The Ocean of the Dead: Ship Kings 4 Page 16

  ‘There’ll be no need for boats,’ Uyal interrupted. ‘Later this afternoon the wind will stir again. By nightfall, we shall be progressing under sail.’

  Dow only stared at the gauze curtains.

  ‘If Uyal says a wind is coming,’ said Diego, ‘then it will come.’

  ‘Very well,’ Dow sighed. And for now at least – despite all the appalling events and consequences of this day – it was better surely that they were going forward rather than turning back. The rest . . . the rest he would deal with in time. Somehow. ‘We’ll be ready to sail by nightfall.’

  ‘Then you’re free to return to your ship. With one proviso. Nell will remain here on the New World.’

  Dow stiffened, then turned to Nell in expectation of her protest and refusal. But she was only gazing at Diego with a look of sad confirmation, quite lacking in surprise, as if she had been waiting just for this.

  ‘No,’ Dow said, when Nell did not speak.

  Diego’s tone was reasonable. ‘Come along, Dow, what do you think is happening here? I’m prepared to give you the freedom you need to see us through to the other side of the world, but I need surety in return that you and the Chloe won’t vanish on me in the night, or seek to attack me by stealth. I need a hostage you value enough to make you keep the peace. Who else is there but Nell? Don’t worry, she’ll be perfectly well treated.’

  ‘Your prisoner!’

  ‘My guest.’

  Dow’s temper cooled suddenly. He sat back, gazing deliberately around the cabin, as if in search of something. ‘I see that your crew have brought their wives and families along on this voyage. Just as we have done on the Chloe. So – is there a princess to match Prince Diego?’

  Diego’s chin rose. ‘I have no wife.’

  Dow nodded. ‘So now we come to it . . .’

  Anger flashed in the prince’s eyes. ‘I’ll say this once, for both your benefits – I have no interest in Nell other than as a security for my ship, and haven’t held any such interest since the day she betrayed herself by taking up with you.’ He addressed Nell directly. ‘You need not fear that I will force my company upon you while you’re on this ship. You won’t have to see me or speak with me, if you don’t want to. I’ll leave you quite alone.’

  ‘Maybe for a day,’ scorned Dow, ‘or a week, but then—’

  Nell stirred finally. ‘Leave it be, Dow,’ she said, sounding tired. ‘If Diego wants me here, then what choice is there? He is in command now.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘And if you need assurance . . .’ She turned to the wheeled chair. ‘Uyal. One scapegoat to another – will I be harmed, if I stay here?’

  The shape behind the curtains was ruminative. ‘Harmed is a word with many meanings. But if you ask, will you be assaulted by Diego, then no. In this his promise can be trusted. He will not pester you with his presence. He thinks he does not need to. He believes that you will turn to him in time of your own free will.’

  ‘You go too far, Uyal,’ warned Diego icily. ‘You may be a seer, but you are no mind-reader. Don’t pretend to know my thoughts.’

  The gauze shrank upon itself. ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

  Nell was watching Dow. ‘That will have to satisfy you. Don’t try to fight this. It would only give Diego an excuse to hurt you.’

  ‘Truly spoken,’ confirmed the prince. ‘So it’s settled then. You will be escorted back to your ship. Set what course you will, when the wind comes, as long as it is to the south. We’ll follow behind. And remember, should you be tempted to any trickery, we have guns at the ready.’

  A violent urge flared in Dow, a need to hit out somehow, to resist, to show that he at least had not meekly accepted Diego’s ascension. But he could see the hate quite naked in Diego’s eyes now, to the point maybe of having Dow beaten or even shot forthwith, Great Prophecy or not. And Nell was pleading silently with him via an exhausted expression . . . Don’t.

  He swallowed, gave a single slow nod.

  ‘So it will be,’ observed Uyal, ‘as long ago I saw; the two enemies allied, and challenging the terrible Barrier together. Make sail then, captains both of you, when the wind blows. For I tell you this: it will hold for six further days, strong and clean from the north, before faltering. But after that, do not look to the skies for any other winds to return. They will not. The Ocean of the Dead will claim us then, and no one in this cabin – nor on either of these two ships – will ever again feel the winds of the northern world on their faces. If we are to know wind again, it must be one that blows in the southern half of the world. Farewell then to all of us, I say, and goodbye to all that we have known.’

