The Coming of the Whirlpool (15 page)

His sixteenth birthday, that was the nub of it. He was sixteen and alone. How different things would be if he'd remained in Yellow Bank.
There
he wouldn't be alone. Right now he would be with Clara, making the most of their last few nights together before the men departed for the high forests. They would be curled up in a shadowy corner somewhere, or down by the river in the darkness. Kissing, and much more than kissing, for at sixteen, by Yellow Bank custom, a boy and a girl could do what they pleased, as long as they were careful.

But now someone
else
would be with Clara, someone
else
would be kissing her, and doing those other intoxicating things. And even that wouldn't have been so bad, if Dow himself had found someone new. But what hope was there for anything like that, when he was stuck in dreary, half-deserted Stromner?

No hope at all.

He drank.

Not, of course, that a Ship Kings girl, one he'd never even met, was the answer. Why, even if they
did
meet, she was probably the captain's daughter and would look down upon a New Island boy as utterly beneath her. She was probably precious and spoiled and unlikable. And anyway, he hadn't found her attractive in that one glimpse, so much as . . . unsettling.

He drank again – and by the time the crier called the second hour of the morning, the bottle was empty. Dow let it fall into the water. A deep, slumbering silence had descended over the fleet.

Now,
he told himself, and took up the oars.

It was foregone that he would make for the
Chloe.
No doubt it would have been wiser to board one of the merchantmen, but somehow he could not resist the battleship. He slid the skiff up to it now, noiseless as a fish, and well hidden by the shadow the ship itself cast in the light from the dock. As he came close he saw that the mighty vessel, even at berth, did not lie still. It was shifting slightly at its moorings, water rising and falling against the hull, and a rumbling came from within, the sound of a beast turning uneasily in its sleep. High above, the masts, illuminated by the town, swung slowly against the sky.

But for all that, the
Chloe
seemed devoid of any waking life. Dow eased his way along its length, from the bow towards the rear, staring up all the while. The windows of the stern cabins remained dark, no voice called out from the deck, and no face appeared at the railing to stare down at him.

Ah, but the size of the thing! Uncertainty began to prick at Dow, whisky or not. The railing was far beyond his reach. And the lower hull was coated in the slippery black smoothness of nicre. It reached up for some yards above the waterline. How was he ever to climb to the deck?

But then he saw how it might be done. Roughly amidships a great mass of rigging came down from the mainmast to be secured against the railing, the lines all woven into a broad mesh. Yes, that would do.

There was a small anchor in the skiff, attached to a good length of rope. Dow positioned the boat just so, then – amazed at his own daring – lobbed the anchor lightly upwards and saw it catch the rigging perfectly, just above the railing. It made scarcely a sound. He secured the line to the skiff, pulled the boat close to the hull, then leapt softly to the
Chloe
's
side and hung there, feet planted against the slick timbers.

Still there was no shout of discovery. Hand over hand on the rope, arms straining, he walked his way up the curving hull, past the three rows of gunports – their doors all shut fast – to the railing. Here he slowed to a creep, tentatively lifting his head over the rail to search for any guard or wandering crewmember. He could spy no one, but the deck was so vast, and so littered with peculiar structures and unfamiliar pieces of gear, that it was hard to be sure. Dow watched a moment longer, then slipped over the rail and ducked low.

He was aboard.

And now he
could
hear voices, but they were far away, talking softly. It was only the marines on the wharf. They wouldn't be able to see him. He turned and, at a crouch, began making his way towards the stern. It was not as simple as he had imagined. The main deck was a shadowy maze, complicated by all manner of ropes and bins and hatches that blocked his way. But he encountered nobody. It appeared that the Ship Kings were indeed content to have no more guard set over the great vessel than a few men by the gangway.

It seemed almost foolhardy. Were they so confident that there was no threat to them here? Ah, but then why wouldn't they be confident? The war was long over, and New Islanders were a tamed people. Dow smiled grimly to himself at the thought, and flitted on from shadow to shadow until at last the high deck reared above, a stairway inviting him to climb.

He went up, pausing cautiously at the top step. The high deck – unlike the cluttered deck below – was an open and empty expanse, its polished boards gleaming in the lamplight from the docks. A raised doorway stood by the stern rail, presumably leading to the cabins below, but Dow's eyes were drawn to the centre of the deck. There stood the great wheel, tightly secured – and forward of it, finally, the very instrument that he had come at such terrible risk to see, close now, but enigmatic still; a stand fashioned from wood and brass.

