The Gracekeepers (21 page)

“I…he was confused. I left him alone for too long. It's my fault, not his.” North tried to keep the pleading note out of her voice. “You know he's safe, Jarrow. He's never hurt anyone.”

Red Gold sighed. “Oh, my sweet north child. He is a beast, and he will always be wild.” He turned to North, reaching his
meaty hands out to her. “The bear can never be tame. But you can.” He took her hands in his. “You'll soon wonder how you ever lived at sea,” he said. “You'll learn to sleep on land. You'll learn to love the steadiness of earth, the lullaby of trees in the wind. You'll watch the afternoon swing a bar of sunlight up the wall, and you'll wonder how you ever lived on a deck that never stays still. Your world will become rock and shell and trees. You'll love it, North. You will make it your home.”

Inside North, the baby woke. It wriggled, it shifted; it turned a somersault in the ocean of her insides.

“Yes, I will,” said North to Jarrow. “I will make my home.”

 

W
hen Flitch first let the gracekeeper girl on to his boat, the moon was full. The days had slipped by, and when the moon rolled its round white eye around again, he knew something had to change—so he'd shown her that he knew about her scars. That she was his little fish. But when the sun replaced the moon the next morning, things slipped back, just like the other days. They bartered, they cooked, they sailed. Tonight the moon's eye would roll around again. Two months was enough to eat up all the unsaid things between two people, but for the two of them the silence remained. She would not let him beneath her skin.

Luckily for Flitch, he was a good observer. She'd had her blood twice, he knew it—though he was man enough not to let her know that he knew. Flitch was like that. He was a good man, a proper man, no matter what people said about messengers. The
other messengers were like that, but he was not. Well, he had been like that at times, but the ocean was vast, and good at keeping secrets.

Anyone could see that he was a good man by the way he had been treating Callanish. Even after she'd taken him into her bed on their very first meeting. Anyone else would have thought that was an invitation to more. Anyone else would have expected it, would have made her—well, would not have been a man, like he had been. He had been good to her. She'd better know it. And when the time came, she'd better show it.

D
espite the mist and the silence and the squid eating their lobster, Flitch did not lose heart. He was a messenger, after all. He'd had tougher times than this, and he'd have tougher ones in the future. This was nothing.

But a gracekeeper and a messenger were from different worlds. Flitch hadn't seen it at first. He'd watched Callanish gut mackerel, stitch up the sail, drink as fast as he could fill her cup—and he'd thought that she could handle it. He'd thought there was a shark's heart inside her. But it was all a shell. Slowly, slowly, he watched the softness creep into her. He'd said that he would get her to her island, and he would—but at their current pace she would soften and crumble like dry sand before they even sighted the coast.

“We need to hitch a lift,” he announced over their breakfast of boiled seaweed and fried baby squid—well, if the squid were going to eat his lobster, then he would eat their young in return.

The squid was tough, and Callanish chewed and swallowed carefully before speaking. “On a military tanker?”

“Don't be daft, little fish. A pretty little landlocker like you, among all those brutes? Think what might happen! It would never be allowed. It's improper.”

“And you'd know about that, I suppose, Mr. Propriety.”

Flitch raised his eyebrows. “Whatever can you mean?”

“You must have heard what people say about messengers.”

“That we'll do anything for a few flecks of gold?” He poked his tongue out at her, displaying a half-chewed sucker. “It's true. But experience means knowledge, little fish, and I have experienced many military tankers. That's not the way for us.”

“Then what? A medic boat? They're big but they don't go far, or fast.”

“Don't worry your pretty little head. You leave the thinking to me.”

Callanish did not start on a new piece of squid. Instead she glared at Flitch until he gave in.

“A revival boat, little fish. That's where we need to go.”

“And how will we do that? I haven't seen one since we left the graceyard. Should we send up a prayer to the lady in the blue robes? Say to her,
pretty please come and collect us
?”

“Don't try to be smart. It doesn't suit you.”

Callanish's eyes darted to the canvas bag containing Flitch's razor—then she seemed to think better of it, and returned to her breakfast. Flitch grinned; maybe there was a bit of shark in her after all.

“You may not have seen one,” he said, “but I have. That's why I'm in charge around here, and not you. Because I know how to use my eyes.”

