The Sea Watch (47 page)

He stormed out, leaving Teornis rubbing his chin speculatively and feeling pieces of a plan begin to fall into place.

Heiracles’s face tightened on hearing the news. ‘In what form?’ he demanded.

‘Dart-cavalry are close. Our scout signed for Onychoi as well,’ his man reported.

‘Hold them off,’ the lean man ordered, and the messenger went running for the hatch, ascending the ramp in great strides. Heiracles looked round at Paladrya and the two land-kinden. ‘They cannot breathe water, I take it?’ he snapped, indicating the caul that Stenwold still held.

‘Boss, there’s precious little they
can
do,’ Wys told him.

‘I cannot carry them with me. My entourage and I rode here, and it were best they left here separately, so as to confound pursuit. Gribbern . . .’

The dark man sighed. ‘Don’t reckon I much fancy it but, then, Nemoctes would do it if he were here. Shame he’s not, really.’

‘Gribbern, just give me a straight answer!’ Heiracles held his temper with difficulty.

The other man gave a monumental sigh. ‘Reckon I might take one, just about. Just one, mind. My Pserry won’t fit more, is my thinking.’

‘I’ll take the little one,’ Wys put in quickly.

‘This wasn’t what I wanted from you—’ started Heiracles.

‘It’s what you
need
, though, right? We can talk payment when we meet again.’

‘Gribbern can hide in the weed. Your barque will never outdistance dart-riders.’

‘My barque, chief, can look after itself. They’ll hit rough waters if they come after me,’ she promised. ‘You, squib, you’re mine.’ She dragged at Laszlo’s arm, and the little man gave Stenwold a wide-eyed look.

‘Go with her. We’ll meet again.’

‘But where? These clowns haven’t even got a
plan
, Ma’rMaker!’ Laszlo protested, pulling against Wys. ‘Who’s going to look after you?’

‘Just go.’ Stenwold forced a smile. ‘Be safe.’

‘I’ll send word by the Pelagists,’ Heiracles told Wys.

‘Right, boss.’ She hauled Laszlo up the ramp, with her crew following. The last Stenwold saw of the Fly was a caul being dragged over his still-protesting mouth.

‘Paladrya, will you ride with me?’ Heiracles proffered a hand.

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Under the circumstances, no.’

‘Then I would be delighted,’ she said pointedly. ‘Land-kinden . . .’ She turned her wide eyes on Stenwold, who was losing familiar faces by the second. For a second she stared at him, despite Heiracles’s obvious need to be gone.

‘Paladrya,’ Stenwold acknowledged and, to his surprise, she embraced him briefly, a moment’s clasp, her cheek to his, and then she was pulling away. ‘Good fortune.’

‘And you,’ Stenwold said. He turned to Gribbern, seeing little to inspire confidence in that dour, stone-pocked countenance.

‘Reckon you’d better come with me,’ the man grumbled, and headed up. Stenwold met Paladrya’s eyes once more before he followed.

In the water once more, back in the grip of the cold and the breath-stopping clench of the sea, Stenwold saw Gribbern kick off from the shell’s hatch and descend towards the bottom, his grey coat billowing around him like shabby wings. With no option, Stenwold did the same, paddling ineffectually at the water, while feeling a gentle current drift him towards the wall of tangled weed. He never really landed at all, only got close enough to the mud of the sea-floor to kick it into clouds of sediment, as he lurched and bobbed towards Gribbern’s waiting figure. The sea-kinden was gazing upwards, his arms dejectedly by his sides. Stenwold glanced up and saw shapes passing in the faint light of the shell-house’s lamps. They were swift, streamlined, and they were duelling as fiercely as any Exalsee aviators, darting against each other in a swirl of speed. Two clashed together, and he had a glimpse of riders crouched over couched lances, closing, then breaking apart in a swirl of dark blood.

Or ink?
They were riding squid, he saw, and riding them bizarrely backwards, with the beast’s head and trailing tentacles to the rear. They carried nothing more than lances, no bows or thrown spears or anything like modern weapons, and he wondered how far a crossbow bolt would travel with any force, down here.

