Deeplight

by Frances Hardinge

  “This isn’t a zoo!” growled Kly. “We don’t let people wander in to gawk!”

  “I have gifts for them,” insisted the captain, “and I want to make sure that they receive them.” A leather-bound box lay by his feet.

  “Nobody wants your books and pamphlets! It’s my job to see that folks here are left in peace!”

  The Leaguers had visited with similar demands before and had always been rebuffed by Kly. According to Sanctuary gossip, the League had been putting pressure on Vyne to fire him. So far, she had apparently defended her foreman, insisting that he was just following her orders. Now the Leaguer captain had turned up in person, presumably to throw more oil on the fire.

  Hark could easily guess the Leaguers’ real reason for objecting to Kly.

  Most islands on the Myriad were a riotous jumble of accents, skin colors, and dress styles. You couldn’t always tell where somebody was from straightaway, but sooner or later you usually worked out who was a Myridden and who was from one of the continents. Continenters had funny beliefs, made weird mistakes, didn’t know sign language, and got seasick. As far as Hark was concerned, it didn’t really matter. It was just something to laugh about. People like the League, however, didn’t find the presence of continenters funny at all.

  When Hark reluctantly approached, Kly seized upon the distraction and dragged Hark aside by the collar.

  “Where the reeking sun have you been?” The foreman’s face was thunderous. “And why are your trousers soaking wet?”

  “I was coming back on time!” Hark protested. “Then . . . I slipped and fell in a rock pool. Knocked myself silly for a bit.” He knew he must look bruised and battered and could only hope a story of a fall might cover it.

  “Fell in a rock pool?” Kly glared at him. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

  Hark swallowed dryly. No, Kly wasn’t stupid. He braced himself for the next question. Have you been in a fight?

  “Is this what happens when I put trust in you?” said Kly fiercely, shaking Hark by the collar. “You decided you could push your luck, didn’t you?” He gave Hark a hard cuff about the head.

  “Hey!” shouted the captain. “Leave that boy alone! He gave you an explanation!”

  Hark bit his lip hard to stop himself swearing. The last thing he needed was the Leaguer captain taking his side.

  “This is none of your business!” bristled Kly.

  “That’s the indentured boy, isn’t it?” said the captain. “I am sure Dr. Vyne would not appreciate you battering her property.”

  Hark flushed and gave Kly a small, anguished grimace. It’s not my fault, I didn’t ask him to get involved! This look wasn’t wasted on Kly, who slowly released Hark’s collar.

  “That’s better,” said the captain, who clearly thought that he had won a small victory.

  “Go and change into some dry clothes,” Kly told Hark more quietly, “then help this . . . gentleman . . . carry his ‘gifts’ back to his boat. Make sure he doesn’t accidentally leave them behind.”

  Hark hastily sprinted into Sanctuary, now unsure whether getting caught in the crossfire had helped or hurt him. At least Kly didn’t seem to have noticed Hark’s injuries yet. Maybe they weren’t too obvious after all?

  As Hark changed his clothes, he quickly examined himself for bruises and was surprised to find no sign of any as yet. The places where Jelt had kicked and hit him didn’t feel as tender as he had expected. Remembering the cruel metal prong that had scraped along his back underwater, Hark ran his hand over the place that had stung. His fingertips found only smooth skin, with no trace of a scratch.

  He stole a glance at his reflection in a pail of water. He looked pale and shaky, but there was no bruising or swelling on his temple where Jelt had punched him. Apparently he had been lucky. The day’s disasters seemed to have left him with no visible injuries to explain.

  As Hark had expected, the Leaguer captain’s box of books and pamphlets were still outside the Sanctuary entrance when he returned. He was rather more surprised to see that the captain had waited there, too. Hark had thought he might need to chase the captain with the box and physically hurl it onto the man’s boat before it left. Instead, the Leaguer offered no objection as Hark picked it up.

  “Be careful with that,” was all the captain said, before turning and striding off toward the harbor. Hark followed, a pace behind. The Leaguer kept silent until they were a reasonable distance from Sanctuary, then slowed a little so that they were walking side by side.

