“‘Either you spill your heart on the stage, or I will.’” Cari quotes her younger self. “We were idiots back then, Adro. And the captain was so angry.”
“Ah, he should have listened to us and taken the cargo for smuggling. Then we wouldn’t have had to drink the evidence.”
Her memory of Adro and the reality of him swim in and out of focus. He looks pretty much the same, so it’s easy to ignore the intervening years, to slip back into their old camaraderie. But it’s not quite real – they’d both be playing a part, acting the role of their younger selves, pretending nothing’s changed. It’s so tempting, to fall back to that simpler time.
She fights against it. “So why did you stay here? I asked the captain this morning, and he talked about gods without giving a clear answer.”
Adro drains his glass. “It’s not like we made the decision to stay in this shithole. It wasn’t one thing, it was a lot of little things. The captain had a flea in his ear about the Lord of Waters, and you’ve heard him preach. The Rose came through the storm all right, but she still needed a lot of work before you’d trust her in the Middle Sea. And everything else was a mess, too – Ilbarin drowned, and folk crawling all over the Rock, looking for a place to hide. Mad priests telling everyone to throw themselves off cliffs. We all thought the Sacred Realm would come back at any moment.” He’s moving now, unable to sit still. “Prefect’s men came down and seized all the ships, but they didn’t know what to do with them. One day, the plan was to evacuate everyone to the Caliphates. Then the rumour was they need all the ships to bring in food and stuff, or they’re going to invade Serpent’s Mouth. It was bad, Cari. People were cheering in the streets when the Ghierdana showed up and took over.”
He sits down, breathing heavily. Then looks over at her and grins. “And… did the captain tell you about Ren?”
“What’s this?”
“I’m married now, Cari. We’ve a little girl, too. And, gods, I’ve never been so scared. Ren was in Ilbarin, see, when the gods came. We got separated in the invasion, and it took me months to find him, and Ama, but they made it out. They’re both all right. I found them again. Captain calls it a miracle. But by the time I’d found them, the Ghierdana had taken control of the port. You can only leave if you pay their toll, and we couldn’t afford it. Not for Ren and myself and Ama.”
Fuck you, Dol Martaine. If she still had that money, she’d give it to Adro without hesitation.
Adro fills his glass again, fills hers. “I wish you could come see them. You’d like Ren. He’s a good man.”
It’s very tempting.
“I need to get to Khebesh, though. I have to.”
“So the captain said. But more importantly, you should see what the captain has.” He grins. “The last pork in Ilbarin, I’ll wager. Who gives a damn about long-lost friends? I’m here to eat!”
Captain Hawse arrives, puffing up the ladder, laden with packages. “Lazy dogs,” he jokes, “no cooking fire in the galley? No table set? I should whip the pair of you! But the Lord of Waters is merciful. Instead, I shall feed you, and then speed Cari on her journey. I have found a ship to carry her forth.”
There isn’t much food, and it’s not much good, but by the standards of the benighted isle of Ilbarin it’s a feast. It feels like one, too – there’s merriment and song, the warm glow of friendship in her heart and the wine in her belly. A long-delayed reunion, and the farewell she missed when she left the Rose.
They’re in the ship’s common room, seated around the long table. The captain, in his hermitage here, has taken over the space; they had to shove piles of rotten books off into the corner, fold and store the ceremonial vestments salvaged from a temple of the Lord of Waters. Having Adro back makes the space feel more like it used to.
The captain speaks little, save to call for a song or to interject, full of mock gravitas. Still, satisfaction radiates from him like heat from a hearth. He’s put aside the role of the priest, and is more like his old self again, like a father at the head of the dining table. He even skips the night prayers.
Adro’s full of excitement, humming with manic energy, like they’re drinking wine-of-poets and not cheap Paravosi red. Cari can’t tell if it’s just sheer excitement, or if he feels compelled to put on a show for her, to cram all the jokes and conversation they missed out on over the last five years into a single evening.
