Wixon's Day

by Phil Williams

  “We’ll never make the canal,” Qait says urgently, “Just follow the river!”

  “We’ll go out to sea!” the pilot shouts back.

  “Would you rather walk?”

  Marquos stares ahead of the boat, driving them along through the city. The canal turning is fast approaching, and there is no way he can slow and turn into it now. He looks at it warily, spying bandits moving through the buildings nearby. He realises the tracker is right, steels himself against the coming problem, and drives the boat straight on, crashing over waves, destined for the open water.

  PART III

  1

  The immense might of a floating castle slowly rolls into view through its cloak of fog. Various turrets disappear into the night sky, the tips of a structure wider than a small town. The intricacies of its buildings are impossible to see in the darkness, though copious blazing lanterns give highlights to some key features. Long-barrelled guns point out of the turrets at all angles and heights, cannons built into the structure itself. The walls taper inwards as they rise, massive metallic barricades dotted with menacing spikes. The whole structure rests in the water like an unnatural barge, its weight spread over an enormous inverted trapezoid plain, lit so sporadically that its looming bulk has a ghostly quality. It was visible from so far away, the Hypnagogia had plenty of time to slowly approach, taking in the grand vessel.

  Marquos has taken the Hypnagogia into open water before, crossing from Estalia to the Aftan territories, but the Northern Sea is notoriously dangerous, and he careered into it with a heavy heart. Copin lay barely conscious on the deck, the ruined city of Yerth falling quickly behind, and the pilot was suddenly alone at sea with Qait Seyron. The tracker made quick work of dressing the Kand’s wound, then sat on the deck and said nothing.

  “Is he going to be alright?” Marquos gruffly asked, and Qait simply replied, without looking up, “No.”

  They rode out to sea and started to head south. Marquos kept the land in view to the west, just barely. The wind was sharp at sea, the waves rising and falling the height of hills, and it was all Marquos could do to keep the boat moving with them. As daylight faded, Qait asked “Can you guide us out here in the dark?”

  “No,” Marquos replied. “We have to dock.”

  “They might’ve stuck to the coast and followed us,” Qait warned.

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “If we keep heading south, there will be Border Guard patrols at the edges of the Deadland. They will be lit up, we will see them.”

  “And in the meantime?” Marquos said. “Without light I cannot see the coast. Without the coast, we could be anywhere. If we keep this up in the dark, there’s no way of knowing if we’re even going south.”

  “I don’t mind risking docking,” Qait replied calmly. “But your friend in there will die without help. The Border Guard have some of the best physicians in the world.”

  “He is a wanted man.”

  “Better to be captured than dead.”

  There would soon be no light to see the coast, and Marquos huffed as he considered his options. He relented,“Light up our lanterns. We’ll do what we can. I’m going to take us in closer. I’d rather risk running onto rocks than running out to sea.”

  Blind drifting through another unlit abyss, over rolling waves, hours passed before the floating castle came into view as nothing more than a glowing beacon on the horizon. Marquos and Qait were both elated to see it, the stoic tracker showing it with a small fist pump and the pilot jumping excitedly on the spot.

  “You crazy bastard there’s something out here after all!” Marquos shouted, forgetting himself to turn and hug Qait. He pushed away and released the throttle, speeding towards the light.

  “You know what that is,” Qait said.

  “A miracle,” Marquos laughed back.

  “It’s a floating castle,” Qait responded. The pilot turned on him with a questioning frown and the tracker went on, “It’s the only thing out here that could be lit up that clearly from so far away. It contains almost all the Border Guard’s forces to the north-east of the Meth Fields, under Commander Nomes. He’s a dangerous man.” Marquos looked from the tracker to the light that they were hurtling towards, uncertain. Qait went on, “A dangerous man to his enemies, at least. We’ll be fine.”

  “But Copin won’t.”

  “He’ll be okay for now. Have you ever seen a floating castle?”

