The Scar

  “Just don’t fucking speak to me at the moment, Cumbershum, all right?” shouted the captain. Bellis stared, astonished. “Just make sure you keep Mr. fucking Fennec out of my sight or I will not be responsible for what happens, signed and sealed letter of fucking commission or not.”

  Behind the lieutenant, Fennec peered around the edge of the door.

  Cumbershum gestured Bellis and Fennec quickly into the back of the submersible. He looked panicked. When he sat down in front of Bellis, beside the captain, she saw that he was straining away from Myzovic.

  As the sea began to pour back in through the walls of the concrete room, and the sound of hidden engines made the vessel vibrate, the man in the scuffed leather coat turned to Bellis and smiled.

  “Silas Fennec,” he whispered, and held out his hand. Bellis paused, then took it.

  “Bellis,” she murmured. “Coldwine.”

  No one spoke on the journey to the surface. Back on the Terpsichoria’s deck, the captain stormed to his office.

  “Mr. Cumbershum,” he belted. “Bring Mr. Fennec to me.”

  Silas Fennec saw Bellis watching him. He jerked his head toward the captain’s back and for the briefest moment rolled his eyes, then nodded in farewell and trotted off in Myzovic’s wake.

  Johannes was gone, off somewhere in Salkrikaltor. Bellis looked resentfully across the water at lights that picked out the towers. There were no boats by the Terpsichoria’s sides, and no one to row her away from the ship. Bellis brimmed with frustration. Even the mewling Sister Meriope had found the strength to leave the boat.

  Bellis went to find Cumbershum. He was watching his men patch up a damaged sail.

  “Miss Coldwine.” He looked at her without warmth.

  “Lieutenant,” she said. “I wanted to know how I might place some mail in the New Crobuzon storeroom of which Captain Myzovic told me. I have something urgent to send . . .”

  Her voice petered out. He was shaking his head.

  “Impossible, Miss Coldwine. I can spare no one to escort you, I don’t have the key and I am not asking the captain for it now . . . Would you like me to go on?”

  Bellis felt a sting of misery, and she held herself very still.

  “Lieutenant,” she said slowly, keeping her voice emotionless. “Lieutenant, the captain himself promised me that I might deposit my letter. It is extremely important.”

  “Miss Coldwine,” he interrupted, “if it were down to me I would escort you myself, but I cannot, and I am afraid that is an end to the matter. But besides . . .” He looked up furtively, then whispered again. “Besides . . . please don’t speak of this but . . . you’ll have no need of the warehouse. I can’t say any more. You’ll understand in a few hours. The captain’s called a meeting early tomorrow morning. He’ll explain. Believe me, Miss Coldwine. You don’t need to deposit your letter here. I give you my word.”

  What is he implying? Bellis thought, panicked and exhilarated. What is he godsdamned implying?

  Like most of the prisoners, Tanner Sack never moved far from the space he had claimed. Near the infrequent light from above and also the food, it was sought-after. Twice someone had tried to steal it, moving in on his patch of floor when he had gone to piss or shit. Both times he had managed to persuade the intruder away without a fight.

  He remained sitting, his back to the wall, at one edge of the cage, for hours at a time. Shekel never had to go looking for him.

  “Oy, Sack!”

  Tanner was dozing, and the clouds in his head took a long time to part.

  Shekel was grinning at him from beyond the bars. “Wake up, Tanner. I want to tell you about Salkrikaltor.”

  “Shut up, boy,” grumbled a man beside Tanner. “We’re trying to sleep.”

  “Fuck off, Remade cunt,” snapped Shekel. “D’you want any food next time I’m here, eh?”

  Tanner was waving his hands in placation. “All right, lad, all right,” he said, trying to wake up fully. “Tell me about whatever it is, but keep it down, eh?”

  Shekel grinned. He was drunk and excited.

  “Did you ever see Salkrikaltor City, Tanner?”

  “No, lad. I ain’t never left New Crobuzon before,” Tanner said softly. He kept his voice low, hoping that Shekel would imitate him.

