The Frost Child (20 page)

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"Just keep her straight," Owen shouted back. "We'll be out of it in ten minutes."

Afterward he wondered how they had survived that ten minutes. Ahead of them there appeared massive jagged rocks. Sheets of time crashed up against them and were flung high in the air. The sea of time around them was a turmoil, and the harder Owen tried to turn away, the more it seemed that the helm fought him. He studied the Mortmain. If the course was correct, they would sail right onto the rocks, but if not ... He glanced back at tossing angry waves.
Better the waves than the rocks
, he thought, and reached for the Mortmain to change the heading. But Silkie touched his hand.

"Trust the
Wayfarer
."

The rocks towered above them now, slick and glassy with razor sharp crests. And then they were among them, unseen reefs suddenly appearing to the left and to the right. Silkie leaned over the bow and shouted back to Owen, but the noise of time crashing against the rocks made it hard to hear.

And yet the tiller of the
Wayfarer
felt light in his hand as she danced out of danger. The Mortmain rings moved at quicksilver speed.

"Owen--look!" Silkie shouted. Two great pillars of rock towered above them. Then he realized that they were not rocks but massive carved figures of men. The faces had been eroded, so you could only see something drooping and mournful, but the stone swords in their

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hands looked sharp as razors. There was a gap between them. He swung the tiller, but the
Wayfarer
seemed to move more quickly, and the little ship darted between the two pillars. Before them was a face of sheer rock. Owen looked down at the Mortmain again. The two symbols were exactly aligned.

"Silkie," he yelled, "the sails!" She dived across and grabbed the rope that lowered the sails. Just before they struck, the sail fell, and the wall of rock seemed to dissolve in front of them.

They found themselves high above a calm sea inlet. There were mountains to either side and ahead of them the lights of what appeared to be a town.

"We'll put her down in the water and sail toward the lights," Owen said.

"Where are we?" Silkie asked.

"Port Merforian," Owen said.

"Port Merforian? I never heard of it."

"No. Unless you were a pirate, you wouldn't have," Owen said.

He put the boat down on the water and gave the tiller to Silkie. His shoulders and his back were aching. Silkie sailed the boat well on water, with a sure touch. It was dark, but there were stars in the sky, and it was warm, so they had to take off the suits. Owen had forgotten what it felt like to be warm. He sat down on the rail and looked ahead. Fighting the storm had meant that he hadn't thought of anything else, and his head was clear.

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The entrance in the rocks was obviously a way to stop intruders from getting into the pirates' world. The heat meant that the Harsh had not conquered here yet. But, despite the heat, he felt a sudden chill. The maps! He had never realized how valuable and dangerous they were! If the Harsh had the maps and the Mortmain, they would be able to make their way to all the hidden places in time. No one would be safe from them. The future of more than one world lay with him.

Up ahead he could see the lights twinkling on the oily waters of a harbor. As they got closer they could see a crescent-shaped bay under a tall conical hill that looked as if it might once have been a volcano but was now covered in dense foliage.

"Look!" Silkie pointed as they drew near, her face shining. Large pink birds, like flamingos, roosted in the branches of the trees.

The harbor was crowded with ships and boats of all kinds: tankers and rusty coasters, elegant yachts and black-painted speedboats with a sinister look about them, and in between every kind of skiff and raft and canoe, many of which looked as if they would sink if you dared to take them to sea. People swarmed over the boats, some mending nets, others throwing boxes of fish up onto the quay. There were fair-haired fishwives and salty mariners with long white beards, swarthy ruffians smoking black cheroots, and pretty girl deckhands with bright red skirts and pistols at their hips. Along the wharf side he could see teetering piles of goods and barrels, and behind them crumbling buildings, some dark and some

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with garish signs--he could see a scorpion and next door a dancing woman, the lights on one leg broken, so she appeared to be dancing on one foot. Hawkers stood on the quay, fish sellers and buyers, kiosks selling a dozen different kinds of food. The air was full of rich aromas. People sat at battered tables eating their evening meal and drinking wine. And everyone was talking and shouting in such a jumble of languages and accents that Owen's head swam.

They rounded a tumbledown jetty, Owen keeping an eye out for anyone who resembled a guard.

"Sail her over there," he said. There was a jumble of smaller craft, not unlike their own. The
Wayfarer
would be well hidden among them. He scanned the harbor for the
Faltaine
, but there was no sign of Yarsk's buccaneer craft. Owen was sorry--even though they were pirates, they had been sailing the seas for a long time.

They sailed gently past a row of houseboats and heard a man and woman arguing. A one-eyed terrier watched them warily from the bow of another boat. From the wharf side came voices raised in raucous singing.

"Maybe I'll hear the song!" he said.

"What song?" Silkie asked.

Owen told her about the words he had heard sung by the crew of the
Faltaine
, and how he had heard more on the recording device in the tapestry hall.

"I'm sure it's important," he said.

"Sing it for me," she said.

"I'm not sure ...," he began, turning red.

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"Please."

He hesitated, then shut his eyes and began.

To sail time's ocean wide

In time and time's divide

Till the book of the past

Thaws winter's child at last...

Owen fell silent. Then, faintly, he heard the song taken up. He looked wildly around, until his eye fell on a punt that was just rounding the end of the pier. The punt was being propelled by a man in a black hat, but it was the woman bent over a baby in the front of the punt who was singing the second verse of the song.

