The Singer of All Songs (22 page)

At once Mica was racing through the maze of passageways; Calwyn saw the flash of her bare feet as she ran, like pale fish darting through murky water. The passages twisted and turned, walls loomed up in front of her face; she didn’t know the way as well as Mica, who could have run it blindfolded. Calwyn held out her hands as she stumbled forward, trying to keep up.

Here at last was something familiar: the rungs of the ladder that led onto the deck. She grabbed the solid wood and pulled herself up, eager to poke her head out of the choking darkness, into the clear moonlight. But on deck it was still dark. Only one solitary crescent moon sailed close to the horizon, glowing an uncanny red. The lanterns along the shore had burned out, too, although muted lights still shone from within some of the huts. The great peak of Doryus loomed over them, black against black. Calwyn shivered.

Mica tugged at her arm, grimacing at her to hurry, and pulled her through the deepest pools of shadow toward the wheel deck. Here and there sailors lay sprawled and snoring, seeking some cool air rather than stifling below; stupefied with slava, they didn’t stir as Mica and Calwyn tiptoed lightly past.

Like little mice, Mica’s feet pattered swiftly up the ladder to the high wheel deck at the stern of the ship. Calwyn followed, rehearsing in her mind the chantment she would need. She was going to build a bridge of ice between the two ships, so she and Mica could cross, and then bring it crashing into the sea before anyone could follow them. It would need raised sides, so their feet wouldn’t slide off; the ice would have to be strong and thick, so that it didn’t melt in this humid air. She knew there were pirates on
Fledgewing
still, but she was sure that she and Mica could deal with them – She came up with a bump against Mica’s back in the thick dark.

‘What is it?’

‘Look, look!’ Mica ran to the rail. ‘They’re gone! Fine friends you’ve got. They’ve gone without us!’

Calwyn pushed her aside. It was true. The two long ropes that had fastened the ships together were dangling limply in the water.
Fledgewing
had disappeared.

Trout knew he would never get to sleep. He was far too hot, for one thing, and he was nervous. It was all very well for
them
to speak so lightly of throwing pirate sailors overboard, a great burly fellow like Tonno, and Darrow, a vagabond without a homeland, who must have picked up a few shifty tricks in his time. But he, Trout, was no fighter, and he had seen enough fighting in this company already to last him the rest of his days. It was odd, he thought, that he’d spent his whole life in Mithates, learning how weapons worked, inventing improvements to them, studying the sharpness of steel and the trajectories of catapults, but never until now had he seen actual combat, and bruises, and broken bones, and blood. Before Xanni, he had never seen anyone die. He hadn’t really thought about it before, what the weapons and war-machines were
for
; he’d only thought about passing his exams. Would he be able to go back to the haven of his workshop without thinking of those things every time he picked up a blade or an arrow or a model of a war-machine? Restlessly he turned over again, pummelling his pillow.

‘We’ll wait until just before dawn,’ Darrow had said, ‘when the watch are at their sleepiest. Best to get some rest while we can.’ But Trout lay awake, watching the lantern lights from the shore play over the roof of the cabin as the others slept.

Tonno was stretched out on his back, snoring with a steady rhythm; Darrow slept sitting up, a faint frown on his face, as though even in his sleep he was still wrestling with some problem that had to be solved. Trout rolled over onto his other side, but found it no more comfortable. How could these Doryans bear to live under such heat? No wonder they took to chewing slava to dull their misery. If he had some of the disgusting stuff on hand, he might almost try it for himself.

Just then he heard voices up on deck, the mutterings of the sailors on watch. Someone was coming aboard. ‘Hey lads.’

‘You come to relieve us?’

‘Better’n that! This way you can enjoy yerselves and follow the captain’s orders at the same time. Take a look, I’ve brought you some slava.’

There was a murmur of appreciative laughter, sounds of back-slapping, and then a period of concentrated silence as the pirates settled down to enjoy their shipmate’s gift. Trout lay in the dark, listening and thinking hard. He didn’t know much about slava; it was forbidden in Mithates on pain of exile, but there were always one or two students in every term who risked smuggling some of the stuff up the river from the traders who called at Mithates Port, and he had seen people under its influence, dull-eyed and stupefied. And that was in Mithates, where the only slava available would be weak stuff, adulterated with who-knew-what weeds and other rubbish. But this was Doryus, where the bushes grew, and the leaves would be pure and potent.

