The Firebird Chronicles

by Daniel Ingram-Brown

  Chapter 9

  Towards the Basillica Isles

  A blade flashed over Alfa’s head. She raised her hands, sword and dagger crossed, as her opponent’s weapon sliced down. She spun round. There was the scrape of foil on dagger and her rival’s sword clattered to the deck.

  ‘Take that,’ she said, pinning her adversary to the mast.

  Rufina, Sparks and Freddo broke into applause.

  ‘You did it again,’ cried Sparks. Freddo picked up his accordion and began to play.

  Alfa grinned and spread her arms in a low bow.

  ‘I let her win again, you mean,’ Fletcher muttered. He stepped away from the mast, his cheeks flushed and picked up his sword.

  ‘Fibber,’ said Sparks. ‘She disarmed you – just as she did the past four times.’

  Fletcher grunted.

  Rufina patted Fletcher on the shoulder. ‘You’re all getting better.’

  Over the past few weeks, the Black Horizon had held a steady course towards the Basillica Isles. The sea had been calm and the winter days bright. Other than their regular duties, there hadn’t been a great deal to do. Time at sea could be dreadfully dull, cooped up in a space no bigger than Scribbler’s House, a watery wilderness surrounding them. As boredom set in, they each found different ways to occupy themselves. Alfa had asked Rufina, who worked for the Department for Overcoming Monsters, to teach her some new combat skills. Fletcher, Sparks and Freddo had joined the lessons. Training was a good way to let off steam, and the deck made an ideal sparring arena. They had spent a good few hours each day brushing up on their sword craft

  ‘Just be careful to plant your feet,’ Rufina said. ‘A solid position is key. If Fletcher had been paying attention, he might have done this.’ She shunted Alfa in the back of the knee. The young apprentice lurched to the side and Rufina pushed down on her shoulder, but pulled her up before she collapsed.

  ‘I was paying attention,’ Fletcher said. ‘She’s young though. I have to give her a chance.’

  Alfa and Sparks looked at one another and giggled.

  The Dark Pirate was passing. ‘I’ve said it before,’ he growled, ‘the battle isn’t here.’ He held up Fletcher’s sword arm. ‘It’s here.’ He patted Fletcher’s head. ‘If you can master that, you’ll defeat the enemy. It’s about mind, not muscle.’

  ‘Can’t hurt to be able to do this, though.’ Rufina spun round, pointing her sword at the pirate’s throat. Quick as a flash, he grabbed Fletcher’s sword. With a flick of his wrist, he lunged forward and Rufina’s weapon clattered to the floor. She spread her hands, the pirate’s sword at her throat.

  ‘Better not try that again, missy,’ he said, a gleam in his eye. Rufina bowed, holding his gaze, a small smile of respect on her face. The pirate lowered his sword. ‘I might carry these –’ he tapped one of the pistols strapped to his belt – ‘but ours is the way of peace. I’ve only fired them a handful of times, always to distract or to draw attention, never to wound, and certainly never to kill. As I say, the real battle is here.’ He tapped his temple and then threw the sword back to Fletcher. He strode away, his cape billowing.

  Rufina raised an eye at Nib. He was sitting on a hatch watching the exchange. He grinned in reply and then turned back to his work. He was whittling a small piece of wood, the deck around his feet sprinkled with shavings.

  ‘What are you making?’ asked Scoop. She was next to him, also watching the combat lesson.

  Nib smiled. ‘Come on. I’ll show you.’

  ‘Okay.’

  As Scoop followed him across the deck, the clink of swords resumed, Sparks trying her luck against Fletcher.

  They ducked under the low doorway of the captain’s cabin. Knot was inside, watching over the Storyteller, Princess and Yarnbard. Since the ship had reached calmer waters, he had hardly left their sides, maintaining a daily, often nightly, vigil. He looked up.

  ‘Anything?’ asked Nib.

  Knot shook his head.

  Nib nodded, gravely, but then smiled. ‘I’ve come to show Scoop our little project.’

  ‘Oh.’ Knot sounded surprised. ‘Yeah. Yeah, she can see.’

  Reaching down, he pulled a narrow sheet of wood from beneath his seat. It was the length of a full-grown child and mounted on a series of small wheels.

  ‘It’s a … trolley,’ Scoop said, unsure.

  ‘Yeah.’ Knot beamed. ‘My idea!’ He pointed at the Storyteller.

  ‘It’s for them.’

  Scoop looked bemused.