  “Thanks for putting in a word for me,” said Hark, trying to sound meek. No doubt the captain was waiting for some show of gratitude.

  “He has no right to strike you,” said the captain. “He should not be given power over any of you.”

  Ah, there it is . . . As usual, the captain hadn’t said what he meant explicitly, but his meaning hung in the air like a smell.

  “You are shaking,” observed the captain. “Are you afraid of that man? Does he beat you a lot?”

  “No,” Hark said truthfully. “Not much.”

  “You do not need to defend him,” said the captain. “Loyalty is not a virtue in its own right. Its worth depends on where it is spent.”

  The captain was a crank, but he seemed to be rich and well-connected. He had influence with Dr. Vyne, too. He was probably a useful man to keep happy and a dangerous man to annoy. If Hark kept defending Kly, he was likely to annoy him fairly quickly.

  “Do you love the Myriad?” the captain asked suddenly, with quiet intensity.

  Hark had visited only about twenty of the Myriad’s thousands of islands. He loved Lady’s Crave, though, and the feel of living on the sea road, where the tide brought you songs, spices, and stories from the farthest islands . . .

  “Of course I do,” he said.

  They had begun the last, steep descent toward the harbor. The captain halted, staring out across the water.

  “Look at them,” he said flatly. “Dozens of them.”

  “Do you mean the ships?” Hark guessed that the Leaguer wouldn’t be staring so grimly at the gulls.

  “What do you see out there?” asked the captain.

  Hark shielded his eyes from the sun.

  “Lots of fishing boats.” Grimy and dogged, most of them from Lady’s Crave. “Three-masted clippers, the sort that carry tea or orchids or dispatches.” Sleek and fleet despite their size, tipping until it seemed they might kiss the waves. “Some big merchant ships.” All of them big-bellied with opportunities, excitement, mysteries, luxuries. “That big galleon’s from the east continent. It’s got a cannon deck, so it’s probably bringing timber from the Scathian forests. They always have cannons to protect them against river pirates.”

  The captain made a muffled sound. It might have sounded like mirth if it had come from somebody else.

  “Every year the foreign merchant ships are bigger and carry more cannons,” the Leaguer said. “Have you noticed that? Have you ever wondered what would happen if those cannons were aimed at our ports—at us?”

  “Why would they do that?” Hark stared aghast at the distant galleon.

  “Because whoever controls the Myriad, controls the sea trade routes. At the moment, our ports are getting rich because of that, charging a fortune in taxes and mooring fees from every ship that docks. What happens when one of the continental nations decides that they want to control the Myriad instead? We do not even have a navy to defend ourselves! Do you really think peaceful trading vessels are the only boats other nations are building?”

  Just for a moment, Hark saw the view as the captain did. He remembered all the great ships jostling in the harbor at his beloved Lady’s Crave and imagined cannonballs biting holes out of wooden warehouses and stone facades . . .

  “You can say what you like about the gods,” the captain said, “but while they were alive, we ruled the waves. Nobody else dared sail these routes. We are acting as though we still have that protection, and we do not.”

  “Well . . .
there’s nothing we can do about that, is there?” asked Hark, struggling with the idea of the gods as “protective.”

  “We can be vigilant,” said the captain. “Even the lowliest of us can all help to defend the Myriad. We can keep watch over continenters who are welcomed in too easily or who sneak into positions of authority . . .”

  Oh. So that’s why he wants to talk to me.

  As soon as he returned to Sanctuary, Hark sought out Kly.

  “That Leaguer captain wanted me to spy on you,” he told him.

  “Hmm.” Kly didn’t look very surprised. “What did you say?”

  “I told him I’d do it,” Hark replied promptly. “I just needed to get Dr. Vyne’s permission first.”

  “Did he take that well?” Kly smirked.

  “About as well as a cat knocked into a rain barrel. He told me not to trouble her and stormed off.”

  Kly snickered and ruffled Hark’s hair. Evidently Hark was no longer in trouble.

  Hark knew he should have tried to keep the captain happy, but the Leaguer’s proposal had needled him. He was surprised to find that he did feel some loyalty to Kly. Solidarity crept up on you sometimes, when you spent months battling the same chores and challenges side by side. Kly trusted Hark, or at least wanted to trust him.