  The boy rolled his eyes and sat back. “You take a little boat, and you row past big buildings that come plumb out of the sea. Some places they’re close together like trees. And there’s massive bridges way above, and sometimes . . . sometimes you see someone—human or cray—just jump. And dive, if they’re a human, or tuck in all them legs otherwise, and land in the water and light out swimming, or disappear underneath.

  “I was just in a bar in the the Landside Quarter. There was . . .” His hands jigged in and out of tight shapes as he illustrated what he was saying. “You just step out of the boat through a big doorway, in a big room, with dancers—woman dancers.” He grinned, puerile. “And next to the bar, the floor’s fucking gone . . . and there’s a ramp, going down for miles into the sea. All lit up underneath. And cray coming and going, up and down that walkway, into the bar or home again, in and out of the water.”

  Shekel kept grinning and shaking his head.

  “One of our geezers gets so drunk he sets off himself.” He laughed. “We had to haul him out of it, sopping. I don’t know, Tanner . . . I never saw anything like it. They’re scrabbling around right now, right underneath us. Right now. It’s like a dream. The way it sits on the sea, and there’s more below than above. It’s like it’s reflected in the water . . . but they can walk on into the reflection. I want to see it, Tanner,” he said urgently. “There’s suits and helmets and whatnot on the ship . . . I’d go down in a minute, you know. I’d see it the way they do . . .”

  Tanner was trying to think of something to say, but he was still tired. He shook his head and tried to remember any of Crawfoot’s Chronicles that told of life in the sea. Before he could speak, though, Shekel swayed to his feet.

  “I better go, Tanner,” he said. “Captain’s put signs up everywhere. Assemble in the morning, important instructions, blah de blah. I’d best get shut-eye.”

  By the time Tanner remembered the story of Crawfoot and the Conch Assassins, Shekel had disappeared.

  Chapter Five

  When Bellis rose the next day, the Terpsichoria was in the middle of the open ocean.

  It was growing less cold as they traveled east, and the passengers who congregated for the captain’s announcement no longer wore their heaviest coats. The crew stood in the shadow of the mizzenmast, the officers by the stairway to the bridge.

  The newcomer, Silas Fennec, stood alone. He saw Bellis watching him and smiled at her.

  “Have you met him?” said Johannes Tearfly, behind her. He was rubbing his chin and watching Fennec with interest. “You were with the captain below, weren’t you? When Mr. Fennec appeared?”

  Bellis shrugged and looked away. “We didn’t speak,” she said.

  “Do you have any idea why we’ve diverted?” Johannes asked. Bellis frowned to show that she did not understand. He looked at her with exasperation. “The sun,” he said slowly. “It’s on our left. We’re heading south. We’re going the wrong way.”

  When the captain appeared above them on the stairs, the murmurs on deck silenced. He hefted a copper funnel to his lips.

  “Thank you for assembling so quickly.” His raised voice echoed tinnily above them in the wind. “I have unsettling news.” He put down the mouthpiece for a moment and seemed to consider what to say. When he spoke again he sounded pugnacious. “Let me say that I will brook no argument or dissent. This is not for discussion. I am responding to unforeseen circumstances, and I will not be questioned. We will not be heading to Nova Esperium. We are returning to Iron Bay.”

  There was a burst of shock and outrage from the passengers, and mutters of bewilderment from the crew. He can’t do this! thought Bellis. She felt a surge of panic—but no surprise. She realized that she
had been expecting this, since Cumbershum’s hint. She realized, too, that somewhere inside her there was a joy at the thought of return. She battened that feeling down hard. It won’t be a homecoming for me, she thought savagely. I have to get away. What am I going to do?

  “Enough!” the captain shouted. “As I said, I do not take this decision lightly.” He raised his voice over shouted protests. “Within the week we’ll be back in Iron Bay, where alternative arrangements will be made for paying passengers. You may have to sail with another ship. I’m aware that this will add a month to your voyage, and I can only offer apologies.”

  Grim-faced and livid, he looked totally unapologetic. “Nova Esperium will have to survive a few more weeks without you. Passengers are confined to the poop deck until three o’clock. Crew remain for new orders.” He put down the speaking trumpet and descended toward the deck.

