Deeplight

by Frances Hardinge

  “Look at those clouds blowing in.” Dunlin frowned. “More rain coming.”

  Hark barely heard, his eyes once again fixed on the sails of distant ships. Clippers, cutters, sloops, luggers. White sails, yellow, crimson.

  Within sight, across the shining water, life was going on without him.

  Hark scrambled inland again through the thick, bristling undergrowth. His steps startled crickets and blue-gray moths.

  A striped squirrel darted right across Hark’s path, and he laughed aloud. Once there had been no squirrels in the Myriad, but the cocky little vermin had managed to stow away in foreign ships, gnawing through their supplies. These days you found them on most islands in the Myriad, breeding as fast as rats. The Myriddens forgave their presence because they were impudent, acrobatic, and delicious in stew.

  Hark always felt a sense of solidarity with the squirrels as fellow vermin. The sight of one cheered him up immediately.

  “Yeah, I shouldn’t be here, either,” he told it. “But they let us on a boat, and here we are.”

  Here I am. Alive and well, in spite of everything. I’ve talked myself into something good here. Why am I moping?

  An army of clouds had boiled in from the north while he walked. Now the sky was a jaded, stormy gray, and the air had a damp, cold glisten that promised rain. Hark knew he should seek shelter soon, too, but for the moment, striding north into the wind made him feel free and full of life.

  He would walk as far as the old cairn. Last time, he had noticed a little knot of samphire sprouting between its stones. By now the plant might have grown enough to pluck sprigs from it without killing it. The cairn was so close now, its gray rocks embroidered with livid white lichen.

  “Hark!”

  Hark froze, his foot on one of the lower stones of the cairn. Suddenly he could feel the chill.

  A face emerged from the cairn’s shallow inner cavity. A familiar face, bluish with cold.

  “Jelt!”

  Jelt always came back. Even when you thought he’d died, or been arrested, or forgotten you, he always, always came back. When he did, that changed everything. Whatever you had been doing while he was away came to an end. Hark had missed his friend bitterly, but now he realized that he wasn’t ready for Jelt’s return after all. Hark was suddenly gripped by a strange sense of loss.

  “Jelt,” he blurted out. “What are you doing here?”

  “Good to see you, too, Hark,” said Jelt with a sour smile. “‘Hey, Jelt, you’re alive! How have you been?’”

  “It is good to see you!” Hark insisted hurriedly. He glanced nervously around, but there didn’t seem to be anybody within sight. “I knew you must have gotten away! I couldn’t find out what happened that night, but you weren’t for sale at the Appraisal, so—”

  “I wanted to talk to you,” interrupted Jelt. “I’ve been waiting around on this island for two days.” He made it sound as though Hark had failed an appointment.

  “I’m stuck in Sanctuary most of the time! I only come out when they send me on errands . . .” Hark stopped himself and took a breath. Jelt did this—he pushed you onto the back foot. You ended up apologizing, explaining and defending yourself instead of pushing back.

  “All right, I’m here now,” Hark said instead. “And I’m glad you came. I . . . can’t stay long, though. If anyone sees me talking to you, I’m in deep trouble.” All at once, the prospect of three years in Sanctuary didn’t seem like a trap. It was a future full of chances, precious and fragile.

  “Is that all you’ve got to say after three months?” A dangerous scowl was creasing Jelt’s brow.

  “No!” Hark could feel his face getting hot, despite the chill of the wind. “I said we can talk! But I’ve got to be careful! I’m the one who ended up paying the piper, remember?” He realized as soon as the words were out that they sounded like an accusation.

  “Yeah?” said Jelt. “And whose fault was that?” Hark could sense his insinuation, held back and ready, like a fist.

  “What do you mean?” Hark felt an angry flush spread across his skin.

  “You took forever killing that light, and then you got caught!” said Jelt. “You should have been halfway down the hillside before a patrol could get there! What did you do, stop for a picnic? Rigg was raging at me afterward because I’d vouched for you!”

  “Oh, you don’t get to blame this on me!” Hark hissed. “That stupid plan was your idea!”

