The Fall of Tartarus (8 page)

We
climbed from the train with our bags and strolled from the station, into a
large cobbled courtyard surrounded by tall trees aflame with copper leaves.

‘Sinclair!’

Loi
jumped excitedly from a horse-drawn trap and ran across the cobbles. A giant of
a man, whose smile seemed a mixture of tolerance towards the Messenger’s
impetuosity, and amicable welcome, climbed down more slowly and followed her.

Loi
hugged me, and then made the introductions. ‘Gentlemen, Shipmaster Sigmund
Gastarian of the
Golden Swan
- the finest master on Tartarus.’

The
big man, garbed in sailor’s breeches, an armless vest and a tricorne, smiled
modestly. He shook hands with Blackman and myself. ‘She exaggerates,’ he said
in a quiet voice at odds with his appearance, ‘and from all I hear we have you
to thank that she is still able to do so. Welcome to Charybdis. I’ve booked you
into the Jasmine as my guests. When you’ve refreshed yourselves, we’ll eat.’

The
Jasmine hotel was one of a dozen three-storey timber buildings that lined the
Mariners’ Walk, overlooking the wharves of the river. There was much activity
along the Walk. ‘Sailors all,’ Gastarian explained, as the trap pulled up
outside the hotel. ‘The race commences the day after tomorrow, and the teams
are making last minute preparations.’

The
lavish meal that the Shipmaster threw in our honour lasted all evening and well
into the early hours. Present were the crew of the
Golden Swan
- some
twelve youths of my own age, and their escorts - a five-piece band playing
shanties, and, later, a slew of masters and crews from competing ships. There
was a strange air about the party that ensued, a mixture of apprehension at
what the future might hold, and a devil-may-care determination to live for the
minute. I recalled what Greaves had told me about the mortality statistics, and
as I looked around at the drunken, happy faces I wondered how many of them
might survive this year’s race.

There
were speeches and toasts, declarations and promises - I recall Gastarian
telling a hushed crowd how we effected the rescue of the Messenger, and
demanding from me a few words, but I cannot for the life of me remember what I
said, except that it received a roar of approval and the reward of more drink.
I recall seeing Loi once or twice, and smiling across at her. But it was as if
we were both too shy to come together in company. At one point I saw Blackman
and Gastarian deep in debate, and noted that though there were other Blackmen
present, none wore black leathers.

I
must have spoken to a hundred strangers that night, and downed a dozen measures
of alcohol. I have no recollection of getting to my room - but I fancy that Loi
must have had a hand in assisting me. When I awoke in the orange-hued early
hours, the room spinning and my mouth as dry as sand, she was once again in my
arms.

The
following afternoon she took me to a cafe on the waterfront. More visitors had
arrived in the town during the night, in preparation for the race; they
promenaded up and down Mariners’ Walk, inspecting the many colourful boats
moored prow to stern at the river’s edge. We were not alone in the cafe; two or
three youths in sailors’ attire caught my attention. They were wearing
skullcaps with leads attached to persona-cubes before them on the table.

I
whispered to Loi, ‘What are they doing?’

She
frowned. ‘My guess is that they’re programming the cubes - downloading their personalities
into the devices. They will then give the cubes to loved ones and next of kin
in case they don’t survive the race.’

‘Does
the Church not proscribe such technology?’ I asked.

‘Of
course,’ she replied. ‘The persona cubes are illegally imported. Their owners
face severe fines, even imprisonment, if discovered.’

I
judged that I was sufficiently close to Loi to tell her about my father.
‘Blackman said that I should visit the race museum on St Benedict’s island. Do
you know how I might get there?’

‘Well,
I do,’ she said, her eyes downcast. ‘The only problem is that the island is the
finishing point of the race - it stands three kilometres from the mouth of the
Laurent river in the Sapphire sea itself.’

‘So?
I don’t see any problem,’

‘Sinclair
- the only boats that visit the island at this time of year are those that
complete the race. The straits between the mainland and the island are so
treacherous . . .’

I
sat back and digested the information.