  Hark liked winning Kly’s praise and respect. Did that mean he was being tamed and trained, just as Jelt had said?

  Loyalty’s all that matters, isn’t it? Jelt had said. It’s all we’ve got. Don’t let them take that away from us.

  Jelt was Hark’s best friend, more of a brother than any brother. Of course he had the biggest claim on Hark’s loyalty, now and always.

  If Kly trusts me, he’s a fool, Hark told himself firmly, as he stole bandages and medicines from the Sanctuary store.

  Chapter 13

  That night, Hark slipped silently out of the dormitory he shared with the other junior attendants. The Sanctuary doors were locked all night, and the windows were narrow and squinting, but one second-floor window was just wide enough for Hark to wriggle through. He scrambled across the uneven, contorted roof, and then down the wall, finding purchase on the carvings of the facade.

  Hark arrived back at the cave while the faint sliver of moon was still hovering above the horizon. He had expected to find Jelt still sprawled on the slab. It was a shock to see his friend’s indistinct shape standing in the shadows at the very back of the cave.

  “Jelt! Is that you?” For a moment some fuzzy instinct told Hark that it couldn’t be Jelt. It was a stain on the wall, one of those tricks of the light that looks like a person but gives itself away by staying too still . . .

  “Of course it is!” hissed a familiar voice. “Who were you expecting, the Hidden Lady?”

  The dark stain stirred and came forward into the faint starlight, and of course it was Jelt. Hark felt a pang of embarrassment. His nocturnal escape had clearly taken its toll on his nerves. Jelt grabbed Hark by the sleeve, his face eager. In fact, he looked almost happy for once.

  “Come on!” he hissed. “I’ve got something to show you!”

  Hark let himself be dragged along, boggling at Jelt’s miraculous recovery. Jelt led him around the nearest headland, and Hark realized that they were heading to Dunlin’s beach.

  “Not that way, Jelt!” he whispered. “The beach is claimed!” The last thing he wanted was to have to explain a midnight trespass to an enraged scavenger.

  “It’s fine, you’ll see!” insisted Jelt.

  He continued ahead across the beach, heading for the far end, where the squat, gray shape of the scavenger’s shack perched up on the black rocks. Hark followed, with increasing unease. As Jelt reached the shack, Hark expected him to call out a greeting or at least knock. Instead, Jelt walked straight up to the wooden door and opened it.

  Inside on a little table a lantern gleamed purple, dulling Hark’s night sight. The little hut was arranged with the meticulousness of someone with orderly habits and limited room. Nails and hooks had been hammered into every spare inch of the walls, and from them hung tools, tin cups and cooking pots. A worn, rolled-up bed-rug lay in a corner.

  There was no sign of Dunlin.

  “Where’s the man who lives here?” asked Hark.

  “He’s letting me use this place for a bit,” said Jelt, as if this were quite unremarkable. “He had to go away, so I’m keeping an eye on everything for him.”

  “When’s he coming back?” asked Hark, too quickly, too nervously.

  Jelt paused and stared at him for a few seconds, his mouth curling into an annoyed smirk.

  “Relax,” he said. “He won’t be strolling in through that door for weeks. Or . . . are you scared that I bashed his head in, or something? Is that what you think?”

  “No need to get touchy!” retorted Hark. “I was just asking!” Defensiveness made his voice a little squeaky. Of course he did not really believe that Jelt would murder someone in cold blood, let alone for the use of a hut. However, the thought had slithered across his mind, leaving dank and greasy tracks behind it.

  At the same time, the sight of Jelt looking so alert and matter-of-fact was starting to steady his nerves. Hark had risked everything sneaking out for no good reason. He was overwhelmed with annoyance and relief.

  “You need to see this,” said Jelt. He stood close to the lantern and pulled up his shirt to show his abdomen.

  Hark’s blood ran cold. The long gash in Jelt’s side had closed. There was a grayish ridge where the slit had been. Peering closer, Hark could see that it was made up of tiny, conical bumps, clustering together.

