Gravedigger 01 - Sea Of Ghosts (17 page)

‘You know why I’m here,’ Granger said.

The Evensraumer nodded, then gestured for his guest to sit on one of the sofas. ‘Would you care for some wine, Mr Swinekicker?’

Granger looked at the sofa with distaste. He shook his head.

‘Tea, then? I don’t often get the chance to converse with outsiders.’

‘No.’

Truan smiled. ‘I can see from your expression that you disapprove of my lifestyle.’

‘You’re supposed to be a prisoner here.’

Truan’s eyes narrowed. ‘I
am
a prisoner here, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s true that my wealth affords me certain luxuries and allows me to pursue my interests, but walls are walls. I will remain here until the emperor decrees otherwise, while you are free to leave the city whenever you choose.’

Granger thought about his waterlogged boat, but said nothing. He set his parcel down on a nearby table and began to unwrap it. He was surprised to find that his heart was racing.

Truan hovered nearby, eyeing the amphora with interest as it was revealed. Finally he strolled over, leaned across the table and squinted at the markings etched into the clay. He turned the jar a little to one side, frowning. ‘Is this a joke, sir?’ he said.

Granger felt his heart grow cold. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s a wine amphora.’

A sudden awful realization gripped Granger as he stared down at the lump of pottery they’d dredged up.
Creedy.
Creedy had decided which canals to search. Creedy had identified the find. Creedy had found the buyer. And Creedy had brought him here, away from his home. Anger coiled inside him. He was about to turn and leave when his pragmatic side urged him to stop. Might the Evensraumer not simply be lying to lower the price? He swallowed his rage. ‘If it’s of no value,’ he said, ‘I’ll take it elsewhere.’

Truan continued to study the object. ‘Unmer wine is of
some
value,’ he said, ‘provided it has not been exposed to the air. I suppose I could offer you twenty gilders. But not a coin more. Frankly, I’d be doing you a favour.’

‘Forget it.’ Granger picked up the amphora.

‘Thirty, then,’ Truan said. ‘That’s five more than the market price.’

Granger began walking towards the door.

‘Thirty-five,’ Truan called after him. ‘My final offer.’

Granger reached the door, and turned the handle. It was locked. He hammered his fist against the iron barred wood.

‘Very well,’ Truan said. ‘My jailers charge me exorbitant commission on anything I order. I’ll give you fifty for the wine if you don’t tell a soul. You are robbing me blind, after all, and I won’t have my other suppliers hear of it.’

Granger turned to look at the other man. Fifty? For a jug of wine? Truan seemed unusually keen to get his hands on such a worthless artefact. And yet his instincts continued to gnaw at him.
Something is wrong here
. The amphora, the buyer, it was all too
convenient
for Creedy. And there was something else, something about Truan that bothered him. This man was no trader, that much was clear. He had raised his price three times before Granger had even reached the door. After all, they had both been captive in that room. Granger wasn’t going anywhere until the jailer came to release him, and Truan would have been well aware of that. Not even the poorest Losotan merchant, much less one as rich and successful as Truan purported to be, would have made such a mistake. But if he wasn’t who he said he was, then who was he?

Granger had his suspicions. ‘Perhaps I’ll have that tea after all,’ he said.

Truan smiled again and waved Granger back to the sofa. Then he strolled across the room and pulled a bell chord. Chimes sounded in the hall outside. Granger took a seat and waited with the sealed amphora in his arms. A fortune or a pittance waited within.

‘Which part of Evensraum are you from?’ Granger asked.

‘Deslorn,’ Truan replied.

‘A shame what happened there. The typhoid, I mean.’

‘I believe it was cholera,’ Truan said. ‘We left the place long before the city filled with refugees. One of the benefits of being in shipping is that one owns ships.’

Air bubbled up through one of the jellyfish tanks. The pale blue creatures inside shivered.

‘I had family in Weaverbrook,’ Granger said.

