The Sea Watch (52 page)

‘Speak to me,’ he insisted. ‘What has happened that we have to go under again?’

‘We had to descend,’ she confessed, very softly, and then looked up at him. Stenwold heard himself make a strange sound. Her skin, the skin of her face, was cracked and wrinkled, as though she had aged decades. ‘The sun harms us,’ she told him. ‘My companion and I, we cannot bear its touch.’

Would you like me to show you the sun
? she had asked. He felt ill. ‘Your face . . . will you . . . ?’

‘I will be well soon,’ she assured him. ‘But the sun will kill us if we let it. That has been known. We are much more of the sea than the other sea-kinden. To us, the land is only an echo in the memories. We were the first – or almost the first.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

She just stared blankly back at him and asked, ‘What for?’

Laszlo woke at the words ‘Hey, land-kinden’, finding that he understood them, and his current situation, without any clutching confusion. He was lying in one of the cargo nets that draped the interior of Wys’s barque, and had found it served as a hammock by any other name. He opened an eye to find Phylles regarding him suspiciously.

‘Someone here you should see, Wys says,’ the Polypoi woman told him. She kept her distance, mostly, and he guessed it was because she was unsure of what dangerous Art he might possess.
Which would be a wise thought, if I was something other than a Fly.

He dropped down from his roost with a flicker of wings that made Phylles back up several steps more, then saw immediately who she had meant. Wys and Fel were both standing near the hatch, along with a tall, broad-shouldered man in armour.

‘Who’s he?’ the Fly asked. ‘How’d he get here?’ Phylles flicked a finger past his shoulder, towards the window. There was something hanging in the water, and Laszlo had to stare at it a while before he understood. It was of almost the exact size and shape as the submersible, save that it was still living. Where Wys had placed her hatch sprouted the head and arms of a sea monster, The eye was enormous and white, with a tiny pinprick of a pupil, set beneath a mottled leathery flap that looked to Laszlo like some kind of poorly fitting cap. There was a forest of writhing tendrils in front of the eye, far more than any creature could surely find a use for. Compared to Arkeuthys, Laszlo decided, it looked placidly inscrutable, as though it knew a great deal that it wasn’t letting on about.

He marched over to Wys, determined to see what madman had come sailing to them aboard such a beast. The newcomer looked as though he was some kind of Kerebroi, and a powerful and elegant one, at that. His skin was darker than Paladrya’s, or that of the oubliette guards: the sort of faded brown that bones turned to out in the desert. He had a high forehead, long black hair curling from a widow’s peak, and his beard gleamed with oils. His armour impressed Laszlo the most, if only because it was comprehensible to him as something that could be manufactured and worn. The individual pieces had obviously been accreated: moulded out of something like crabshell into the form of breastplate, shoulder-guards, greaves and the like, and fantastically wrought into the shape of waves and sea-wrack, scallops and coiled snails. But at least it was a suit of plate armour such as land-kinden might wear, rather than the monstrous, all-encompassing carapaces of the Onychoi. Hanging from a loop at his waist was a truly nasty-looking weapon, a crowbar crossed with a pickaxe, that must be of some use in levering both men and monsters out of their shells. There was also a shield slung across his back.

He was possibly the most normal person that Laszlo had seen in some while.

‘Little land-kinden,’ Wys gestured, ‘meet Nemoctes.’

Laszlo gave the man a grudging nod. He remembered that name, at least, from their interrupted conference.

Nemoctes regarded him evenly. ‘Greetings to you, land-kinden.’

‘The name’s Laszlo. Where’s Master Maker?’ Laszlo saw no particular reason to be polite about it.

‘Safe,’ Nemoctes assured him. ‘As safe as we can make him. There were complications or I would have sent word earlier.’

‘What complications?’ Laszlo wanted to know.

‘Gribbern is dead, but another who heeds me rescued your friend,’ Nemoctes declared. ‘They head for the Hot Stations – as I discover Wys had already guessed. We will hold a fresh conclave there, beyond Claeon’s reach.’

‘Good for you,’ Laszlo replied stubbornly. He half hoped the man might take offence, showing what he was made of, but Nemoctes simply nodded.