  “Limpets,” said Jelt. “Hundreds of them.” He looked at Hark with hard, bright eyes. “Your godware-ball must have done it.”

  Hark flinched, not knowing if Jelt was angry or excited. There was a fine line between the two sometimes.

  “Better than a hole in your side,” he said quickly. “It might be temporary, anyway. Like a scab.”

  “I can feel it in my lungs as well,” Jelt continued. “At first it hurt when I breathed, but now that’s stopped. Something is happening. There’s a tingle in my chest sometimes. A . . . lot of little pops, like bubbles bulging and bursting.” He looked at Hark as if expecting a comment or explanation.

  “I don’t know what it is,” Hark answered. “When I dived down to get you, you looked . . . dead. But then there was a pulse in the water, and you seemed to come alive for a moment. So I scrabbled around and found the thing that was pulsing, and brought it up with you in case it could keep you alive . . .” He trailed off.

  “Good thinking,” said Jelt, and continued peering at his strange injury.

  Hark suppressed a sigh of relief and felt a swell of pride. Jelt was stingy with outright praise, so it meant a lot to actually receive some. It left him unprepared for the backswing.

  “So what the scourge happened up at the winch, anyway?” demanded Jelt, fixing Hark with a hard gaze. “How come you dropped me?”

  “How come I dropped you?” exclaimed Hark, outraged. “Your counterweight fell apart! The safety prop broke, and the chain ran off the reel till you crashed! I told you the winch was old!”

  “You didn’t say anything about the counterweight,” said Jelt steadily.

  “I told you the whole thing was a stupid idea! I told you again and again! Everything was old, and there were only two of us, but you wouldn’t listen! I didn’t ‘drop’ you, Jelt! I was the one who dived down and pulled you out of that sphere—”

  “Yeah, you already told me,” Jelt cut in. “You don’t have to keep rubbing my nose in it.”

  Hark’s anger ebbed into something more purposeful, almost serene. Jelt’s unreasonableness made everything much simpler.

  “I’m going,” he said. “I’m glad you’re fine, Jelt. But I’m going back to Sanctuary now, and I’m not meeting up with you again. I’m finished with this.”

  “Hey!” Jelt said sharply. “Don’t just walk out! You think I’d drag you here if I didn’t need y
our help? Calm down, all right? You’re like a snake on a hot rock.”

  That little word need halted Hark, but he stayed by the door to show that he was still leaving.

  “What, you think I’m not grateful?” Jelt said. “You want me to grovel a bit, then?”

  “I don’t know what you are, Jelt,” said Hark.

  “I’ve saved your neck a hundred times,” said Jelt. “Did I ever go on about it? Did I make you thank me on your knees?”

  “No,” Hark said reluctantly. Jelt liked to know that you hadn’t forgotten such things, but he didn’t hammer them home.

  “No. Because looking out for each other is what friends do.” Jelt seemed to be relaxing again. “Scud o’ the winds, Hark, I only asked you what went wrong with the winch. You don’t need to freak out and run away, like I’d just accused you of something.” A small malicious glint appeared in his eyes. “So you did manage to get the hatch open, then? Told you you could if you really wanted to.”

  Looking out for each other is what friends do.

  Guiltily, Hark remembered his strange languor immediately after the bathysphere crashed. For a little while he had simply stood there, letting his friend drown. A true friend would have leaped straight for the helmet and dived into the water. A friend like that might have reached the sphere before Jelt’s lungs filled with water, before the godware pulse was necessary, before Jelt was left with strange changes that might affect him for the rest of his life.

  A faint pulse surged through the air. Jelt gave a small gasp and grinned slightly. He thumped his chest.

  “There it goes again,” he said. “Pop-pop-pop-pop.”

  Hark looked at him, feeling sick. Perhaps Jelt would be ill forever now, one of those wheezing, old-before-their-time men who ended up begging on the quays.

  “What did you want, anyway?” Hark asked.

  Instead of answering, Jelt levered up a floorboard, reached down into the dark cavity, and hauled out a cloth bag. He peeled back the fabric to reveal the pale godware ball, which looked a bit cleaner than before.