  Marquos nodded, “Once.”

  The Hypnagogia is dwarfed beside the floating castle as it would be entering a town. A short distance before they reach the massive vessel, spotlights beam down on them and light up the sea around the boat. Marquos has to squint as he guides the boat towards an opening in the metal fortress; a gateway slips up from the side, where the metal previously appeared completely sealed, and he carefully navigates the Hypnagogia in, riding the tall waves carefully. He times the approach perfectly, riding the crest of a wave into the opening, and is transferred into a wide pool of calmer water, flanked by gangways lit by numerous gas lamps and populated by armoured guards, some carrying rifles. The gate behind them slowly begins to close with a clanking furore.

  The guards shout down at the boat, and Qait shouts back to explain who he is. They treat the pair suspiciously, rifles raised, as ropes are thrown down and Qait and Marquos moor the Hypnagogia to one of the gangways. Border Guardsmen rush away to confer with superiors about Qait’s identity, and a physician is sent onto the boat to look over Copin in the cabin. Marquos stands at the stern, taking in their surroundings, and finally notices that they are not the only stray vessel the floating castle has picked up. Across the pool, two long wooden ships have been moored, and the occupants, a ragtag group of men in tattered furs, are being violently questioned on the gangway. Marquos flinches as he sees one of the men being struck across the face with the butt of a gun, and the guards start yelling at the other captives.

  The physician returns from the cabin and instructs the guardsmen to extradite Copin from the boat. A couple of guards carry Copin’s unconscious body off the Hypnagogia, and when Marquos follows them another guard steps forwards and blocks his path, telling him to wait. Qait suggests he comply. Copin is carried away through a bulkhead door, and the pilot can do nothing but watch. Another couple of guards jump onto the Hypnagogia and start going through the cabin, against Marquos’ protests. He angrily tries to follow them, but Qait holds him back and tells him not to be a fool. A few minutes later they return carrying a few odd mechanical items that Marquos has scavenged. One has his looking glass, peering through it.

  “You put that down or I’ll have your head!” Marquos shouts at the man, but the guards only laugh at him as they walk past.

  Another bulkhead opens and a lieutenant enters, ordering Marquos and Qait to come with him. The pilot protests again, saying he will not leave his boat unattended and wants his goods back. The lieutenant is not interested. Marquos can do nothing but follow, and he and Qait are marched away through the floating castle.

  Once the docking pool is left behind, the floating castle has all the atmosphere of a land-based town, entirely artificially manufactured. The first corridors are intimidatingly industrial metal tunnels, leading out into small courtyards between metal towers. There are gangways between the buildings made of metal and wood, giving small opportunities to look up the grand height of the towers towards a black sky. Numerous other small gangways are visible above, with guards wandering between them. To the sides, the streets of the castle are apparent, a network of buildings beyond the one they have exited, and a short distance below the floor is as solid as the courtyard of any land-fort. In some strange way, it is like a sturdier version of the haphazard towers and walkways of the Metropolis.

  Qait and Marquos are taken across into another building, where they enter a small lift and a guard winds a winch. A loud ratcheting cog mechanism slowly winds them up to a great height. They finally come to a halt at what must be the top, where they are led into a
n open room made of glass, framed in huge metal girders. Qait and the Border Guard march into the room, whilst Marquos hesitates to step onto the glass floor, wary of how the room juts out from the side of the tower, above the centre of the castle. A dizzying distance below, he can see the floating castle functioning, with guards carting cargo across gangways that link a variety of buildings akin to the busier population points of the Metropolis. There are market stalls, stages for theatrical entertainment and sparring pits all on view, with a bustling community consuming it all. Marquos is stunned for a moment, but is drawn back to reality by the gruff introduction of his host, “Eyes forward, civilian. You’ve brought me a very important Kand.”

