spun his wheel simultaneously with Mist. The sails on the mizzenmasts swiveled, all their air spilled out. Petrel and Melowne lurched, braked and tilted left.

  Wrenn and Lightning lost their footing and slid on their backsides across the deck into the gunwale. Wrenn scrabbled to his feet first, fled down the ladder, and poised in first guard by the mainmast. Lightning gave Mist an angry glance, then sped after him. They s
tarted fencing enthusiastically. The sailors who maintained their balance quickly clustered around. Their mates picked themselves up out of the wet gutters and scuppers, and joined to restrict Wrenn’s retreat from Lightning’s attacks. Wrenn pressed back at them; he deflected every blow and kept his balance with clever footwork. Lightning never slowed but Wrenn still found chance to kill ten of the nearest sailors, alternately striking them between parrying Lightning.

  The caravels righted themselves with a crash. But, bound together, they idled in the water, sails limp. They drifted side-on to the waves, which hit Petrel’s right hull and threw spray onto the main deck.

  I flew closer, lost sight of the duelists while I landed on the poop deck, tricky because the ships were drifting slowly around. Everyone watched Wrenn.

  Wrenn almost touched Lightning. Lightning fell back and let his team of sailors surge forward. He pulled a silk handkerchief from inside his shirt and wiped his face with it. Sweat ran freely down Wrenn’s face.

  Wrenn touched two more sailors; they flopped down at his feet. He avoided a huge Awian hefting a capstan bar, darted under and prodded him on the belly. The burly salt refused to die. He tried to trap Wrenn with the bar against the railings. He bounced on his feet like a boxer.

  Melowne tars booed and started shouting, “You’re dead, Smew! You old bastard, get down! Stop being a bad loser! Finish him off, Serein!”

  Wrenn jumped rat-fast onto the covered water butt and gave Smew a resounding slap on his bald pate. The big man must have been mindful of his audience, because he died theatrically.

  On top of the barrel, Wrenn lunged and touched two more sailors. His right, middle, left; three more fell. His rapier was everywhere. I was dying to join in. I picked up a broadsword. Wrenn was obviously a head case; the most berserk of the crew members didn’t perturb him. I wanted to cut him down to size.

  Lightning glanced at me and made a covert spiral gesture with one hand. I recognized the gesture-a strategy we arranged long ago for the occasions we fight Insects in the amphitheater. Lightning engaged Wrenn while I ran silently down to the main deck and crept up behind him. All I have to do is touch his back.

  Wrenn read from his opponents’ body language that I was there; either that or he can see behind him like an Insect. He stepped back sharply to keep us both in sight, swooped a parry past Lightning and onto me.

  I immediately hacked throat to waist, making the most of my long reach. Wrenn took a bound backward as if he could fly. He landed and slipped on the wet deck. He steadied himself, stubby wings spread, looked for eye contact.

  I stabbed straight for his nipple; he fended my blade far out to the side in prime, his hand down. He riposted back in sixte to my chest, got nowhere near-my fast sixte counter-riposte batted it away. Surprise flitted across Wrenn’s eyes. No time to think in words but I felt satisfied. Don’t underestimate me.

  Wrenn beat my blade aside to the right, parried Lightning, then back to attack over my blade to my shoulder. As his rapier rose, I dodged and sliced across his stomach. He turned his blade down and stopped my cut.

  Again with his blade flat he smacked Lightning’s cut away and made a return blow to me. The sailors had no room to attack with Lightning and me working as a pair. We fell into step but I couldn’t preempt Wrenn because he kept cutting away to Lightning on my left.

  My speed worried Wrenn. He twisted left, bound and locked Lightning’s blade. He shouted and freed his sword in a motion that left Lightning confused, stepped away and concentrated on me. He blocked my slices with a short economical movement, parried down and outward, jabbed under my guard. I moved reflexively, almost on automatic.

  He attacked to my face. I brushed it aside with a weak cut from the wrist. It was a feint. Wrenn pulled the blow, punched past my hilt. I felt a sudden sting on my knuckles. The grip slipped out of my grasp and my broadsword looped pommel over foible, over the ship’s side into the water.

  Wrenn breathed through open mouth; his gaze slipped away as he switched his full attention back to Lightning.

  Being disarmed and out of the game, I retreated to the steps and watched the fight continue. Wrenn was tiring, but eighty out of the hundred men were down.

  Lightning hallooed again: “Hey!”

  The last of the crew rushed out of Ata’s cabin. Wrenn made as if to dash back but instead ran to the gunwale. He vaulted Petrel’s side and landed on the main deck of the Melowne. The audience there drew back with surprised cries.

  Wrenn hurtled past them and up the forecastle ladder. Petrel’s crew followed him, climbing or leaping over the perilous narrow gap and the log fenders between the ships. Wrenn defended the lofty ladder so well he killed ten more before they forced their way to his level.