Cari curls her legs under her, listening to Adro tell for the hundredth time the story of how they stole from the Eyeless. All three of them were there, but Adro’s told the story so many times it’s transmuted into something unfamiliar and new. She barely recognises herself in the swashbuckling, devil-may-care rogue he describes – although it reminds her of tales of the Saint of Knives. She envies those past selves, who weren’t so laden down with fears and worries, or who had miraculous powers to strike back against the world.
She lets herself imagine what her friends in Guerdon would make of this. Imagines Rat – Rat as he used to be, the hunched little ghoul, not the hulking, horned Elder Ghoul he became. Rat would be skulking in the corner, grumbling as he picked stringy vegetables out of his bowl. He’d only eat the pork. But when Adro sang, Rat would sway back and forth, his hooves tapping along to the melody.
And Spar – Spar as he was when he was alive, before the fall. Spar would sit over there, at the far end of the table from the captain, so he wouldn’t risk touching anyone and spreading the Stone Plague. Spar would be a cooling presence, a counterweight to Adro’s levity. She can imagine him getting into an argument with Captain Hawse. Or coming up with some plan to save the survivors of Ilbarin. Leaning forward, earnest. His voice grave. You have a ship, sir. And, for what it’s worth, the favour of a god. And you, Adro – you have a child. Do you really want your daughter to grow up in chains? My father Idge wrote there are moments in time when things can change, when forces balance and it’s possible for individual people to remake the world.
And she’d shout for everyone to take a drink whenever he mentioned Idge. Their old drinking game.
She becomes gradually aware that Adro stopped talking several minutes ago; she’s the one talking now, the words flowing out of her like her heart’s been opened. She tells them everything, all her burdens slipping from her as she explains about the Black Iron Gods, about the Thay family and her grandfather’s experiments. About coming back to Guerdon, finding Spar and Rat. About the Tower of Law, Professor Ongent, the Ravellers. The Gutter Miracle. Spar’s strange survival after death, and becoming the Saint of Knives. How she drove the Ghierdana from the streets of her city, about how Ishmere invaded and Spar exhausted himself fighting to defend the New City and those who’d taken refuge there.
How she killed a goddess.
It all comes out, a wild confession, disorganised and tangled. She has no idea if she’s making any sense, or if she comes across as a madwoman raving about gods and monsters.
The captain just listens, drinking it all in. He nods in recognition when Cari tries to describe the awful feeling of direct communion, and it’s reassuring.
Adro looks like a man caught in a tidal wave, buffeted and battered by the rushing words. He grabs on to what he recognises – when Cari talks about kicking Artolo out of the New City, Adro grips her arm tightly and hisses, “He’ll fucking kill you”, like she doesn’t know that already. Mostly, though, he’s slack-jawed, his energy draining away until he’s gnawing on his knuckles, staring at Cari in mounting confusion.
“Your friend, Spar – is he dead?” asks Adro.
“Death,” intones the captain, “is a shedding of long burdens. It is in death we know who we truly were in life. We are scraped clean of distractions and doubts, washed and refined, until that singular quality is known.”
Adro throws a frightened glance at the captain, but his attention is on Cari.
She shrugs. “He died. He changed. He’s dying again. Or he’s still dying, I don’t know. But it’s not… it’s not right. It’s not fair. It’s why I�
�ve got to get to Khebesh.”
“What if you don’t?” asks Adro. “What if they can’t help you?”
She searches for a response, but can’t find one. The thought’s like a black abyss, a fall without end. Her old life ended when the Tower of Law fell on her back in Guerdon, when the Black Iron Gods started communing with her. Spar’s been the one constant in that new life. Hell, worrying about Spar has been a constant thread. Taking care of him is the thread she’s been holding on to. It tied her to the New City.
If that thread breaks, what does she have left?
Once, she might have toyed with the idea of returning to her old life. Coming back here to the Rose, to Hawse and Adro and the rest, to go adventuring again, buccaneering across the seas. But the Rose is beached and broken, and the captain’s become a crazy hermit, Adro’s married, and the rest are dead or scattered.
