“Should?”
“I read a dozen pages in a pamphlet, Arch. That doesn’t make me a fucking rope expert. Either we’ll cut our way out or use the tension to break the boards.”
“Fair enough.” She held up the bucket. “So why not use the water from this?”
“We will,” I said, “but we need a lot of water to cover that frame. And piss will eat through what water won’t.”
“Gods,” she groaned. “Is this nightmare ever going to end?”
“Look at it this way,” I told her. “Some speak of spitting in death’s eye, but you’ll be able to say you pissed in it instead. Eh?”
“That’s not helping,” she muttered.
“Well, I tried.” I motioned for her to pass me the bucket. “Drink up if you have a need; we don’t have long, Arch. It’s almost full night and the Ghost Captain may come for us anytime now.”
“More good news.”
* * *
It turned out that urine was even better at ruining grass ropes than I’d hoped. Something I hadn’t accounted for, but enough shit had happened that it was about time something good came of it instead. However, even drinking all the water we could hold and using the bucket as well, we’d barely managed to soak the four corners of the bottom part of the frame. By the time I had my dress readjusted, the whole cage smelled like the gutters the morning after a celebration day in Servenza. I couldn’t see enough to know how effective it had been. At least our undead guards didn’t seem to have noticed what we’d been up to.
“I can’t drink anymore,” the Archaeologist said. “We’ve been pissing for hours.”
“Feels that way,” I agreed. I pulled on the rope that went through a hole in an end of one of the boards and the entire frame shook, but the rope didn’t move at all. It was drawn taut, like plucking a bowstring. I gave the board a solid kick and we both had to grab hold as the cage rocked back and forth, but the board didn’t show any signs of cracking. So that’s out. “I think we’ve pissed away enough of our time.” I drew the pen nib and knelt down in the corner. “Now to find out if I’m as smart as I think I am.”
“You’re going to cut through a rope the size of our wrists with a broken pen nib?” She laughed.
“The nib’s not broken,” I said. “The rest might be, but this has an edge to it and it’s been tipped.”
“Which means?”
“Gods, woman, this is your pen and you don’t even know what its condition is?” She sniffed and I shook my head and turned back to the rope. Next to reading, writing was the second most important skill you could have. It being “mightier than the sword” and all that. Although in my mind, swordplay was a close third. Or, in my case, ice picking.
“Tipping means,” I said as I wedged the edge between two of the twisted fiber strands and began to saw savagely back and forth, “that it’s been dipped in an alloy to keep the steel from wearing away. It also means it will hold an edge longer.” I grunted as sweat began to drip from my forehead and onto the back of my hand. “Unfortunately, that edge isn’t incredibly sharp nor is it long enough to build up much friction. But…”
“But with the ropes pulled so tight, you don’t need as much cutting surface,” the Archaeologist said slowly.
“Correct. Or”—I felt the strand part with a silent twang and began digging out another—“as sharp an edge.” I attacked the next strand with a will. “So we cut two of the ropes along the edge here to open a hole along the bottom of the frame and we’ll spill out like a pair of coins from a cut purse.”
“Right into the midst of a horde of the undead.”
“That’s the plan,” I agreed. She moaned and I laughed as another strand parted. Or at least, as much of it as you need to know.
39
“Easy, easy!” I hissed. I stood with my boots braced wide atop either side of the rim of the water barrel, balanced precariously while the Archaeologist’s stained bloomers engulfed my face. My saving grace was that the stench of the undead obliterated all other smells. Not that the woman had shit herself—just that she hadn’t had a chance to wash her clothes in some time and being chased by the undead hadn’t helped matters. “Hang on to the mast, woman.”
“I’m trying, but my arms don’t reach,” she whispered. “I’m losing—”
I had grasped one of her legs and nearly had ahold of the other when her weight unexpectedly dropped fully onto me and I lost her with a muffled cry. Her cry wasn’t muffled as she shot between my arms and into the barrel, the water mercifully cutting her scream short. I fought to keep my balance, arms windmilling as I wobbled, until my boot slipped and I fell half into the barrel. The Archaeologist was just coming up for air and my arse sent her right back underwater again.