  For a moment he was the only thing moving. Then the stillness broke and there was a surge as several passengers strode forward, against his orders, demanding that he change his mind. The captain’s barks of outrage could be heard as they reached him.

  Bellis was staring at Silas Fennec. Piecing it together.

  His face was immobile as he observed the agitation. He noticed Bellis watching him, held her eyes for a moment, then walked unhurriedly away.

  Johannes Tearfly looked absolutely stricken. He gaped in an almost comical show of dismay.

  “What’s he doing?” he said. “What’s he talking about? I can’t wait another fortnight in the rain of Iron Bay! Godspit! And why are we heading south? He’s taking the long route past the Fins again . . . What is going on?”

  “He’s looking for something,” said Bellis, just loud enough for him to hear. She took his elbow and gently led him away from the crowd. “And I wouldn’t waste your breath on the captain. You won’t hear him admit it, but I don’t think he has the slightest choice.”

  The captain strode from rail to rail on deck, snapping out a telescope and scouring the horizon. Officers shouted instructions to the men in the crow’s nests. Bellis watched the bewilderment and rumor-mongering of the passengers.

  “The man’s a disgrace,” she overheard, “screaming at paying passengers like that.”

  “I was standing outside the captain’s office, and I heard someone accuse him of wasting time—of disobeying orders,” Miss Cardomium reported, bewildered. “How can that be?”

  It’s Fennec, thought Bellis. He’s angry because we’re not going directly back. Myzovic is . . . what? Looking for evidence of the Sorghum, on the way.

  The sea beyond the Fins was darker, more powerful, and cold—unbroken by rocks. The sky was wan. They were beyond Basilisk Channel. This was the edge of the Swollen Ocean. Bellis stared at the endless green waves with distaste. She felt vertiginous. She imagined three, four, five thousand miles of brine yawning away eastward, and closed her eyes. The wind butted her insistently.

  Bellis realized she was thinking again about the river, the slow stretch of water that connected New Crobuzon to the sea like an umbilicus.

  When Fennec reappeared, walking quickly across the poop deck, Bellis intercepted him. “Mr. Fennec,” she said.

  His face opened as he saw her. “Bellis Coldwine,” he said. “I hope you’re not too put out by the detour.”

  She indicated for him to follow her out of earshot of the few passengers and crew around them. She stopped in the shadow of the ship’s enormous chimney.

  “I’m afraid I am, Mr. Fennec,” she said. “My plans are quite specific. This is a serious problem for me. I have no idea when I’ll be able to find another ship that wants my services.” Silas Fennec inclined his head in vague sympathy. He was clearly distracted.

  Bellis spoke again. “I wonder if you’d shed light on the forced change of plans that has our captain so angry.” She hesitated. “Will you tell me what is happening, please?”

  Fennec raised his eyebrows. “I can’t, Miss Coldwine,” he said, his voice mild.

  “Mr. Fennec,” she muttered coldly, “you’ve seen the reaction of our passengers; you know how unpopular this diversion is. Don’t you think I—all of us, but I most of all—deserve some explanation? Can’t you think what would happen if I were to tell the others what I suspect—that this whole mess was instigated because of the mysterious newcomer—“ Bellis spoke quickly, trying to provoke or shame him into telling her the truth, but her voice stopped short when she saw his reaction. His face changed suddenly and utterly.

  His amiable, mildly sly expression went hard. He held up a finger to hush her. He looked quickly around, then spoke to her fast. He sounded sincere and very urgent.

  “Miss Coldwine,” he said. “I understand your anger, but you must listen to me.”

  She drew herself up, meeting his gaze.

  “You must withdraw that threat. I won’t appeal to your professional code or your bloody honor,” he whispered. “Probably you’re as cynical about such things as I am. But I will appeal to you. I have no idea what you’ve worked out or guessed, but let me tell you that it is vital—do you understand?—that I get back to New Crobuzon quickly, without interruption, without fuss.” There was a long pause.

  “There is . . . there is a vast amount at stake, Miss Coldwine. You cannot spread mischief. I am begging you to keep these things to yourself. I’m relying on you to be discreet.”