She could go wandering, go see the world – but the world’s breaking, too. Everyone said Guerdon was the last safe city, the last place untouched by the Godswar, but that’s not true any more. Gods can’t die, not without a god-bomb, and how do you end a war where the combatants can’t die? They’ll just keep fighting, keep stumbling back into the fray. There’s no sea wide enough to hide from the gods. Running’s always been her first and last resort, but there’s nowhere to run to.
“We do not know ourselves,” says the captain, “until we fall. We mistake our everyday circumstances, whatever equilibrium we have found, for what we truly are. You cannot know yourself until you stand alone against the storm.” His voice is sonorous, deep as the sea that rushes against the flanks of the ship.
Cari sees the waters rise, surging forward. The sea floods the room, water gushing through the open door, through the portholes, rising through every gap in the floor. The sea claims the ship, drowning them all. The shapes of Bythos in the murky gloom, the holy fish claiming the drowned bodies of Hawse and Adro. Cari tries to scream, but she’s underwater, she can’t breathe—
Adro catches her as she stumbles, knocking her plate to the floor.
The hallucination vanishes. The pressure lifts.
“I’m all right,” she insists, “I’m all right.” What the fuck was that, she thinks? Adro didn’t even notice it, whatever it was. The captain, though – he called something up with his words, or something spoke through him. It stinks of a divine vision, but not from the Black Iron Gods.
“You’ve gone pale as death,” Adro says. He helps her sit down again, then turns to Hawse. “Captain, the Ghierdana will gut her if they find her here.”
Cari clings to the arm of the chair. The deck heaves and lurches beneath her even though they’re on solid land. She grabs her glass of wine and throws it back. “You said you’d found me a way off this fucking island. Let’s hear it.”
“On the Street of Blue Glass—” begins the captain.
Adro interrupts him. “No! Begging your pardon, sir, but fuck no. You can’t send her there.”
“They have a ship, Adro, and the Ghierdana won’t dare hinder them. I have spoken to them.”
“Gods below,” swears Cari, “let him talk, Ad. It can’t be that bad. Who are they?”
Adro opens his mouth to speak – and then they all freeze. There’s noise outside on the deck, the sound of people climbing up the sides of the Rose, clambering over the rail.
The captain moves to the door, opens it a crack. There’s light outside.
It’s not moonlight.
Werelight.
Shit. The armoured sorceress must be out there.
Hawse gestures, pointing towards the other door. It leads to his cabin.
“Go,” he hisses.
“Come with us,” insists Cari.
“The Lord of Waters watches over me. I have nothing to fear.”
Adro tugs her arm. “We’ve got to go!”
“Wait!” she whispers. “The fucking book.”
“It’s safe,” Hawse replies. “They won’t find it. Hide! I’ll see them off.”
Cari grabs the carving knife off the table without thinking. Weirdly, the imminent danger of being captured and killed by the Ghierdana makes her feel so much better. She’s either going to live or die in the next few minutes, she’s going to bury this knife in someone’s guts or she’s not, and there’s no time to think about anything beyond that.
The captain’s cabin is dark, except for the little moonlight spilling through a round window. In all her years on the Rose, Cari rarely trespassed in this room, and it still feels more like a sanctum to her than the rough temple below. Adro grabs the captain’s sword from where it hangs on the wall, but he doesn’t look like he’s spoiling for a fight. He’s scared, too.
Cari presses her ear to the door.
“Your table,” says the sorceress, “is set for three.” Her voice is distorted by her helmet, but it’s still faintly familiar to Cari.
“For the gods!” shouts the captain, playing the holy fool. “I set a place for the Lord of Waters! And another for Usharet – behold, she comes to dine!” It’s not going to fly – if nothing else, the fact that there are heaps of gnawed bones on the plates gives the game away. Hallucinatory guests don’t have Adro’s appetite.
“Search the ship,” orders the witch.
“Down here!” whispers Adro. There’s a trapdoor in the floor of the captain’s cabin, a square of blackness. Adro climbs down, his limbs folding like a spider’s, squeezing his lanky body into the little gap. He hangs and lets himself drop as softly as he can, landing in the half-flooded hold below with the quietest of splashes.
