Raiders' Ransom (17 page)

“Let us out,” I say, praying Zeph won't cause trouble. But he hardly even notices the guards, he's so busy looking out past the gates.

“We head that way to my father's ship,” he says excitedly, pointing east.

And when we've passed through the gate, heading off down the street, he says, “You won't be sorry for joining Angel Isling. Our Family's the strongest and fiercest of all — you've joined the best of the best! And wait until you see my father's dragonboat — it's the fastest ship you ever saw. Cuts through the water like a knife — nothing can catch her. You won't never have seen anything better!”

“I reckon not,” I say, thinking of the Prime Minister's ship; how it towered over my boat, how it took Andy away.

“She's so big she has to berth downstream, she can't make it under the bridges this far up,” says Zeph.

And so we carry on walking for a good while, Zeph chattering all the time about how great the raiders are, and how happy I'll be to be one of them. We walk along yet more wooden walkways, with the river glinting on our right between the broken and empty buildings. Not long, I feel foxed and confused by the endless muddy streets, but Zeph doesn't even pause, just heads right to where he wants to go.

“Come on, Lilo!” he says, speeding up. “It's just round this corner.”

The boardwalk takes a sharp right between a gap in the buildings, and Zeph disappears into it. I pull at Cat, who's being a sight more than grumpy about having to walk past all the mud, and we head into the gap.

Where I pretty much bang right into Zeph, who's standing on an empty pier. No great raider dragonboat, no raider boats of any kind. Just an open view of the river washing past, a row of stacked barrels, and a beaten-looking old man dressed in the shapeless sacking-wear of a raider slave.

“No, master,” he's saying to Zeph. “The Boss's dragonboat left on the early tide. He said if a young lord turned up, I should tell him to go to the Family quarters in old Isling. Wait there, he said.”

Zeph's silent for a moment, staring out at the glinting flow of the river, then he spins round, like he's looking for something.

“How can this be?” he shouts, and starts kicking at the barrels.

“Please, master, please!” whimpers the old man. “You may break them.” And he drops to his knees, holding out his hands, half pleading, half trying to shield the barrels from Zeph's feet.

“Maybe your father thought …” But I stop. I can't think of any reason why Zeph's father should have sailed. Going off without his son, leaving him alone in London.

Zeph kicks himself to a standstill. He turns to me, some lost thing looking out from his eyes.

“Why would he leave me?”

I shrug, cos there's no answer I can give him.

The old man, still on his knees, says, “Please, master, if it helps yer, I did hear the Boss talking to a bright, brave prince of a warrior, who told him they couldn't wait because the Prime Minister of England had his fleet gathering, and they had to get to the home marshes.”

Zeph's face instantly darkens. “Did the warrior have red hair?”

“Oh yes, master, like fiery bronze it was.”

“And was he wearing leathers like mine?”

“Why yes, master, what a beauty of a lion was drawn on him.”

Zeph looks like he's been punched.

“Roba!” he roars. “I hate him!” He starts kicking at the barrels again.

The old man waves his arms about, stumbling on his knees, trying to put himself between Zeph and the cargo.

“You're right, master! That warrior were a monster! What terrible red hair, what an evil lion was drawn on him! Please, master, don't hit that barrel so, it's full of the best Frenchy wine.”

He looks terrified of them being broken.

“Zeph! Leave it!” I shout, and I go over and pull him away from the poor old man's barrels.

“What am I going to do?” cries Zeph, his cheeks glowing angry red in his face.

“I've got a boat,” I say, and the red starts to fade. “I moored it upstream a ways. We could follow, catch up with your father.”

Though I don't know how my little boat'd ever catch up to a raider dragonboat.

“Do you think so? “

“I'm sure of it,” I say, with a big false smile. Then, in a shaking voice, I ask the question I've been holding in my head ever since I found out who Zeph's father is. “Do you know where they're going?”

About noon on our second day sailing, the sky turns gray and the air damp. The clouds roll thick and wet above us and, as the afternoon drags on to evening, they get lower and lower, like they want to push us down into the River Thames.

“Yowowowl,” cries Cat, standing rigid and glaring northward with wide green eyes. I touch his back, and he hisses, but doesn't stop his glaring.

“What's it making that racket for?” says Zeph. “Why don't you just throw it overboard?”

“Why don't you just shut up?” I say. “There's something there, that's why he's growling.”

“How would a cat know?” asks Zeph, but he looks at the north bank, just like me.

“There ain't nothing,” says Zeph after a minute. “Probably the mog saw a mouse.” He turns to me and grins. “Come on, Lilo, lighten up.”

But I can't, cos Cat's a seacat, and he wouldn't make a fuss about nothing.

“Yowowowl,” says Cat again, his head cocked to one side.

“There's nothing there,” I say to him. “It's just gray. Gray clouds and gray sky and …” And suddenly I know why he's growling, cos it ain't just the gray of clouds and sky. There's a thick solid edge to the gray, like a wall rolling toward us. It's fog — sliding off the north shore of this big old river. Even as I watch, a tree disappears, swallowed up by the murk.

“We've got to find somewhere safe to moor up,” I say.

“Why?” asks Zeph.

“Because we can't stay on the river in fog!”

“Why not?”

I stare at him for a moment.

“Because of mud banks. And shallows. And other boats. And tree stumps sticking out of the water. Because we won't be able to see any of them. Because I don't want to end up wrecked on a sandbank or stoved through by a dead tree!”

“Well, just pull to shore, then,” says Zeph, as if he's solved the problem.

“We can't here,” I say, cos the banks here are nothing but marshes — reeds and rushes and muddy humps of grass. It's
hard to tell where the river ends and the land starts, cos it's all mixed together. Anything could be hiding in them marshes, and most likely is. Everyone knows marshes mean trouble.