He struggled up out of his bunk and woke the others with a finger on his lips, gesturing toward the deck above. ‘They’re chewing slava,’ he hissed.

Darrow was awake in a moment, alert as if he had never been asleep. Tonno was more difficult to rouse, but when he realised what was happening, it was all they could do to restrain him from rushing on deck at once.The three of them waited in the dark, straining their ears as the slow moments slid by, waiting until the slava should take its full effect. One by one the sailors slumped against the side of the cabin. Cheerful murmuring turned gradually into drowsy grunts, and finally into silence, broken only by an occasional deep sigh followed by sluggish spitting, as the spent wad of slava was discarded and a fresh one groggily pushed between the chewer’s teeth.

At last Darrow nodded, and sang a single low note. Slowly, easily, the hatch at the top of the companionway swung open. Darrow was through it in a moment, closely followed by Tonno. Four sailors sprawled, nearly comatose, about the deck. Only one of them looked up as Darrow leaned over him. ‘Wha –?’ he began, but Darrow laid a finger to his lips, and sang a series of low growling syllables. It seemed to Trout, watching open-mouthed, that invisible hands plucked up the sailor by the scruff of his collar and the belt of his trousers, levered him up through the air, and deposited him neatly on the jetty, where he rolled over and began to snore as comfortably as though he were lying in his own hammock. Tonno swiftly bound the hands of the other pirates with their own long caps, and Darrow used the chantment of iron to lift them off the boat and onto the wharf.

Trout clutched at the rail with clammy hands. He had always believed that there was no such thing as magic; he was sure he’d seen nothing on that last night in Mithates that could not be explained by the laws he’d been taught. And yet here were men flying through the air and doors swinging open without the touch of any hand or machine. It could not be, and yet it was.

‘Simple,’ grunted Tonno.

Trout found his voice, though it was somewhat cracked and unsteady. ‘All right, we’ve the boat back, but how are we going to move it?’

Darrow was singing once more; this time the ropes that held
Fledgewing
fast to the stern of the pirates’ ship were loosened and flung back into the water with two soft splashes. ‘We are in shallow water here, I can move us as far as we need. The more important thing is to get us a new mast.’

Now his hands were a blur of swift movement, and a stream of guttural song flew from his lips. One of the spare masts that lay in a pile on the shore gave a jerk, then lifted itself. At once the string of yellow lanterns draped over the poles collapsed, and the flickering lights blew out. The whole harbour was plunged into darkness; Trout had trouble seeing his hand in front of his face. The pole hurtled through the air toward the boat, while the boat itself moved steadily away from the shore. Tonno called to Trout to come and hold the tiller. Now the mast clattered down onto the deck, narrowly missing Trout’s foot. Darrow gave him an apologetic glance; evidently he had too many things to juggle to be precise about where he dropped the pole. Trout ran to the stern and gripped the tiller.

‘Just keep her heading away from the shore.’Tonno clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Darrow’ll take care of the rest.’ And then he was off, leaping across the deck and dashing down below to fetch the spare sails.

Darrow sang rapidly, the notes tumbling from his mouth faster and faster. Trout could barely see what was happening, but he could hear the stump of the old mast cracking at its base, little by little. Still
Fledgewing
moved, slowly, steadily, further and further from the shore, slipping away unnoticed in the darkness.
Where are the moons?
Trout wondered suddenly. There was one: a reddish crescent behind them in the southern sky.
A blood moon,
thought Trout, and shook himself. There was no time for superstitious nonsense like that now.

The old mast stump was fallen; the new pole rose up silently where it had been. Tonno had lugged the sails up on deck, but Darrow shook his head. Beads of sweat flew from his brow as he heaved for breath. ‘No, not yet. I cannot –’ Trout saw the tall spear of the new mast slowly topple to lie flat on the deck again. Darrow’s magic couldn’t stretch to do it all: keep the ship moving, fix the mast in place and hold up the sails, all at once. Trout’s heart sank; were they going to leave Calwyn behind after all? But still
Fledgewing
was sliding away; the pirates’ ship was far behind them now.

‘Where are we going?’ called Trout, no longer bothering to keep quiet.

