Riverkeep (14 page)

“It's a fair morning,” said a voice behind him.

Murdagh continued to watch the mormorach.

“I's quite aware o' the weather, an' not one for interruptions,” he said. “Also, you's wrong—it's bloody perishin'
and
it's no' quite mornin' yet.”

“I'm sorry, Captain Murdagh,” said the voice. “I was told you would be here, and I don't mean to interrupt—”

“Now if tha' was true you wouldn't have interrupted me, would you?” said Murdagh, snapping his eyeglass closed and turning to face the speaker.

A fat man in a fussy wig was knitting his fingers and chewing his lips. His startled owlish face, propped on his collar like a target at a fairground booth, was flushed with cold and confrontation. His clothes, brightly hued and lace-trimmed, were layered velvet, and his shoes gleamed.

“I'm sorry,” he said again, “but I must speak with you.”

“So speak,” said Murdagh. He looked evenly at the man, blinking slowly, allowing the skin of his eyelid to linger on the raised red meat of his injured eye.

“Yes, yes, of course. I am Dayl Seamer. I'm the—”

“You's the mayor of this town—I knows who you are. What c'n I do for you, Mr. Mayor?”

“Yes,” said Seamer, satisfaction glazing his round face. “I am the mayor, and I . . . I wish to speak with you regarding the creature known as the mormorach.”

Murdagh raised an eyebrow, deepening the lines of grime on his forehead. “‘Known as'?” he said, laughing. “It's not a crook, Mr. Mayor; beast 'in't got an alias. It's known as nothin' 'cept what it is—a dirty big mormorach, an' it's doin' a grand job on all these boats what've gone after it.”

“It is that grim fact that has compelled me to seek your counsel,” said Seamer, nodding. He took a step forward, hesitated, and stepped back. “The mormorach killed Blueloons Emory, our most senior magistrate, and the people of the town are in a panic: this is the longest they've ever been without fish, and they're desperate. The town is built on fishing, Captain Murdagh, and completely dependent on the fruits of the sea for survival. Should this continue, people will have to leave to find work elsewhere to support their families. That means Oracco, and the gods only know what kind of work awaits them there. These are
fishing
people—generations of
them. We have to do something to save the town.”

Murdagh had been motionless throughout Seamer's speech. Now he spat on the ground.

“
We
does? Where does I fit into this?” he said. He slow-blinked at Seamer again and suppressed a snort as all color drained from the mayor's face.

Seamer was sweating. “The word of the people is that you are the only man capable of catching this leviathan,” he said.

Murdagh nodded slowly. “That might be,” he said. “I takes it you've been watchin' the others take their try?”

“I have, of course. I've never had sea legs, but I've watched this coastline my whole life, and I've never seen aught like it; the fiercest machines of war could not do to a ship what that animal has done. Tonight's is the third of them to fall. If these hunters are destroyed and you fail to act, the town is finished.”

Murdagh dragged a slow lump of spit round his mouth and let it fall onto the ground.

“‘Fail to act'?” he said. “You'd best watch the tone you's takin' with me, Mr. Seamer. There 'in't no supposin' I'd manage any better. 'S an awful lot o' risk for me, takin' the
Hellsong
out into these waters wi' that thing swimmin' around. 'In't like my boat's made o' rock, an' even if it were, I don't reckon it'd make much o' a difference. What call has you to be tellin' me I's
got
to be actin'?”

Seamer wrung his hands. Desperation moved his feet and he came toward Murdagh, beseeching, his palms and face open and pleading. “But, Captain—”

Murdagh stood and drew his dirk, held it loosely in the air between them. “You jus' stay right where you is, Mr. Mayor. I din't get this pretty by lettin' strangers rush me unchecked.”

Seamer looked perplexed. “You can't think I meant to . . . Captain Murdagh, I'm here to beg for your
help
! I don't wish to quarrel with you.”

