“What use are they without dogs to haul them?” Clay asked.
“Man can haul a sled too.” Scrimshine bent to retrieve a harness from atop the nearest sled. “Less you want that bundle weighing on your back all the way to the mountain.”
They dragged five of the sleds out onto the ice and piled on the supplies. Hilemore divided the party into teams and allocated each a sled, sparing Loriabeth, who, for once, didn’t voice an objection. She stood apart as they donned the harnesses, staring at the vast expanse to the south. The ice stretched away towards the misted horizon beneath a dark blue sky where stars were already glimmering. Not since the Red Sands had Clay seen anything so completely devoid of life or feature. He saw how Loriabeth’s expression alternated between reluctance and determination now she stood confronted by the enormity of their task. All the guts and skill in the world can’t put any more meat on those bones, he thought, wondering if it might have been better to chain her to her bunk before disembarking the ship.
“Won’t be much use this far south, Skipper,” Scrimshine advised as Hilemore flipped open a small compass. “You’ll find the needle dances about too much to gauge a heading.”
“Then how do we fix our course?”
Scrimshine jerked his head at the stars beading the darkening sky. “The mountain sits betwixt Southern Jewell and the Crossed Swords. Reckon we got us maybe two more hours of daylight.”
Hilemore glanced around to ensure they were all buckled in then waved a hand before starting off, the three other men in his team marching in step as he led the way. “Then we’d best make good use of it.”
? ? ?
They covered a little over five miles before nightfall. The ice was a deceptive surface to traverse. Apparently thick snow-banks often transformed into loose piles of powder concealing slippery patches that left more than a few of the party with a painful rump. Elsewhere the surface rose into large jagged mounds several yards wide, necessitating long diversions from their course until they found a way around. Added to the aggravating terrain was the all-consuming cold, which Clay found sapped his strength with every step. It seemed a tangible thing, pressing in on all sides and making every breath feel like an inhalation of tiny needles. Like the others he had been quick to tie a cloth over his mouth and nose but it provided only minor relief.
At Scrimshine’s urging they made camp by upending the sleds and arranging them in a circle. They then strung tents between the sleds to form a roof with a gap in the centre where Steelfine used lamp oil to light a fire. The evening meal consisted of boiled salt-beef washed down with black coffee dosed with a hefty portion of sugar. True to Scrimshine’s word, Clay found his stomach still growling after wolfing down his meal though he resisted the urge to ask for seconds. He sat with his arm around his cousin’s shoulders as she cradled a tin mug of steaming coffee with trembling hands. Scrimshine sat close by, using a small knife to whittle on a piece of bone from the Blue corpse he had helped Skaggerhill harvest.
“What was it?” Clay asked him, recalling his tale from their interview back in the Lossermark gaol. “The great treasure you came here to find?”
Scrimshine kept his attention on his carving, though his bony face betrayed a certain sheepish reluctance as he muttered a reply, “Bledthorne’s Hoard.”
On the far side of the fire, Clay heard Steelfine give voice to a rarely heard chuckle, one that was soon echoed by the other sailors. Hilemore turned to the smuggler, raising an amused eyebrow. “Did you, perchance, have a map showing you the exact location? Possibly a map that had been hidden for years?”
“Wasn’t my idea,” Scrimshine said, scowling a little. “And it was a long time ago, before the story was so widely known.”
“Story?” Clay enquired.
“You mean to say you’ve never heard of Arneas Bledthorne?” Hilemore asked in mock surprise. “The Red Scourge of the Eastern Seas. A pirate so fearsome Queen Arrad herself offered a million gold crowns to anyone who could bring her his head. For ten years or more the Royal Fleet hunted him hither and yon, but always he eluded them, taking ships at will and casting their crews into the sea for his vile amusement. So great was his fortune, it’s said his ship, the Dreadfire, nearly sank under its weight. Eventually, with all ports closed to him, he sailed south and hid his treasure somewhere in these frozen wastes, then murdered his crew lest they betray the location. Maddened by his crimes and his greed, and lacking any hands to sail his ship, he was unable to leave and died raving amidst vast wealth.”
“Quite a story,” Braddon observed.
“Indeed so,” Hilemore said. “And for many years unscrupulous cartographers made good money selling maps purporting to show the very spot where Bledthorne’s Hoard could be found. Eventually the story attracted the attention of a Consolidated Research Company scholar who traced it back to a novel from the late Imperial Era. It transpired the tale was mostly fiction. There had been a minor pirate named Arneas Bledthorne, who disappeared along with his ship somewhere in the southern seas. But in his short career his list of prizes amounted to the grand total of three ships, none of them laden with treasure. Also, there is no documentation confirming that Queen Arrad had ever even heard of him, let alone offered a reward for his capture. However, this doesn’t prevent the foolish or deluded occasionally risking their lives on the promise of an aged parchment they won at the card table.”
“Captain Sturwynd wasn’t a man to cross,” Scrimshine said, grimacing at the memory. “Especially when he had a firm notion in his head. He spent a great deal of loot on that map and wasn’t about to be told he was a fool for doing so.”
“I’m guessing you never found anything,” Clay said.
“Just a lotta ice, lad. And poor mad Captain Sturwynd found his death.” Scrimshine gave a sorrowful sigh. “Crazed and cruel though he was, he’d saved my skin on a bundle of occasions, so when he finally gasped out his last I wouldn’t let the others eat him. It got ugly for a time, a right old knife party. Still, plenty more food to go round when it was done.”
The nascent atmosphere of humour in the shelter faded quickly. “Your crew ate their dead?” Steelfine asked, staring hard at Scrimshine.
The smuggler shrugged, not looking up from his work. “You’ll be surprised how fast a man starts to resemble a side of pork when you’ve tracked across the ice on an empty belly for days on end.”
A few voices muttered in judgemental disgust but fell silent at Hilemore’s sharp glare. Scrimshine, apparently oblivious to any offence he may have caused, kept on whittling. Clay drifted off to sleep a short while later to the steady scrape of Scrimshine’s blade on drake bone.