After a moment, Hark noticed that one of them was staring straight at him.
It was a girl of about Hark’s own age, or perhaps a little younger. She was short, dark-haired, and skinny, with large eyes and an uncomfortably intense gaze. What caught Hark’s attention, however, was the dappling of freckles that covered her face, arms, and neck. Only one family was that freckled.
That must be one of Rigg’s daughters. What’s she doing here? Why is she staring at me?
For a wildly optimistic moment, Hark wondered if she was there to bid for him on behalf of Rigg’s gang. It was an empty hope, however. The governor had been known to arrest people he suspected of buying the indentures of their accomplices, so nobody did that anymore.
No, she’s here so that I know that Rigg’s people are watching me. If I squeal on them now, they’ll know. This girl is a warning.
With a sinking heart, Hark recognized a couple of scarred faces a few rows farther back, observing him with a speculative eye. They were dealers in the auction dregs, waiting to pick up the unwanted criminals for a song and sell them on as galley minions. Anyone they bought would spend the whole of their indenture in the murky belly of some boat or submarine, chained to their oar. Many did not survive, and those who did came out with crooked limbs, weak eyes, and broken minds.
Next to them was a tall man with a fashionably square beard and a good coat. One of the other criminals recognized him and muttered that he was the owner of a mine on Malpease who sometimes bought young criminals who could fit through perilously narrow gaps. This didn’t sound much better than the galleys.
“First lot!” called the auctioneer. “Hark, no other name. The crime, breaking two of the beacon lanterns last night. Three years.”
“Three years?” exploded Hark, involuntarily. The shrill echo of his voice spiraled up and up until the shadows ate it. He had feared that it might be one year, but three . . .
I’ll be broken by then, he thought desperately. I won’t survive in the galleys that long. He was to be made an example of. The governor must have taken the vandalism as a personal slight.
Don’t give up, he told himself sharply, amid the rise of panic. You’re not dead yet. As he was detached from the chain gang and pulled forward, he tried to keep his breathing under control. There’s got to be someone else!
“Does anybody have any questions for the prisoner before the bidding?” asked the auctioneer, with the blunt air of someone with a busy schedule ahead. Most of the buyers had already turned their attention back at their catalogs. “No? Then—”
“Can I give my defense first?” Hark interrupted desperately.
“You’re not on trial, boy!” called the auctioneer, and there was a ripple of laughter.
“But they don’t really know what I did!” Hark’s heart was banging. “They don’t know why I did it! They don’t know how!”
Oh please, come on! Somebody take the bait! Hark’s gaze darted over the assembly, looking for hints of interest.
A husband and wife at the back, frowning in his direction and whispering. Were they interested or just disapproving?
A middle-aged woman in a good-quality jacket of brown wool, fiddling with what looked like a monocle on a chain. She was watching the proceedings with half-closed eyes, like a theatergoer waiting for the play to start. Or was she just half asleep?
Two men in sealskin coats from the Northern Myriad, laughing together quietly and glancing his way. Even if Hark was a joke to them, could he use that to win them over?
If I play to the whole crowd, I won’t hook any of them. I need to pick a target and play to them. And I need to pick right.
Hark made his choice. Made eye contact. Held it. Raised his eyebrows in appeal.
Yes. You. Please.
The woman with the brown coat and monocle stared back for a moment, then smiled.
“All right,” she called back. “I’ll bite. Tell us, boy.”
Chapter 3
Hark felt his heart banging. Possible stories crowded into his head.
It wasn’t me! It was somebody else’s idea! I was scared and it wasn’t my fault! I was tricked into it!
Those were the stories you told if you wanted to convince people you were mostly innocent, or at least harmless. If some guard or merchant had you by the scruff of the neck, you could make them feel a little bit sorry for you, and they might just let you go with a kick in the rear.
But he was far beyond that now. This wasn’t a trial. Right now, it didn’t matter whether he was innocent; it mattered whether he was interesting. If he bored his audience, he was dead. And if he babbled, pleaded, and made big eyes, he would bore them. Worse, he would look weak and stupid. Maybe some of them would feel sorry for him, but they wouldn’t buy him. Nobody wanted a weak, stupid servant.
