“Belissi? Him?” Ymgrawl muttered. “Ah, the old curse, that which hath followed him.”
“Curse?” Sesto echoed. With a start, he realised he had touched the iron of his sword-grip against ill-fortune. So easily the customs of the Reivers filtered into his blood.
Ymgrawl nodded, lighting his pipe from a tallow stick he’d poked into a nearby brazier. “We’re all cursed, thee and me and every man of us. That is how the sea regards our breed. But Belissi, he is accursed more than most. Upon his first voyage, many year ago, his ship it were taken unto ruin by a dragon-fish.”
“A what?”
Ymgrawl shrugged. “A sea-beast, a leviathan. The seas are deep, mark thee, and many a scaly monster lurks down in the court of King Death. The bull-whale, the krakoon, the serpent, the sea-lizard. And, oft times, they wake and rise and make their ravage upon the waters of the surface. Some are so great, men mistake them for islands, and land there upon them, and kindle fires. Some are mighty swallowers of vessels. Vouchsafe thyself, Sesto, that thee never sail against one.”
“Have you seen one?” Sesto asked.
“In my time, aye. Twice. At a great distance. The horned back of a serpent, breaking the waves. And also, a thing of many, oozing arms, each one longer than a tall ship’s mast. No closer I’d care to get.”
“But Belissi did?”
Ymgrawl blew a cloud of peaty smoke out around his pipe-stem. “That he did. A dragon-fish. But the men of his ship, they fought against it. And Belissi himself, with a harpoon, speared it, and hurt it to its mortal guts. A hero he was, and cheered much by his fellows.”
“And?” asked Sesto.
“No sooner had the dragon-fish sunk away, staining the water with its rank blood, than the water churned again, bloody and all, and the dragon-fish’s dam rose, vengeful, to the air.”
“What are you saying?” Sesto blinked. “The monster’s mother?”
“The monster’s mother, aye!” Ymgrawl hooked his pipe out of his mouth. “Nine times the size of the first, and lusting to avenge its child. Its fury took the ship athwart, its wicked jaws consumed man after man. Belissi was the sole survivor, adrift upon a rag of wood, the mother having taken off his leg. By some miracle, he was picked up and saved. That is why he made his trade as a carpenter, to spend his days working with the one substance that had saved him from drowning. But he knows that one day, the mother will return to exact the rest of her price. That’s his curse. So he makes an offering, every time he casts off from main land. A leg, to soothe the mother in the sea, made of the precious wood that wardeth Belissi’s life.”
“Then this is… mother mine…?” Sesto asked in all seriousness. “I’ve heard others in the company joke and mock at Belissi’s expense, as if no one believes a word of it.”
“Only a fool would,” Ymgrawl said.
Sesto started and saw the old boucaner wink at him. “Ah, you devil! I honestly believed you!”
Ymgrawl chuckled.
They heard some commotion down the dock and hurried forward to discover its nature. Silvaro had been summoned, and the senior officers of his company came with him. Benuto, the boatswain, in his shapeless hat and crimson coat, was coming down the boarding plank from the Safire, followed by two Reivers who were manhandling a third figure between them.
“They found him hiding in the chain locker, so tell,” Benuto told Silvaro. “Smelled him, more like. He’s been there a while.”
The two crewmen shoved their captive to his knees. The filthy man fell hard, as if he couldn’t quite break his fall with his hands.
“Manann’s oath,” Silvaro said. The man looked up at him, his face dirty, thin and pale.
It was Guido Lightfinger.
XX
“I had hoped never to clap eyes on you again,” Silvaro said.
Guido swallowed and made no reply.
Silvaro turned to look at Silke, who glanced aside uncomfortably. “You knew he was stowed in your vessel, didn’t you?”
The master of the Safire pursed his lips and then nodded reluctantly. Sesto knew from the talk of the crew that Silke had been a particular crony of Guido’s, although at heart he was an equivocator who was content to side with whoever had the upper hand. “Yes, sir,” he said. “You made no order that he couldn’t be brought along…”
Silvaro snorted. “Yet you anticipated my displeasure enough to keep him hidden!”
