The Archivist (9 page)

“Your condition? The circumstances of our departure? What exactly did you tell him?”

Danae steps away to lean against the rail as she turns to look out to sea and starts to laugh. “Just that you made me pregnant, and my father was going to shoot both of us when he found us.”

* * *

The wind is favorable and picks up, which means the Lady is running before a cold wind blowing from the north. Every time a strong gust hits us, the rigging vibrates in a way that almost sings.

After the captain leaves, Danae and I move up to the bow, where she has a brief bout of sea sickness. I steady her as she hangs over the railing, and tell her the fresh air is good for her. After the heaves pass, I find a rag for her to clean up with, and encourage her to focus her attention on the dolphins that frolic while they ride the bow wave.

They are entertaining to watch and will take her mind off the motion of the ship, but they are no novelty for me. However, Danae has only been on small fishing boats and has not seen this behavior before, so she is enchanted by the creatures.

I watch the heavily-wooded coast pass along our port side. Around mid-afternoon temperatures begin to warm up, once the clouds clear away and the sun beats down on us in full strength. Danae hauls up a blanket from our cabin and stretches out on the small square section of deck just in front of the forward mast.

The captain designates to the crew that it is passenger-only territory. It is barely large enough to accommodate her blanket, but it is our space, and I have the mast to lean back on.

While she basks in the sun with her eyes closed, I notice that several of the crew steal covetous glances at her when the captain is not looking. I would be more worried if we were embarked on an extended trip, but I still decide to keep a close watch over my friend.

After a while I need to work my stiff muscles, and wander the deck to examine the wooden vessel. Prior to the Crash, the only remaining human-operated sail-powered vessels belonged to small hobbyists. Most private sailboats—and all of the merchant sail-freighters built in the Thirties and Forties—were computer-operated, to extract a level of performance that only the most skillful and experienced skippers could approach, but never exceed.

Very few ships of any sort survived the Demon Days, so afterward, during the rebuilding years, numerous small shipyards sprang up, trying to resurrect the nearly-forgotten arts of both building and operating wooden sailing ships.

Most of the miserable vessels produced in the first couple of decades were quickly lost—in a few cases resulting in legendary catastrophes. The abysmal ship I bypassed back in Port Sadelow looked like a result of those first efforts. It has probably survived this long by actually sailing as little as possible.

The Lady of the Mist, however, is an early generation Reyeston ship. She is no work of art by any measure, but she is built solid, and that is the sole reason Reyeston exists; it has become the center of a renewed generation of shipbuilding. The Lady has two masts, the forward one slightly shorter than the aft one.

Her complement is fifteen crew according to my count, and she can hold about as much cargo as a couple of train boxcars. Not much by pre-Crash standards, but pretty good when you consider that there are no more train boxcars.

She is not a big vessel but she is fast; I estimate we are making about ten knots. As long as the wind favors us, there is no faster means of long distance travel in the world now, outside of the Archives. So, the Lady is ideally suited for short-haul trading between a host of small communities. Captain Hanford has undoubtedly done well for himself.

Call me superstitious, but the journey is going too smooth, so I am looking for the fly in my soup. The whole time I am on deck I scan the horizon continually. Late in the afternoon, a pair of sails appears on the horizon ahead of us.

There are some known pirates along this coast, but I am not worried about them. They are bullies who would not try to prey on a ship this large. Small vessels and unarmed fishermen are the easy pickings they prefer to look for. But there is a still handful of newer ships that could present a problem if the Disciples persuaded them to.

The two approaching vessels draw close over the next hour, and one of them angles in our direction. It is a single-masted sloop. As it gets closer, I make out a three-inch naval gun mounted on the foredeck. So far, I do not see any activity on deck as the ship draws near. In fact, it seems suspiciously quiet.

Aside from the helmsman, there are only two seamen lounging on deck of the other ship as it maintains a course that will pass us at about forty yards. I am getting nervous, because the ship’s master was very clear that if we are stopped, he will make no effort to run or resist. I am hardly an Olympic swimmer, even without a hundred-pound weight on my back.

