“Which raises the question as to why we’re still on rations,” Braddon interrupted. “Perhaps it’s time to break open a few of those casks. I’m willing to risk my guts on a bite or two. Something I learned in the Interior; even the most reliable folk are unwilling to follow sound orders when true hunger sets in.”
Hilemore spent a moment studying the winding channel through the ice. Even with the benefit of a tightly plotted course their existing supplies would be exhausted long before they came in sight of the Chokes. Over the last two days he had been increasingly preoccupied with Scrimshine’s tale of his previous journey across the ice. You’ll be surprised how fast a man starts to resemble a side of pork . . . Although his own career had yet to bring Hilemore to such extremes, seafaring history was rich in similar tales of marooned or becalmed crews pushed to bestial measures by hunger. That men under his command would ever find themselves so far removed from humanity was an uncomfortable notion, but as his own hunger grew he began to see an unpalatable truth in the smuggler’s story.
“I believe you’re right, Captain Torcreek,” he said, handing him the spy-glass before leaning over the rope cage ringing the nest and calling down to the deck below. “Number One! Lay anchor, if you please! All crew to report to the galley!”
? ? ?
The crew looked on with stomachs growling at varying intensities of volume as Skaggerhill did the cooking. The harvester mixed a measure of cornmeal into a thin gruel, seasoning the concoction with some salt from the large jar the Dreadfire’s long-vanished cook had seen fit to leave behind. Once spooned onto a tin plate the result had a grey, watery appearance but Hilemore found he had never seen or smelled anything so appetising in his life. Steelfine had all but forbidden him from taking the first meal, volunteering himself instead. “I think Mr. Scrimshine is more deserving of the honour, Number One,” Hilemore told him, a sentiment which met with the helmsman’s immediate enthusiasm.
“It’ll do for me, alright,” Scrimshine said, having wolfed down the entire plate in a few scrapes of the spoon. He held his plate out to Skaggerhill in expectation then scowled when Hilemore told him to wait awhile. After a somewhat tense fifteen-minute interval, during which the helmsman signally failed to keel over with stomach pains or display any other sign of an unfortunate reaction, the crew gave a relieved groan when Hilemore ordered Skaggerhill to dole out the rest of the gruel.
“What about the meat, Skipper?” Scrimshine asked Hilemore after his third helping.
Steelfine immediately started to rise, face darkening but stopped as Hilemore shook his head. He was learning that too tight a leash might not be the best option for a crew in crisis. “Best left be, at least for now,” Hilemore told Scrimshine. “The corn should suffice until we rendezvous with the Superior.”
In truth, he had serious doubts the Superior would still be waiting. Faced with the break-up of the ice, Zenida may well have opted to haul anchor and head north at the best possible speed. Not that I would blame her, he thought. The crew, however, didn’t need to hear him voice his suspicions. Artifice was also valuable in a crisis.
He watched the crew eat, taking heart from the instant lift in their spirits brought on by something as basic as a decent meal. A hum of quiet conversation soon filled the galley, the men sitting straighter as previously gaunt faces took on new colour, even breaking into a smile or two, all of which came to an abrupt end as the sharp crack of a rifle-shot sounded through the decking above their heads.
“Preacher,” Braddon said as the crew surged to their feet and made for the ladders. The marksman had opted to stay in the crow’s nest as they ate, fortuitously as it transpired. Hilemore could see him outlined against the pale sky, standing with his rifle aimed towards the east. A yellow flame erupted from the rifle’s muzzle as Preacher fired again, Hilemore following the line of shot in time to see water cascading down some two hundred paces off the starboard bow. He could find no target for the marksman’s bullet and was about to call up to him when he saw a swell around the point of impact. The water frothed briefly as a set of spines broke the surface, Hilemore glimpsing a speck of blue before the drake dived deeper.
“Is it him?” Scrimshine asked in a panicked rasp.
“No,” Hilemore said, taking out his spy-glass and training it on the spot where the Blue had broken the surface. “Spines were too small.”
He lowered the glass and barked out a series of orders. Soon the crew were all armed and lining the rails, both port and starboard as there was no telling where the beast might appear. They waited for several very long minutes, the surrounding waters remaining placid all the while.
“Maybe he’s just swam off,” Skaggerhill suggested. “Didn’t take kindly to being shot at.”
“The guns, Number One?” Hilemore asked Steelfine.
“One prepared, sir. Got a packet of gun-cotton ready for the test firing.”
Hilemore’s jaw clenched as he rebuked himself. Should have seen to this earlier. “It appears we’ll be undertaking a battle-field test. Make it ready, if you please.”
“Aye, sir.” Steelfine saluted and ran to the eight-pounder, calling a pair of men to assist as he began to drag the gun-carriage back from the port.
“Wait!” Scrimshine said. “Quiet for a moment.” Hilemore turned to find him standing with his head cocked, a frown of deep concentration on his face. “Y’hear that, Skipper?”
Hilemore motioned for Steelfine to halt his preparations and called for silence. He felt it rather than heard it, a faint tremor thrumming the deck timbers beneath his boots. He had to strain to hear the actual sound, a faint rhythmic keening from under the ship that put him in mind of whale-song, though the pitch was much more shrill.
“Blue-hunters call it the Gathering Song,” Scrimshine said, his face losing much of the colour gained during the meal. “That’s how they hunt ’em sometimes, capture a young ’un and torment it so it’ll call out to its pack. The ocean carries sound a far greater distance than the air. The big ’uns come running to answer the call from miles away, smack into the nets strung betwixt the ships.” He gave Hilemore a weak smile. “Don’t s’pose we got any nets aboard?”
“No,” Hilemore said, moving to the rail and staring out at the drifting bergs beyond. “No we do not.”
CHAPTER 42
Lizanne
Arberus found her at first light, smiling despite the scowl she turned on him as Makario stitched the cut to her forearm. The bodies of the last valiant Watchmen lay around them, burnt or blasted into a near-unrecognisable state. Hyran sat near by, knees drawn up to his chest and an unfocused cast to his eyes.
“Come to report a glorious victory, General?” she enquired of Arberus, which made his smile falter a little.
“Victory is never glorious,” he replied, casting a glance around the grisly field. “But we have one nonetheless. The Iron Watch and the Emperor’s Ravens are no more.”