  “And I thought you were up to it. Blood in the water, Hark! If you knew you weren’t good enough, why didn’t you just tell everyone so?”

  “You made sure I couldn’t!” Hark snapped. “You set things up so the smugglers were losing it before I even showed up! By the time I got there, it was either say yes or get chucked over the cliff! You always do this!”

  “And you always let me down when it matters!” snarled Jelt.

  It was untrue, so untrue, and the words stung. Hark could feel himself wanting to run headlong into a list of all the times when he’d backed Jelt up or saved the situation and been there for him. Jelt wanted him to do that so he could stand there smirking, or snorting dismissively, and then cut Hark off mid-flow, leaving him feeling dizzy and unmoored. Then Hark would be at the mercy of Jelt’s current again, and right now he could not allow that.

  “If that was true,” he said sharply, “I’d have squealed on you when they caught me, wouldn’t I? But I didn’t. I left you and Rigg’s gang out of my story. And thanks to that, I’m indentured for three years. Three years, Jelt!”

  “Looks like you landed on your feet,” said Jelt, with the same odd weight to his voice. “Landed in some pretty good shoes, as well.”

  “I could have been sent to the galleys!” Hark protested. “I only just managed to talk my way out of it! I could still end up there, Jelt!”

  There was an icy downdraft, and the thorns hissed. Then the dark rain fell, so hard that the drops seemed to graze Hark’s skin.

  “C’mon, get in the shelter,” said Jelt, grabbing Hark’s arm and tugging him toward the cairn’s hollow.

  “I can’t.” Hark’s words squeaked out. His breath caught in his chest as he realized what he was going to say. What choice did he have? He was walking a tightrope. If Jelt stayed in his life, he would find a way to cut it and send Hark tumbling to his doom.

  “Jelt, I’ve covered for you.” Blinded by rain, Hark was glad he couldn’t see Jelt’s face. “I’ll keep covering for you—don’t you worry about that. But you’ve got to stay away from me. If you came here to make sure I’m all right . . . well, you can see I’m still breathing. But if you’re here because you want something else from me, I can’t help you. Ask me again in three years.”

  He tried to pull his arm free from Jelt’s grasp. Jelt held fast.

  “Don’t you walk away from me, Hark.”

  Hark could hear the hurt in Jelt’s tone, lurking behind the anger. But there was a lot of anger, and Hark suddenly felt small, slight, and fragile. Jelt pulled him into the cairn’s hollow, grabbed him by the shoulders, and stared into his face.

  “What happened to you?” Jelt demanded. “Did your new owners rip your spine out? Are you going to let them tell you who your friends are? They only own you if you let them, Hark.”

  There was some truth in his words. There always was. That was one of the reasons Jelt was so hard to argue with.

  “Jelt,” Hark tried to sound firm, but a hint of pleading crept into his voice. “You’ve got to let me go.”

  “You’re going to forget ten years of friendship, are you? Just like that? Just because you’re scared, and somebody’s decided to keep you as a pet? When they feed you, do they balance a biscuit on your nose and make you beg?”

  Jelt’s gaze was a cruel wind, stripping Hark of his little victories like so many dead leaves. Despite himself, Hark suddenly felt ashamed of his doglike determination to prove himself at his new tasks and of the pride he felt bringing Dr. Vyne information, like a stick in his jaws. His patient,
obedient copying of letters . . . He could not mention that to Jelt. Ever.

  “You know it’s not going to last, don’t you?” said Jelt. “They’ll see through you. They’ll find out something from your past that doesn’t fit with whatever story you told them. What’ll happen then?”

  Were Jelt’s words meant as a threat? Jelt knew Hark inside out. He knew about all the worst things Hark had ever done, because he had been right there doing them, too. It had never been a problem, because the two of them had been in the same dingy, stinking boat, and neither of them could think of ratting out the other. Jelt had protected Hark, fought for him, and shared his scant stock of food with him in the bleakest winters. Jelt would never betray him.

  Would he?

  Jelt sometimes shattered your idea of him, by doing unexpected things that you were sure he couldn’t or wouldn’t do. He was never sorry afterward, even when he had acted in anger or impulse. If he betrayed Hark, it would somehow turn out to be Hark’s fault.

