ARC: The Corpse-Rat King (17 page)

By the time the moon reached its zenith he had folded almost eighty blankets into neat columns of fabric against the rear wall. Much of the floor lay exposed, for all the good it did. Marius could, at least, stand without fear of tripping. A small shelf had appeared beneath the window. It would have been a bed, perhaps, for the resident, unless he was wider than a small snake, in which case the floor became even more important. It gave Marius somewhere to sit, but nothing more. He did so, turning to stare out of the tiny window. Whatever his privations, he was where he needed to be – on a ship, hidden, about to sail across an ocean so wide the dead would never find him. Motion. Any motion was a good one. Once the boat was underway he could relax, and make plans for landfall. The Faraway Isles would be a start. Once there, he could find an isolated village, somewhere where the dead were discarded in such a way that he wouldn’t have to live with their conversation. Then… well, he didn’t know what would happen then, but it was a start.

He emptied his pockets and laid his riches out on the narrow shelf. A handful of coins, enough to gain a whispered conversation with a knowledgeable local, at least; a variety of stones, washers, and buttons to stand in the place of coins and foil the flittering fingers of street dips; a cosh, small enough to sit in the palm of his hand, that he had used once and sworn never to use again once the swelling had gone down, but that he’d never really managed to dispense with. He laid them alongside the satchel the dead had bequeathed him; and the accursed crown. It sat at the end of his makeshift row, twinkling darkly in the weak light, taunting him with its presence. Marius backhanded it to the floor, and kicked the priceless artefact across the room. It bounced from the wall of blankets and spun round to face him. The emerald in its frontispiece blinked at him as the light hit its multi-faceted face. Marius turned his attention to the satchel – he had ignored it in his constant flight across the country, without thought for its contents. It had simply been a weight to be carried. Only now, with nothing to do but wait for his freedom, did he think to open it and spill its contents onto the shelf.

At first glance, the scraps that slid out looked like dried autumn leaves, a filthy wash of dead vegetable matter crammed into the bag like so much stuffing. It was only when Marius picked up a handful and examined them closely did he see what they actually were – scraps of paper: torn, crumpled, stained with dirt and age and, in some cases, blood; gathered from the corpses of who knew how many dead, written upon in a range of scrawls, some bearing the mark of culture and education, some barely legible, as if the hands that drew the words were controlled more by willpower than by any combination of withered and rotting muscles. Marius read through the few whose words he could discern – they were letters, from the dead to their living relatives. Marius scanned them quickly, mouth open in surprise. They were mundane, for the most part, of interest only to those who wrote them and, perhaps, those who might receive; it was the sheer number that boggled him. Each scrap was, he realized, a tiny plea for continuation, a need to reach out and reassure the author that the life they left behind had continued with some part of them remembered. Even if it were just the knowledge that Aunt Madge still complained of gout, or that young Roldo was still studying sail making at Ballico College, the dead needed
someone
to remember. But it was the simple notes, the ones written with large, clumsy letters, telling Mummy how much she was loved or Daddy how much he was missed, with strings of exes at the bottom like a line of illiterate signatures, that finally caused Marius to open his hand and let the brittle sheets fall to the floor. What was he supposed to do, he silently asked? There were so many. Was he to deliver them, like some sort of travelling postmaster? When they could not be read, when so many of them lacked addresses, as if the dead authors could no longer remember that important part of their previous lives? When the reactions of those who might have received them could only be a combination of grief, and fear, and anger towards the man who had delivered them? Marius was not the man to perform the task. Not him. He gathered the papers back up and replaced them within the satchel. So many letters from children. He placed the satchel on the floor and leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes. Concentrate on what can be done. Concentrate on escaping the sword hanging over him, on stepping onto the sandy beaches of the Faraway Isles and leaving dead children, and dead kings, and the continent of Lemk behind. For the first time since he had picked up the Scorban king’s crown, Marius allowed himself to relax. He opened his eyes, and stared through the window at the land he was going to leave behind.