He had to seem like an asset. Clever, but not too glib. Good-hearted but not too unworldly.
“I’m not going to pretend I didn’t do it,” he said, with quiet bravado. “But it wasn’t for money or for fun. It was something I had to do.”
Tease their curiosity. Keep their attention.
“Are you saying somebody forced you to do this?” asked the woman who had taken Hark’s bait. It was hard for him to get a read on her. She wasn’t a Lady’s Craver—he could tell that from her accent—and yet she still sounded fairly local. Another island nearby, perhaps? Her expression seemed dispassionately amused, her voice sardonic and incredulous. With luck she would keep asking questions. As long as she did that, his fate still hung by a thread.
“No,” he said. “It was my idea. It was a stupid thing to do—I know that. I knew it back then. But it was the only way.”
Back up. Leave the explanation until later. Keep them guessing.
“I wouldn’t have done it for laughs,” he added quickly. “Have you seen that cliff? It’s not something anyone would do if they had a choice. Would you?”
He was directing most of his attention to the woman now. But don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Keep talking loud enough for them at the back to hear. Look out at the others now and then.
“See, I had to climb all the way up the cliff face under Soul-Eye Point. In the dark, while it was raining.
“At the top I . . . I broke the first beacon light with my sling.” He let his eyes drop for a moment and gave a small, self-conscious shrug. “After that I knew sentries would be coming, so I couldn’t run along the headland to the next one.”
Since Hark was on trial for breaking both lanterns, hopefully the auctioneer didn’t know that they had been smashed within moments of each other. He could tell a tale of a crime without accomplices and leave out Jelt and Rigg’s people completely.
He glanced briefly at the freckled girl in the front row. Her large eyes were still fixed upon him, as if they could pierce through to his very thoughts.
“There’s a ledge that runs under the lip—just a palm’s width in places.” Hark held out two hands a little apart, to show the perilous breadth. “Slippery. Crumbling away. But it was the only choice. Three hundred feet of drop just an inch away, with the rain in my eyes and the wind trying to scrape me off, like an oyster out of its shell . . .”
The mine owner shifted impatiently in his seat. Too much description, Hark told himself sharply. Too flowery.
“I nearly fell to my death three times,” Hark went on quickly, “and I lost my sling to the drop. So I had to climb up the metal tower, all slippery with rain, and kick out the second lantern.” He paused, hoping that his audience were remembering the height of the tower and starting to understand the doggedness and skill that the climb would have required.
“You’re supposed to be answering the lady’s question!” snapped the auctioneer. “Not wasting our time with some rambling, blow-by-blow confession.”
“I know, I know!” Hark agreed hastily. “What I’m saying is, I wouldn’t have done all that—risked all that—unless I’d had a really good reason.”
Hark took a deep breath an
d committed to his tale.
“No,” he said. “Nobody forced me. Nobody even asked me. But somebody needed me to do it.”
A few raised eyebrows. A hint of interest.
“I grew up in the Shelter—” Hark began.
“There’s a surprise!” called out the mine owner, and there was a muted rumble of grim mirth throughout the crowd. Most of the stray and orphaned kids of Lady’s Crave found refuge in the Shelter, and more than a few of them emerged later as promising young crooks.
“Lovely place, isn’t it?” Hark responded quickly with a wry grimace.
Don’t get thrown off-balance, keep hold of the reins.
“Maybe some of you have memories of it, too.
“Now . . . I’m very grateful for the governor’s mighty benevolence, of course. Goes without saying. But you end up owing other people, too. The ones who give you a bit of food or work.”
He didn’t mention that the food at the Shelter wasn’t enough to keep you alive. He didn’t have to.
“There was a woman who sometimes pitched a tent in Slike’s Cove, selling pickled sea wrack. Sometimes she screamed at us and threw stones. She was a bit mad and had a nasty temper. But other times she’d leave food out for us on the rocks.”