Truan raised his eyebrows. ‘I had no idea you hailed from that part of the world, Mr Swinekicker.’

A key clicked in the lock. The jailer came in carrying a tray of tea.

‘Haven’t been back to see them in a while,’ Granger said.

‘I can sympathize,’ Truan said. ‘Nothing is more important than family.’

The jailer set the tea down on the table. ‘Anything else, sir?’

‘That will be all,’ Truan replied.

Granger looked at the jailer’s tattoos. ‘This can’t be easy for you,’ he said. ‘A man with a history like yours, running around like a boot boy after his master?’

The jailer glanced at Truan and back at Granger, and in that moment Granger finally understood Truan’s real identity.

He grabbed the amphora and leaped to his feet, barging past the jailer and knocking him off his feet. He raced down the stairs and was halfway towards the front door before he heard angry shouts and footfalls coming from behind. Evidently the jailer had recovered enough to come after him. Granger ran on, his chest cramping at the sudden exertion. His scarred lungs were not used to such exercise. The air seemed full of acid, but he ignored it. The bitter taste in his throat was worse. Creedy had lied to him, tricked him into coming here.

Ethan Maskelyne’s accent had been good, but it hadn’t been perfect. Granger had spent enough time in Evensraum to know the difference. But he hadn’t been sure of his suspicions until the jailer had confirmed them. An Ethugran jailer might be paid enough to treat an Evensraum captive as his master, but he would never believe it to be true. Granger’s comment should have humiliated and angered the man. And yet the only emotion in the jailer’s eyes had been fear. Fear of what Maskelyne would do to him.

He reached the front doors and burst through them. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a blizzard of paper whirling around the scribes’ desks. Maskelyne’s man had already reached the bottom of the steps and showed no sign of slowing down. Granger plunged out into the sunlight of Averley Plaza.

The beer drinkers lounged about in groups. A few turned to glance his way as he came storming out of the Imperial jail with the heavy amphora still clutched in his arms. Children shrieked happily as they played about the empty market stalls. The Drowned observed it all with their dead stone eyes, their faces frozen in eternal grimaces of agony. But Creedy was nowhere to be seen, and his launch was no longer moored at the dock.

Bastard.

Creedy had managed to get him away from Hana and Ianthe.

Granger stood in the centre of the plaza, wheezing. He needed a boat, any boat, to take him home.

Someone seized his arm.

Snarling, the Imperial jailer looked more like a street dog than ever before. His face was flushed, his eyes narrowed. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he said through his teeth. ‘Nobody runs out on my boss.’

Granger smashed the amphora across his head.

The jailer dropped to the ground, his head and shoulders drenched in oil.

Granger hardly gave him a second a glance. He was already running along the dockside, looking for a boat.

There were few to choose from, and no passenger ferry boats at all. Almost all of the market traders had already gone home, and none of their customers remained. A score of unguarded whaleskin coracles bobbed against the steps, but they would be too slow. Two fishermen sat repairing their nets on the wharf side above an old closed-deck barque, but their deepwater hull was too wide to negotiate Ethugra’s narrower channels. Such a vessel would be forced to head out of the Glot Madera and circle around almost a quarter of the city before heading back in through Halcine Canal. Granger passed three more barques before he finally came upon a suitable craft.

She was a Valcinder sloop – a true canal boat, as sleek, quick and narrow as any in Ethugra. Her captain lay snoozing on the open deck, with his boots propped on the gunwale and a Losotan newspaper draped over his head. He woke with a start when Granger jumped down beside him.

‘What? Who the hell—’ He was young and dark, dressed up in one of those smart black uniforms they sold in the Losotan markets – all braid and buttons.

Granger took him for a hire captain or a smuggler. No one else bothered to look so neat. ‘Take me to Halcine Canal,’ he said. ‘I’ll pay.’ He began unravelling the bow line.

The Losotan blinked. ‘I’m waiting for a fare.’