‘It’s war, isn’t it?’ Wys said unexpectedly. ‘Any way you look at it, Hermatyre’s going to fight with itself.’

A shadow crossed Nemoctes’s face. ‘If these land-kinden can secure the heir for us, then perhaps the bloodshed will be little, and within the palace only. Otherwise . . . it may be a uncertain situation indeed, if Heiracles raises the mob in his own name.’

Wys made a rude noise. ‘I’d not follow Heiracles out of the sun unless he paid me. I don’t know what they think of him in Hermatyre, but I don’t reckon it’s much.’

‘You may be right.’ Nemoctes shrugged, the plates of his armour scraping. ‘My people have helped him as much as we can, and more than we should in some cases. We have no army to fight on his behalf, though, and nor would we, anyway. I do not care, myself, what blood runs in his veins, but enough others do, and therefore will not accept him even though they bear Claeon no love.’

‘Maybe I’ll start trading out of Deep Seep soon,’ Wys mused. ‘Don’t recall anybody caring much about wars down there.’

‘Too cursed cold down there, is the reason,’ Phylles muttered, and Wys nodded glumly.

‘Well, you go talk to your folks,’ she told Nemoctes. ‘We’ll see you inside the Stations, and then we’ll see what’s where.’

The tall man nodded, and opened the hatch, stepping into the small room beyond. Once he was gone, Wys sighed long and deep. When she looked up, her eyes were bright, though.

‘Fel, Phylles, Lej,’ she addressed them, even the unseen mechanic, ‘It’s one of those times.’

‘You mean where we either get rich or dead?’ Phylles asked sourly.

‘We’ve been rich so far, haven’t we? And not dead even once?’ Wys was grinning. ‘With such a record, how can we go wrong?’

Both Phylles and Fel were still looking highly unenthusiastic, so she dismissed them with a wave of her hand. ‘Land-kinden,’ she beckoned, ‘Laszlo, come to the window with me. Let’s see Nemoctes off.’

Laszlo followed her over to the far end of the chamber. Nemoctes must already have reached his mount, for now the creature was lazily departing, retreating ponderously backwards off into the darkness.

‘Tell me about your people, landsman,’ Wys prompted him.

‘You mean my kinden?’

‘I mean your people. There are some folks up there who’d want you back, yes? Someone must have shed a tear when your barque docked again at your colony, and you weren’t on it.’

‘My family,’ Laszlo replied.
Or at least they’d better have, rotten bastards.

‘Pay to get you back, I’d wager,’ Wys considered.

Laszlo shot her a sidelong look but she was watching the passing waters idly. ‘They would, at that,’ he informed her, though with the same mental caveat as before.

She nodded. ‘I’m a woman used to making my own way in the world, Laszlo,’ she said, ‘and you may have noticed that I’ve taken a shine to you. You’re not so different to us, for all you’re clueless. I keep wanting to shave your head in order to make a civilized man of you, but otherwise you’re just a human being, like we all are.’

A fair sight more than you or your crew
, Laszlo thought, but he just nodded diplomatically.

‘Heiracles, Nemoctes, and Claeon even, none of them have the brains of a stone,’ Wys observed thoughtfully. ‘What do they see in you? That you’re either a threat, or something to conquer, or some kind of, what, captive militia to rule the colony with? No, no, no, stupid, all of them. I’ve seen you. You go and talk to Spillage like you’re an engineer. Your clothes are in a poor state, and you wear more of them than anyone could want, but I can see they were tailored well enough. Your people have potential.’

‘Well, thank you,’ said Laszlo acidly, and she put up a warning hand before his face instantly.

‘You just rein in that tongue and listen to someone when they’re telling you something to your advantage,’ she snapped. ‘Wouldn’t it be a tragedy if we never got to the Stations at all, but left you somewhere where you could just kick off for home, up above the waves?’

His breath caught and he wanted to shake her, to clutch her tight. ‘Home?’ he whispered.

‘Your people make things differently to us. That means they must make different things from ours,’ she said. ‘Things we’ve never seen. Things that are common as dirt to you will be like crab’s ink down here,’ she said, which he assumed was a rare or non-existent commodity. ‘Things we take for granted, well, your lot’d tear each other apart for them. You see where I’m going with this?’