Dow bent low and crawled forward, leaving the shadows behind. His every nerve sang, aware of how exposed he was now, but the promise of the great revelation drew him on. He could make out the stand more clearly now. Round knobs of metal extended from its sides, the function of which he could not begin to fathom. But at its top the device widened into a broad metal hood, and set in that hood was a large circular window of glass, flanked by unlit lamps.

Blind to all else, Dow rose to his feet. The secret of navigation! He stood before it at last, as no New Islander had done in eighty years, and to look into it was to know the Great Ocean all in one glance. He leaned forward so that his nose was nearly touching the window, straining to see what lay beyond. He almost expected it to be a vision of some kind, a force reaching out to fill his mind with prospects of waves rolling and storms blowing . . .

But all he saw through the glass was a large white disk, laid flat and marked with lines around its edges. Nothing happened. No force took possession of his mind, no visions came. What was this? Desperate, Dow fumbled at the instrument's metal projections, for perhaps there was some arcane process which set the device in motion. But his actions produced no result other than a faint quiver in a thin metal needle that sat at the centre of the disk.

‘You there!'

Dow spun. He was discovered! A man stood in the raised doorway at the rear of the deck. Dow rounded again and fled for the stairway, even as the figure dashed after him, crying out the alarm. Dow gained the top of the stairs, felt a hand clutch at his shoulder. He whirled, struck out with his fist and felt it connect with something hard. The man fell back, cursing. A bell was suddenly clanging nearby. Dow bounded down the stairs, then sprinted for the railing.

He could picture vividly his escape. He would clear the railing in a leap, dive into the harbour and be lost in the shadowed waters; then he would swim beneath the wharf, where he could hide until—

But that was as far as the fantasy progressed, for men were pouring onto the deck now through many hatches. They blocked his way to the railing. Dow dodged aside, stumbled on some rigging, and it was over. A dozen hands laid hold of him and he was driven hard, face down, into the deck.

Dow did not struggle. He heard laughter from the men holding him, and then, after a barked order, silence. Slow footsteps sounded on the deck, and at another brief command, Dow was hauled to his feet.

He found himself staring at an officer, the same one who had caught him on the high deck and raised the alarm. Dow even recognised the man. It was the young lieutenant he had mistaken for the captain on the day the battleship sailed into port. But the man's face, which had seemed so handsome on that day, was warped by anger now. A smear of blood extended from his nose and a bruise was already beginning to swell high on his cheek.

‘You hit me!' the officer declared, his voice – despite an imperious Ship Kings accent – actually sounding some- what thin in his outrage. ‘How dare you strike your superior? Who are you? Tell me your name.'

Dow did not answer, only lowered his head, silent, as the dreadful truth of his situation began to sink deeper in. The whisky courage was gone from him now, he felt only cold and afraid, and very, very foolish.

The lieutenant stepped closer. ‘Answer me, or it's the lash! You're no crew from this ship, that much I know. What ship are you from?'

One of the sailors holding Dow spoke up. ‘Excellency, I think he comes from no ship in this fleet. Look at his clothes.'

‘A New Islander?' exclaimed the lieutenant. He reached out and gripped Dow's chin, lifting it roughly to study him eye to eye. ‘A New Islander would hazard the law in such a fashion? It's not possible.'

Dow returned the stare. The lieutenant, he saw, was much younger than he'd looked from a distance. Why, he couldn't be much older than Dow was himself; up close, his face even had a pouting, almost childish cast, especially with his nose so red. Nor was he as tall as Dow had thought, rather he was gangly. It was only the uniform that gave him the appearance of authority and age. Dow jerked his chin free, defiance cutting through his fear.

The lieutenant struck him hard, back handed, across the face. ‘Enough of that! Tell me now – are you alone? Are there others? What is your business here? Thievery? Murder? Sabotage?'

Dow's cheek stung hotly from the blow, and hatred flared inside him, but still he gave no answer.

A marine appeared at the lieutenant's shoulder and saluted. ‘We've searched the upper decks, Excellency, and started on the lower. He's alone, far as we can tell. There's just the one small boat tied up alongside.'