  2

  Commander Nomes is a large man with a battle-worn face. A scar runs down by his ear, one of his eyes is scarred partially-shut and half of his teeth have been replaced with metal. His body tapers outwards towards the top, a rising block of strength, and he knowingly pushes it out with his hands stuck behind his back. Marquos stares at him dumbly for a moment, taken in by the glass command room and the unnatural leader that dominates it. Qait stands alongside Nomes, and beside them are a couple of lieutenants, wearing older, more decorated uniforms than the guards throughout the castle. They are surrounded by command stations, with brass funnels attached to tubes that run through the glass and snake back towards the tower.

  “Come on and speak,” Nomes barks.

  “Your men were going through my boat,” Marquos says without thinking, the first thoughts that jump out of his mouth. “They were taking my things.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have come to the North Sea,” Nomes snorts. “This is my territory, if you’re not part of Outpost 4 you have no place being here.”

  “I’m a trader,” Marquos replies weakly, “There’s-”

  “-no trading in the North Sea,” Nomes finishes his sentence. “Look down there.”

  Nomes draws an arm out from behind his back and Marquos gasps. Nomes’s hand is lined with metal plates, dug into the skin with copper wires screwed into them. The wires run back into points of flesh around Nomes’s wrists. It looks as though large parts of the commander’s hand and fingers have been reconstructed with metal, and when he points, the tip of his index finger a square of dull steel, the wires make the slightest hissing sound. The commander talks as Marquos stares, “That’s what people live for in the North Sea. You see that? Not trade.”

  The pilot finally follows Nomes’s finger down to the sparring pit below, on a ledge three or four stories beneath them. They have a top-down view of a hexagonal wooden pit, surrounded by men visibly yelling and throwing their hands in the air. In the pit, two topless fighters are grappling. One man shoves the other back and grabs a spiked club from the floor, swinging it up into his opponent. Nomes laughs as Marquos winces. “No greater way to prove your worth. More bare-bones than your padded ballgames in the Metropolis. Task. That’s a game for weaklings.” The commander looks back up to Marquos, “You’re lucky we don’t just take the boat off you. And lucky you ran into us and not a bandit ship. Have you seen that we took in two earlier this evening?”

  “I saw.”

  “Now what do you want for the Kand?”

  “What do I want?” the pilot repeats the question.

  “Is this guy some kind of simpleton?” Nomes growls at Qait, and the tracker quickly answers “He’s had a long day. We didn’t discuss a reward, but I think five hundred chips would be reasonable.”

  “Very well,” Nomes says. “Can he be trusted back to Thesteran? It’ll be days before I can get a Guard transport up here.”

  “Thesteran?” Qait questions, “General Copin should be sent straight to the Towers.”

  “Don’t tell me what should be done,” Nomes replies with a bass grumble. He turns back to Marquos, “Scavenger, are you up for a transport job?”

  “To Thesteran?” the pilot asks.

  “Another five hundred for your efforts, if Copin is delivered safely to Commander Retical.”

  The name makes Marquos’ head spin. The glass room, the mighty floating castle and the abrasive Nomes are all too much for him, and he cannot focus. Earlier in the day, his closest allies were the Kands, now their worst enemies are harbouring him with promises of riches. Nomes does not even wait for a response, accepting for granted that Marquos will do it.

  “If Copin dies en route, you will not be paid. If he escapes, you will be answerable for it. I will send you with two guards. Seyron, are you heading back that way? Two guards and Seyron. We will dock by the Eastern canals first thing in the morning and you may leave. Retical might have more work for you couriering back a response, if you are lucky. For tonight, you can take a room in the Outpost.”

  “It will require some repairs,” Qait notes. “And fuel.”

  “Done.”

  Marquos does not respond to any of this, thinking about the inevitable collision of him and Retical at the end of this task, and finding himself disgusted at the thought of betraying the Kands he has been helping. His mind is ticking, though, and if he is charged with transporting Copin then at least he can stick by the Kand, and get some understanding of his fate. Perhaps there is hope.