  Hark was cold, so cold. The wind blew into the cairn, and the rain slid down his back.

  “They’ve got no loyalty to you,” said Jelt, “and you shouldn’t have any to them. Loyalty’s all that matters, isn’t it? It’s all we’ve got. Don’t let them take that away from us.”

  Jelt’s eyes were hard, angry, and earnest. Perhaps he really hadn’t intended to threaten Hark. But Hark could still feel a nervous tingle in his throat, as if a blade were hovering near it.

  “You do want something from me, don’t you?” said Hark.

  “I want to give you another chance,” said Jelt. “A chance to make things right.”

  “Right with who, Jelt?” asked Hark. “With Rigg and her gang?”

  “Forget Rigg,” said Jelt. “I calmed her down. I even worked with her for a bit . . . though that’s over now.” He grimaced dismissively. Apparently Rigg’s gang was no longer the unmissable promotion opportunity it had been three months before.

  “Then—”

  “You can make things right with me. Right with us. Get ourselves straight again.”

  “So you’re saying things aren’t right with us?” Hark asked, feeling a tingle of fear. “Is that what you think?”

  Jelt shrugged slowly, his eyes still on Hark’s face.

  “If you’re still my friend, you’ll prove it, and then I’ll know,” he said. “Listen—you’re the only person I can trust. I’ve gotten hold of something special. Really special. This is a golden chance, Hark!”

  “What is it?” asked Hark reflexively, then realized that knowing too much meant getting involved. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.” It was too late, though, and he knew it.

  “It’s a bathysphere,” said Jelt.

  Despite himself, Hark pursed his lips and silently whistled. Deep-sea salvage missions always needed good diving bells and bathyspheres, and buyers would pay through the nose for them.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “I found it,” said Jelt. “It’s intact. The windows aren’t even scratched. The hatch opens and it’s dry inside, even after all this time. And that’s not even the best part.” Jelt gave Hark a wicked, confidential glitter of a grin. “It’s one of the old ones. Priest-made. With godware in it.”

  Hark gaped at him.

  “You’re joking!”

  An old priestly bathysphere could fetch twenty times as much as a modern one. They weren’t as safe and comfortable as the newer models, but their godware shells still coped better with the really deep descents that reached the Undersea. There were only a few left in working condition.

  “That would be worth a fortune!” Hark’s excitement flared, then fizzled. These were riches he couldn’t share. “That’s . . . amazing, Jelt. But you don’t need my help. You can sell it without me.”

  “No, I can’t!” said Jelt. “If I tell too many people I’ve got it, the governor will find out, and then he’ll confiscate it, won’t he?”

  Jelt had a point. After the Cataclysm, the governor had declared himself the new “custodian” of everything that the local priesthood had once owned. If he heard rumors of a priestly bathysphere for sale on the black market, he would almost certainly send someone to seize it.

  “So find one good buyer, and sell it on the quiet!” said Hark, his teeth starting to chatter.

  “Then they get to pick the price!” Jelt objected. “I get paid spit for it, and whoever buys it gets rich using it to dive for salvage! No, thanks. I’m keeping it. We’re getting rich, Hark. Just you and me. We’re going to dive with it.”

  “What?” Hark felt weak and heavy, as if a current were pulling him under the surface. “That’s mad! We’re not a salvage crew! We don’t know what to do with a bathysphere!”

  “No, but I bet you could find out,” said Jelt. “You’re talking to priests all day, aren’t you? I’m going down in it anyway, Hark. Are you going to help me or not?”

  Hark sighed, feeling trapped, and not just by the rain’s onslaught.

  “I’ll try to find out more about bathyspheres,” he said, “but that’s all I’m doing.”

  Jelt reached out and gave Hark a brief cuff that might have been affectionate.

  “I’ve got faith in you,” he said.

  Chapter 8

  Back at Sanctuary, Hark was scolded for getting his clothes wet, but that was all. Nobody had seen him talking to Jelt. He hurriedly changed into his dry robes. At least Jelt hadn’t seen him in those. Hark could imagine Jelt’s look of incredulous contempt if he had spotted his best friend in yolk-colored fancy dress.