  ‘It’s so we can take them out more easily,’ explained Nib.

  ‘They should have sun and air – fresh air,’ added Knot.

  Over the past few days, Knot had taken to carrying the bodies onto the deck and laying them in the sun for an hour or two. But he was the only one strong enough to carry them alone.

  ‘Now you –’ he pointed at Scoop – ‘or Master Fletcher, or even little Alfa or Sparks can take them out – on this.’ He pointed at the trolley, a satisfied look on his face.

  ‘Knot asked me to help make them,’ Nib added.

  ‘Oh, Knot.’ Scoop rushed forward and threw her arms around the giant. For a moment, he looked thrown, but then he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her back. ‘That’s such a kind idea. And a good one too!’

  ‘I just thought they should have air.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s brilliant!’

  Knot gave a nervous laugh. ‘Nobody ever said anything like that to me before.’

  ‘Well, they should have.’ Scoop turned to Nib. ‘So, this is what you’ve been up to the past few days.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve almost finished whittling the rest of the wheels.’

  Knot smiled. ‘Three trolleys – one for each.’

  There was a knock at the door and Pierre ducked into the room, holding his cook’s hat to his head. ‘It is dinner time.’ He grinned. ‘I have come for your order, Miss Scoop, Master Nib, Monsieur Knot.’

  Nib and Scoop chuckled.

  ‘I would like roast boar!’ said Nib.

  ‘Yes, with lashings of gravy,’ Scoop added. ‘And a rich, apple sauce.’

  ‘Give us a bucket of Posyshire Roasts.’

  Scoop giggled. ‘Seasoned with your finest herbs.’

  ‘Of course, of course!’ Pierre replied.

  ‘And Rainbow’s End Trout,’

  ‘And Plotted Shrimp.’

  Knot licked his lips.

  ‘And for pudding … Caret Cake!’

  ‘Yes, and Rondeau Sorbet!’

  ‘And treacle tart!’

  ‘And your finest Jotted Cream!’

  ‘Aha!’ Pierre kissed the air. ‘You shall have a feast fit for kings and queens. Dinner is served.’ He held his fingers to his lips and kissed the air again, before ducking back through the door.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Knot said. ‘He always asks, but he only ever serves gruel.’

  Nib laughed. ‘It’s a game, Knot. I think he’s trying to keep our spirits up. It can’t be easy being cook on a ship where food is in such short supply.’

  ‘Oh.’ Knot looked disappointed. ‘But, I wanted treacle tart.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll get some … eventually.’

  Knot was about to reply when there was a cry from outside. ‘Land ahoy!’

  Nib glanced at Scoop. ‘We’re here.’

  They rushed out. The rest of the crew were gathering around Mr Snooze, who was staring at a slither of land on the horizon, no thicker than the side of a coin.

  ‘The Basillica Isles,’ whispered Scoop.

  ‘Yes,’ Nib replied. ‘This is where the fun starts.’

  Above his head, a large, black bird came to rest on the rigging. It had been following the ship, leaving enough distance to remain unseen. It fixed its eyes on the land ahead and let out a low, satisfied caw.

  Chapter 10

  Cathedral City

  The crew gathered on deck. They were dressed in an array of mottled cloaks and wide-brimmed hats. Fletcher an
d Nib wore bushy, fake beards; the women carried sacks of fabric; Knot was dragging a large, wooden chest; and the Dark Pirate carried a staff.

  Sparks tripped over her cloak and cursed under her breath. ‘It’s too long,’ she said.

  ‘Hitch it up like this.’ Nib helped her tie it higher.

  Fletcher huffed. ‘You should try wearing one of these. The hair keeps getting in my mouth.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Alfa grinned. ‘I couldn’t quite hear.’

  Fletcher glared at her. ‘Are these really necessary?’ he asked the pirate.

  ‘They are. We need to look like pilgrim traders. If they realise you’re from Fullstop Island we’ll be searched.’

  Freddo, Pierre and the Boatswain stepped back and admired the disguises. The Dark Pirate had ordered that they and Mr Snooze stay on the ship.

  The Boatswain laughed. ‘I haven’t seen such a bunch of ne’er-do-wells since I visited the Market of Miracles on Great Furnace. You’ll fit in perfectly.’

  Freddo tried to adjust Fletcher’s beard. ‘You wear it like this,’ he said, pointing at his own. Fletcher looked up, his beard still wonky. What with his overlong cloak and big hat, he looked quite a sight. Freddo burst out laughing. It was infectious. Before long, the whole crew were doubled over.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ said Fletcher, sulkily.