  “I’ve a thousand things to organise,” Nomes turns to one of his lieutenants, “Give the man a bed and make sure his boat is fit for travel. Instruct the doctors that I want Copin ready for transport by the morning. Are you okay boy? I guess it figures that only a simpleton would be dumb enough to go into the North. Seyron, go with him and get yourself washed up. I want a full debrief from you over dinner, you’ve got an hour.”

  Marquos is led from the room, only vaguely aware of Nomes’ voice still booming away behind him. “What of those Norgang scum? They worth sending to the Mine Guard?”

  Marquos is led to a room little better than a prison cell, clinically bare metal with a small cot and pan for excretion. His mind is too awash with the momentum of the politics that surround his idle actions for him to focus on any one clear thought. A hundred names are plaguing him, between Rosenbault and Retical, Elzia and Seyron, Lian and Copin, Estalia and Kand. He grabs his temples with his hands and rests back on the cot, letting out a low, anguished moan.

  Exhaustion overtakes the pilot and his confused thoughts slip into surreal dreams as consciousness escapes him. The images start with horror as he sees his own hand gripping the metal of the pistol as it smashes repeatedly into Iva’s face, cracking through flesh and bone in brutal bloody squelches. A scream fills his ears, maybe Iva’s dying cry, maybe his own. Then the Kand in the woods, the look of surprise on half a head as fountains of blood spray sideways from the gap. The scream oscillates and grows louder, cackling, turning to laughter. Copin spins around him, demonic with mirth, until his wound explodes and the screams return. Then bandits are running after him, firing guns, swinging swords, blood dripping from their savage mouths. Then Red is running, crying, and Marquos chases after her but his legs are sluggish and he can’t keep up. He tries to shout but his voice isn’t there. Red. Red, where are you. She disappears into tunnels, surrounded by bombs, and Marquos creeps in after her. A bulkhead door slams shut behind him, and Rosenbault stands there, frail but noble. He gives a short clear word of warning, “It is what will save us all.” Then a knife, jammed through his eye from behind, and the screaming comes back as he falls to the floor. Qait has the knife, a grim look on his face, and shouts for Marquos to run. Then running back through the tunnels, trying to escape it all. He charges on and on, never seeming to move, until suddenly falling into the open and gliding high above the land. He looks down at a country spread before him, people moving between towns, happily talking and smiling. The clouds cross over them, concealing the country in a flood of grey, and the screams return. This time Marquos knows they are his own. He wants to cry, let me see it, let me see it all, but there is nothing left to see. Only grey. He waves his hands frantically but cannot clear a path, cannot move. Elzia is kneeling beside him, a hand on his shoulder, and whispers s
omething into his ear. He cannot hear it. He shouts at her to repeat it but he has no voice. He feels the hand on his shoulder again, shaking harder, and bolts upright, frantic and sweating.

  Qait is stood by the cot, watching as Marquos takes in the small room with panic. The tracker makes no comment, waiting for the pilot to compose himself. Marquos takes deep breaths, reeling from the dream, and wipes the sweat from his brow.

  “You know sleeping on a boat all the time can be dangerous for your health,” Qait comments. “Especially when you’ve been through some of the things you have. Your mind doesn’t know up from down right now.”

  “We’re on the floating castle,” Marquos says out loud, for his own clarity.

  “Nomes wants you to come for dinner.”

  Marquos stares at Qait grimly.

  Qait talks as he walks Marquos back through the castle, “I’ve already explained what happened in the North. I told him you were scavenging and Copin commandeered your boat. I was following you and helped you reclaim the boat to head back south. I told him about our fight with Iva’s bandits and how Copin got hurt. Nomes is sceptical about Copin going into the North to find Rosenbault, he’s well aware that Rosenbault’s been dead for seasons, but he’s taking it as a sign that the Kands are getting desperate.”