  A sailor made a lunge so long he overbalanced. Lightning ran in on the advantage but Wrenn parried coolly. Dead combatants sat down dotting the little triangular deck. Lightning made a concerted effort but Wrenn with his back to the foremast was invincible. The last two crewmen fell on Lightning’s left and right. Only he remained.

  Lightning feinted once, twice, thrust at Wrenn’s sword arm. Wrenn had anticipated it and bound Lightning’s blade. They grated together with a sound like knives sharpened on a steel.

  Wrenn angled his blade and thrust down; his rapier point bounced off Lightning’s thigh. Lightning knelt but before he hit the deck the round padded button was under his chin. Lightning spread his arms wide, his sword loose in his right hand.

  Wrenn froze. His blue Summerday FC shirt had turned black with sweat; his face was crimson. He looked at Lightning straight and whispered, “You’re dead.”

  Bodies in white shirts sprawled all over the ships. A gust buffeted Petrel and Melowne; water sloshed under their bows. There was complete silence.

  Lightning brought his hands together in applause. Wrenn saluted him with his rapier on which new scrapes and scratches shone bright.

  Everyone began to cheer. The beaten sailors got to their feet, brushing down their clothes, grinning at each other and staring with envy and respect in Wrenn’s direction. The Swordsman concentrated on stretching his back and robust limbs in his customary sequence. His rapier stuck upright between the planks.

  I vaulted to the Melowne, climbed to the forecastle and shook his hand. “You’re amazing.”

  Wrenn bowed to me, and the audience; drops of sweat fell from his hair to the deck. Lightning shook and flexed his sword arm. It must have felt like lead from the strain and vibration.

  Mist clapped her hands briskly; her high voice carried over the ships. “On your feet, crew, and to your stations. Double rations tonight of rum and beer if you drink to the health and genius of Serein Wrenn.”

  Wrenn turned to Lightning and said effusively, “Thank you. That was a great idea. Thanks for letting me show the Zascai my flair.”

  “Indeed. I admit I’ve never fought on a ship before, but one thousand years ago I saw the then Swordsman take on three hundred men in the Castle’s dining hall. Not just sailors, either; six lamai sections of a Select Fyrd division.”

  Wrenn’s smile faded instantly, his pride deflated. However I saw a teasing gleam in Lightning’s eye; I think he was making it up.

  Into the second month every sailor and passenger on the Stormy Petrel and Melowne started to become possessive about their property. I knew with detailed intimacy the few items I had brought on board; I mended and cared for them jealously. I put a keen edge on my axe. I polished my mirror. I kept my wings preened and oiled in perfect condition. The ocean yielded nothing so the neatness of my cabin and the conservation of materials took on a great importance. I protected my private space thoroughly; we all became territorial. Lightning acted as if he had condensed his entire palace into a ship’s berth. He spent too much time talking to Wrenn and seemed not to have noticed that I was taking cat again.

  As a passenger I felt powerless and incarcerated. There were few chances to be of use but Mist employed me to carry messages between the ships. Every morni
ng I tried to instruct her in Old Morenzian but she wasn’t comfortable with formal study.

  Something about the precise figures in Mist’s ledger, her neatly complicated compasses and the vermeil astrolabe fascinated me almost as much as the glassware and herbs in the chemist’s shop where I once worked. She had a quadrant made of incised ivory, a shining brass sextant and a very accurate sea clock in a cushioned casket. For all Mist’s expertise she couldn’t see from the air as I could, so every afternoon I checked the coastlines of her portolan charts. The sheer distance we were sailing frightened me, but there was no way I could bring her to confess the danger we were in.

  Every dusk I went below deck to check on the Insect. Immediately it saw me it attacked, crashing into the bars of its cage. I crouched behind my axe, enjoying the adrenaline surge, and watched until it tired itself out. Everybody knows that Insects can’t be trained; if it had been any other wild animal I would have dedicated the voyage to bringing it under control. It didn’t understand my signals. It only sensed me as food. It raged and starved.

  One evening I managed to loop a leather strap around the Insect’s foreleg, but it tore off the tether and ate it. It chewed bones and layered them onto the smelly hard white paste spread around the edges of its cage. The concretion grew thicker over days and weeks. When it reached six centimeters high, I realized that the Insect was building a wall. I think it wanted to find other Insects, after all they are animals that work together. Since it found it was inexplicably alone and trapped, it began walling itself into a cell in which it presumably felt more at home.

  I hoped that the Insect didn’t have the ability to call others through, from whatever Shift world it hatched in. I imagined thousands of Insects popping into the hold, the ship gradually lowering in the water with their weight. Or our Insect finding a path to vanish back into the Shift, leaving an empty cage. That would raise some questions.