  The Boatswain wiped a tear from his eye. ‘You’re not standing where I am, laddie.’

  ‘The boy’s right,’ the Dark Pirate barked. ‘This is a dangerous mission. I hope you haven’t forgotten we’re about to walk right into the heart of Red Hawk territory. This is the Falcon stronghold. We need our wits about us. Travellers from Fullstop Island are not welcomed here. And since Falk’s alliance with these islands, the Storyteller has been declared an enemy. If they realise who we are, and who we have aboard this ship, the Hawks won’t hesitate to shoot on sight.’

  The laughter died away.

  ‘I want to bring a full crew back,’ the pirate finished.

  Scoop studied the land. It was different to Fullstop Island. There were no rugged cliffs. Instead, a pale beach sloped up to arid hills, spotted with bushes and squat trees. Where the hills dipped down, a warren of tents and ramshackle huts spilled onto the beach. Behind, a city of golden domes and spires glistened in the sun. The harbour bustled with frigates and fishing boats, traders from places as far flung as the Furnace Islands and the Storyless States arriving to sell their wares at the famous Basillican markets.

  The pirate moved across to the Boatswain. ‘You know what to do if we’re not back by sunset?’

  The Boatswain nodded.

  ‘Good. Then, let’s make for shore.’

  * * *

  The crew travelled across the beach in nervous hush, every so often whispering and pointing at the magnificent city that rose beyond the village of tents. A large, black bird hopped after them.

  Ragged children buzzed around them, offering scraps of rope, old coins and charm necklaces. The pirate had instructed them not to speak to the children or to give anything, but Scoop’s heart went out to them. They looked so hungry.

  ‘Here,’ she said quietly, giving one of them an apple she’d been handed with her lunchtime rations. ‘Don’t tell anyone …’ she began, but the child ran away, shouting excitedly, holding the apple high like a trophy. Before Scoop knew it, the crew were surrounded. A pack of urchins, arms outstretched, pressed in around her.

  The pirate swung round, his staff raised. He bellowed in a language Scoop didn’t understand and the children scattered, squawking like birds.

  ‘Who did that,’ he barked. ‘Who gave the apple?’

  Scoop raised her hand. ‘I just thought …’

  The Dark Pirate rounded on her. ‘What did I tell you?’ he snarled. Scoop stepped back. She’d never seen him look so angry. It scared her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she stuttered.

  ‘Are you trying to get us all killed?’

  She shook her head.

  The pirate turned to the rest of the crew. ‘You are to do exactly as I say from now on, do you understand?’ They nodded. ‘If you do as I instruct, we might just get through this alive.’

  He stormed into the jungle of tents. Scoop and the rest of the crew followed silently.

  They made their way along a dirt track that led through the heart of the makeshift encampment. Every so often, through the tarpaulins pulled between the shacks, Scoop caught a glimpse of the cathedral domes. The air was close, heavy with the smell of fried fish, sweet meats and waste water. Ramshackle huts of corrugated iron and scrap wood were squashed next to each other. Market stalls faced the track, boxes overflowing with spiked shells, grimacing fish and strange insects. Behind them, Scoop caught sight of camp beds and broken chairs. There were people everywhere: sailors drinking at roadside bars, merchants striking deals, pilgrims leading livestock along the carriageway. A single-toothed old man held out a handful of charm necklaces. ‘Protect from Fade,’ he said, his language broken. ‘Protect from Fade!’

  ‘Protection from the Fade?’ Scoop whispered to Fletcher. ‘Do you think that’s what we saw with the Fable Fish – the Fade? Do you think other things are fading too?’

  Fletcher nodded, not wanting to speak through his beard.

  The pirate stopped by one of the stalls and whispered to a boy with a shell stitched into his ragged shirt. The boy nodded and disappeared into the forest of tents. The black bird that had been following them landed on a nearby water pump and watched with beady eyes.

  Across the track, there was a commotion. A group of Red Hawks pushed their way into one of the huts. There was yelling. A baby began to cry and a moment later, the soldiers emerged, dragging a man. He was hunched over, pleading with them in the language the pirate had spoken. A woman appeared at the door, her face smudged with tears, the baby in her arms. She yelled after the soldiers as they dragged the man away.

  ‘Come on,’ the pirate said, ‘we need to get out of here.’

