Dark Heart (51 page)

‘It talks about Miss Sai,’ she said.

This simple statement took many minutes to communicate: the symbols she used to indicate the slattern’s name were impenetrable at first, and then for a while Noetos thought the voice was suggesting some sort of unnatural congress. It took him some time to overcome his outrage.

‘Why, Arathé? Why would the voice talk about the slattern? What is it saying?’

‘I do not know yet. It wants me to observe her. Father, do you have any idea why the voice might make this request?’

‘Why haven’t you spoken to Anomer? You’re closer to him than to me.’

She did not deny the point. ‘Because I think Anomer desires her,’ she signalled.

‘What man aboard this vessel does not?’ Noetos replied. ‘We are a captive audience, treated daily to a display designed to inflame us. I know of married men who have tried to manoeuvre their families away from their bunks so they can conduct a liaison with Miss Sai. Just last night two men fought over her.’ He smiled grimly. ‘She’s good at her job, it seems.’

‘That’s what the voice says too. It seems very curious about her. It asks me much the same questions it asked about Lenares.’

Noetos grunted in surprise. ‘That’s odd. I talked with her a while ago, and was struck by the resemblance.’

‘I don’t see it.’

‘Well, there’s clearly no connection. Lenares is from another continent. Besides, she has, shall we say, difficulties getting on with people. I don’t see any evidence of that with Miss Sai.’

Arathé laughed, a strange, gurgling sound, but it did him good to hear it.
She’s getting better, I know she is.

Now there was only the matter of Opuntia to deal with, and, once he had sorted it out, he would have his children’s hearts once again.

The storm came during the second week at sea. It began as mare’s tails high in the sky, followed by a vast radial pattern of cloud emanating from the north. Noetos didn’t need the redoubled activity from the crew to tell him what was coming. In the afternoon of the next day he saw a purple bruise on the horizon, one that grew rapidly and spread its mouth widely, dragging the darkness behind it.

‘Arathé says it’s not a god-made storm,’ Anomer said to Noetos.

‘Doesn’t have to be,’ the fisherman replied. ‘Autumn storms from the north are fearful things. Perhaps that is why our passage cost so much. Not every captain would risk a journey in this season.’

Privately he wondered whether the storm was entirely natural. Maybe the gods had become cleverer, and had learned the trick of disguising themselves, now they knew that people were aware of their machinations. Their journey had taken a predictable turn, sounding like every fireside tale of adventures at sea. The fugitive went out on the ocean, and the wind came, and the storm battered the boat until the ship’s crew cried out, ‘What are we to do?’ And the sea god Alkuon said: ‘Throw me the man among you, the man who seeks to escape from me; throw only him and I will let the rest of you live.’ So they took the man up and consigned him to the deep; and immediately his head sank below the waves, all was calm and the storm vanished. As the storm bore down upon them now, their election to journey by sea did not seem so sensible an idea.

The storm blew for two full days and into the third. Noetos and Captain Kidson were the only two aboard not to be taken ill: many of the duties done by the crew fell to them. The fisherman found himself out in the worst of the weather, tying down the longboat after it came loose, reefing in the sails on the mizzenmast, attending to a cracked bowsprit, and, most often, wrestling with a recalcitrant wheel. It sometimes took their combined strength to head the
Conch
into the waves, and one of them had always to be on hand in case the ship should be turned broadside to the tremendous swells.

On the afternoon of the third day the two men slapped each other on the back with relief. The sea still heaved, the rain still fell, but the troughs were not as deep and the rain came at an angle, not horizontally. The worst was over.

Kidson was a sight. His hair was matted with grime and salt, his face red and briny, his clothes soaked, even his oilskin sodden, stuck to his wiry frame. Noetos expected he appeared exactly the same. The man beckoned Noetos to follow him. After a slow and careful transit of the deck, they ended up in the captain’s cabin.

‘Go rouse the first mate,’ Kidson told the cabin boy. ‘It’s his ship for a watch. Fisherman ’n’ me are going to get ourselves drunk. And fetch Miss Sai. Tell her to clean up first.’

The boy rushed off.

