It grew clearer with every mile covered. A thin dark thread descending from the blackness above, slowly resolving into another shaft just like the one that had conveyed them to this place. Clay increased his pace as much as he could, but the effort soon left him gasping.
“We’re stopping,” Loriabeth decided as Clay came to an unsteady halt, head sagging and shoulders slumping between his crutches. She unhitched her fire-wood-laden pack and dumped it on the dusty ground. The lights had drawn ahead of them again and the trailing shadow lay only a short distance behind.
“Just a few more miles,” Clay insisted, swinging himself forward and promptly falling over. He issued a profuse and enthusiastic torrent of profanity as his leg punished him with a fierce burst of pain. “Sonovabitching fucking thing!”
“You finished?” Loriabeth asked, bending to help him sit up.
“You should go on,” he said, gritting his teeth as she settled a pack under his leg. “It’s only a coupla hours away.”
“Shut up, cuz,” she muttered and went about building the fire.
“I mean it,” he said. “Leave me here. Go see what’s what . . .”
“I said shut up!” She glared at him, Clay suffering a fresh upsurge of guilt in the face of her implacable resolve.
“It’s my fault,” he groaned, head lolling as the guilt gave way to fatigue. “You followed me . . .”
“Made my own choice,” she said, piling kindling cut from the stunted bushes found on the plain. “We all did.”
“No . . .” he breathed, the world fading away once more. “You didn’t . . .”
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This time Silverpin failed to disturb his slumber, for which he was grateful. He blinked awake to find a large bug standing a few inches from his face. It was about three inches tall with six legs, fore-pincers and a tail tipped with a wicked-looking spike. The dim light gleamed on its black carapace as it maintained a frozen vigil for a few seconds before turning and scuttling off in a haze of dust. More than just drakes to worry about in here, Clay decided.
“. . . under the ship?” he heard Loriabeth enquire, speaking in low tones so as not to wake him.
“And up the other side,” Sigoral replied. “It’s called keelhauling and is usually only reserved for the worst crimes. The barnacles on the keel will tear a man’s flesh quite terribly, even worse so than flogging. I’d only ever seen it done once before I joined the Superior, and the miscreant in that case had been a drunkard who knifed a fellow sailor over a game of Pastazch. Captain Jenilkin, however, was much less discerning, keelhauling three men in as many months for petty infractions, one of whom perished. That was in addition to the numerous floggings he ordered. ‘Peasants are beasts of burden, Mr. Sigoral,’ he was fond of saying. ‘And what beast doesn’t respond well to the whip?’ I swear, if that Corporatist shell hadn’t taken his head off, the crew would have sooner or later.”
“That how you got to be in charge?”
“No, that came later. The captain died in the Battle of the Strait. Our First Officer was killed when the Blues rose off Carvenport. He was inspecting the forward guns when one of the monsters stuck its head over the side and snapped him clean in two. We had no warning. In seconds it seemed as if the whole sea was on fire. When it was over I found myself the only officer still alive with a crew numbering a dozen men.”
Sigoral fell quiet for a moment. When he spoke again his voice had taken on a note of forced briskness. “Still, doesn’t do to dwell. Although, how we remained afloat long enough to sail to Lossermark is still something of a mystery.”
“Only for us to come steal your ship out from under you.” Loriabeth gave a soft chuckle. “Must’ve been a real pisser.”
There was a pause before Sigoral replied, his voice coloured by a reluctant humour. “It was not one of my better days.”
“How come you speak Mandinorian so well?”
“Takmarin is the principal centre for trade in the southern empire. I grew up hearing a whole host of languages, Mandinorian most of all since it’s the language of commerce in all ports, regardless of what flag flies over the Customs House.”
“Hardly heard anything but Mandinorian my whole life. Pa had a Dalcian in our crew for a while, bladehand before Silverpin. He taught me a few battle poems.” She paused then recited a few lines of Dalcian. Clay heard Sigoral snort as he restrained an outburst of laughter.
“What?” Loriabeth demanded.
“Battle poems?” the Corvantine asked, still struggling to contain his mirth.
“Yeah. So?”
Sigoral took a deep inhalation and forced a neutral tone as he replied, “Nothing. Truly.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m afraid politeness forbids . . .”
“Just tell me, you Corvie prick!”
Sigoral took another deep breath before providing a carefully phrased response. “In Dalcian ports ladies of a . . . certain profession will stand in their windows chanting to attract . . . customers.”
A long silence. “That bastard,” Loriabeth breathed, provoking Sigoral into a restrained guffaw. “I was barely fourteen when he taught me that. Seer-damn pervert. Glad that Green pack roasted him now.”
Sigoral’s laughter increased in pitch then abruptly faded as a gust of wind swept over the camp, raising dust and causing Clay to reach for his revolver.
“You see it?” Loriabeth asked. Clay turned his head to find them both on their feet, weapons aimed upwards.
“Not even a flicker,” Sigoral replied.
“He must’ve been lower this time.” Loriabeth moved in a slow circle, arms held wide to cover as much of the sky as possible. “Twenty feet, less maybe.”
“This time?” Clay groaned, shuffling into a sitting position.
“Happened twice before,” she said. “Didn’t wanna wake you. Skaggs told me about this. It’s what they do when they’re tracking a pack of Cerath across the plains. Trying to spook them into scattering so they can . . .” She cast a tense glance at him and trailed off, though it wasn’t difficult to discern her meaning. So they can pick off the weakest.
Clay turned his gaze towards the direction of the shaft, now a thick straight vertical line edged by the burgeoning glow of the three suns. “Reckon there’s another hour until the light returns in full,” he said, stifling a pained grunt as he shifted his weight to reach for his crutches. “We’d best move on now.”
“It might be better if we go back to dragging you,” Sigoral suggested, watching Clay climb unsteadily to his one good foot, crutches splayed so he didn’t topple over right away. “We can rig another litter . . .”
“I don’t need dragging,” Clay broke in. He replanted his crutches and swung himself forward, moving with all the semblance of healthy resolve he could muster. “Leave the fire burning,” he said, swinging himself onward. “Might serve as a distraction.”
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