“That’s the Sea Eagle, one of Reyeston’s armed escorts,” the captain says as he joins me at the rail. “They’re making a delivery up the coast, I reckon, and then she’ll bring the other crew back.”

“Do you think they know how to use that artillery piece?”

“That all depends on how they try to use it,” Hanford laughs, then leans toward me and continues in a low voice. “Truth be told, if they tried to actually shoot it, the damn thing would probably be more dangerous to them than to anything they might aim it at. Reyeston tested the first restored gun they salvaged from a Coast Guard cutter, and the first couple rounds fired okay. But the third misfired in the chamber and killed both of the artillery men. The Reyeston Nautical Board went ahead and mounted the rest, but those pieces are toothless sharks.”

“How would you happen to know that?” I ask. “And why tell me? Seems to me that a prop is a deterrent only so long as no one knows it’s just a prop.”

“Her captain is a very good friend of mine,” Hanford says as he waves to the passing sloop. “Mind you, I’m just saying that an Archivist could earn pretty much any favor he wanted from Reyeston, should he provide them with the means to make reliable shells. Having a live gun would do my friend a great favor, as well. Just in case you ever find yourself in Reyeston.”

Captain Hanford shoots me a mischievous grin and wanders off. After the helmsman on the sloop waves back, it passes by and takes a heading toward the ship it is escorting. Aside from a handful of small fishing boats bobbing near the distant shore, I see no other maritime activity.

When the evening meal is served, the captain insists that Danae and I join him in his cabin. She picks through the captain’s stock of female’s clothing and picks out a light blue dress with lace and draping sleeves, but my choices come down to whichever shirt is the cleanest. I have a light gray wrinkleless dress shirt that I keep in the bottom of my pack for just this sort of purpose. I extract it and put it on.

The captain’s cabin is luxurious in comparison with our quarters, but there is still barely enough room for his large table, which has charts rolled up in tubes on the wall next to it. Our host has wine already poured for us. When the cook brings in the stew and fresh bread, the savory odor fills the cabin.

The cabin door is not even closed before we dive into the feast. We plunge silently right into eating, aside from an occasional appreciative comment. Even Danae—who vomited several more times during the day—manages to put away a whole bowl of the stew. I am swiping my own bowl with a bread heel when Captain Hanford pours out another round of wine and leans back.

“Nothing like fresh salt air to bring on one’s appetite, eh?”

“Indeed,” Danae replies. “I admit I’m pleasantly surprised by your cook’s excellence. This rivals any tavern on land.”

Hanford chuckles. “The Lady of the Mist may not look impressive, but she is a fine ship that I could take anywhere. And thanks to you, Archivist, I just may.”

“There are no shortage of ports for you to call on,” I reply. “Just how did she come into your hands, if you don’t mind my asking? You strike me as more seaman than merchant.”

Captain Hanford pauses in his answer and gives me a sideways look, as if sizing up my inquiry. But nothing lies behind my question other than curiosity, and Danae and I sip our wine as we listen to the captain.

“Just so. I lost my parents when I was a wee tyke barely able to stand, more years ago that I’d care to count. My uncle is the businessman, and he raised me. When I was old enough, I worked one of his fishing boats. My boat was always the first out and the last in, and we held every record in Entiak. But I digress.

“Like all good tales, this one begins with a bet and a race. The previous owner of The Seawitch, as she was called then, sailed into port one day and had a rousing good time in one of the dockside taverns. Being more adventurous than wise, the fool boasted how fast his ship was and dared anyone to race him. It was his misfortune that one of Entiak’s founding fathers was present that evening, and staked his own fastest ship. The challenge was a winner-take-all race around an outlying isle and back, to leave within the hour. What the luckless captain didn’t know was that at that time of year, a dense fog rolled into port every morning just before dawn.

“To her credit, The Seawitch did round the point first, but on the return leg the fog rolled in. Lost in unfamiliar water, the captain ran the poor ship aground on some shoals and staved in the starboard side. Her crew made it ashore, but needless to say, the ship lost the race.”

“So your uncle was the founding father, then?” Danae asks.