The lieutenant nodded, his gaze still locked on Dow. ‘He was at the binnacle when I spied him. We must examine the compass for any damage. And the rest of the fleet must be warned. He may have fellow conspirators.'

‘Aye, Excellency.'

The marine hurried off. The lieutenant addressed the sailors who held Dow. ‘Take him to the brig. I'll send a message to the fortress – the captain will want to be informed.' He touched a finger to his bloodied nose and winced, then leaned close again to Dow, who could smell a sweet and unfamiliar alcohol on his breath. ‘This insult will not be forgotten, New Islander. You caught me unawares and struck a chance blow, but there will be repayment tomorrow, be assured of it, ten times over! It is Diego of the Diamond who promises you this!'

And with that he whirled and stalked away.

T
he brig, it turned out, was a tiny cell set deep within the ship. Dow's captors manhandled him down a maze of stairways and passages, all in near darkness, so that he formed no real impression of the vessel's interior and could never have found his way out again, even if he'd broken free. At the end of the descent he was shoved through a hatchway into a chamber only a few feet square, a bare and lightless box; behind him a heavy door slammed and a bolt was rammed home.

There Dow was left for some hours, shivering on the naked floor as the last glow from the whisky faded. He felt sick and weak, and berated himself in his misery. What had he been thinking? How could he have been so stupid? The more his aching head cleared, the more the enormity of his actions became apparent. And what now would be the consequence? Dow could not guess, but a thousand fears tortured him in the darkness.

The night stretched out, interminable. Sounds came only distantly through the walls of the cell; he had no way of knowing the time, or if dawn had yet come to the outside world. At some point he must have fallen into an uneasy sleep, because suddenly he was waking to the rattle of a key in the door and the snap of the bolt being withdrawn. The door was thrown open.

Two marines stood there. Dow caught a glimpse of daylight filtering down from above, before they hauled him to his feet and wrapped a rag around his head as a blindfold. They bound his hands behind his back, then half-led, half-dragged him upwards through the ship. Dow stumbled on invisible steps and struggled against a nausea that came in waves. At length, he and his guards emerged to the open air, marched a short distance across an unseen deck, and halted. The marines propped Dow upright. The rag was torn from his face.

He squinted in the day's glare, then took an involuntary step back. He was on the
Chloe's
high deck, and before him was an awful sight; the ship's officers, present in full company and arrayed in a line by the great wheel. At their centre, seated in a narrow chair, was a man Dow had seen only once before, but whom he recognised all too well. Captain Vincente of the Shinbone.

‘The prisoner, Excellency,' said one of Dow's escorts, saluting.

The captain saluted in response, but said nothing, his eyes upon Dow, who studied him fearfully in return. Physically, Vincente was not a daunting figure. He was short and middle-aged and balding, and while his officers were all splendid and forbidding in their fine uniforms, he was dressed in simple black, looking almost shabby by comparison. But his gaze, as he measured Dow, had the steel of complete authority. And his very plainness, his lack of regalia, only made him all the more commanding, and all the more frightening.

Dow had to lower his own gaze. From far off came the bustle and hum of the wharves – the loading of New Island's tribute went on as ever – but on the high deck the loudest sound was a dull, hollow whistling that came from the masts above. It was a grey morning, cold and overcast, and a bleak wind was whipping across the harbour, nagging at the battleship's empty rigging.

Finally the captain spoke. ‘Let me tell you who I am, prisoner. My name is Vincente of the Shinbone. I am in command of this vessel, and of this court martial.' His accent was less regal than others that Dow had heard among the Ship Kings, rougher and more everyday in its tone, but there was an iron timbre to it that would brook no dispute. He watched Dow a moment longer, then nodded to one side. ‘Lieutenant Diego, you may proceed.'

From his position at the far end of the line, Lieutenant Diego stepped smartly forth. Dow's heart shrank. The blood was gone from the young officer's nose, but a bruise sulked below his left eye, accentuating what seemed to be a permanently aggrieved expression. He would be eager to have his revenge, Dow had no doubt.

‘Sir,' said Diego, ‘the prisoner was apprehended shortly after the second bell of this morning. He is charged now with trespass, with maliciously interfering with ship's equipment, and with assaulting an officer.'

The captain nodded. ‘And the penalty for these charges?'

‘For each offence, twenty-five lashes.' Diego's lips – oddly thick for one so thin – twitched into a smile. ‘Seventy-five in all.'