“Catch me,” whispers Cari, and slithers through the trapdoor. Adro’s strong hands catch her by the hips, hold her aloft so she can grab the hatch and close it soundlessly behind her, a heartbeat before the Ghierdana goons blunder into the captain’s cabin.
They’re not safe. The room above is dark, but the trapdoor’s not that hard to find. Cari creeps through the dark waters, brushing past the altar to the Lord of Waters. It’s nearly time for the Bythos to rise. Every other night, the captain came down here to pray as the tide rolled in. The water’s already rising, seeping into this temple. They can’t hide here for long. If they can get to the hole on the starboard side of the forward hold, maybe they can crawl out without being seen by the sorceress.
Cari takes the lead, sneaking forward until she can peek out of the hole in the hull. She spies more Ghierdana, out on the shore. Signals to Adro to stay back. Their lamps flood the shore with unwanted light, but they’re not moving. They’re standing guard, making a perimeter around the Rose.
“How many?” whispers Adro.
“Too many.”
She ducks down behind some debris, a pile of empty crates and wooden carving of some god, riddled with rot. She crouches in the darkness, trying to work out how to play this bad hand. Make a break for it, and hope she can slip away in the darkness? Stay here, hidden in the hold, and hope that the captain’s bullshit is enough to convince the sorceress? Sneak out and try to swim for it, turn right rather than left and plunge into the waves as they break on the shore?
Adro’s got the captain’s sword, but the Ghierdana will have guns. Charging out is almost certainly suicide. But maybe, maybe, one of them could break through the line. Is Adro willing to take that risk? Once, she’d have known exactly what he was thinking, moved when he moved, but those days are gone.
So, too, are the days when she could just swagger out there, the Saint of Knives, girded in miraculous armour. Hard as stone, glorious as the soaring spires of the New City. Power isn’t a card she can play any more, and she misses it. Once, she could have saved everyone. Once, she wouldn’t have had anything to fear.
Movement, outside! The lamps bob around, their beams shining back towards Ushket, lighting up the slope. More men have arrived. More Ghierdana – but they’re arguing with the others. Shouting, shoving, the two groups lining up and posturing. Cari knows a gang dispute when she sees one. No one’s drawing weapons yet, but they’re p
aying more attention to threatening each other than to watching the shore.
This could be the moment.
The leader of the newcomers pushes through the line, strides across the stony strand to the Rose. It’s dark, but he’s outlined against the torchlight, and Cari still knows his walk. Dol Martaine.
“The fucker sold us out,” she whispers, her grip tightening on the carving knife. If she still had her powers, she’d walk out there and kill Martaine for betraying them. She wouldn’t even hesitate.
Adro sounds like he’s about to say something, but she shushes him. She watches Martaine clamber up the side of the ship. The deck creaks overhead as he crosses to the sorceress. Cari can only make out a few words, but it sounds like a turf dispute.
Adro swallows. “You should run!” he whispers in her ear. “They’ll kill you if they catch you!”
She tenses, about to make a break for it, when the watchers outside the ship turn to face the rising sea. Shining their lamps out into the dark waves, drawing swords as if they’ve seen some danger.
If she runs out of the gap in the hull now, she’ll be running right into that light. They’d see her instantly.
The scrape of the trapdoor opening, the splash of someone dropping into the aft hold. Martaine’s voice, calling down from above. “Be respectful, you dolts! It’s a holy place. Do you want to bring a curse down on your heads?” Another splash, and another. Light flaring in the aft hold behind them.
They’re trapped. Three ways out – the stairs up to the deck, the door aft, the breach in the hull – and Ghierdana watching all three.
Then comes a wet slap against the hull, the sound of squelching mud, the hooting of the Bythos. The light from the sentries’ lamps outside becomes a flickering shadow-play as the Bythos march up the shore, hooting and belching. There are dozens of them out there, parading out of the sea, more than she’s ever seen before. A stream of glistening black scaly things, carried on shambling, stumbling host bodies, marching out of the surf and proceeding along the shore towards Ushket. The line of Ghierdana sentries parts to let the creatures through.
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