‘Trade,’ he replied.

‘Surely, trade,’ she agreed. ‘Stuff Heiracles and stuff their war, I say. If your people, your family, were of a mind for barter, then why not? All anyone’s ever said about the land was that it was death, that the landsmen – if there even were any – were murdering savages, and that everything up there was like poison. Now here you are, and if we haven’t managed to poison you, I reckon you’re not likely to poison us. So how about we forget the Stations and start making some money?’

‘What about Master Maker?’ Laszlo asked her.

‘Nothing to do with me,’ she said. ‘Heiracles will sell him somewhere, or Nemoctes, or who knows what. This is between you and me, Laszlo.’

Home. My family.
This was the best offer he was likely to get and surely, once there, he could do something to rescue Stenwold . . .

That seemed unlikely, he had to admit. By the time any reliable contact was established between the
Tidenfree
crew and Wys’s people, Stenwold would have gone on to whatever fate the sea held in wait for him.

Inwardly, Laszlo swore.

‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ he said slowly, ‘but I do have to get Master Maker out. It’s not right, otherwise. But, listen, if we both get up on to land, then I promise you’ve got a deal. My chief’ll be happy for it. You’d like him – he’s just your sort of person. We’re like you, kind of, my family. We’re all making our own way in the world, too. Get us both back, and you’ve got yourself a deal.’

Wys remained expressionless for a moment, wholly impossible to read, but then she smiled unexpectedly. ‘You’re a tricky little pismire, you are,’ she told him. ‘Well, I reckon it’s the Stations then, and there we’ll see what we can’t do for your friend.’

Travelling with Lyess was strangely like riding in the cabin of an airship. Despite the labouring bell of the creature above them, it was impossible to tell whether they were making headway or just being coasted along by the current flowing outside. For all the creature’s size, they were like a speck of nothing amid the vastness of the ocean. By Sten-wold’s reckoning, most of the time they might as well be stalled in place and going nowhere.

To relieve the sameness of their voyaging, he tried meditating on Art, something he had not done in a decade. He was unsure what malformed Art might come to a man, locked down here in the depths, but the gentle rhythm of the huge jellyfish was conducive to letting his mind wander, and at least it passed the time. Sometimes, when he came to himself, though, he found Lyess sitting right next to him, a fraction of an inch from touching – and watching him, always watching.

She is lonely
, he understood sadly.
She had not realized how lonely she was until I gave her something to contrast it with.

When the sea did give his eyes something to feast on, the meals it provided sat ill with him. On one occasion they saw a battle, or at least something like a battle. A Benthic train straggled out in a long dark line against the grey mud of the sea bottom, comprising a chain of armoured beasts and the occasional equally armoured machine. Against them had come a tide of orange and red, and at first Stenwold could not discern what he was looking at. It seemed to be a sea of spines and spikes, a crawling carpet of points and jagged edges. Then his eyes began to single out movement, and he saw that the attackers were great thorny starfish – many-fingered, creeping monsters – along with some that resembled simply impossible balls of lance-like skewers, advancing like tight-knit units of pikemen. In amongst these thronging creatures were men, lithe men with orange skins that seemed likewise rough and spined. Wearing piecemeal armour of bronze, wielding spears and forward-curving swords, they threw themselves at the Benthists in a berserk fury, their animals surging on every side.

The Benthists were swarming to the defence: armoured Onychoi lumbering forth with mauls and swords and the reinforced claws of their Art, while their own creatures snapped and clipped at the enemy with their great claws. They snipped off the spikes of their attackers and pincered through their questing limbs, but Stenwold saw several of the ponderous crustaceans overwhelmed by the crawling onslaught, enwrapped by razor-coated arms and then somehow simply taken apart, pieces of leg and shell drifting off between the assailants in a pale cloud.

The human protagonists were no less savage. Here an Onychoi took his enemy’s arm between claw and dagger, and severed it neatly at the shoulder. There one of the attackers brought the honed tip of his blade to bear in cracking through a defender’s breastplate. The worst thing was the pace of conflict, for it was all so slow, so weighted down by the water, as though they were enacting some leisurely and complex dance, fighting and dying at such a leaden pace that every victim must have had ample time to contemplate his unavoidable fate.