‘You got a fare,’ Granger replied.

‘Not you! I’m supposed to take an Imperial administrator to Chandel.’

Granger threw the bow line at him and kicked off from the wharf. ‘I’m in a hurry,’ he said, ‘and I’m taking this boat to Hal-cine Canal, with or without you at the helm. You’d better choose quickly’ – he inclined his head towards the retreating dock – ‘because you’re running out of time to jump.’

‘You’re not stealing this boat!’

‘Then I’m a paying passenger. Less trouble for both of us.’

The Losotan glanced between Granger and rapidly increasing gulf between his boat and dry land. Then he shook his head and climbed back to the helm. ‘We’ve got to do this fast,’ he said, ‘or I’m going to lose a whole bunch of gilders.’

Granger grunted. ‘Fast suits me just fine.’

Even before they reached his jail, Granger knew he was too late. The flap giving access to his rooms had been torn off and now lay floating on the oily surface of the canal. He leaped onto his wharf, leaving the Losotan hire captain to tie up, and ran up the steps to his garret.

The place was a mess. His cot, furniture and clothes lay strewn across the floor. Even the kitchen cupboards had been torn off the walls and smashed.

But they didn’t have enough time.

They had been looking . . . for what? Trove? His savings? It didn’t matter. A quick glance was enough to tell him that this had been a rush job. They had started to search the place but had been interrupted. A few floorboards lay ripped up, but the rest were untouched. Piles of tools and junk remained undisturbed where they’d always lain.

Granger didn’t dare to let himself hope. He ran downstairs to the cells.

Their cell door had been forced open, torn partially off its hinges. A feeling of dread gripped him as he waded along the corridor towards it.

He expected their cell to be empty. Every bone in his body told him that he’d find his prisoners missing. And so he wasn’t prepared for what he did find when he heaved the broken door aside and staggered through.

They had taken Ianthe, of course.

But not Hana.

She was lying on her back in the shallow brine, wearing the fancy dress he’d bought for her, a faint wheezing sound coming from her mouth. Almost her entire body had been submerged. Grey blisters covered her arms and legs, and patches of sharkskin had already begun to creep across her face. Her eyes stared at the ceiling from underneath an inch of seawater. Evidently she had swallowed some of it, for her breathing sounded painfully thin and ragged. And yet even now she was still trying to stay alive, forcing her mouth above the waterline to suck in air that her ruined lungs could barely absorb.

Granger approached, careful not to make waves in the brine around her, and squatted down beside her. He was still wearing his whaleskin gloves, and he reached one hand underneath her head to support it and his other hand under her chin. Her eyes moved under the water. She saw him and took a sharp intake of breath.

‘Don’t try to speak,’ he said. ‘Try not to make any sudden movements. Most of your body has already changed, and you need to keep the sharkskin wet. If I lift you out, it’s only going to hurt you even more.’

She took a gulp of air, but didn’t move.

‘Was it Creedy?’ he asked.

She tried to nod, but he held her chin firmly.

‘Don’t nod,’ he said. ‘Can you move your hands? Make a fist for me.’

Under the water, her hand moved away from her side. She clenched it.

‘How many others were with him?’

She held out two fingers.

‘Two other men? Make a fist for yes.’

She clenched her hand again and then relaxed it.

‘Did you recognize them?’

Her hand didn’t move.

‘Do you know where they took her?’

A look of distress came into her eyes, she tried to shake her head, but Granger restrained her. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You need to keep still.’ She was neither one thing nor the other. Part human, part Drowned. In this condition her lungs wouldn’t last much longer. He could hardly hear her breaths now.

‘You can’t survive like this,’ he said gently. ‘Your lungs have been contaminated. They’re failing. Soon you won’t be able to breathe air. If you keep your mouth above water, you’ll die.’ He kept his gaze fixed firmly on hers. ‘I’m going to push you under.’

She panicked and struggled against him.