‘Wish that old son of a goat had stuck to collectin’ shells, not boats,’ the captain said, smiling, and Noetos nodded. ‘You’re some sailor. I know you say you’ve never been aboard a deep-drawing ship before, but you made yourself useful while those miserable sons o’ besoms spent their time decoratin’ their rooms with yesterday’s swill. I’m grateful, sir, grateful. Here, have a drink.’

Kidson drew a mug from a cupboard and poured a full measure into it. ‘Stout stuff, this. Too good for a smuggler like me. You might like it, though.’

Noetos took a sip, partly out of in-bred politeness, but mostly to hide the surprise on his face.

Kidson raised his eyebrows. ‘You knew about the smuggling, right? I’m sure you did. No one goes out in the autumn unless the stakes are high. And they’re high, all right. Silks from southern Jasweyah, sewn into the most exquisite garments, so I’m told.’ He stopped and looked at Noetos’s bemused face. ‘You didn’t know? You came up on deck and risked your life with no expectation of reward?’

The fisherman found himself able to talk. ‘The reward I wanted was to see my son and daughter again. I needed no greater incentive, Captain Kidson.’

The captain nodded. ‘As you say. Yet I have an offer for you. I’ve been watching you these past two days, racking my brain, trying to figure out where I’ve seen you before. I thought it must have been Raceme, on the few times I came to call at that port, but why would a lowly fisherman have come to my attention? Then I pegged it. The Summer Palace. You’re as near as spit the image of the old governor. You’re his son, aren’t you? The sole survivor of the infamous massacre.’ He sat back, waiting for a reaction.

‘You claim to recognise someone from a brief meeting with his father more than twenty years ago?’

‘No. Actually, the face is familiar to me, and more than familiar. My grandfather expanded the family business, doing so with capital borrowed from this man.’ His finger stabbed in the direction of the wall to their left. On the wall hung a small painting. The Red Duke of Roudhos.

‘Grandfather would never have funded smuggling!’

‘Oh ho! You admit your relationship to him, then! And yes he would have, especially if his part of the profits funded resistance to Andratan and Neherius.’ Kidson smiled. ‘Now you can work it out. Half the capital of this fleet is owed to the descendants of the Red Duke, so half this ship is rightly yours. Except, of course, no court would recognise your claim. So neither do I. You may be angry about it now, but you’ll recognise the justice of it later.’

‘Had I wanted to be rich,’ Noetos countered, ‘I could have been. Nor do I seek wealth now. I want what I said I wanted: for my family to arrive safely at our destination.’

A gentle knock sounded at the door.

‘Wait a moment, Sai,’ Kidson called. Then he leaned closer to Noetos.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Here’s my offer. If you desire revenge against Neherius, I will put whatever resources I have at your disposal, even to helping you set up a rebellion. I have little love for Andratan, and less for the Neherian fleet, which has on occasion hounded me even further north than here, if you could credit it.’

‘I could credit it well,’ Noetos said with a smile. ‘But I have good news for you on that score. The Neherian fleet is severely reduced. I witnessed it, and played a small part in it. And the Neherian court is decimated, and in that I played a large part.’

‘The news gets better and better,’ Kidson said. ‘And it is clearly a story I must hear. However, my doxy and my cabin boy are standing out in the rain.’ He raised his voice. ‘Miss Sai, please enter!’

The girl that followed the cabin boy in looked little like the girl Noetos had talked with only a week or so ago. Her cheeks had been hollowed out by the storm and her hair lay lank on her face. Nevertheless she took her place at the table. The captain passed her a mug, which she upended in swift order.

‘You wanted me, Captain?’ she asked wearily, her voice carrying no traces of beguilement.

‘Aye. Our friend the fisherman has helped us keep afloat over the last few days. You spoke to me of him last week, of how he fascinated you. I will place one gold coin, Malayu standard, in your purse if you spend the night with this man.’

Noetos expelled his breath noisily. He could feel his heart racing at the thought. In the brief silence that followed the pronouncement, Noetos examined his options. He knew he should refuse, but he couldn’t refuse the captain without offending him. And if he refused, Miss Sai would not get her gold coin.

Miss Sai came to his rescue. ‘His children are in steerage,’ she said to the captain. ‘I am sure our fisherman would have trouble with his rod should his son and daughter form the audience.’