  Quickly, the crew pushed along the path. Scoop could see other Red Hawks questioning traders. They slipped through a narrow passage between a gambling den and a cluttered shrine. A few minutes later, they emerged into a small square, a dolphin fountain at its centre. It was the opposite to the village of tents in every way. The buildings were made of sandstone. They were tall and stately, decorated with pale blue frescos. Little cafés lined the plaza, their patrons dressed in bright clothes, some of them carrying parasols. The sound of polite conversation mingled with the quiet splash of water, making the square feel spacious and light. One side was dominated by the entrance to a cathedral.

  ‘Whoa,’ Scoop said, looking up at the spire. It loomed over them, carved with rank upon rank of statues. It made her dizzy.

  An ornate door opened into the basilica. Inside, the air was thick with incense. Sunlight passed through stained-glass windows, dancing on a gilded altar. Heavy golden lamps hung from an exquisitely painted ceiling. And the floor was polished marble. But, at odds with this, temporary scaffolding had been constructed along the walls. It held rows of beds. The structure must have been fifty bunks high and the length of the cathedral itself. It looked like a hive. The beds contained hundreds, perhaps thousands, of bodies. It was a shocking sight. From the door, a river of flowers, candles and pictures cascaded down, spilling onto the square in a pool of petals and light.

  ‘It’s a shrine,’ said the Dark Pirate, reading the look on Scoop’s face, ‘a memorial to those taken by the sickness. And this is only one of the cathedrals. There are hundreds in the city and they’re all filled with bodies. The sickness hit the Basillica Isles before it reached Fullstop Island. They have suffered greatly.’

  Scoop scanned the bustling cafés. ‘But it seems so busy … so alive.’

  ‘The city is a shadow of its former self. In its days of glory, it thronged with processions, pageants, thriving markets, multitudes of pilgrims and travellers from across the oceans. Music spilled from these cathedrals, and art
ists painted and sculpted the most exquisite work. The theatricality of its rituals, its costumes and choirs, were a sight to behold. It was truly impressive, even to someone not inclined to pay attention to such shows of wealth and power. But even I could not fail to be impressed by its majesty. Now, the city creaks under the weight of its own edifice. It’s decaying from the inside. The sickness, the displaced peoples who’ve sought shelter here, and the incapacity of many of its priests and patriarchs, has turned the city into a powder keg. The smallest spark could ignite revolution. That’s why the Red Hawks have been given so much power and why they exert it so brutally. The Falcon Household are scared.’

  A woman appeared behind the pirate. Sensing her presence, he spun round, his hand moving to his cutlass. But when he saw who it was, a broad grin broke across his face.

  ‘Martha! It’s so good to see you.’

  ‘As it is you …’ Martha embraced him, burying her head into his shoulder. Scoop thought she heard her speak a name, but it was muffled.

  ‘You got my message from the boy then?’ the pirate asked.

  ‘I did. Everything is ready.’ Martha took the pirate by the shoulders and examined him. ‘Look at you. You’ve not changed a bit.’

  ‘Perhaps not my features, but I have in here.’ The pirate thumped his chest. ‘I’m always changing, growing I hope, being enlarged.’

  ‘You haven’t changed in that you can’t take a compliment!’ Martha laughed. ‘Always too serious!’ Her smile was infectious. Despite the worry lines on her face, she was pretty. She wore a long, flowing skirt and a bright blue top, fastened with a shell broach. Her hair was curly and brown and she wore vivid lipstick. ‘Anyway,’ she said, glancing across the square, ‘we mustn’t stay here. You can introduce me to your friends when we’re somewhere safe.’ She smiled at Scoop, acknowledging the crew in turn. Then, taking the pirate’s arm, Martha led them away.

  * * *

  At the other side of the square, an old woman watched, peeking from the folds of her hood. Keeping her distance, she followed the crew through vine-covered pergolas and cathedral colonnades. They passed up some wide stone steps, flanked with statues. After emerging from one of the crowded silk markets, they turned onto a narrow side street between two rows of tenements. Halfway along, they disappeared into one of the houses. A wicked grin twisted Grizelda’s face. Finding the nearest Red Hawk, she curtseyed and proceeded to tell him who had arrived at the island and where they might be found. The soldier’s moustache twitched as he contemplated the reward he would receive for informing his superiors of the Black Horizon’s whereabouts, of the traitor’s hideout, and of the Storyteller’s presence on the Basillica Isles.