He reached behind the bench and handed Callanish his telescope. She scowled at it for a moment before raising it to her eye. She was still suspicious—what cheek! After all he'd done for her.
Still, in the end she'd show her appreciation. Flitch knew that he was not the only one who needed company.

“Which way?” she asked.

“North.” He waited for her to shift and focus. “See it?”

“It's far.”

“Have faith, little fish! I find you the perfect ship, going in the perfect direction, and you tell me it's too far?”

Callanish shrugged, but she did not put down the telescope. She kept it trained in the direction of the revival boat, transfixed. “I'll help you sail,” she said. “When you're tired. Or I can do the lobster creels.”

“You won't need to. It won't take us long to catch up. Until then you can cook my meals and look pretty, like you've been doing all along. And if you want to be wearing less while you do it, all the better.”

Flitch thought he'd gone too far then. Callanish jerked back the telescope and he felt a quick heat of fear that she was planning to jam it into his eye. He held up his hands. “Keep your temper, little fish. If that goes in the sea, you'll be the one who has to dive in after it.”

She handed the telescope back to him a bit more roughly than was necessary. “Fine, Flitch. Whatever you say. Just get me to the island.”

I
t took them less than a day to catch up with the revival ship. Its size lent it speed, but it chose to move slowly. All the better to pick up new converts along the way, thought Flitch—though he and his gracekeeper girl wouldn't be signing up to anything, oh no sir. But messengers knew the way of all types of boat, and if
he had to raise his eyes to the sky and chant some holy-holies to earn his passage, then he would do it with gusto.

Soon they were almost close enough to hail the enormous ship. Flitch lifted Callanish up on to his shoulder so that she could tie the beacon to the top of the mast. The wet silk of her gloves made it hard for her to knot the rope, and she still refused to go bare-handed. It was ridiculous—did she really think that he didn't know about her webbed fingers by now? He supposed that if the landlockers saw, they'd probably burn her alive or tie her screaming to some sacred tree, or cut out her heart and eat it on a slice of bread. Flitch didn't mind it so much. It was repulsive, but he'd seen worse, and he had excellent self-control. Not only did he resist slipping a hand up her dress, he didn't even sneak a glance. For that, he should certainly get some credit. Besides, he'd seen the contents of her underwear before, and was blessed with vivid powers of recall.

Flitch steadied the cutter as Callanish busied herself with wrapping and stowing anything moveable on deck. It was tricky: the revival ship's wake was strong and erratic, and it took all of Flitch's strength to keep the cutter steady. If he hadn't been a messenger then the skin would have scraped off his knuckles and the muscles would be burning in his back. But he was a messenger, so he felt none of it. He kept his breathing slow and steady so that Callanish would not hear his struggle.

Callanish sat in the boat's bow, gaping up at the approaching wall of the revival boat's hull. She seemed not to be concentrating as she leaned over and dipped her fingers into the sea to clean her gloves—usually she would use the water in the filter, and Flitch was about to tell her to stop, because when the saltwater dried it would make the fabric rough on her poor soft skin,
and she struggled enough with the knots, so he didn't want her to be completely useless to him. But before he could, she lifted her hand and gazed at it in disgust. The glove was slickened dark with oil and filth.

“What is that?” she asked, rubbing her hands in the remains of the filtered water to clean them. As they drew closer to the revival boat, the bumps and thocks against the side of the cutter increased. He didn't need to look to know what it was: frayed ends of rope, the hollow bones of birds, dirty sponges, scraps of fabric sewn with beads. All the big boats left filth in their wake.

Flitch shrugged and kept the boat steady. “Debris. Those revival boats are clean as fishbones, because they throw all their muck out behind them.”

“But what about everyone else? What about their boats?” Hands clean, she took her place back in the bow. The closer the cutter got to the revival ship, the denser the filth became. Now they could see the name
Stella Maris
, painted in enormous gold letters on the gleaming white hull. As they neared, Callanish pressed her nose into her shoulder, but Flitch didn't need a reprieve from the smell because he was a proper man and he could take it. He could take anything.

“What about them?” said Flitch. “Little fish, the folk in that boat are too high up to care.”

“But it's not right! Everyone else scavenges and reuses until their things fall apart. Everything can be used for something. It's not right. If they don't need it, they should share it.”