“You 'in't begged yet, son,” said Murdagh. He lifted his head and gave Seamer the full benefit of his scarred, passionless face, his bone leg and bludgeoned eye, and watched the mayor wilt under their terrible heat.

Seamer forced his eyes from the ground. Behind the old sailor, the sky had darkened to a violent red, the cloud furrows clenched to a fist.

“I'm begging now,” said Seamer, his voice wobbling. “Please, Captain, help us. People are terrified. There's talk of evil magic spreading: families have come to blows; there are outbreaks of violence every day. Last night a rider brought word of a trio of highwaymen torn apart, their body parts nailed to a dozen trees—this sort of thing does not normally happen outside of the city. The creature's magic is poisoning the air—two days ago a dog was crushed dead under a cart and started barking on the slab. When the dead start walking, talk of heavenly judgment
inevitably follows; some think we are being punished for our centuries' feeding on the sea, that the mormorach is an agent of the water gods' vengeance. You sit here on the statue of the Mother, surrounded by offerings, pleas for help; people are desperate! They look to me, as their mayor, and I find myself powerless—powerless unless you help me.”

Murdagh spat again. “I 'in't runnin' a charity, sailin' around bailin' out every little town what's in trouble. I got no claim on your people, an' they got none on me—seems that if the gods've chosen to send this thing forth maybe it
is
a sign folk should stop plund'rin' the waters. An' what's the trouble if there's a trout farm? Why can't they farm their fishes an' leave the big beasts to Gilt an' his crew?”

“The trout farm belongs to one man and is not well loved. These are fishing people, Captain—they want to catch their quarry, not have it penned like cattle. Surely you understand that?”

Murdagh nodded. “I do. So they move themselves on to someplace else.”

“And to where would they move? There are no other fishing grounds on this coast that would support such a settlement of—”

“Then maybe they's meant to start up again in Oracco!” shouted Murdagh. “An' maybe I's meant to be practical an'
take my little tub farther up the coast to spike myself a big whale or two or three, live on their oil, an' drink myself into gin-soaked safety for the next year. But still,” he added, “you speak well. I like words—reckon I'd vote for you meself if I heard somethin' like that comin' from a soapbox.”

Seamer smiled sheepishly. “You're most kind,” he said, “but I rarely speak publicly. The mayor isn't elected in Canna Bay; it's a hereditary position.”

“That so?” said Murdagh. He sheathed his dirk. “A gentleman, then?”

“I try to be, sir,” said Seamer, clasping his lapels.

“I imagine that comes with a tract o' land, that title. Puttin' you to livin' in rarefied strata, so to speak.” Murdagh's voice had softened. He cocked an eyebrow.

Seamer felt the tug on the line, and his smile began to fall. “I have some land, a few acres only, but—”

“It's a common misconception 'bout sailin' men that they only has love for the sea,” said Murdagh, turning his back on the mayor and looking out to the wrecked speck of the mormorach's most recent victim. “I, f'r instance,
loves
land, 'specially valuable land. There's no tellin' what I might do for a good bit o' land.” He turned and grinned at Seamer. “Needs a sea view, mind.”

Seamer, colorless and clammy, swallowed. “I . . . I don't . . .” he began.

“I'll catch this little thing for you, Mr. Mayor, an' all this freedom'll cost is that pretty land o' yours,” said Murdagh, stomping off toward the village, his terrible crutch ringing on the stone. “We'll let the others have their try, an' then I'll go huntin'. Doesn't do Gilt any harm to watch the competition bein' smashed to splinters—more whale meat for the
Hellsong
when all this is over!”

The mormorach, far out to sea and flushed with triumph, leaped high in the air and roared before crashing back in a shower of spray into the water.

Seamer leaned on the statue of the Mother, hand on his chest, watching the pigment bleed from the sky as Murdagh's whalebone leg clicked to silence in the distance.