There really had been an old woman like that when Hark was little. He didn’t know what had happened to her, but he silently thanked her now for fleshing out his story.
Some of his audience were hooked now, others impatiently fiddling with their catalogs. Not too much heart-string-tugging, Hark reminded himself. Keep it brief.
“Over the years . . . she went madder, I suppose. She started camping in the darkest caves she could find. She couldn’t bear the beacon lights at night. You know how it is sometimes.”
Again, he didn’t need to say more. The beacon lamps used Undersea water, mixed with the right blend of fish oils and sparked with the tiniest filament of godware as a wick. These burned far longer and brighter than whale oil, but such lights were nicknamed “scare-lamps” for a reason. Something about their light tickled your instincts unpleasantly and made your heart beat faster. Hark’s generation had grown up with them and were used to the effects, but older people often hated them and complained that the light gave them nightmares.
Old folk who had witnessed gods rising were the ones who hated the beacons most of all. They had seen that queasy, dancing purple light before, glimmering in the deep or murkily flickering across vast, shadowy hulks.
“What was her name?” called out the woman with the monocle.
“Katya,” Hark answered promptly, giving the name of the old woman he remembered. It was a safely common name. “She camps all over the island. Other folks must know her. You can ask around!”
The woman raised an eyebrow. Yes, said her expression, but I can’t do that right now, can I? I can’t check your story before I bid.
It was the one potential advantage of the situation Hark found himself in. With luck, the auctioneer didn’t know anything about his case except what had already been read out. Bidders would have to decide for themselves whether they believed Hark’s story. If someone bought him, then found out he’d misled them, they would be angry, but at least he might have a chance to talk them around again.
“So Katya asked you nicely to put the beacon lights out?” the woman asked, her voice still cool and skeptical.
“Katya never did anything nicely, ma’am,” Hark called back. He was pleased to see a slight smile flicker over a few faces. They were getting a feel for “Katya.” So was he. “She even riled up some of the local scavengers, yelling at them and telling them to get off ‘her’ beach. They would have chased her off, or worse, if I hadn’t asked them not to. And . . . if they hadn’t seen she was so sick.”
He let his face fall a little, and shrugged.
“I could tell she was ebbing out,” he continued, his tone bleak. Keep it plain, and blunt, and real. “Her mind was gone. She didn’t know me. She didn’t know anyone. All she did was hide in caves, because she thought those beacons on the cliff tops were the flickering purple lights of a god. Back from the dead, up from the deep, and clambering about the island looking for her in particular.” He shook his head and gave a sad, annoyed little tut.
Hark half believed his own story now. It was a lie, but like all the best lies, it had fragments of truth in it. He had seen old people sicken and madden in such ways, their childhood fears of the gods bobbing to the surface like drowned corpses.
“Yesterday evening she turned up in Slike’s Cove, and I could almost see the bones under her skin. I knew she wouldn’t last till morning. She was hiding in a cave, almost too weak and hungry to stand . . . but whenever she came out, that purple beacon light would set her off again. Screaming and scrabbling about on the beach, and running back into her cave. I tried to take food and water to her, but she pulled a knife on me. Stupid old mare!” He shook his head.
“So I told her that everything was fine. The god was going away. If she waited, soon she’d see that the beach was dark and safe. Then I climbed up that cliff and I saw to it.”
“You left an unhinged and dying woman all by herself?” the monocle-woman asked sharply.
“Yes,” said Hark. No defensiveness, no hesitation. “I did. And I don’t even know if breaking those lamps worked. Maybe she just stayed there in that cave. Or maybe she came out and was able to die in her own tent on her little bit of rug, in peace and darkness. I don’t know, but I had to try. It was all I could give her.”
Hark took a deep breath and scanned his audience. He had painted himself in the best colors he could manage—a lad who had grown up wild, but who was brave, ingenious, and, above all, loyal. The sort of bright, good-hearted lad who would go out on a limb for you once you had his gratitude. He felt this would appeal more than “sneaky small-time crook with expanding underworld connections.”