“Gods damn it, if Eld could see me now,” I muttered, trying to find purchase on the wet barrel sides. After cutting us partially free, it’d taken the better part of an hour to swing with enough momentum to reach the spar our cage had been tied to. I’d had to hang half out of the damned hole to catch ahold, and it’d been a near run thing if we were going to shinny onto the spar before crashing down into the Shambles below. We’d made it, but navigating down the mast hadn’t proved as easy as I’d bet on. The Archaeologist’s head rammed into me from below, reminding me that she was still down there. I scrambled up and out and she surfaced with a throaty cry that made me wince.
“Shut it,” I whispered. I reached over the rim and held her steady. “You’re fine. I’m fine. We’re all fine … but not if you keep carrying on loud enough to wake the dead.” It was the wrong choice of words. As soon as I said it she seemed to remember where she was and her mouth opened again to scream. I sighed and shoved her head back underwater and waited for the bubbles to stop. When the surface was relatively calm again, I pulled her back up. “What part of ‘shut it’ don’t you understand?”
“Y-you’re drown-n-ing me,” she said, gasping.
“Not yet, I’m not,” I said. “But scream again and I might change my mind.” She recoiled and I bit my lip to keep from screaming myself. “Okay, okay,” I said in a gentler tone. “Give me your hands.” Between my pulling and her pushing, we managed to get her out of the barrel and onto the deck. “That was the easy part,” I reminded her.
The Shambles were motionless around us, spread out in a thick circle about five paces back from the barrel. As I approached one, its head twisted back and forth as if trying to work a crick out. When I stopped moving, it stopped too. I took another step and its head twisted again and I remembered what the Ghost Captain had said. About how the living smelled different from the dead. Damn. On a hunch I inched my hand closer, watching its head, and then snatched at its tattered shirtsleeve. The whole sleeve came away, tearing around the exposed bones, and the Shambles wobbled unsteadily for a moment, its head turning completely around to stare at me. I quickly held the shirtsleeve up between us, and the Shambles cocked its head quizzically before turning back around and resuming its former motionless stance.
“Phew,” I breathed out. “I can’t wait to get off this fucking ship.”
“What did you do?” the Archaeologist asked, so closely in my ear that I almost jumped out of my skin.
“Damn it, woman,” I whisper-growled. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. Not when we’re surrounded by Shambles.”
“Sorry, it’s just—I’m terrified.”
You and me both, sister. “I’m not. Not now, anyway.” I wrapped the stiff, weathered sleeve around my forearm and hand and then held it up between me and another Shambles that wore a patched and ragged overcoat. It didn’t so much as twitch as I neared it, not even when I ripped one of the larger patches out of its coat, making its bones rattle.
“Here.” I shoved the cloth back at her blindly. “Tie that around your arm and then you and I are going to slip out of here, back to back.”
“They … can smell us?” she asked.
“I know,” I muttered. “It’s not fucking fair. They shouldn’t have any olfa
ctory senses left. But at least we have a workaround.”
“I—I can’t do this,” she moaned.
“Oh, you’re doing it,” I said, turning to face her. Whatever my expression looked like, with my swollen eye it must have proved menacing, because she stepped back so quickly, she almost bumped another Shambles. “The cloth!” I hissed. She held it up, quivering in her fist, as the Shambles began to turn toward her. It paused, gloved fist in the air, and then turned away and resumed its previous hunchbacked position.
“You’re doing it,” I repeated, “or else I’ll leave you here in the center of them.”
“You promised!” she said, her voice cracking.
“Aye, but you have to hold up your end. Now get over here.” I pointed toward the sky. “Dawn is about to break; it’s already only dark instead of blindingly so. If we’re not far out to sea by the time the Ghost Captain stirs his bones, then we might as well just slit our throats and be done with it.” She squeaked and rushed to me. I had to turn her around and adjust the piece of cloth so it was affixed more firmly to her arm, but once we started moving, I was surprised to feel her back against mine as we wormed our way in lockstep through the huddled mass of bone and decay.