He saw Wys’s barque move off ponderously through the water, banking across the face of the weed. One of the darting squid made a pass at it, but turned abruptly as it got close, zigzagging wildly away and almost unseating its rider.

Something caught at his sleeve and he thought instantly of clutching tendrils, and tried to kick away. His eyes found Gribbern’s long-suffering face, though, and the sea-kinden was pulling him along, not swimming but walking over the seabed in great, bounding strides. Stenwold caught his breath, such as it was, when he saw their destination: the woodlouse-thing, grazing quietly at a stand of weed, with its long antennae flicking mildly at the water.

I’m running out of air already
, Stenwold thought.
I can’t just sit atop that thing while it waddles off.
Gribbern’s tugging was insistent, though, and soon they found themselves in the shadow of the enormous creature. Abruptly, Stenwold was released, feeling himself begin to choke inside the caul. Gribbern had kicked off from the bottom, and vanished briefly behind the curved horn that was the near side of the monster’s head. Then he reappeared, gesturing urgently, and Stenwold made a tremendous effort, and jumped.

He made precious little headway, but it was enough for Gribbern to catch his outflung hand and pull him effortlessly the rest of the way. There was a gap there, like a vent or gill where the beast’s head joined the first segment of its body, and it was just large enough for a man to squeeze into. Gribbern seemed intent on forcing him through there and, with no other option, Stenwold pulled and grabbed and wriggled until he was suddenly inside a small chamber beyond. A moment later, Gribbern had joined him, not without some effort, and he ended up with his knees jabbing Stenwold’s chest, and Stenwold’s elbow in his eye. The chamber shook, and the wall at Stenwold’s back parted, spilling water into a further space beyond. He fell backwards, fighting to loosen the caul, and got it off with a great whoop of breath.

The air was stale-smelling in here, and there was only a single yellowish lamp. There was precious little for it to illuminate, either: a few seamless-looking lumps of shell that Stenwold guessed were containers, and a scattering of clothing that included another coat like Gribbern’s, a pair of thick leathery gauntlets and some long strips of cloth of uncertain function.

‘Where are we?’ he asked. The water that had come in with him was now draining away somewhere.

‘Home,’ Gribbern said shortly. The entire room pitched sideways, and then righted itself, and Stenwold realized that they were inside the monster, and that the monster was under way.

‘You . . . live in this thing?’

‘Pserry and I live together.’ One of Gribbern’s hands rose to stroke the room’s side with surprising tenderness. ‘Been forty years now, for Pserry and me. We’re too old for all of this chasing about, but we were the closest, more fool us, and Nemoctes and the others couldn’t get here in time. Our bad luck, that. Yours, too, otherwise you’d have had better quarters, no doubt. Still, you’re here now, so we’ll both have to make the best of it.’

‘How can you . . . where are we going?’

‘Away,’ Gribbern told him. ‘Pserry knows: he sees, and I see what he sees, or what he feels. Most of the time, there’s no light where we roam, we Pelagists. Though technically I’m a Profundist, me. Deeper than anyone, I go. Only mistake is coming up to the shallows, like this, is the way I see it.’

‘The
shallows
?’ Stenwold could not stop himself.

For the very first time, Gribbern smiled, but not pleasantly. ‘Oh, you’re a land-kinden, that’s right. Well, land-kinden man, there are depths and depths, and then there are the depths that we’ve seen, Pserry and me. After that it gets
real
deep.’

No sooner had Laszlo been bundled aboard the shell-ship than Wys was shouting for Lej to get them moving. The previously lazy drift of the ship turned into an abrupt surge, sending Fel and Phylles clutching for the netting, and Laszlo into the air with a flick of his wings. Wys was grinning fiercely.

‘Heading?’ bellowed her engineer.

‘Go deep around the weed!’ she called back. ‘We’ve some company we need to lose.’

‘Are we faster?’ Laszlo asked her.

‘No.’

‘Then how . . . ?’