Silke shrugged and toyed with the end of one of his fussy, plaited pigtails. “I find it’s always wise to anticipate you, Silvaro,” he replied. “Look, I didn’t expect Guido to even want to come with the company after… after your falling out. But he begged me. Begged me on his knees. And, my duty to you not withstanding, I have a bond of friendship with him. I did not see the harm…”
“Did you not?” Roque said mockingly.
Silvaro looked at Guido again. “Is what Silke says true? Beg, did you?”
“Yes, Luka,” Guido croaked.
“Why?”
“Better to hide in the bilges and be of the company still than rot as a cripple-vagabond in the backstreets of Sartosa. I thought perhaps, after due time, once the voyage had progressed and your mood mayhap had softened, I might emerge and—”
“And what?” Silvaro glowered at his half-brother.
“Rejoin the company proper,” Guido said quietly.
Silvaro burst out laughing, and some of the other Reivers around joined him in it. “As what, Guido? You can’t haul rope or even stand to the wheel with the few fingers I’ve left you!”
“I can hold a sword,” Guido said.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Silvaro replied, no longer laughing.
A large crowd had gathered around the altercation: Reivers and dock workers, some civilians, and even a few of the marine guards, drawn by the confrontation and the raised voices.
“Clap him in irons while I decide what to d—”
Roque cut Silvaro off. “There’s one thing he can do,” he said.
Silvaro looked at the lean Estalian. “What?”
“Well, I like him not at all, and trust him less, but credit where it’s due,” Roque said. “Guido is a fair and able shipmaster and—”
“Manann’s oath!” Silvaro exploded. “Are you suggesting I make him the captain?”
“He is skilled, and he has much to prove,” said Roque. “Better him than that idiot bloater of a nephew you say the marquis is trying to press upon you.”
“Enough!” Silvaro exclaimed. “I’ll not consider that dung-worm for anything, not anything, unless he’s first been prepared to take the test.”
The test—and the very mention of it sent Guido’s face paler yet—was evidently of such great import, the Reivers began muttering and oathing.
“Tomorrow!” Silvaro declared. “From the Safire!” There was a chorus of approval.
“What is this test you speak of?” Sesto asked him.
“A measure of trust, courage and fortitude,” Silvaro answered glibly, “that assays the mettle of a man as a whitesmith assays the metal of an ingot…”
“That’s all very well, but what—”
“Any wretch, like Guido, who has fallen out of favour with his company or crew, can repair his fortunes by submitting to the test. He lets the sea itself become his judge. If he fails, he is consigned to his fate. If he succeeds, then he is worthy of trust. It is a test that cannot be cheated. The sea’s verdict is always true.”
“Yes, but—”
“Come with us tomorrow,” Silvaro said, “and see for yourself.”
Late the following afternoon, with repairs still proceeding on the Demiurge and the Rumour, the Safire put to sea. Aboard it, along with Silke as his crew, were Silvaro, Sesto and a gang of men from the Rumour.
And Guido Lightfinger. His arms bound, he stood alone on the foredeck, shivering as he gazed out to sea, or perhaps into his deepest thoughts.
The sloop made fine going. The late afternoon was hot, the sky a transparent blue, but t
here was a good wind. The Safire’s golden hull slipped through the water like a splicing fid, and they came out of Aguilas Bay, into the sound, and then turned north-east up the coast for a few leagues.
At last, with the sun just beginning to sink, Silvaro ordered them to drop anchor in a calm stretch of water a mile or so from the coast. Sesto could see the coastline, the copper crags of the Estalian interior, the dark fringes of forest and scrub. Seabirds swirled around the sloop, and there was a gentle chop. The waters looked almost violet.
Activity began, and Sesto watched with increasing fascination. Fahd had accompanied them, bringing several wooden casks that stank of offal. With the help of Curcozo, Silke’s brawny first mate, the old cook hauled one of the casks upon a line over a yard arm, holed its bottom with an awl, and then let it swing free over the port side of the Safire. Blood began to leak out. Silke’s men worked the rope up and down around a fiddle block, sometimes swinging it down to drag the cask into the waves. An oily slick of blood began to stain the sea beside them.
Fahd went to the rail with the other casks, opened them, and began to fish out chunks of spoiled meat with a marlinespike, and toss them into the sea.