I’d like to say I charted a course and held to it, but the best that can be said is that I didn’t let fear freeze me in place. It wanted to; every fiber in me screamed to stop moving, that I was already dead, could feel death leeching into my bones. Worse, every step sent a vibration through me that felt all too much like skeletal fingers locked onto my skin. Twice now I’d been caught by that iron embrace and I had no wish at all to risk a third. So we inched forward, feet echoing on the deck, the Archaeologist’s breath loud in my ears. When we finally stepped past the final Shambles and onto clear, open deck, we sagged against each other and I couldn’t tell if our dresses were sodden from the dunking we’d taken or from sweat.
“That’s done,” I said finally, straightening up. “Work your way toward the rear; that’s where I left a boat halfway down.” I scowled. “So long as the Ghost Captain didn’t haul it up afterward.”
“What?”
“What, what? Oh.” I shook my head. “Right, nautical terminology and all that. Work your way to the stern and I’ll catch up.”
“Not that,” she said. “I know where the rear is. Why aren’t you coming with me?”
“I have to attend to something first,” I said. “Listen,” I snapped when she opened her mouth to argue, “I’ll meet you there. Don’t fucking touch anything until then. Go that way”—I jabbed a finger toward the rear—“and keep to the shadows. If you see any Shambles standing around, make sure you have that cloth between you and them.
“If you see any moving, treat them the way you would any living human. Hide,” I added at her blank expression.
“But—”
“No buts,” I said, waving aside her protests, “there’s no time. Now go.” And then I got her moving with a hard shove. I ran across the deck to the far side. She didn’t need to know my plans; she just needed to fucking listen. As I ran, feeling the wind against my skin, no longer locked in a cage hanging over half a hundred Shambles, I felt something like iron returning to me. I’d found what I’d lost. My confidence. And you’ll never take it back now.
* * *
“Well, that makes things easier,” I said, pointing toward the shoreline. “He moved around to the far side of the island, but he didn’t put out to sea like I feared.”
“Aye, but if we can see that far, then it means we’ve overstayed our welcome,” the Archaeologist said.
“When you’re right, you’re right.” I tapped her on the shoulder. “C’mon, I’ll go over the side first. It’ll take both of us to lower the boat.”
I went over the side before she could say anything, using the ropes tethered to the rowboat. Luckily, the Ghost Captain hadn’t bothered to pull the boat up. Maybe he hadn’t noticed, or maybe, without a real crew, he didn’t care. Either way, it was only about two-thirds the distance down to the sea. The wind snatched at my dress, whipping me from side to side like a marionette and sending my heart into my throat more than once.
By the time I reached the boat, I was worried about the Archaeologist’s ability to make the climb, but there was nothing for it. She would have to make the attempt or fall into the sea. I dropped into the boat and nearly cut my hand on a blade lying beneath the seat, amongst the bones and rags and blood left from the Shambles I’d killed earlier. I stared at the knife, not quite believing my fortune. Must have been on that Shambles I sent over the side.
Cooing to myself, I scooped the knife up and thrust it into the sheath on my wrist. It was too large, the blade longer than my palm, but it would do for now. The weight of it felt wonderful against my arm, like I was finally wearing clothes again.
“Psst,” I called, pitching my voice low for the Archaeologist’s ears. I cupped my hands over my mouth. “Your turn.”
“Oh, I think I’ll have a go, if you don’t mind,” another voice said. The Ghost Captain appeared beside the Archaeologist, wrapping an arm around her. Her skin drained of all color; she looked as pale as the Ghost Captain in the dusky light.
“You’ve proved yourself a worthy adversary, Sin Eater,” he called to me. “And proved I was right about you, thanks to that little escape back there,” he said, nodding behind him. “But even you can’t survive a fusillade at this range.”
He brought up his other hand, showing me his strange, glowing blue book, and suddenly the deck bristled with Shambles brandishing all sorts of firearms, from pistoles to muskets to shotguns. Several larger ones cradled what looked like swivel cannons in their arms.