As the light pierced the clouds, the breakwater became an uneven net of shadows. Seamer looked at the Mother's basket, and saw it filled with only the cold black of the dwindling night.

Faelkon: literally, “rot wing.” Hunting primarily using long talons, the faelkon has an average wingspan of fourteen feet. It is the largest of a family of giant, predatory ground-nesters (including gyræptors and kierks; collectively, the accibidae genus: see
Dale, K.
), feared for their beakless faces; their large, flat, equine teeth; and the protrusions of wood that appear as extracutaneous bones. Uniquely, this genus does not shed dead skin cells, meaning a thick layer collects under the dark plumage. Rigorous scratching of this on trees gathers the wood, which is then gradually internalized by freshly formed crust. Despite the faelkon's frightening appearance, most who encounter it remark first upon its smell: an intense odor caused by bacterial activity in the permanently rotting crust. This is also manifest in its decayed face, and so has given rise to the faelkon's long-used hunters' sobriquet, “the flying corpse.”

—
Encyclopedia Grandalia,
University of Oracco Print House

Tillinghast was leaning on the bäta, picking under the fingernails of his severed hand with a pocketknife. He peered intently at his work, the hand held close to his face.

“You found 'im then?” he said, spotting Wull and Mix emerging with Pappa. “That's good, 'in't it?”

“No thanks to you,” said Wull, settling Pappa on the ground. “I thought you might come an' help me.”

“I did,” said Tillinghast, “then I came back. Wasn't much point in all of us wand'rin' in the woods, was there? An' besides, makes sense to have someone here when you come back.” Satisfied with his fingernails, he folded his knife away and regarded his hand.

“So you've left Remedie alone?” said Wull.

“Too right. I tried followin' her, an' she told me where to go. Right sour woman, she is, unfriendly an' sour.”

“I think she seems nice,” said Mix, selecting a stalk of frozen grass to chew.

“Nobody asked you, little miss.”

Mix stuck out her tongue.

Wull touched Pappa's face. He wasn't asleep, but was emptied completely, his mind wandering far away.
Fine,
thought Wull.
Anywhere's better than here now.

“
What a nightmare is this thing,” said Tillinghast, waggling his loose hand. “I's no trouble gettin' this fixed in the city when there's plenty o' seamstresses about, but what am I to do out here?”

Wull took the hand and looked at the stitching.

“I reckon I could fix that,” he said. “Needle wouldn't hurt you?”

Tillinghast narrowed his eyes. “You c'n sew? How's that?”

“I mend the nets, fix the ropes, sew up clothin'. Seen Pappa stitchin' up bodies an' all, never done it myself, mind.”

“What's he stitchin' bodies for?” said Mix.

“The ones that get cut up,” said Wull, “when we rescue them or pull them in the bäta, they . . . burst a bit. Sometimes they need puttin' back together so's they stay on the slab.”

“Lovely,” said Mix.

“You were the one asked about gruesome things,” said Wull.

Tillinghast furrowed his brow. “I dun't know,” he said. “If you've never really done it—”

“What's the harm if it doesn't hurt?” said Wull. “Worst thing that can happen is it just keeps it in place until you can get it fixed properly, right?”

“I s'pose,” said Tillinghast reluctantly. “I's still not sure 'bout it though. What you goin' to use?”

“Stringed gut,” said Wull, “tough as you like. I've got a ball of it in the bäta, here.” He swung over the gunwale, reached into the prow. There was a hollow in the blankets where Mix had sat, and a space where the money tin had been. He flashed his hand around, seeing through the tips of his fingers.

“It's not there,” he said.

Mix coughed and held up a ball wound of dull, waxy string. “Is this it?” she said.

Wull ran over and grabbed the ball from her hand. “You
stole
it?” he said, checking the needle was still in place.

“I'm sorry. I was just . . . bored, curled up there. It passed the time.”

“An' how much time did robbin' it pass?” said Wull, turning the gutstring, checking for damage. “Five seconds?”