A figure stood upon the wharf, an island of stillness amidst the ceaseless stream of moving humanity. As Marius stared, the figure stepped forward until it stood on the edge of the wharf, back to the press of movement, facing the flat stern of the
Minerva
, head tilted so the hood covering its face was pointed directly at the Marius’ window. Marius raised a hand to his mouth, slowly, as the figure reached up and pulled the hood back from its head, exposing his face. Marius bit down on his hand, oblivious to the sudden flare of pain that shot up where his teeth met the dead skin.

“Gerd?”

Marius slid his head backwards, away from the window, blinking in sudden fear. When he could trust himself to peek out the window again without panicking he did so. Gerd stood motionless at the edge of the wharf. As Marius watched he stepped forward, off the edge of the wharf, and dropped below the edge of Marius’ vision. He heard a dull splash, and then he was up off his perch and barging through the door, racing along the deck to bang his fist against the captain’s door. After an eternity, the door swung open, and Marius found his way blocked by the massive frame of Spone.

“What the hell is the… oh, my god.”

Marius stared up at the big man’s face. Spone was staring at him with a mixture of shock and disgust splashed across his features. Marius blinked stupidly, then, realizing the cause of the first mate’s shock, slowly reached up and pulled his hood over his exposed face.

“I need to speak to the captain,” he said warily. Spone nodded, then backed into the room, keeping as much distance between himself and Marius as possible. Marius hurried into the room, moving past the giant mate with an apologetic nod, and stepped up to the captain’s table. Bomthe sat before a bowl of stew, a chunk of bread in his hand. Another bowl sat in front of a smaller chair to one side. Marius glanced at it, then at the mate, pressed against the wall of the cabin some feet away.

“Captain,” he said without preamble. “We must depart, immediately.”

“I’m sorry, Mister Helpus–”

“Helles. It’s Helles, damn it.” Marius raised a fist to thump it on the table, recovered himself, and lowered it stiffly to his side.”

“I’m sorry, Mister Helles,” the captain smiled, aware of his victory. “But I’m not in the habit of altering my plans on account of an hysterical passenger. We will slip anchor with the first tide.”

“But… I must insist–”

“You shall insist on nothing, Mister Helles.” The captain took a bite of his bread, chewed, and swallowed. He laid the remaining chunk on the table and looked Marius squarely in the dark shadow of his hood. “I will do you the courtesy of explaining, Mister Helles, because you have paid the money I asked, and because it will make your journey much easier to understand me from the beginning. This is a trading ship, not a passenger ship. Its sole purpose is to trade goods. Moreover, it is
my
ship. I decide when we depart, where we depart for, when we eat, when we make landfall, with whom I wish to trade, and how long I wish to take to do so. I am answerable only to those who invest in my journey, and who require me to provide them with a return on that investment. You are not amongst their number.” He returned his gaze to his stew. “Return to your cabin, or I shall have Mister Spone escort you there. I will send you some food shortly. I do not expect to be interrupted again.”

“But… there’s…” Marius shook a hand towards the water at the back of the ship. Bomthe’s lips compressed into a tight little smile.

“I do not care what problems you are attempting to leave behind you, sirrah, so long as they do not accompany you on your journey. Your concerns are not mine. Now, leave my cabin, please, or shall I call on Mister Spone?”

Marius glanced at the giant ship’s master. He stared back at Marius, his features a blank mask of fear. Marius sighed, and dropped his head. He turned without a word and left the cabin. He was halfway along the narrow walkway towards his cabin, desperately trying to decide how to reinforce his door with nothing more than blankets and scraps of paper, when two hands appeared at the railing. As Marius pressed up against the wall in shock, Gerd hauled himself over the railing to stand, dripping, before him.

“Hello, Marius,” he said, a nasty smile spread across his features. “How was your shit?”

Marius said nothing. Gerd stepped forward. Marius slid a foot along the wall.

“What do you think you’re doing? Running away? Where to, Marius?” Gerd laughed, a sound like falling gravel. “Haven’t you heard the saying? ‘The entire Earth is the grave of great men’. L’Liva said that. You know, the philosopher? I’ve met him.” Gerd took another step forward. “You can’t run away from me. You can’t escape us.”