Sesto crossed to the port rail to watch, wrinkling his nose at the stink of the bad meat and sour blood.
“There,” muttered Ymgrawl at his side, and pointed.
The first of the eater-fish had appeared, summoned by the blood. In increasing numbers, dark shapes converged on the slick, sliding beneath the water, some the size of longboats. Occasionally, there would be a splash or a flurry of water as some of the great fish disputed a chunk of meat. Once in while, a great fin, grey like a blade, broke the watertop.
Fahd threw out more meat, and the feeding began to turn to a frenzy. The water, stained red, boiled and frothed. Tails and fins appeared more frequently, writhing and thrashing.
“That’ll do it,” Silvaro ordered. Two men came forward and, using rope mallets, fixed a timber plank to the ship’s rail with iron nails, so that the better part of the plank—some four spans—reached out over the seething water.
“Name of a god…” Sesto murmured, beginning to realise what the test was to be.
One of Silke’s men, a little crook-back Estalian by the name of Vinegar Bruno, produced a small tambour drum and a bone stick, and began to beat out a lively rowdy-dow-dow. Some of the men laughed. Others, like Silke, remained silent and grave.
Roque brought Guido forward. Lightfinger was shaking now. Silvaro nodded, and Roque fetched a snifter of jerez so that Guido might fortify his nerve. Roque had to hold up the glass so that Guido could swig, for his arms were still bound.
Once the glass was empty, Roque bowed to Guido and stepped back. Largo, the sailmaker, then came forward, and slipped a cowl of dirty sailcloth over Guido’s head, masking his face entirely. Sesto heard Guido moan. With quick, sure fingers, Largo sewed up the back of the cowl until Guido’s whole head was sealed in a canvas bag so tight that the material stretched around his nose and chin.
“Ready?” Silvaro called.
Guido nodded. Silvaro waved his hand, and two well-muscled ratings shuffled forward, picked up Guido between them, and set him on his feet on the ship end of the board. It shivered under his weight. Sesto swallowed. The plank was little wider than two feet placed side by side. Guido teetered for a moment, trying to find his balance, his shoulders turning and shifting because he could not use his arms as counterbalance.
Vinegar Bruno beat the tambour harder and faster. Over the side, the great, sleek eater-fish, half-seen and menacing, continued to thrash and churn the surface. Guido and his precarious board were eight spans above them.
“He’ll walk to his death!” Sesto gasped.
“Aye, if he’s guilty,” Ymgrawl replied. “He must walk to the end of the board, turn, and make his way back. If he does this, the sea hath judged him innocent and true. If he falls, then the sea has found him wanting. But he must go right to the end of the board, thee hear. If turneth he back too early, guessing it awry, then he is forfeit too, and Silvaro will put a pistol ball in his chest afore he can step back onto the deck.”
Sesto could not take his eyes off the trembling figure on the plank.
“Get on with you!” Silvaro yelled. The drumming rose in urgency, and some of the men were now clapping in rhythm.
Guido Lightfinger took his first step. The board quivered. A second step, Guido tilting and switching at the hips to maintain his balance against the vibration of the plank and the roll and pitch of the ship itself. Another step, another frantic twist and shimmy of the hips and shoulders. The further Guido walked down the plank, the more it bowed under his mass, and the more exaggerated its shudders became.
Sesto looked down for a second, into the dark, roiling water, in time to witness a great maw rise for a moment through the bloody foam, huge teeth ranged around a vast pink cavity. Then it was gone again. Three or four fins circled below the plank like the sails of toy dinghies.
Guido was now three quarters of the way along the testing board. His creeping progress had slowed yet further, for the plank was bending significantly as he neared its end, and he was in danger of simply sliding off. He slipped his feet forward, little by little, no longer raising them off the board, feeling his way with his toes.
“He’s going to stop,” Ymgrawl whispered. “If he turns now, it’ll be too soon.”
As if suspecting the same thing, Silvaro had drawn a wheel-lock pistol and armed it ready. But Vinegar Bruno’s drumming continued frantically, like the pulse of a racing heart, and Guido pushed on, struggling to stay upright.