“We should try the southern bank,” I say.

“No!” says Zeph, looking frightened.

“Why not?” I ask, staring at the distant shore. “It looks good to me. There's trees, which must mean solid ground. If we're quick and careful we can tack across before the fog catches us.”

“But the towers!” says Zeph, pointing. At three tall broken buildings, rising like skeletons above the treetops. Leftovers from olden times.

“Everyone knows the towers along the Temz is full of ghosts and evil spirits,” says Zeph. “I ain't going there to get my heart eaten and my head turned inside out!”

“Don't be stupid! That's nothing but stories.” I start at turning the boat, gathering up the lines so I can tilt the sail and head south.

“Stop it!” says Zeph, and rocks the boat as he grabs at a line, pulling the boom across. “Let's just anchor and wait for the fog to pass,” he cries. “That's what Ims'd do.”

“Ims ain't sailing my boat. I am. And we ain't in a great big dragonboat — we'd be wrecked by the first boat that didn't see us. We'd have to sit here all night, shouting and swinging lanterns to warn others off us.”

I pull hard at the line I'm holding, trying to get control of the mainsail. But Zeph's pulling at his own rope, and the
sail starts flapping and sagging as the boom jerks this way and that.

“You ain't taking us to the ghosts!” shouts Zeph. He clambers over and starts punching me on the arm, trying to get to the tiller.

I hunch against the blows for a bit, trying to hold the sail and the tiller, but he keeps on pounding. Then he gets a real good smack on my shoulder, and my whole arm goes nearly numb.

“GET OFF!” I shout and, without thinking, I let go of everything and start pounding back at Zeph with my fists. The boat sets up to rocking as we fight, and Cat's wailing and spitting. He takes a flying leap at Zeph, landing with all his claws out, right into Zeph's leg.

“Ow ow ow!” shouts Zeph. “Get your stupid mog off me!” He stops fighting me and starts kicking his leg about, trying to push Cat off. Cat bites him on the hand.

The boat's rocking so wildly there's water splashing in over the sides.

“Stop! We're going to sink!” I shout, and straight off Zeph goes still; I reckon he's not so stupid he wants to go under.

“Get your mog off me,” he growls, and I grab hold of Cat. Zeph swears as Cat's claws scrape out of him, then Cat's spitting and twisting in my arms.

“We've got to think sense,” I say to Zeph, “or we're going to end up drowned.” And now it ain't the rocking, but the swinging boom and the sagging sails we have to worry about. And
the river. Cos we've spun round, and we're drifting sideways with the current.

“Help me,” I say to Zeph, who's bent over rubbing his leg. “Get hold of that line and pull the sail in.”

“No. I won't. You want to sail to those ghost towers. That ain't sense, that's crazy. And your cat attacked me! I'm gonna throw him in the river!”

“Don't you dare even think it!” I shout. He glares at me, and doesn't say anything. I start ducking about, trying to catch the lines and pull in the sail. Zeph doesn't help, but at least he ain't punching me. Which lets me get hold of the tiller and try at fighting to get us steered in the right direction. But the boat ain't shifting. She's caught in the grip of the Thames, and we keep on drifting and spinning. I look up, and the first wisps and curls of mist are swirling round the top of the mast. Twenty breaths later, the cold, wet grayness has eaten us right up.

“I'm freezing,” says Zeph quietly, and I ain't surprised, cos his leathers look more for fighting and effect than anything else. I shouldn't think they're good at keeping warm when a cold mist comes poking with its fingers, sucking the warmth from everything it touches.

We're floating with the current, drifting into who knows what. The fog has taken every breath of wind, and the best I can do is steer us into the stream. In the end, I even tried Zeph's idea of throwing the anchor out, but the river bottom
turned out to be gravel, and it wouldn't stick. Every flick and twist of the fog sets me panicking. Is it rocks? Is it some piece of drowned town waiting to snag us? Are we about to crash into some other boat?

“Keep that bell sounding,” I say to Zeph.

“I know what to do,” he snaps, swinging the old brass bell so it clangs out into the dark, clammy night. I hope it's enough to keep us safe.

After a bit, Zeph says, “I'm sorry I hit you. You was right about the anchor.”

I sigh. “We wouldn't have got to the south shore, anyway. Not before the fog got us.”

Zeph nods.

“We shouldn't be fighting,” he says. “You're Angel Isling now. Wait until we get home, then you'll see.”

Home. That's where I want to go. Home to Granny, stoking up the fire and telling one of her stories. Home to Andy, mucking about at the harbor and getting shouted at by a captain. But that ain't what Zeph's talking about. And Granny and Andy ain't even there.

“What's it like? Where you live?” I ask.

“It's the best! My father's got the biggest hall in the whole of Essex — he can get a hundred warriors in the feasting room!” He looks at me.

“Big,” I say.

“It is. The wind gallery can hold forty in council, and father says there ain't any bigger until you get way
up to the northern Families, Norwich way.”

And I don't know what to say to that, cos I don't know what a wind gallery is, and I ain't never seen a feast hall, let alone one that'd hold a hundred warriors.

“It doesn't sound very homely,” I say.

“What'd you know, fisher?” says Zeph. “It's better than a fish-hut!”

And then it's silence, apart from the slap-slapping of the river and dank hissing of the fog around us.

Suddenly Cat squawks a warning, and Zeph shouts, “Look! Look there!”

He's pointing into the night, at a dark lump ahead. Something solid, not just the rippling fog. Something with trees and bushes.

An island!

I slam the tiller round as hard as I can, trying to push us toward it.

“What are you doing? I thought you wanted to keep away from everything.”