“Well, two or three,” said Mix, “and, to be fair, the thirty or so we've been discussin' it now.”

“Let me see that,” said Tillinghast. He took the ball from Wull and examined it, tested the end between his teeth. “That's pretty sturdy,” he said. “All right. Do your worst.”

“How'd you get that?” said Mix. “I thought you'd no money.”

“We have some money,” said Wull quickly. “It's jus' that it all goes on the river. But we don't buy this—Pappa makes it with seulas' guts.”

Mix leaned away from the ball in Tillinghast's hand.

“How d'you do that exactly?” she said.

“You need to gut the seulas an' pile up their intestines, then you clean them, strip off the fat, soak them for a couple o' days in river water, scrape off the outside skin bit, an' soak them in lye for another week or so. You end up with a pile of
skinny wee bits, an' you wind those into strings. I can do that part. Pappa always let me help.”

“What a treat,” said Mix, wrinkling her nose. “I bet you're sorry you put it in your gob now, Till.”

“I's tasted worse,” said Tillinghast, thoughtfully tweezing the string in his lips.

Wull looked at Mix pulling grass from the bank. “What else did you take?” he said.

She grinned, held up a rubber hat and a wooden mallet. “An' that's it, I swear.”

“She's got a glass thing an' all,” said Tillinghast.

“Come
on
,” said Wull, rolling his eyes.

Mix scowled at Tillinghast and handed it over.

“It's for whale oil, is this,” said Wull. “It was my gran'pappa's. Don't take nothin' else, all right?” He tucked it carefully beside the oilskins.

“What's happ'nin' with my hand then?” said Tillinghast.

“Give it here,” said Wull. He sat down and lifted the skin's edge from Tillinghast's wrist. “That doesn't hurt?” he said again.

Tillinghast chuckled. “No, lad, look at my arm.”

Wull, with Mix peering over his shoulder, lifted the skin higher and peered inside: Tillinghast's arm was a damp pleat of muscle and straw, ropes of fiber and flesh that were threaded with little fronds of herbs. The ropes moved as
Tillinghast breathed, the whole mass pulsing gently with a wet, fabric sound. Wull moved the skin between the tips of his finger and thumb, felt its cold, parchment thinness.

“See?” said Tillinghast. “You jus' get that needle in there.”

“Right,” said Wull. The skin yielded immediately to the needle's point. “It's like leather,” he whispered.

“Whose skin was it?” said Mix.

“I dun't know,” said Tillinghast.

“It's a good skin,” said Mix. “Big.”

Tillinghast laughed. “Jus' the right size for me, anyway. Any bigger an' I'd be trippin' over my own bum cheeks.”

“Sit still,” said Wull. He had pulled three stitches tightly along the top of the wrist, his face close in and focused on the tiny movements of the gut as it worked its way through, feeling the friction in his fingers. “It doesn't hurt?”

“No!” said Tillinghast again. “If it din't hurt when that big blaggard bit it off, you ticklin' me with tha' little thing's not goin' to be much of a problem.”

“Right,” said Wull, making another stitch, his arm reaching out as he pulled the length of gut through, making another solid bind.

“I never much cared for this hand,” said Tillinghast. “See how it's different to the rest o' my skin? A bit smaller, even, an' more pale.”

“I hadn't noticed,” said Wull.

“Why's that then?” said Mix.

“I's no clue. You'd have to ask the man what made me.”

“How come it doesn't hurt gettin' stitched?” said Mix.

“I's straw, mainly,” said Tillinghast. “'In't no nerves to give me pain.”

“Do you have a brain?”

“What kind o' question's that?”

“Sensible one,” said Mix. “Life works into funny places sometimes; 'in't always a need for a brain.”

Wull, Tillinghast's hand twitching to life in his, worked his patient way around the torn seam, binding it more strongly with each solid loop. The filling in Tillinghast's hand stirred in the thin skin, and his fingers began to move.

