“Something wrong?” Hilemore asked him.
Scrimshine didn’t answer for a long moment, eyes feverishly tracking over the parade of passing islets. “It’s, um,” he began, swallowed then spoke on, his voice betraying a hoarse nervousness. “It’s gone. The channel I was aiming for. See?” He pointed through a gap between two islets, beyond which a large iceberg could be seen twisting slowly in the current. “Looks like it’s suffered a tumble since last I was here.”
“I told you to throw this one back,” Clay said to Hilemore.
The captain ignored him and took a step towards Scrimshine, looming over him and speaking in precise tones. “You are here for one reason. I have no room for useless hands aboard this ship.”
“There’s maybe another way,” Scrimshine said, voice even hoarser. “Farther west, where the Chokes meet the Shelf. It’s, uh, right treacherous though. Not to be risked lightly.”
Hilemore stared at the perspiring convict for a long moment. “It seems we have little choice,” he said eventually. “I hope for your sake you don’t once again prove my trust to have been misplaced.”
? ? ?
It took the better part of the remaining daylight to reach the Shelf. Progress was slow due to Scrimshine’s need to compensate for the shifting and powerful currents flowing into the Chokes. As the light began to ebb the Shelf grew from a thin white line into a massive pale green-blue wall that towered over the Superior by at least fifty feet.
“Well, that’s really something,” Skaggerhill said, gazing up at the frozen cliffs with ice beading his bushy eyebrows. The Longrifles had gathered on the fore-deck as the ship drew ever nearer to the frozen edifice. They were all wrapped in a variety of clothing looted from the unneeded belongings of the Superior’s fallen crew, Loriabeth appearing somewhat comical in her voluminous collection of thick coat and seal-fur hat. It all seemed a very long way from the jungles and badlands of Arradsia.
“You were hoping for an interesting journey,” Clay said. He was wearing a heavy coat that had belonged to the Superior’s coxswain, but still his teeth chattered as he spoke.
The harvester turned and nodded to the south. “That seems a damn sight more interesting than I was hoping for.”
Gazing at the passage ahead, Clay couldn’t help but share his trepidation. The channel between the Chokes and the Shelf was barely twice the Superior’s width and the water seethed as the energetic currents battered against the ice. As he watched, a chunk the size of a house detached itself from the Shelf and plummeted into the roiling waters. He had gained a grudging appreciation for Scrimshine’s piloting abilities but found it incredible that any helmsman could successfully steer such a course.
Preacher said something, the first words Clay could recall him uttering since Hadlock, a soft recitation of scripture almost lost to the numbing air. “‘’Ware the safest roads, for they lure the slothful towards the Travail.’”
Clay saw that the marksman had a serene cast to his face, as if he looked upon the coming trials with calm acceptance. He always was crazy, Clay reminded himself, seeing the sharp glance his uncle shot at Preacher and knowing they shared the same thought. Probably should’ve left him in Lossermark.
“Ain’t gonna attempt this tonight are they?” Loriabeth asked, casting a wary eye at the darkening sky.
Clay turned towards the bridge. Through the glass he could see Scrimshine engaged in some animated gesticulation as Hilemore loomed over him once more. “Seems it’s a matter under discussion,” he said, starting back towards the mid-deck.
“It’ll be fully dark within the hour!” he could hear Scrimshine saying as he climbed the ladder to the bridge. The sailor’s voice possessed a curious tone that mixed stern refusal with wheedling solicitation. “You take us in there, this ship’ll be scrap come the morning.”
“It’s a two-moon night,” Hilemore said, his own tone absent any inflection save command. “Bright enough to see by without lights and I’ll not anchor here.”
“We could draw back a mile or two to calmer waters,” Scrimshine said, fighting a catch in his throat. “Steam in a slow circle until midday on the morrow. Should be able to get her through then.”
Clay paused at the entrance to the bridge, watching Scrimshine stare at Hilemore in desperation. Clay clamped down on the urge to add his voice, knowing the captain’s reaction to unasked-for advice, especially from him, was unlikely to be pleasant. After a moment’s consideration, Hilemore shifted his gaze to the Varestian woman standing at the rear of the bridge, arms folded and face rigid as she witnessed the discussion. She met Hilemore’s gaze and gave a short, barely perceptible nod that had Clay wondering if he wasn’t in fact sailing on a ship with two captains.
“Very well,” Hilemore said, moving back from Scrimshine. “Bring us about. Mr. Talmant, signal the Chief to take us to one-fifth speed.”
“One-fifth speed, aye, sir.”
“Mr. Steelfine, double watch tonight. I’ll take the first one.”
“Aye sir . . .”
“BLUE TO STERN!” the shout cut through the Islander’s words, dragging every set of eyes towards the rear of the ship where a lookout stood pointing at something a good distance off. At first Clay saw what he thought was another collision of waves born of the region’s unpredictable currents. Then he realised it was in fact a wake, a great swell of displaced water that spoke of something far larger than the rotting corpse lying on the aft deck. He could see a spine at least the height of two men rising from the centre of the swell, with a long row of others twisting behind as whatever created the wake made an unhurried progress towards the Superior.
“Oh fuck me to the Travail and back again,” Scrimshine breathed. “It’s him.”
CHAPTER 13
Lizanne
“Hyran,” the young man introduced himself, voice wavering a little and his large eyes averted. She put his age at somewhere around eighteen, though his thin frame and gaunt features made him look younger. Pale skin and dark hair meant his family was of northern origin, though his accented Varsal held a depth of street-born coarseness it was hard to fake. Hyran, Lizanne thought. Another code-name from Corvantine myth. The mystical messenger who walked the dark paths between the divine and mortal worlds. Quite apt, really.
Korian had introduced the lanky youth, nudging him into the secret refuge in the tea-house store-room with an impatient slap to the shoulder. “Haven’t got all day, citizen.”
“You can go,” Lizanne informed Korian in tones that didn’t invite discussion. “Close the entrance.”
Left alone with her the boy squirmed under her scrutiny, though she saw how he resisted the urge to conceal his hands as her gaze tracked over them, finding no marks. “You never sought the Blood Imperial’s Token?” she enquired, referring to the Corvantine equivalent of the Blood-lot.