Salamander (42 page)

Hearing sounds above her, she stirred at last and climbed back up on deck. The Turinis stood together near the gangplank, donning their hats and cloaks for the journey to Covent Garden. The children, still yawning and rubbing the sleep from their eyes, noticed her first and called her name. Numbly she joined the family at the gangplank, and told them that her father was dead.

They followed her back to the press room, and Snow joined them. Pica stood by while Turini picked her father up in his arms and laid him out on the cot he had so often collapsed onto after a long night’s work. Then the carpenter went up on deck, and after a while they heard the sound of his hammer. Darka and the children bowed their heads, Miza glancing up timidly as if waiting for her to join them. Then she understood. It was for her to say what would happen now. Instead she turned to Amphitrite Snow.

– We can take him with us, Snow said. If you wish.

– No, Pica said with sudden certainty. London is where he wanted to be.

Snow’s crew came down soon after, and carried the body up on deck, placing it in the rough casket Turini had hastily nailed together out of his scaffold. When the carpenter had nailed shut the lid, the women lifted the casket and carried it down the gangplank. They set their burden on the wet stones of the quay, where Pica stood with the Turinis, then hurried back up the gangplank to their posts on deck. Vaguely it came to her that they were eager to be off. There was no time for mourning in their world. The
Acheron
remained to be dealt with. And the Abbé.

She said farewell to the Turinis and followed the women up the gangplank. Snow looked up from the helm and frowned at her.

– I thought you would be staying behind too.

Pica shook her head. Everything that had belonged to her father was on this ship. She had to be the one to give it away.

As Turini was starting off in search of a cart, Pica had a sudden thought and called to him from the rail.

– There’s a man in Covent Garden, she said. Monsieur Martin, the playing-card maker. He knew my father. He will help you. Then find my mother, please, and tell her.

As the sun rose, the
Bee
sailed downriver with the tide, past the low meadows where cattle grazed, the salt marshes loud with hosts of raucous gulls. In the estuary a sheet of wet morning fog swept in off the grey sand flats.

The crew had left Pica to herself in the press room. She sat for a long time at the work table, her hand on her father’s book. When she became aware of the crying of the gulls she rose at last, to finish setting things in order. She polished Ludwig, hung him back on his hook, and then turned to the press. The surface of the gooseflesh type was blank, still, but when she touched a fingertip to it a dull wave radiated outward. If the type would not solidify, she would have to give the chase to the Abbé as it was. She unclipped the paper from the tympan and hung it on the drying wire. Unlocking the chase, she lifted it carefully and set it down carefully on the work table, under the light from the hatch.

She stood looking at the press for a while, empty now of type and paper, silent. It would have to be taken apart, she realized, in order to be brought out on deck. The Abbé and the Commander’s men would crowd in here with hammers and wrenches, and she would have to stand there, and let them take everything.

Everything but the book. She would not let them have that.

As she was polishing the ancient timbers, the scarred woman, Lucy Teach, appeared in the press room.

– We’re nearing Southend-on-Sea, she said quietly. Snow would like to see you.

As she followed Lucy Teach up the hatchway stairs Pica felt a shudder pass through the ship and heard the sound of the boilers firing up. It occurred to her now that Snow and her crew had been sailing without help from the
Bee’s
steam-driven winches and pulleys.

Pica found Snow on the quarterdeck, unpacking the chest that contained the fireworks Djinn had bought in Canton. Picking up one of the compositor’s bamboo rockets, Pica
turned it over in her hands and thought of Djinn. During their travels, his belief that everything would end in sadness had always comforted her. She had only needed to look at his boyish face to know that he was wrong. Now she was alone, with no one to tell her what the future would be.

She was about to ask Snow what the fireworks were for, when she heard the rumble of rolling barrels and looked up to see Lucy Teach and the other women hauling the ink casks up from below. They stood the casks in a circle around the mainmast and roped them together. All at once Pica knew what they had planned. She turned to Snow, who was busy at the helm console, lowering the longboat over the side.

– You’re going to burn the ship.

Snow smiled and shook her head.

– You are a slow learner, little girl.

– What about the Abbé?

– Oh, I am hoping he will be there for this, too.

The women stowed blankets, rations, tinder, and a lantern between the thwarts of the longboat, and at Pica’s request, Ludwig the automaton was also placed aboard. At least he could be saved, she thought, from what was to come. When the women had finished provisioning the boat they stood about the quarterdeck, tensed and expectant, gazing into the fog that drifted across the bows.

– If there’s anything else you’d like to save, Snow whispered, you’d best be ready to fetch it.

Pica held her breath and stood with the rest of the crew, listening and looking out into grey obscurity. At first they heard only the creaking of the
Acheron’s
towers of canvas, the thud of her bows against the waves, and then finally out of the wet mist the great hull materialized like a white wall sliding across their
path. An instant later there was a flash, and a booming like thunder. A volley of spinning chain shot screamed through the air, buffeting the
Bee’s
hull and tearing through her ropework fore and aft. Shattered tackle rained onto the gangways as the
Bee
staggered through smoke across the
Acheron’s
mountainous wake.

On Snow’s lead they had all dropped to the planks, awaiting a second volley that did not come. Snow scrambled to her feet to see the
Acheron
in a long starboard turn that took her back out of sight into the fog.

– He’s lamed us, she said, working furiously at the helm. Now he’ll circle, closing in, then try to board us.

She turned and pointed at Pica.

– You get in the longboat. We’ll fire the ship and join you.

– There’s something I need, Pica said. In the press room. Before Snow could reply she ducked into the hatchway and hurried down the stairs. She glanced at the chase of gooseflesh type on the work table. The metal had not yet solidified, and there was no more time to wait.