“Stay still,” whispered Wull.

“I'm tryin'! It always does this. It's jus' what happens when I gets reconnected, is all.”

Wull glanced up at him. “How many times you lost bits o' yourself?”

“Oh, plenty. Even meant some of 'em. You wun't reckon on how much folks can be frightened by such a thing.”

Wull felt Tillinghast's insides turning under his palm like insects through soil. “Right,” he said.

“I's never lost the
best
bit, mind,” said Tillinghast.

“Remedie's not here,” said Wull, beginning his final few loops, adding, “I hope she's all right.”

“Oh, she'll be fine. Face like that'll keep most things at bay I shouldn't wonder.”

“You've no cause to be so rude to her,” said Wull.

“She's rude to me! I dun't know why I should be expected to chin-wag with so rude a woman.”

“You always start it.”

“I do not!”

“You do, and it's needless.”

“So?” said Mix, who'd been waiting.

“So what?”

“
Do
you have a brain?”

“Oh gods, yes, of course I do. How'd you think I'm talkin' and walkin'?”

“Whose is it?”

“Clever fella, schoolmaster,” said Tillinghast promptly. “I used to be able to speak the old tongues, but I forgot 'em, not findin' many on the roads who shared 'em. Shared my own plenty, mind you.”

“Where's your straw come from?” said Mix.

“Eh? I dun't know. Farm, I s'pose.”

“But isn't your straw jus' as important as your muscle? Like, your muscles come from these men, an' your straw is part o' that. Like havin' a mam and a pap.”

“I don't bloody know. . . . Are you nearly finished, Wull?”

“Almost,” said Wull, turning the needle again.

“Do you dream?” said Mix.

“In the name of . . . yes, I bloody dream.”

“When you dream, are you a man or, y'know . . . not a man?”

Tillinghast's brows knitted. “You mean a woman?” he said.

“No! Like straw. Do you dream you're, I don't know, straw, grass—part o' the land?”

Tillinghast sniffed and squinted at her. “Are you bein' funny?” he said.

Mix shook her head, ran her fingers around the line of her collar. “Course not,” she said.

“I dream I'm a man, all right? I am a bloody man, an' that's what I dream. Dreams comes from brains, an' straw dun't have brains, does it?”

“I don't know,” said Mix. “There must be all kind o' memories in the land—all the rain and sweat and blood that've landed on it. I jus' wondered.”

“Well, stop wonderin'. Gods only know, I's never heard so many questions in my life.”

“Do you like bein' made of straw?”

Tillinghast sighed, then thought for a moment. “I s'pose. There's plenty not to miss 'bout flesh an' blood. But I do miss the farts. Such farts I made as would cause corpses to roll over and fan where their noses should be.”

“There,” said Wull, cutting the gutstring and binding the final stitch. “How's that?”

Tillinghast tried his hand, flexed his fingers. “Oh, tha' feels great, so it does.” He shook his arm violently and grinned. “I got my arm put back in the city the other day, an' I thought they did a good job, but, oh, I couldn't pull that wrist apart no matter how lonely I got. You'll need to do me other bits like this—I'd be invincible.”

Wull looked at Tillinghast's enormous body and suppressed a shudder.

“Maybe later,” he said. He looked along the frozen bank and saw, sprawled at the base of an oak tree, the ursa-twisted oar. It was torn almost in half and split from the blade, pale, new wood shining through. His hand went to the bandage on his cheek, pressing the swelling of his cut. “But now what do we do?” he said. “We can't get anywhere jus' driftin', an' that'll take forever.”

“Oh, 's easy, that,” said Tillinghast, still swinging his hands around. “That Bootmunch fella had all kinds o' stuff in that cave—I'll bet he'd some oars an' all.”

“The Bootmunch!” said Wull, looking at the tree line. “I'd forgotten all about him! What happened?”