The woman held his eye for a few seconds, then raised her eyebrows and looked away. She suddenly seemed disaffected and bored. Hark bit his lip hard, wondering if he had misjudged his play.
The auctioneer, who had been staring at his notes, cleared his throat sharply and made Hark jump.
“Any more questions?” the auctioneer asked tartly, his tone reeking of impatience. “No? Then we shall move to the bid.”
Hark’s blood banged furiously in his ears. He had managed to maintain a certain calm while he held the stage, but now he suddenly found it hard to breathe.
“Any starting bids?” called the auctioneer.
Hark reflexively glanced at the woman who had been asking him questions.
She appeared to be studying her catalog. Had she lost interest, now that Hark had sated her curiosity? He glanced around at the other bidders but realized that he had been quietly piling his hopes on her. He had directed most of his story toward her.
One of the scarred men put up his hand and named a tiny sum. In spite of himself, Hark’s pride was stung. But if they’re bidding low, then I’m still a bargain, he reminded himself. There’s still a chance that someone else will bid. He tried not to think of being trapped in a stinking hold, manacles chafing the skin from his wrists and ankles.
The mine owner had been studying him through pocket binoculars and now put up his hand and named a sum only slightly less feeble. Hark imagined himself squeezing through narrow underground crevices, or being crushed by rockslides, and dug his nails into his hands.
Someone else bid on me! Please! Hark looked desperately around at the other bidders and in particular at the woman with the monocle. He even gave the freckled, sea-kissed girl a pleading look.
Nothing from any of them. Not a flicker.
The scarred man bid again, barely more than the price of a live goat, and the mine owner shrugged and let it go. Silence followed.
“No more bids?” asked the auctioneer? “Then . . .”
He reached across to dip his pen into the inkpot so that he could write down the details of the sale in his great book.
&
nbsp; Hark’s vision blurred. His story had been his last chance, and it had not been enough. His chest was tight, and it took him a moment to realize that the auctioneer had paused, his pen hovering above the inkpot.
“Ma’am?” asked the auctioneer. “Is this a bid?”
Hark turned to stare at the woman in brown, who had her hand raised.
“Yes,” she said. “It is.”
The sum she named was still trivial, but it was twice the previous bid. Hark could see the scarred men evaluating him again, his flimsy frame and weak arms so unsuited for pulling oars. They didn’t mind picking him up for a song, but only if the song didn’t have too many choruses. They shook their heads.
The auctioneer nodded to the woman and recorded the details of the sale, then Hark was hurried out of the hall into a little side chamber. He was saggy with relief. They let him sit down by the wall, and he slumped there, too numb and tired to pay attention to his surroundings, even as other purchased convicts were brought in, one by one.
He had survived. He would survive.
He could think of little else, even when a clerk in a dun waistcoat came through to inspect him and question him. Did he have tattoos? Missing teeth? Distinguishing injuries?
Hark answered the questions numbly and let the clerk measure his limbs and catalog his scars, even though he knew the reason for it all. If he ever tried to run away from his new owner, all these details could be used to find him again. Next, a bored-looking artist drew his portrait. Hark watched the narrow-cheeked, unflattering sketch of him forming on the page and imagined it on a Wanted poster plastered up in dockyards all through the Myriad.
It was late afternoon before Hark’s new owner finally arrived to collect him.
“If you could press your personal seal into the wax here, Dr. Vyne?” said the clerk who accompanied her, with careful politeness. “We will have the paperwork drawn up for you within the hour.”
Now that the woman was closer, Hark noticed a few oddities. Tiny flecks of dark mauve in her brown eyes. A little patch of dead-white pallor near her right temple, almost hidden by her dark hair. These were Marks—subtle ones, but still signs that she had spent a lot of time handling godware or Undersea water. Given enough time, both these things subtly remolded the human body in unpredictable ways, and nobody knew why. Minor Marks like this were not uncommon, particularly among deep-sea submariners and workers in the god-glue factory.
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