‘We don’t get tired, and they don’t know the first thing about barques like this one. Let them break all the spears they want against our hull,’ she boasted proudly. A moment later something flashed knife-like across their view: a brief glimpse of a lean, spindly man crouching low in a high saddle, the beast beneath him just a pale blur in the shell-ship’s lamplight. The only impression Laszlo had of the steed was an enormous round eye.

A moment later there were more of them, coursing back and forth before them, and he realized that they were fighting. They lashed through the water with astonishing swiftness, the riders leaning sideways to jab lance points into the paths of their opponents. These were warriors such as Heiracles had commanded: tall, thin men and women clad in light, sculpted armour. Their free hands mostly held additional spears and they clearly disdained shields. Although their lightning offensives seldom connected, Laszlo saw one of them run straight through by the force of a strike, the lance piercing through breastplate and torso to drive deep into the mantle of his mount. The monster instantly bucked away in a cloud of ink and blood.

Was that one of Heiracles’s men? Or one of the Edmir’s?
There was no sure way for him to tell, although the fighters themselves obviously had no difficulty in discerning. It seemed impossible, in the dim water for them to recognize the faces of their enemies, yet they wore no uniforms, carried no emblems. A thought came to Laszlo, and he asked, ‘These cavalrymen of yours . . . ?’

‘The Dart-kinden,’ Wys confirmed, still intently watching her ship’s course. She was close by the window now, hands poised near what might qualify as some kind of levers.

‘They have the Art-speech with their beasts?’

‘Of course,’ was her prompt reply. ‘Most people do, who can’t get better transportation.’ At which she patted the vessel’s side affectionately. Her words held the familiar contempt of the technologically superior.

Laszlo nodded. He guessed then that the riders must be taking their cue from their mounts, who would recognize their own stablemates by scent or taste or something. Such Art-speech was something he had seen little of, back on land, but he had heard of it. It was seldom practised, there, save in a few notably backward places. The world had moved on.
But obviously not down here.

A second later Wys jumped back as one of the riders skimmed past the window, jabbing at it with his spear. Laszlo experienced a frozen moment of waiting for the membrane to tear like paper, but it held firm at the cost of an ugly white scar left in the spearpoint’s wake.

The rider was coming back for a second pass. It was clear that he did not fancy a head-on charge, but was trying to angle himself to make the most of his mount’s speed. Wys hauled down on some device, but with no visible effect.

Laszlo braced himself. He had the dripping caul ready to hand, still, though if the ship was breached he guessed it would be little enough use. He glanced at Fel and Phylles, and saw them calm.

When it seemed that the rider was just about to run his mount’s pointed end right through the shell-ship’s hull, the beast twisted aside beneath him, jerking and flailing with its tentacles. It righted itself, facing clear in the opposite direction, and Laszlo had a moment of watching the rider fight furiously to turn it round before it vanished at top speed into the murk.

‘A little concoction from the Hot Stations,’ Wys explained, sounding very pleased with herself. ‘They don’t like the taste, you see.’

Another couple of Dart-kinden riders appeared briefly within their view, but their animals began veering off even as they did so. Shortly thereafter, there was nothing but the submarine blackness to be seen.

‘And we’re clear,’ Wys announced, stepping back from the window. ‘Heiracles’s boys must have given them a fair old run, and there’s going to be some heads rolling amongst the Edmir’s guard today. He’s not a man you ever want to report a failure to, I hear.’

‘Let’s hope it is a failure they do report,’ Laszlo pointed out.

‘Oh, if I’d know you were such a sour one, I’d have left you,’ she reproached him, grinning. ‘Now, listen up, you’re crew until Heiracles tells me what to do with you. That means you do what I say.’

‘Oh, it does, does it?’ Laszlo bristled.

‘Or you can swim,’ she pointed out. ‘You reckon you get to be a passenger when we all have to work? You can pay your passage, can you?’

Laszlo opened and closed his mouth a few times, then folded his arms sulkily. ‘So what do I do?’

‘Oh, Phylles can start you off on something simple.’

‘Wys, they were talking earlier, and he can’t even accreate,’ the larger woman complained. ‘And unless you want lots of things reaching down from high places, that trick of his isn’t exactly useful for much.’