  He was not threatening her. His face and voice were stern but not aggressive. As he claimed, he was begging, not trying to intimidate her into submission. He spoke to her like a partner, a confidante.

  And impressed and shocked by his fervor, she realized that she would keep what she had heard to herself.

  He saw this decision move across her face and nodded in sharp thanks before walking away.

  In her cabin, Bellis tried to work out what she was going to do. It would not be safe for her to stay long in Tarmuth. She had to join a ship as soon as possible. Her gut was heavy with hope that she might make it to Nova Esperium, but she realized with an awful foreboding that she was no longer in a position to make a choice.

  She felt no shock. She simply realized, rationally and slowly, that she would have to go wherever she could. She could not delay.

  Alone, away from the fug of anger and confusion that had swept over the rest of the ship, Bellis felt all her hope was dried up. She felt desiccated like old paper, as if the blustery air on the deck would burst her and blow her away.

  Her partial knowledge of the captain’s secrets was no comfort. She had never felt more homeless.

  She cracked the seal on her letter, sighed, and began to add to its last page.

  Skullday 6th Arora, 1779. Evening, she wrote. Well, my dear, who would have thought this? A chance to add a little more.

  It comforted her. Although the arch tone she used was an affectation, it consoled her, and she did not stop writing while Sister Meriope returned and went to bed. She continued by the light of the tiny oil lamp, hinting at conspiracy and secrets, while the Swollen Ocean gnawed monotonously on the Terpsichoria’s iron.

  Confused shouting woke Bellis at seven o’clock the next morning. Still lacing up her boots, she stumbled with several other sleepy passengers out into the light. She squinted into the brightness.

  Sailors pushed up against the port railings, gesticulating and shouting. Bellis followed their gazes to the horizon and realized that they were looking up.

  A man was hanging motionless in the sky, two hundred feet above them, out over the sea.

  Bellis gasped idiotically.

  The man kicked his legs like a baby and stared at the boat. He seemed to stand in the air. He was strapped in a harness, dangling just below a taut balloon.

  He fiddled with his belt and something, some ballast, fell away, spinning lazily into the sea. He jerked and rose forty feet. With the faint sound of a propellor he moved in an inelegant curve. He began a long, unsteady circuit of the Terpsichoria.

  “Get back to your godsdamned stations!” The crew
broke up industriously at the sound of the captain’s voice. He strode out onto the main deck and peered at the slowly turning figure through his telescope. The man hovered near the top of the masts in a vaguely predatory manner.

  The captain yelled up at the aviator through the funnel. “You there . . .” His voice carried well. Even the sea seemed quiet. “This is Captain Myzovic of the Terpsichoria, steamer in the New Crobuzon Merchant Navy. You are requested to touch down and make yourself known to me. If you do not comply I will consider it a hostile action. You have one minute to begin a descent or we will defend ourselves.”

  “Jabber,” Johannes whispered. “Have you ever seen anything like that? He’s too far out to have come from land. He’s got to be scouting from some ship, out of sight over the horizon.”

  The man continued to circle above them, and for seconds the buzzing of his engine was the only sound.

  Eventually Bellis spoke. “Pirates?” she whispered.

  “Possible.” Johannes shrugged. “But the freebooters out here couldn’t take a ship our size, or with our guns. They go for smaller merchants, the wooden hulls. And if it’s privateers . . .” He pursed his lips. “Well, if they’re licensed by Figh Vadiso or wherever, then they just might have the firepower to engage us, but they’d be insane to risk war with New Crobuzon. The Pirate Wars are over, for Jabber’s sake!”

  “Right!” the captain shouted. “This is your last warning.” Four musketeers had stationed themselves at the rail. They took aim at the airborne visitor.

  Instantly the sound of his motor changed. The man jerked and began to move erratically away from the ship.

  “Fire, dammit!” shouted the captain, and the muskets sounded, but the man had sped up and away and beyond their aim. For a long time he receded, sinking slowly toward the horizon. Nothing was visible in the direction the aeronaut was headed.

  “His ship must be twenty miles away or more,” said Johannes. “It’ll take him at least an hour to reach it.”