At
last I said, ‘Do you know if there’s still a spare place aboard the
Swan?’

‘Gastarian
was looking for crewmen this morning.’

I
hesitated. Then: ‘I think I’d better get myself a blank persona-cube, to leave
some record of who I was.’

Loi
reached across the table and took my hand. ‘There’s no need for that. You don’t
think that if the
Swan
went down I wouldn’t save you, pluck you from the
river just as you saved me?’ She stood and pulled me from my seat. ‘Come, let’s
find Gastarian and tell him the good news.’

We
strolled along the river bank, admiring the line of ships, each one a-swarm
with crew attending to the final preparations before tomorrow’s early start.

‘There
it is,’ Loi announced, pointing. ‘The
Golden Swan.’

I
might have guessed the vessel’s identity, even without the help of the
nameplate bolted to its timbers. The ship was the only golden one on the river;
thirty metres long, two-decked and three-masted, its figurehead a swan’s proud
neck and head.

I
saw Blackman and Gastarian standing together on the foredeck. The Shipmaster
peered down at us and waved. ‘Climb aboard. Let me show you around.’

We
joined them on the higher deck. ‘Good news,’ Loi said. ‘Sinclair wishes to join
the crew of the
Golden Swan!’

Gastarian
turned to Blackman. ‘Is prognostication another of your many talents?’ He
turned to me. ‘He told me last night that you would sign on before sunset.’

I
smiled at Blackman. ‘However did you know?’ I asked.

‘Let’s
say . . . intuition, shall we?’

‘And
what,’ Loi put in, ‘does your intuition say about the race?’

‘I
see the
Golden Swan
victorious,’ Blackman forecast. ‘Gastarian the
recipient of the Grand Prize, Sinclair and Loi blithely happy . . .’

The
Shipmaster cleared his throat. ‘And you, sir? I take it that you will join our
crew?’

Blackman
assented. ‘I would be honoured to serve as the eyes of the
Swan.’

‘This
calls for a celebration - but first let us show young Sinclair my ship.’

The
tour of inspection was perfunctory enough.

‘Manoeuvrability
is the key to our success,’ he said. ‘To dodge the corals we need shifting
weights on the lower deck. My crew - yourself included, Sinclair - will provide
this weight.’ He indicated a dozen timber constructions, like crucifixes, that
projected at angles from the gunwales and overhung the water. ‘In unison, upon
my command, you will throw yourself from one to the other of these. I’m using
more crew than any other ship, but I hope that our increased weight in that
department will be offset by the fact that the
Swan
is lighter than most
of the other vessels. You’ve seen enough? Let’s join the others in the tavern.’

And
thus was my crash-course in the mariner’s art concluded.

We
found the crew of the
Golden Swan
in a tavern done out like the cabin of
a ship. Gastarian ordered drinks and we sat at a corner table. Blackman left
after just one drink - the revelry did not accord with his pensive mood. I sat
for the rest of the evening with the tiny Messenger on my lap, drunk less from
the alcohol I consumed than from Loi’s presence. We talked and talked, of
everything and nothing, of ourselves, our pasts and futures, our hopes and
fears . . .

Loi
must have been reading my mind. ‘Come,’ she said, dragging me from my chair.

We
sprinted down Mariners’ Walk to the Jasmine hotel, ran hand in hand up the wide
staircase. I stopped outside the bedroom and stared in shock at the door. ‘What
. . .’ I began.

The
lock had been forced, the wood of the jamb splintered. The door stood ajar. I
pushed it open and stepped into the room, Loi beside me. A few drawers hung
open, and the mattress of my bed had been dislodged as if the intruders had
expected to find valuables beneath it.

I
checked my travelling bag.

‘Did
they take anything?’ Loi asked.

‘I
don’t think so. Fortunately I had my credit chip with me. Just a minute—’

‘What’s
wrong?’

I
emptied out my bag, but it was nowhere to be seen.

‘My
father’s persona-cube,’ I whispered. I slumped amid my tumbled belongings. ‘But
who could possibly have wanted my father’s persona-cube?’