‘Around the island a little,’ replied Darrow. His teeth were gritted with effort. ‘The waters are shallow, I can keep her moving a little longer. We won’t need the sail just yet.’

They were almost out of the harbour. ‘We can rest soon,’ said Darrow, but he spoke in such a low voice Trout couldn’t tell whether he was reassuring them or himself.

Mica was quicker to move than Calwyn, who stood frozen in disbelief, staring at the smooth place in the water where
Fledgewing
had been. ‘Come on!’ She plucked urgently at Calwyn’s sleeve. ‘Never mind about them now. We got to get away while we can!’

Get away to where?
But already Mica was running silently across the wheel deck, disappearing down the ladder, swallowed up by the darkness. Calwyn followed her.

The red moon watched them, a half-closed eye, as they darted across the deck. One of the sailors stirred and called out something, slurred with sleep and slava, but Mica sang a quick little chantment to send a cool breeze playing over his hot face, and he fell back again into his stupor. She found the place on the lower deck where the gangway reached out to the crude wharf, and pulled Calwyn across it. They both staggered; even on such a large ship there was some sea motion, and their legs were not accustomed to solid ground.

‘This way,’ whispered Mica. ‘Quick, past the houses. I know a place we can hide. There’s an old fishin hut round the other side of the island.’

And what then?
Calwyn wondered. They couldn’t hide for long on this tiny island; they were bound to be discovered. Without
Fledgewing
to run to, there was no reason to leave the ship at all. She wanted to tug at Mica’s sleeve and drag her back across the plank. But she couldn’t have caught her. Mica skipped past the huts, dodging around the faint cracks and squares of candlelight cast from inside. Calwyn heard just once the unsteady murmur of voices, and a tinny clatter as something, a jug or a goblet, was knocked over. Was that the captain’s voice? She froze, listening hard, but Mica pulled her on.

What could have happened to
Fledgewing
? She couldn’t believe the others would have sailed away without her. Could Samis have found them somehow, and spirited the ship away, or destroyed it? A sick feeling clenched in her stomach as she thought of her friends, trapped in the cabin, water rushing in. ‘Mica,’ she hissed suddenly, ‘why is it so dark? What’s happened to the moons?’

They had already come out of the village, if the haphazard cluster of stone huts by the water could be called a village, and begun to climb the steep and rocky hill that rose behind the harbour. It was so dark that they had trouble seeing where to tread; pale stones slipped and skidded away under their feet.

Mica stopped and looked up at the sky. The red moon swung low above the horizon, and its reflection left a bloody stain on the sea, but there was no spangle of stars flung across the darkness as there usually was when only one moon shone. ‘Must be a storm comin,’ she said with a shrug. ‘There’s clouds all over the sky.’ Her voice was curious rather than concerned; she was too excited by their escape to be troubled by anything.

‘I didn’t know it was the time of the Blood Moon,’ murmured Calwyn, unable to shake off her unease.

‘You call it that, too, up in your mountains?’ Mica scrabbled for a foothold among the shifting stones. ‘There’s always storms in Blood Moon season.’

‘I don’t think it’s a storm.’

‘What then?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Calwyn, but she began to scramble more quickly up the slope. There was a strange stillness in the air as well as the unnatural darkness; no bird chirped, no breath of wind stirred the boats at their moorings. She shivered, though the air was as sticky as ever. Mica was ahead of her, silent and climbing sturdily, eyes down. Neither of them could see the far side of the island, nor the stretch of sea below, nor the boat that lay there, out of sight of the harbour, a boat without a mast.

On
Fledgewing
, Tonno turned to Trout. ‘Get me that tube of yours.’

Darrow, slumped wearily by the tiller, looked up at Tonno. ‘What is it, what can you see?’

‘There, on the island.’Tonno squinted, and pointed at the two tiny dark figures moving against the pale rocks. ‘It looks like Calwyn.’

Trout re-emerged from the cabin, breathless, with the looking-tube in his hand. ‘It can’t be. She’s with the pirates. And you can’t see from here, it’s too far.’

‘Why do you think I asked for your tube?’Tonno held out his hand for it impatiently. After a moment he said, ‘She’s not with the pirates any more. She’s with that other girl we saw on the deck, the little Doryan girl, the windworker.’