“Ah, so you're angry because they're rich? Because they don't have to scratch around for every single thing they eat or touch or use? You have a lot to learn, little fish. There's no use in the poor hating the rich. There's more to the world than landlockers versus
damplings. And we all know what side of the balance you're from.”

“I don't need to learn that,” she snapped. “Don't pretend you know me, Flitch.”

Flitch knew a lot more about Callanish than she thought, but now was not the time to point that out. Her blood was due, after all, and girls could get uppity when the moon turned. Instead he kept sailing, pulling in level with the stately pace of the revival ship until they acknowledged his beacon.

They did not have to float in filth for much longer. With a clank-flosh, a chain was thrown over the side, just missing the cutter's deck. The revival ship was too tall for Flitch to see who'd performed the clumsy throw, so his withering look was wasted. Quickly he furled the sails. He instructed Callanish to grab the mast, then fastened the chains to the cutter. He held tight to Callanish as the cutter jolted, and they were hoisted into the sky.

F
litch was pleased that he managed to appear unimpressed by the revival ship. He wouldn't have bothered, but Callanish was there, and she was clearly unnerved. The more uncomfortable she seemed, the more important it was for him to be calm and confident. It was his duty to be the man in the situation.

Revival ships are always big, but this one was a beast: big enough to house a dozen blue whales, with seven decks and all its windows intact and every surface gleaming white as bone. As he watched, a blue-robed revivalist slid from the upper deck window with a rope around her waist. She steadied her feet on the boat's side, then reached for the cloth and bucket attached to her waist and began to scrub it as if the ship was caked in filth. It looked
clean enough to Flitch—but then, maybe religion made you see dirt where no one else could.

“I need to speak to your captain,” he announced to the trio of scrunch-faced, blue-robed revivalists who'd hauled up the cutter. Two of them were occupied with lashing the cutter to the deck, but the other abandoned his work to peer down his nose at Flitch.

“You will speak to the crew manager.”

Flitch had no idea what a crew manager was, or where he could find one—but Callanish was standing right next to him, so he kept his expression steady.

“Fine by me. Where do you keep him?”

“Deck three. Port side, cabin nine. And, messenger?” The revivalist laid a commanding hand on Flitch's shoulder. “Show your respect. Your wife is uncovered.”

Flitch's face jerked into a sneer. Before the revivalist noticed, he managed to slide it into a wheedling smile. “Of course, sir. Whatever you say, sir. I'll sort that out right now, sir.”

It was cheeky, but the revivalist seemed placated. He was clearly a fool, but he had the cutter now, and Flitch could go nowhere without it. He and Callanish would both have to fit in with the holy-holies if they wanted to get to the island.

He put his arm around Callanish and pulled her into the shadow of the upper deck.

“You're indecent,” he said.

She pushed him away. “I am not!”

“Little fish, it's been too long. Look at yourself. Is that how you want the revivalists to see you? Is that how you dressed at your graceyard?”

Callanish, still frowning, looked down at herself. When she'd first come on to his cutter, her dress was gray, long and loose; now it was faded and torn, the bottom hem ripped above her knees,
the fabric so thin it was almost transparent in places. When she raised her head, she looked shocked.

“Flitch, I didn't know. I didn't think about it—I didn't see. What can I do?”

Flitch shrugged. “Makes no matter to me. But if we want the revivalists to play nice, we'll have to be what they want us to be.”

“And what's that?”

“Don't you know anything? Revivalists want women to show true faith. So what would that mean to you?”

“Stop being awkward, Flitch. On my island we worshipped the World Tree, all right? And I don't see any trees on this damned ship, so if you could stop being a pain and tell me what I'm supposed to do then we can—”

“Calm, calm, little fish.” He put his hands on Callanish's shoulders, pressing down when she tried to shrug him off. “I'm sorry. I won't tease you again.”

“Yes, you will. You know you will.” Her muscles were still tensed, but he saw a smile ghost across her face.

“You're right. I will. But for now…” He ran back to the cutter and retrieved his spare blanket from the hold. “For now, wear this.”

Callanish took the blanket, unsure. After a moment she draped it over her head like a shawl, then gave him a questioning glance. He tipped his head back to let his laugh go.