  7. THE WAIST OF THE WORLD

  Six days later, the wind – which had risen and held fair, exactly as Uyal had foretold it would – fluttered, faltered, and failed.

  It happened as evening was drawing near. A last warm breath passed over the fleet, like a whisper of leave-taking, then the sails drooped, and in hot silence the two ships drifted on for a last few meagre moments before losing way and settling heavy upon the water.

  The finality of the moment was palpable. There was no overt sign or boundary or change in the sky, but no one on either vessel doubted it: they had reached the truly windless heart of the Doldrums. They could wait there for a year, for a decade, for a lifetime, all to no avail. The air would not stir again.

  On both ships the crews ascended the rigging solemnly and lowered all canvas, stowing the sails away against the day they were needed once more in the southern ocean. Likewise, the engineers on both vessels began readying the attack boats for their great labour. At dawn, they would commence towing the Chloe and the New World across the vastness of the inner Barrier.

  All two thousand miles of it.

  *

  As the last sails were lowered in the dusk, Dow stood alone at the rail of the Chloe’s high deck, staring south across the darkening sea.

  He should, he knew, be feeling something at this juncture. For this was it: the pause before the final plunge. Once the towing began, they would be committing themselves ever more irreversibly with every mile travelled south, and with every barrel of oil burned. It was a moment that called for recognition, an acknowledgement of the immense dreads and hopes entailed therein.

  But none of it meant what it should have meant. Dow felt neither any great fear nor any great anticipation. His every emotion was dimmed. For the expedition was no longer his. The responsibility of it was no longer his. The grandeur or even the terror of it was no longer his. Everything had passed to Diego.

  Even Nell.

  Frowning, Dow glanced to the New World, a hulking presence across the water. He searched its decks briefly, but although many people were visible moving about in the evening gloom, she had not yet appeared. She would, Dow was sure. Every day since Diego had taken her prisoner, Nell had emerged at sunset to walk a little on the main deck. Alone, Dow always noted. Never with anyone else. Certainly never with Diego.

  And yet, what about all the other hours of the day, when she was below decks?

  And the nights . . . ?

  Enough, Dow told himself. Such thoughts were ridiculous. Shameful. He knew Nell better than that.

  He turned away, staring south again into the depths of the Barrier, as if to distract himself with scrutiny of the hazards that lay in wait there.

  But in truth there was little to behold. This was a world that defeated sight. The haze that had thickened ever since the outer Doldrums was so heavy now that visibility was no better than a mile in any direction. In the west the sinking sun was scarcely discernible anymore, a dim orb that would fade from view even before it cut the line of the shrouded horizon.

  Overhead, it was worse. There, the murk formed a great roof across the ocean, a vast canopy forever fixed, a storm cloud forever threatening. It never lifted, never dispersed, never blew away. And yet the overcast gave no relief from the heat – it might have been the vault of an enormous oven, radiating eternal warmth night or day.
The sense of suffocation was made all the greater by the very lowness of the overhang; the eye yearned for a single clear view into an open sky in the same way that the skin yearned for a moment’s cooling breeze.

  Neither were granted. An inversion, Fidel called it still, insisting that somewhere high above the dismal roof there must be air and wind and stars . . . but if so, it was little comfort to those trapped beneath.

  The sea too had become increasingly a dead thing. In the last few days under sail, all the Doldrums kelps and slimes and swimming creatures had gradually vanished from the water, retreating northwards, and now the ocean was empty of all life, either on the surface or below. Fidel claimed that he was not surprised by this. His books were all burned now, but he had not forgotten what he had read in them – and it seemed that many of the ancient writers reported that on the fringe of the inner Barrier, for some unknown reason, the sea grew sterile in places. ‘Life will return,’ he said. ‘The old tales all attest that the deep Barrier is dense with growth.’