Marius lunged forward, lowering his head and driving it into Gerd’s chest. Gerd stumbled backwards, clawing at the older man’s back. Marius heaved upwards, driving Gerd against the railing, once, and twice. He heaved, and tipped his tormenter over the side. The younger man held on a moment, then his weight betrayed him and he fell away from the hull, tumbling as he fell twenty-odd feet to hit the water. Marius leaned against the railing, watching the rings spread outwards from the impact. How deep was the harbour below the hull line? How deep the
Minerva’s
draught? No question of asking whether Gerd could have survived the fall. The only concern was how long it would take him to reappear, and whether Marius could continue to block the dead man’s attempts to recapture him long enough for the ship to weigh anchor. He waited, and watched, stepping to the corner of the railing to keep his eye on the stern as well as the side, but Gerd did not resurface. Eventually, as dawn began to lighten the sky, and sailors emerged from below decks to make ready for departure, Marius retreated to his room and sat with his back pressed against the door, hoping his dead weight would be enough.

Out the window, where he could not see from his position on the floor, a figure hauled itself out of the water to stand on the dock, watching the
Minerva
as she slipped her moorings and made out of the harbour. Only once the massive ship was well out into the bay did the figure turn, and push through the crowds, away from the wharf.

Marius sat against the door for three days, afraid to move lest the past come crashing through his door and drag him beneath the surface of the world for judgment. True to his word, Bomthe sent Figgis down the narrow passageway three times a day, to knock on the door and leave a tray of food. Three times a day, Marius ignored the invitation, and the diminutive cabin boy snuck back an hour later to gulp down the rejected meal and report back to his master that all was well with the passenger. At lunch on the fourth day, however, he opened the door at Figgis’ knock, and did his best not laugh at the youngster’s look of disappointment. He tilted his head to Figgis to bring the tray in. Figgis laid the tray upon the thin shelf, and nervously eyed the closed door.

“Will that be all, sir?” he asked, shuffling his feet. Marius motioned him to sit, then nudged the tray closer.

“Tuck into that, lad,” he said, leaning back and smiling as Figgis nervously broke off a corner of the hard bread. “I’ve no great appetite, these days, and you look like you don’t get more than scraps for your tea.” He nodded down at the thin stew and broken biscuits. “Get stuck in.”

Thankfully, Figgis admitted that, indeed, he was the poor, hard-done-to soul he appeared to be, and that it was, indeed, almost impossible to survive on the pittance he was thrown by the captain. Marius clucked in sympathy, and begged him to try some of the stew.

If you want gossip, talk to the ruling classes. If you want the truth of things, speak to those who serve them, the ones who change the sheets in the morning, who carry the breakfast trays into bedrooms, who water the horses at the roadside inns and never, ever reveal how blue the stool of the monarch is this morning. Within half an hour, Marius and Figgis were firm friends, bound by shared experiences and an understanding of just how cruel a fate it was to serve under a master who swept a spoon through your stew before passing it to you, to remove the best bits of meat for his own plate.

The deal was ridiculously easy to strike – Marius would give the lad his food, and let him eat in the relative comfort of the tiny cabin, and in return, he would know all there was to know about the
Minerva
, her crew, and the countless feuds, arguments, love matches and working relationships that made up its society. And on his next visit, Marius would receive a bowl of hot water, a stick of soap, and a blade with which to shave.

“Tell me,” he said, as Figgis was wiping up the last of his stew with the final ball of bread, “about Mister Spone…”

FOURTEEN

No man makes captain without having served his share of dawn watches. The hours between three bells and seven are the loneliest in the world; the coldest; the wettest. It is reserved for those on misdemeanour charges, those whom the mates have come to dislike most, or like Mister Spone, those who have attained the highest working rank on the ship and need only the experience of commanding the worst men at the worst time of the day to complete their education. Such an education gives a master complete knowledge – only at the most miserable hour, with waves crashing across the bow deck and the wind making a mockery of the sails, can a man truly understand the paradise of a dry corner, away from the rain, where he can light a snout and smoke, undisturbed, for a few stray moments before the call of duty and danger requires him to re-enter the whirlpool outside. There were no such conditions that morning, but such a corner serves as well in the dry as the wet. Spone was crammed in, half-turned into the angle, striking a Lucifer against the wood, when Marius appeared out of the dark and stood before him.