‘True,’ said the captain. He thought a moment. ‘Then the first mate must make room for him.’ He signalled the cabin boy. ‘Go tell Sepa I want to see him, will you?’

He smiled at them both. ‘Not often I can give everyone what they want,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Captain,’ Noetos made himself say.

‘The room will be yours at dusk, and you must leave by dawn. I trust that will be long enough.’ He laughed at the double meaning, then slapped Noetos on the back.

Noetos spent an hour with the captain; long enough to further blur his consciousness, already affected by two nights of little sleep. Then, as the sky darkened towards evening, he made his way down to steerage.

Conditions were dreadful. Two of the tables and one of the benches had overturned, having broken their strapping; a man lay on the floor moaning, a leg badly bent beneath him; and every surface was covered in stale vomit. Noetos barely held his own bile in check.

I’d take a few willing hands to help clean this up rather than the ‘reward’ Kidson has offered me.
He would refuse, of course; it was a grand gesture, a buy-off of someone he thought might have taken this voyage to confront one who owed him a great deal of money.

He called out for assistance, and a few pale faces pulled aside their curtains. His children were not among them: probably asleep. He secured the reluctant assistance of three helpers, their work with water and cloth partly undone when one of them threw up over the portion of floor they had cleaned. Noetos helped for what seemed an age, then sighed and left them to it.

The first mate’s cabin was tucked in behind the mizzenmast, right at the stern of the ship. Not the ideal place, it was subject to a great deal of roll, but the seaway had settled down and, as Noetos closed the door, it certainly had a charm not offered by steerage in its current state. Including that of the girl waiting for him.

He took a breath of surprise and his resolve wavered for a moment. She had used the time he’d spent cleaning steerage to further tidy herself, and now appeared absolutely lovely. Her red hair, set high on her head, hung in ringlets framing her pale face and red lips. She had dressed in finery, her gown of lace and low neckline made from materials far beyond her purse, no doubt supplied by the captain when she entertained him.
My doxy,
he’d said.

Noetos sat down on a wooden bench some distance from her. She wrinkled her nose at him, but her eyes were alight and her lips curved in a smile. No one had ever smiled like that for him. Not Opuntia, not even in the early days; her smile had always been part calculation. How did this girl manage to seem so genuine? He hated those who played games. Unwittingly, perhaps, she had found the secret key to him.

‘You need a bath,’ she said. ‘I have had a tub heated for you. Come, disrobe, take your bath while I search for clothes fit for our evening together.’

‘Don’t your, ah, men dispense with clothes?’

‘There are no other men here tonight,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to talk of them.’

He nodded, then stripped off his foul garments. She took them and dropped them outside the door, then stood back and appraised him.

‘For an old man, you look good,’ she said, her eyes crinkling as she spoke. ‘Pole’s about what I expected.’

He stepped into the tub and lowered himself into the gloriously warm water. ‘You understand you and I will not be coupling tonight, do you not?’ He stared at her, eyebrows raised.

‘I thought not,’ she said. ‘Part of why—’ She bit her lip.

‘Part of why you find me fascinating?’ he finished for her. She nodded, her lip still between her teeth, staining them red.

‘Miss Sai, I spoke to you with civility, that’s all. I treated you as a person when others treat you—well, as the Recruiters treated my own daughter. I’m very sorry you have come to such a poor pass that merely being treated as human fascinates you.’

He expected her to become angry, or perhaps break down and cry at his words. She did neither, simply taking the sponge and setting to work on his naked back.

‘What happened to your daughter?’ she asked. ‘She has the look of one who has suffered.’

All of a sudden his chest and stomach turned hot. Tears broke from his eyes and coursed down his face.
She has the key to me.
He tried to hold his emotion in check, but within moments he was shaking with sobs, her arms around his neck.

‘It’s good to cry,’ she whispered. ‘I know, I know.’

Oh, Alkuon, he had not realised how locked up his feelings had become. An image surfaced in his mind: of Arathé in the dungeon of the Undying Man, mouth held open, pliers coming for her tongue. He told Miss Sai the story. They shared tears before it had finished.

He rose from the now-cool water and dried himself. She looked at him, wiping her eyes. ‘I was going to find you fitting clothes,’ she said.