  In the meantime, not only was the water here sterile, it was also thicker and heavier in some alien way. To look at, it reminded Dow of warped glass, clear and yet somehow not fully transparent. But it was how it felt that was more worrying. Fidel had sent a man over the side to see what immersion in such a fluid might be like, and the fellow had reported, ‘It’s awful, sir. Blood warm, and it’s like there’re strands of moss everywhere, even though you can’t see them – like any moment you’ll be tangled up and drowned.’

  And that was the key to it. For those invisible strands – the unseen chains of nicre – teemed so densely here, and were so resistant to movement, that the fleet had slowed considerably upon entering the sterile sea, even though the wind had remained behind them. The Doldrums waters were ever torpid and sluggish, of course, but Fidel was growing concerned, for this was worse than he had expected. And they would face the same problem when the attack boats began towing; the engines would have to work harder in such a resistant sea, and so would burn fuel faster. Which meant that the fleet’s oil supply might not carry them as far as they had estimated, which was already not as far as they would like – and once the oil was gone, they must resort to rowing.

  And that, thought Dow, grimacing at the sea, would be awful. In this unbreathable heat, to merely exist drained the spirit and the body to exhaustion: to perform hard labour would be torment.

  A wise captain, in consideration of such facts, might well have called the whole thing off. And a captain determined to push on might well be foolhardy. But wise or foolish, it didn’t matter anymore what sort of captain Dow was, because the choice was no longer his.

  He shook his head and glanced again to the New World. But there was still no sign of Nell.

  Where was she today? Was something wrong? What had she been doing all this time alone on Diego’s ship? What had she thought and felt?

  And what had she dreamed?

  Aye. That was what ate at Dow most. Dreams. Nightmares. Prophecies. Uyal’s grim words. But does she stand at your side at the discovery of the New World? That is dark to me. And then Nell’s own foreboding, even worse. I’ll be trapped there . . . the ship may pass, but not me . . .

  Not her? That could not be borne. Yes, it was possible of course that any member of the crew might be lost or die in the Barrier. The dangers would be many, and there was no reason that Nell – or Dow himself – should be immune. But Dow sensed that Uyal meant something beyond mere loss – and that Nell too, in her nightmares, had foreseen a crueller fate for herself.

  It must not happen.

  But how could he, bereft of power now, prevent it?

  Movement stirred behind him on the stairs that led up from the Great Cabin. Turning, Dow saw that it was Jake Tooth and Boiler Swan. He had been expecting them. He had sent them on an inspection tour of the ship some hours earlier, here on this eve of leaping off into the void, to gauge the mood and fitness of the crew after so many unhappy developments.

  Not that he didn’t know the answer already.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  Jake’s expression was almost confirmation enough. He still didn’t look his old self – the bandages were gone now, displaying a wound stitched flat upon his toothless forehead – but his lopsided smile was characteristically sardonic. ‘It’s bad,’ was all he said.

  It was Boiler who elaborated. ‘We had to break up a fight on the Second Gun, between some of the refugees from the Snout and some of the Chloe’s crew – it was over space to hang hammocks – and confiscate a cache of stolen rum on the First Lower. Everywhere there is overcrowding and misery. It would have helped if the New World had been prepared to take some of our overflow. But it’s clear enough where we stand on that score.’

  Indeed it was. Diego had taken Nell, but he had pointedly refused to accommodate anyone else

  ‘There is also much fear now that we have sailed beyond the wind,’ added Boiler sombrely. ‘Our self-appointed poet speaks loudly that we stand on the verge of his Ocean of the Dead, and that only doom will come of going forward – and he has many listeners.’

  Jake grinned blackly. ‘For all the good it will do him. Oh, Magliore is capable of orchestrating another mutiny, no doubt, but he knows full well that it would make no difference now. Even should he win control of the ship, he could not turn us back to the north, not with Diego’s guns trained on us the whole time. He’s impotent, for all his talk. As powerless as we are ourselves.’

  Dow nodded. The gall bit again. To think that he had Diego to thank for protecting him from his own crew!