Her earth mistress pride

More dead than alive

In her hands his fate

The boy she awaits...

The punt slid around the end of pier, and the woman's voice faded away.

"That was spooky," Silkie said. She steered the boat easily between two rusty hulks sunk in the harbor mud. Owen stared after the punt.

"I want to tie the
Wayfarer
up and get working on her," Silkie said. "She took a battering during that storm." She stroked the rail fondly.

Owen looked around the
Wayfarer
and felt a pang of guilt. She looked battered and her stays and stanchions were stretched and broken in places.

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Silkie eased the
Wayfarer into
the cluster of small craft. Owen climbed into the bow and moored her to the harbor wall.

"What do we do now?" Silkie asked.

"Let's get the
Wayfarer
into some sort of shape fast so we can keep going," Owen said. "If we can get that done, I can explore in the morning to find out how we get out of here. I don't fancy a strange town in the dark."

They set to, Owen tidying and cleaning and staying out of Silkie's way while she did the skilled work, her fingers quick and sure as she repaired the damaged rigging. Every time they slacked they both thought of their friends at the Workhouse, and worked even harder.

When they finally stopped, the quayside over their heads had gone quiet save for some late-night revelers. They were both exhausted.

"Time for food!" Silkie exclaimed.

"We have to keep working," Owen said.

"There's nothing more we can do in this light," Silkie said, "and we have to rest and eat."

They secured everything they could on deck, then went down into the cabin and locked the hatch. Owen found eggs and fried them up with some of the ham. It wasn't fish and chips, but it smelled delicious. Candlelight flickered in the small cabin as they sat down to eat. The
Wayfarer
felt safe and cozy, and for a little while they forgot about their troubles. Owen found himself telling Silkie about his lost father, how his car had gone into the harbor when Owen was only a baby, and had never been

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found. Silkie listened sympathetically. Then Owen realized what he was doing.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm babbling on about this, and none of the Raggies have ... well, you don't have anyone, really."

"The children have Wesley, and me, I suppose."
But you and Wesley don't have anyone
, Owen thought. Silkie yawned and smiled.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I need to sleep."

"Me too," Owen said, weariness flooding his body. He could not remember the last time he had slept in a place where it was warm and secure, with no enemy camped at the gate. Silkie climbed into her bunk. Owen checked that the hatch was securely locked, then got into his own bunk.

"Goodnight, Silkie. We'll get up at dawn," he said, but she was already asleep. Owen lay awake for a while, listening to the gentle sound the waves made against the hull, then he too fell asleep.

When they woke the sun was shining and Port Merforian teemed with activity: ships and boats coming and going, cargoes being loaded, shipwrights and merchants thronging on the quay. Owen opened the hatch and emerged blinking into the sun. Fishermen were mending nets on some of the small craft beside the
Wayfarer
, but no one paid them any heed.

Owen climbed up onto the quay. Battered trucks wheezed along the quayside, with children running behind them. A man had set up a stall selling roast

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chickens. There were sailors everywhere, men and women, many of them scarred or missing limbs.

"At least I'll look at home here," Silkie said, appearing on the quay beside him. She touched the scar on her face. To his own surprise, and to hers, Owen found himself squeezing her hand.

Port Merforian looked like it could be a dangerous place for certain kinds of people, Owen thought. But for runaways and renegades and people who didn't want questions asked, it was ideal.

"We need to find a safe way out of here," Owen said.

"The boat's keel needs fixing first," Silkie said. "She can't be sailed in the state she's in."

"How long will it take?" Owen asked.

"Three or four hours. The keel piece has shifted. I need to take it out and plane it down. Then there's the fore stanchion and the aft guy rope ..."

Silkie went on detailing the work. Owen burned to be on his way and to find the Long Woman. He knew how much the Workhouse was relying on him. But part of him hoped he might hear the rest of the song that the crew of the
Faltaine
had been singing. He was convinced that the song would supply answers to some of the questions that crowded into his head.

They had some breakfast and started in on the repairs. Silkie became more and more irritated with Owen, who was getting under her feet. By lunchtime she was exasperated.

"I can work quicker without you," she snapped. "Go

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and see if you can buy some food. We need to keep up our stores."

"I haven't got any money," he said.

"For goodness' sake. There's money in the drawer under the table."

Owen hadn't known there
was
a drawer under the table, and indeed, it was concealed. He had to run his hands under the table to find it. There was a switch on it, and when he touched it, the drawer sprang open. Inside the drawer was an old-fashioned black leather wallet. When he opened it, he found a handful of gold coins. He stuck some of them in his pocket. Then, steering clear of the short-tempered Silkie, he clambered onto the quay.

He went over to the man selling roast chickens. The man was short with a potbelly and a graying mustache. Owen asked for a chicken, and when the man gave him one in a brown paper bag Owen handed him the coin.

The man stared at the coin.

"I can't take this," he said. "Steal it, did yer?"

"No, no. It was kind of ... left to me."

"Askin' to get robbed, you is," the man said. "You'll get no chicken off me with this."

"Is it not enough?"

"Enough! Go to the bank. Thread Street. Go on, get off, out of here!" Muttering angrily to himself, the man waved Owen away in the direction of a nearby thoroughfare. Owen walked up it. It was broad and might once have been elegant, but there were weeds growing through the paving and junk dumped on street corners.