  For three months, Hark had worried about his best friend and longed to hear from him. Now that Jelt had reappeared, Hark would have paid in blood to send him back to Lady’s Crave. How had Hark forgotten what it was like when Jelt was around?

  Jelt’s plan was crazy. Lowering a bathysphere with just two people was clearly suicide. If Hark refused to help, then surely Jelt would give up on the plan and just sell the sphere instead. Or would he? Jelt had threatened to go down in the sphere even if Hark didn’t help, and he could be unbelievably stubborn.

  If Hark didn’t meet with Jelt again, he couldn’t be sure that Jelt wouldn’t do something stupid. Hark imagined a long, cold silence with no word from Jelt, not knowing whether he was alive or dead. The idea horrified and hypnotized him.

  I’ll find out more about bathyspheres, he decided. Then I can explain to him that it won’t work.

  · · · · ·

  “Quest, how dangerous are bathyspheres?” The old priest looked up from his meal, and some of the wrinkles in his brow rearranged themselves.

  “They’re safer than other diving bells in a lot of ways. They’re enclosed, so they can’t tip over and let the air out. The round shape is a good defense against the crush of water. The Undersea does not crush in that way, but the true sea above it does, if one goes deep enough. If the outer shell of a vessel is insufficiently strong, the depths will squash it like this.” He plucked a small bobble of egg-wrack seaweed out of his stew and squeezed it between thumb and forefinger until it popped.

  Hark didn’t much like the idea of being inside something that could be popped like a seaweed pod.

  “How can you tell if it’s strong enough?” he asked.

  “You can only find that out by lowering them deep.” Quest smiled wryly. “But I believe most of the modern spheres use a metal shell half a foot thick and windows of rock crystal covered in god-glass.”

  “Those must weigh a ton!” Hark tried to make his interest sound casual. “What about the old sort, the ones you used?”

  “Oh, those were much lighter,” Quest replied. “They were usually made of relics—what people now call ‘godware.’ Matter far stranger and more durable than metal. It was possible to make the walls much thinner without them caving in.”

  “But . . . even with that sort of sphere, you must have needed a big boat to take it out onto the water?” asked Hark hopefully. “And lots of people to lower it and haul it back up
?”

  “Oh yes,” agreed Quest. “Only a large boat could carry the crane, the sphere, and the counterweight. We needed sailors to keep the boat steady and stop it drifting, strong fellows to turn the wheel that hauled in the chain, mechanics to watch and oil the mechanism, somebody hanging over the side in a helmet to watch the sphere go down . . . at least a dozen people.”

  It was better than Hark had hoped. Jelt’s plan wasn’t just stupid, it was impossible. He could tell him so.

  “At least, that was the case in a boat,” Quest added as an afterthought. “The fixed cranes required far fewer people.”

  Hark’s heart sank.

  In the Myriad, land tended to be steep, both above and beneath the water. There were many places where the seafloor dropped treacherously and precipitously, where you might step off the edge of land and plummet for a very long time. In such places, the priests had built towers or platforms, with great cranes for lowering diving bells and bathyspheres into the depths.

  Many of these cranes had been destroyed in the Cataclysm or had collapsed through neglect. A few still remained, however, bleeding their rust down the rocks on which they stood.

  “How many people were needed to use a fixed crane?” he asked, not at all sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  “The more hands to the wheel, the easier and safer it was,” agreed Quest. “I heard a tale of one man managing to lower and raise a sphere by himself, but few would take on a task like that. Even he had to come back another day with friends to help him raise the counterweight again.”

  Hark heard this with a tumult of feelings. Jelt’s plan was stupid, dangerous, and almost certainly suicidal, but apparently not quite impossible.

  “What’s a counterweight?” he asked.

  Quest’s eyes brightened as he explained. His was a mind that was happier when it was active. While the old man talked of the crane’s counterweight, cross-shaft, reels, and winch, Hark listened and committed every detail to memory.

  · · · · ·

  “Then it’s possible,” said Jelt, when Hark met him two days later in the shadow of the cairn.