  ‘There’s the nub of it,’ Boiler continued earnestly. ‘There are many still who ignore Magliore and who would be prepared to sail forward by free choice – but even they are in unhappy confusion. For they signed on this voyage to follow you, Dow, and Nell, not Diego. It was your fate they believed in, not his. They are baffled that you have ceded authority so easily – as they see it – to your enemy. And that you have let him take Nell away to his ship. They wonder why we did not fight when the New World first appeared, and why we have not tried to fight since.’ He hesitated. ‘Some say that since the Miasma, you have lost your courage.’

  Dow said nothing. Jake and Boiler had argued time and again that they must make some effort to wrest control back from Diego; some kind of surprise attack on the New World, maybe, or an escape by the Chloe during the darkness hours. It rankled with them still, to not have resisted in any way. But Dow, with Fidel in agreement, had so far refused to make any attempt.

  ‘There’s worse even yet,’ Boiler went on. ‘Others say – again, I speak of Magliore and his ilk – that Diego’s appearance was in fact no accident. They claim indeed that you and Diego are in league, and that the New World has been following behind all along, ready to come up in support if the crew turned against you. They insist that the whole encounter, with cannon run out, and the taking of Nell prisoner, was just a charade to silence discontent, and to enforce the crew’s obedience.’

  Jake shrugged in disgust. ‘Well, what else can you expect? Sailors will always spread rumour, finding plots within plots, no matter how fantastic, if they sense there’s a lack at the helm of their ship. They need to know their captain is in charge, and has set a clear course. Otherwise, all is conspiracy.’

  Dow bowed his head. Even such loyal friends as Jake and Boiler could not help but rebuke him. But surely they understood. There could be no attack on the New World. Diego was too well armed, it would be bloody beyond reason, and who knew what damage a battle might do to either ship, or to their supplies of oil and food and water. The expedition was on an edge as it was. If they lost any of their stores, or disabled either vessel, then even in victory the Chloe would only ensure its own destruction. They must wait. Diego was not the main enemy for now. The Barrier itself was the enemy. Only if they defeated the Barrier, then they might attempt to wrest their freedom back.

  But Dow said none of this, was not even sure he believed it himself. It was ha
rd to counsel be patient when the heart cried out, in its pain, for revenge.

  He raised his eyes desolately, searching yet again on the New World. And ah – there was Nell at last, a slight figure emerging onto the main deck.

  But then Dow was staring in dull surprise, for she was not alone. Following behind her, carted at first by four attendants and then set down on the timbers, was the wheeled chair veiled in black curtains.

  Uyal.

  ‘By all the deeps,’ breathed Jake, who had followed Dow’s gaze. ‘Then it’s true.’

  Dow was aware of silence falling all across the Chloe as eyes turned to the New World. This was the first time Uyal had appeared in public view, and though rumour of Diego’s scapegoat had been sweeping the Chloe all week, it was quite another matter for the crew to behold in plain sight the wheeled chair and its curtains, and to discern that something was seated within.

  ‘Aye,’ said Boiler, a shudder in his voice. ‘And that’s another cause of much of the unease below decks. That creature over there, word has it, pronounced many prophecies while in company with you and Nell – and supposedly that’s why you have taken no action against Diego.’

  Again, Dow gave no reply. Even to his officers he had reported only the bare facts of his conference with Diego, saying little of Uyal and nothing at all about the Great Prophecy. But there had been a certain amount of communication between the two ships since then, and someone from the New World must have passed on a twisted version of the events, and all manner of speculations had grown from there. No doubt Boiler was hoping now to elicit confirmation or denial of such rumours.

  But still Dow’s gaze was on Nell. She had glanced across to the Chloe as soon as she had emerged, directly at Dow himself, but the distance was too great to read anything in her eyes. Now she was evidently engaged in conversation with Uyal, walking slowly beside the wheeled chair as it was pushed along by the attendant, her head bent gravely, listening.

  And what – Dow wondered – might Uyal be telling her?

  He answered Boiler and Jake finally. ‘The only prediction Uyal made – at least the only one that matters to us – was that the Barrier Doldrums shall indeed be defeated, and that beyond them a New World lies awaiting discovery, greater than all that we left behind. So tell those who are worried that they need not be frightened of Uyal. Indeed, they can take comfort.’