“I didn’t think they could use firearms!” I shouted back. “Thought the powder might ignite their bones.”
“Don’t be silly.” He laughed. I noticed he’d tried to retie the bells into what remained of his goatee, but rather than making him intimidating, it made him sound like a penny beggar on the streets every time he moved. “They usually don’t have the dexterity required to make guns worthwhile,” he added, “but with a few score aiming at such a small target, I don’t need them to be accurate. Anything in the general vicinity will do.” His words sent ice water through my veins. “If you try to escape, I’ll have them fill you and the boat with lead. And I’ll kill your Archaeologist friend, too, while I’m at it.”
“Fuck off!”
“No! Wait, wait!” the Archaeologist screamed. “I don’t want to die.”
“Blood and Bone, woman, I’m not deaf,” the Ghost Captain muttered. He sneered, “Since you don’t know the island’s location, you’re worthless to me.”
Oh, you poor, stupid arse. He’d baited her and she’d swallowed it in her haste to take another breath.
“I lied. Before,” she said, gasping. “I’ll tell you where the island is. I can take you there, I promise. I’ve been there! Set foot on it.”
“Have you now?” the Ghost Captain asked. His toothy smile widened. “Well, this changes things, Archaeologist.” His smile hardened and he squinted at me in the predawn light. “But if your Sin Eater friend here tries to escape, I’ll still have to kill you.”
“I’m sorry, Buc,” the Archaeologist said.
“Aye.” I sighed. “Me too.” I flexed my arm to gauge the weight of the blade there. Too heavy to throw that far. What else did I have? Knife. Inkwell. Pen nib. Compass. Slingshot. Knife. Inkwell. Pen n—Inkwell! I held my hands up as if to acknowledge there was nothing to be done, shifting so I could reach my slingshot. Then I moved like hail in a windstorm.
Slingshot. Inkwell on right. Adjust for the angle and the height. Move! My hands swept up, slingshot in one and inkwell in the palm of the other. I drew back in one fluid motion, trying to gauge the heft of the object as I did. When it reached my cheek, I aimed, hesitating for an instant to get a better sight picture in the bare dawn’s light, and that hesitation saved my life.
The Ghost Captain cursed and pulled the Archa
eologist in front of him. Half his head was still exposed. No emotion. Have to be ruthless. As the other woman caught herself against the edge of the railing, our eyes met and I let fly. The inkwell soared up between us, toward the Ghost Captain. The inkwell, unfamiliar in my grasp, flew hard, but as soon as I released, I realized it wasn’t flying true. Missed. Again. I saw understanding fill her eyes; her lips parted in a silent scream and then it clipped her forehead in a geyser of ink and blood.
She fell forward and plummeted over the side. My shot hadn’t killed her and she screamed as she flew, until her head slammed off the side of my boat with a meaty thunk that showered me with blood. When her body hit the water, I knew she was dead.
I looked back up to see the Ghost Captain staring down at me, tricorne gone, hair wildly flailing in the wind. He stabbed a finger at me. “You fucking bi—” I drew the blade from my wrist and he bit off his curse with another oath, grasping his glowing book with both hands.
The Shambles around him all stiffened. He threw the book down and shouted, “No!” but the word was lost in the explosion of a dozen muskets and two swivel cannons.
The boat shuddered as death filled the air around me with its haunting, hot, lead-filled refrain. The rope at the stern of the rowboat quivered, then frayed, then snapped with a crack. I sawed desperately at the remaining rope beside me with my knife. For a breath I hung there, motionless in the air, then the boat fell away and I followed, and chasing after us was the second volley as the rest of the Shambles fired away despite their captain’s screamed protestations. The world howled around me and I was powerless to do anything.
Save fall.
40
The boat hit the dark, swirling water and exploded into a thousand pieces. Bullets tugged at my dress from above and wooden splinters from below, but somehow I managed to get my hands up to protect my face as I hit the water. The boat had broken the surface tension or I would have broken my neck, but as it was the sea punched me in the face, swung me around, and tried to pull me down to its depths.
The Sin in the Steel Page 26