The book was not on the work table where she had left it. As she stood staring at the place where it had been, wondering if someone had taken it, she heard a panel slide open in the bulkhead behind her. Even before she turned, she knew who would be standing before her.

– You and your mother have been parted again, the Abbé said.

He stood with her father’s book in his hands, his face so haggard and drained of colour she was not certain at first if it was really him.

– I sincerely hope you will not have to wait so long this time for a reunion, he said.

Pica felt tears sting her eyes, forced herself to speak.

– Why won’t you leave us alone?

He lurched forward into the light from the overhead hatch, laid a hand on the frame of the press. As he moved she saw the dark sheen of blood on the black folds of his cassock.

– There is something of your mother’s fire in you, he nodded. It is a pity we have not been travelling companions all these years. In time I might have moulded you into something more than a pale shadow of her. But to the matter at hand. If you’ll kindly recall, I am here because of the agreement we made.

– My father is dead.

– Yes, I know. That is unfortunate. But you are still here, his apprentice. Your freedom, I believe, was part of the transaction.

The Abbé gazed at the dark green leatherbound volume.

– I must admit I did not expect to find this, a finished creation. A wonder, isn’t it? Your father, rest to his soul, surpassed even my grandest imaginings. The marvellous binding, the ink. And the paper. The luminous, gossamer subtlety of its weave. I have never seen such paper …

– You can have the press, she said, staring at the book. The ink and the paper. And then …

The Abbé looked up at her and smiled.

– And then will I go away? He turned the book in his hand. Perhaps, but I must know how this was accomplished. Where it came from. And as your father is sadly no longer with us, I will have to rely on you for answers. When this business with the
Acheron
and Captain Snow is finished, I would be most pleased if you would accompany me home to Quebec, where we can study these matters without the world interrupting us.

– You were taking my mother there, Pica said. Why didn’t you?

– You desire answers, too, of course. Very well. During the
storm I was seized by the apoplexy that has plagued me since childhood. For seven months I lay like a graven image, unable even to tell my servants to remove the clock from my room. Seven months. Eighteen million one hundred and forty-four thousand seconds. By the time I recovered, her trail was lost. You may not believe it, but I did intend the two of you should meet again.

He stepped closer, clutching the book more tightly to his breast.

– You have what you wanted, she said, looking away. When the Abbé did not reply she turned back and saw that he was clinging to the press, his head bowed, his breath coming in gasps.

– That first volley was only meant to cripple you, he whispered, slowly raising his head. Unluckily it appears to have done worse damage to me. The Commander is certain of his prize, you see, so he is taking his time, savouring every moment. His oracular nose has sniffed victory in the air, as surely as, he has informed me, my native land will soon belong to King George. Help me now, and perhaps he can be persuaded to let the women Uve. At least long enough for there to be some hope of a miracle, like the one that saved you from the Commander the last time, off Alexandria.

There was a shout from up on deck. Amphitrite Snow calling her name. Time was running out. Either the
Bee
would go up in flames, or they would be taken and she would become the property of the Abbé.

– There, she said, stabbing a finger at the chase. That’s where you can find out everything.

Grimacing, the Abbé hauled himself upright. He staggered to the work table, leaned against it and bent close to the blank forme of type.

– What is this … ?

He flicked a finger at the smooth, mirror-like surface. Wavelets rippled inward to the centre and outward again, like water in a basin that has been roughly set down. As the waves subsided letters began to leap up and vanish instantaneously, as if an invisible shower of rain were pattering against the metal from below.

– So this is what the ingenious Samuel Kirshner gave you.

– The formes appeared, she said, one after another, and my father printed them.

The Abbé looked up at her, his thin features seeming to sharpen as understanding dawned.

– You found your own well of stories, as indeed I should have guessed you would. When I visited you at the Ospedale, I felt that we were somehow akin.

He rolled up the sleeve of his cassock, hesitated a moment, then thrust his arm into the liquid metal. He withdrew it slowly, intently studying his hand, his fingers, as if amazed that they had returned intact. Suddenly he bent forward, his face contorting with pain.

– You will doubtless take comfort, he gasped, to learn that I may not live to return home. Do you know, mademoiselle, my only regret would be to have spent so little time with your father’s creation. And with you.

– I have been to a place, she said slowly, where you can read forever. Where nothing changes, except what you want to change.

The Abbé’s brows knit together. He studied her for a long time and then gazed down at the rippling pool of metal.

– You went, he whispered, into the type.

In the cold light Pica saw beads of sweat gleaming on the
Abbé’s forehead. His bloodless face seemed to age as she watched, his gaunt form sagging in his cassock as if he were struggling under a tremendous weight. Slowly he sank down into the chair at the work table.

– It’s as if time doesn’t exist, she went on, for anyone except you. Nothing else moves. You have the whole world to yourself.

– Of course, he finally said, his hands sliding along the sides of the chase. Of course. Without time the world bends itself to the shape of one’s desire.

– My father told me about you, she said. About the library where you hid as a boy. In the well, the whole world is that library.

The Abbé continued to stare into the shifting metal, as if he had not heard her, or was oblivious now to everything but his own thoughts. From without came the crack of the warship’s guns opening up in clockwork succession and a moment later Pica was tossed to the planks as a violent shudder rocked the
Bee
. Dazed, she picked herself up and saw that the Abbé, who had fallen against the work table, had his eyes raised to the oily black smoke now pouring through the overhead hatch. His hands found the edges of the table, gripped it like someone about to be swept away by a torrent.