Little more than a single pace from the end of the plank, Guido slipped. An especially heavy piece of swell had rolled the Safire, and that motion was transmitted, amplified, to the man on the end of the flexing plank. Guido’s balance went. He overcorrected with his shoulders, then started to pitch the other way. So, instinctively, he stepped out with his left foot to steady himself.
But there was nothing under his left foot.
For a second, he wavered. The men fell silent. Even the drumming stopped.
Somehow, Guido corrected himself, shifted his weight, and hopped back on his planted foot. The hopping put a wicked spring into the board, but he found his footing and remained upright.
An unabashed cheer went up from the deck. Even Silvaro nodded in respect. Guido remained still, waiting for the springing to subside, retaining his tenuous balance.
One more pace remained. Again, Guido seemed about to turn, but the eager drumming struck up again, goading him, and he took that final step.
He was right at the end of the plank. Slowly, he lifted his right foot to make another step forward.
Everyone held their breath. Even the drumming slowed, becoming nothing more than a hovering, expectant rattle.
Guido put his foot back down, and slowly shuffled around until he was facing the Safire. Another cheer. He began to edge his way back along the board.
The return trip was not without risk. Twice, he swayed dangerously as the swell yawed the ship. But Guido kept his balance, and at last fell off the rail-end into the waiting arms of the ratings.
There was much chanting and hullabaloo. Rum was brought out and Guido’s name and luck toasted. Fanciman took out his fife, and Alberto Long his fiddle, and they set up a boisterous reel against Vinegar Bruno’s tambour beat.
Roque cut Guido’s bonds, and Largo slit open the canvas cowl and pulled it free. Guido’s face was death-pale, and his hair was plastered lankly to his sweaty scalp. He took the cup of rum Silke pressed into his claw hand, and sank it, and the refill too. The third cup he raised to Silvaro, who toasted him back with a grudging nod. Then Guido went to the rail with a bottle of rum, threw it into the sea as an offering of thanks, and spat at the eater-fish below who had been cheated of his flesh. Thus it was that Guido Lightfinger became master of the Demiurge.
XXI
“We have not yet had the opportunity to become acquainted, M
aster Sciortini,” said Guido Lightfinger.
Ten days had passed since the nerve-wracking test, and in that time, Guido had changed a great deal. Fed and cleaned up, he struck a much more robust figure than the snivelling wretch that had been dragged up out of the Safire’s chain locker. He was groomed and shaved, and wore newly-purchased boots of Estalian leather, black moleskin breeks, a white blouse and a long coat of steel blue shagreen. A polished, hooked blade protruded from his left cuff in place of his lost hand, held to the stump of his wrist by a metal cup that strapped to his forearm. Glinting gemstones had been threaded into the beading of his chin-beard, and he wore a Tilean captain’s hat, a tricorn of purple felt, that shaded his eyes.
But the changes to Guido Lightfinger ran deeper than that. The real difference lay in his manner and his bearing. His confidence was back, his silky arrogance. After much debate, following the test, Silvaro had agreed to give Guido probation as the master of the Demiurge. Sesto knew this, more than anything, was down to the fact that Silvaro wished to avoid having to take on the marquis’ nephew. But, off-guard in conversation with Sesto, Luka had admitted that Guido was a good master, and a skilled war-captain, who knew how to clash with the best, and survive.
“Just stay out of his way,” Luka had advised.
Sesto had done just that. It had been a busy period, the workforce of Aguilas labouring round the clock to refit the ships. Guido had spent much of his time aboard the Demiurge, testing his new-pressed crew, drilling them hard. He had purloined a good number of Reivers into his crew, mainly those who had old loyalties to him. From Silke’s crew, he had stolen Curcozo as his mate, Vinegar Bruno, Alberto Long and seven more. Silke had complained, but Reivers had been traded between the Rumour and the Safire to balance the company.
Silvaro himself had been absent for several days, travelling up the coast with Casaudor and a detachment of guards under the charge of Captain Duero. They had ridden from port town to port town, village to village, gathering intelligence, collecting rumours. There had been sightings of the Butcher Ship. At one little place that based its industry upon the catching and curing of mackerel, the dread barque had been seen across the bay just two nights before, gliding north in the twilight like a phantom.