“Not at all,” Hanford laughs. “The winner had little appetite for a prize that required costly repairs. So he gave the vessel—as she lay on the shoal—to my uncle in exchange for two head of steer. A couple of weeks later, a neap low tide exposed the opening just long enough for us to put a temporary patch in place. Mind you, for the next eight hours a dozen of us bailed as if the hounds of hell were nipping at our balls, but we brought her into a dock where she could be repaired. A couple months later, I re-christened her Lady of the Mist in memory of the fog that brought her to me. Anyway, enough about how the Lady and I met. Tell me how you two lovers met.”

I do not miss a beat, but Danae fumbles her wine goblet, and the liquid splashes across her abdomen, creating a scarlet stain that looks like she was stabbed. It is almost as red as her face. I take the goblet as I hand her a napkin, and slide my chair back.

“I’m afraid the tale is not nearly as romantic as you might imagine,” I say as I stand up and hold my hand out to Danae. “Sweetheart, I think we’d better get you out of that dress so it can be soaked. If you’ll pardon us, Captain?”

“Why, certainly, of course.” Captain Hanford stands up as we depart, and hands me a lit candle that I take to our quarters next door.

Once I have our candle lamp lit, I hang a sheet across the cabin so Danae can change. The crisp silhouette of her unclothed body on the linen reminds me of that first night, when she pushed me down onto the cot hungrily. I feel a hard stirring as I recall her warm, soft lips when we kissed in the chapel.

But at the delicious thought of her hard nipples, I turn away and banish the image. It has only been a few days since that passionate encounter, but much has happened since then, and that encounter was at a different time and place. I will not let lust ruin my friendship with Danae.

That ill-conceived tryst occurred when I thought there was no chance that I could ever return to Sarah, before I believed I would actually recover an Intellinet generator. Now, Danae is my travelling companion, we have a business arrangement, and I have got a job to do.

What happened between us that night burnt down along with her house.

* * *

When I awake in the dim morning light, my hammock is nearly motionless, and the movement of the ship has changed. We are rolling in light swells, barely underway.

Danae is still burrowed under a mound of blankets, so I dress quietly and slip out of the cabin. After ascending the short ladder, I emerge on deck to find that a thick fog envelops us in an eerie silence.

A very light breeze blows off and on, just enough to puff up the sails for a few moments before fading. Captain Hanford stands on the foredeck, so I walk forward. Just as I am about to greet him, he holds up his hand and then touches his lips in a gesture for silence.

I lean on the cold rail and listen, then hear a distant, faint creaking and splashing which gradually increases. It is the sound of numerous oarlocks moving in unison, along with the splashes of oars hitting the water. As it draws closer, I make out a voice chanting, maintaining the cadence of the strokes.

“Mother—Earth—Sister—Sea—Holy—Bound—Fami—ly. Amen!” After the final word, a chorus of voices responds in unison with “Amen.” There must be at least a hundred men. I look at Hanford and he shakes his head silently.

“Corrupt—Works—Man—Made—Cleanse—Earth—With the—Blade. Amen!”

Clearly, a ship full of Disciples. The way sound carries in this fog, I cannot tell whether those voices are fifty feet away or five hundred. But they are too damn close for my comfort, because I swear I hear one of them rip a loud fart.

“On—Land—And—Sea—We—Serve—Faithful—ly. Amen!”

Slowly, as the caller maintains the pace, the voices begin to fade and move off into the distance. As far as I can tell, they are heading the direction we came from, which would be to the north, and far preferable than heading in the same direction we are going. That works for me.

Once the captain heaves a sigh and relaxes, I lean over to speak in a low voice. “What the hell was that?”

“I heard rumors that the Disciples had built a sort of long ship, but one with two decks of oars. They supposedly built three ships, but two of them ventured out to sea and got lost in a storm. Now this one stays close to shore. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

Great, Disciples on triremes—or biremes, as the case may be. The Archives would rather not meddle in politics, but these guys need to be kept in check, or they are going to become a major problem. When I return, I will put this in my debriefing report and then bring it up to the council—along with the fact that we have a potential traitor. But first, I have to get back.