Loi
stroked my cheek. ‘Some evil sailor,’ she said, ‘who’d wipe it clean and
programme it with his own identity? Oh, Sinclair, I’m so sorry.’

I
hardly knew how to react appropriately. The cube had been so much a part of my
life that I could not imagine being without it. And yet its loss seemed less
important - and in some strange way symbolic - because of the feelings I had
for the girl now kneeling before me.

We
came together in a fierce embrace and stumbled towards the bed.

The
hectic events of the following morning allowed me no time to brood over the
loss of the cube, or to reflect upon the night spent with Loi.

At
first light I was awoken by a knock upon the door. ‘Sinclair,’ Gastarian said.
‘It is the morning of the race.’

The
sun was just above the horizon and already Mariners’ Walk was thronged with
spectators gathered to watch the ships as they sailed downriver to the starting
point. We followed Gastarian and Blackman through the crowds towards the
Golden Swan.
All along the waterfront sailors were boarding their vessels,
and race officials checked to ensure that no crews exceeded eighteen, the
maximum allowed. We swarmed aboard the
Swan
and took our stations.

Gastarian
stood tall and proud before the wheel on the upper deck, calling encouragement
down to us. Loi sat cross-legged on the lower deck, smiling across at me from
time to time. Blackman affixed his spars and rose aloft, his flickering wings
lifting him high above the masts of the ship. While four of the crew set the
sails, the rest of us buckled ourselves into the harnesses which were roped to
wooden eyes in the centre of the deck. The length of the ropes allowed us to
reach the timber frames projecting from the gunwales. Once I was secure in my
harness, I glanced up and down the river: the other ships were almost under
way, their masters shouting their readiness to the officials on the shore. Other
Blackmen, though none in sable leathers, patrolled above their boats, together
with the Messengers. Sails and spinnakers bloomed as the ships, the
Golden
Swan
among them, cast off and sailed down the river to starting point
proper.

As
soon as we had set off, a transformation overcame the quiet Gastarian. He shed
his reserved persona and took control.

‘Central,
boys!’ he called to us over his shoulder. We crouched amidships, grasping
purpose-made handholds on the deck. Above us, silhouetted against the cerulean
sky, Loi and Blackman flew side by side.

Soon
all thirty ships were proceeding at a leisurely pace downriver, a colourful
armada with airborne attendants. I noticed perhaps twenty Messengers, the tiny,
faerie creatures flying above each boat which could afford their services.
Along every inch of the riverbank crowds waved and cheered; bunting and
pennants lined the way. A ridiculous pride swelled within me, replacing for
seconds at a time the bowel-wrenching fear at the thought of what I had embarked
upon.

We
approached the broad Laurent river, its half-kilometre width deceptively calm
at this point. One by one we left the tributary behind, sailed onto the Laurent
and passed beneath a high arching footbridge. From this bridge hung thirty
thick ropes, and as each boat passed under the bridge a member of the crew
assigned the task grasped the rope and made it fast to the ship. Our man made
no mistake, and tied it securely to a beam of timber traversing the stern. We
were tugged to a gentle halt along with the other ships. I looked along the
starting line, at the ships waiting to be released, their eager crews, their
hovering Messengers and Blackmen.

I
glanced into the sky; Loi hovered low, her wings a blur of gossamer. Blackman
flew fifty metres ahead of the
Golden Swan,
ready to scan the river and
call back instructions to Gastarian.

I
exchanged glances with the rest of the crew; on each face was an identical
expression: the grim determination to succeed, belying the fear that each of us
felt.

A
profound silence settled over the phalanx of ships. My heart pounding, I looked
up at Loi, who saw me and waved. The official starter counted down from twenty.
At zero, the ropes were released from the bridge and the thirty-odd ships
surged forwards. It must have been a stirring sight - so many sailing ships
abreast and hurtling downriver in search of an early advantage. I was aware
only of our increasing speed, the sun hot on my back, and Gastarian’s shouted
instructions. ‘Okay, and here we go. Stay central, boys! Move only when I give
the word. We’ve started well!’