Dow stared in disbelief. A flogging? It couldn't be. The lash was a thing he'd heard of only in tales, a punishment that the Ship Kings inflicted only for the most serious of crimes, like mutiny and murder and treason. Not for petty offences like trespassing. Surely they were merely trying to frighten him.

But if so, Vincente gave no sign of it. ‘Seventy-five lashes,' he considered coolly. ‘A weighty sentence, Diego, for weighty charges. Trespass. Sabotage. And a blackened eye – although I'm told he scored but a lucky hit, no more.' A ghost of a smile appeared, then was gone. ‘But you are quite correct. The flogging is well justified. Seventy-five lashes it will be.'

Dow's legs were suddenly boneless. It was
real. Only pride kept his knees from buckling – that and Diego's victorious gaze upon him. But beyond his fear, Dow felt a cold anger as well, at the
unfairness
of it. He had been a fool, yes, but he did not deserve to be bodily broken for his foolishness.

‘There may even be further punishment,' Vincente continued. ‘We do not yet know the prisoner's true purpose here last night, or even his name. Well, boy? What do you have to say for yourself?'

Dow only stared back in silence, confusion robbing his anger away. He had not spoken since his capture – what should he say now? Nothing. He would say nothing. But then one of his guards jabbed him in the ribs with the tip of a musket, and snapped, ‘Your name, New Islander!'

‘Dow,' he blurted, ‘Dow Amber.'

‘Amber?' echoed the captain, with a querying glance to the officer who stood at his right hand. ‘A strange name, even for a New Islander. Well, Dow Amber, what were you doing last night on my ship?'

But this Dow knew he must not answer. At least, he must not answer truly. Even now he could see, beyond the wheel, the stand of brass and wood that had brought him to this terrible position. What had the lieutenant called it the previous night? The
binnacle,
and also the
compass
. Unfamiliar words that told Dow nothing. But he knew it would not do for the Ship Kings to learn that he sought the secret of navigation. He forced himself to look away from the device.

The captain frowned. ‘Where is your home, boy?'

Dow considered, then said, ‘Stromner.'

‘You have family that should be informed of your arrest?'

Dow shook his head.

But now the officer on the captain's right spoke up. He was an older man, tall but slightly stooped, and with a long, thoughtful face. ‘Sir,' he said, ‘a point if I may. I suspect the boy is not from Stromner.'

‘Oh?' said Vincente.

The officer was appraising Dow with calm curiosity. ‘I have, as you know, sir, made long study of the New Island peoples and their ways, and written several treatises upon the subject. The name Amber, if that be truly his, is not one native to the region of the Claw. The folk of Stone Port and the fishing villages call themselves after things of the coast and of the sea. If they are fishermen they adopt the names of fish and birds and grasses of the dunes, or if they be net-makers or sail-weavers, they might name themselves after the tools of their trade. But Amber is not such a name. Amber is a thing of wood and trees. I have heard it used as a title only by families living far inland, among the forests and high valleys.'

The captain cocked an eyebrow at Dow. ‘Is my first officer correct, prisoner? Are you in fact not from Stromner?'

Dow tried to think. Should he answer with some part of the truth? Or would it be better to lie, and risk being caught in the lie?

‘Come now,' the captain ordered. ‘Commander Fidel here is a student of culture, so indulge him, please. Where are you from?'

Dow gave way reluctantly. ‘I was born inland.'

The first officer nodded. ‘Where exactly?'

‘The highlands.'

‘And did your family cut timber perhaps?'

Dow nodded.

Commander Fidel turned to his captain. ‘I thought as much, sir. This boy hails from the high valleys; a cold and damp region, but with fine forests. I visited there once. He is a long way from his home.'

‘Indeed,' observed Vincente. ‘And yet as I understand it, the rigid custom in this land is that the son always follows the path set by the father, and that people here do not move about or change professions simply at whim.' He studied Dow with new interest. ‘How comes it, prisoner, that a boy born of the highlands to a family of timber cutters has ended up here by the sea?'

And suddenly Dow woke to the true threat here, one more dreadful even than the lash – if they should find out exactly who he was, if they should learn of his connection to Honous Tombs! The words his father had spoken regarding his mother's fears came back to Dow in force –
if they discover who you are, they will kill you.
He had not believed it at the time, but now . . .

And it was not only his own fate that hung in the balance. What would happen to his family if the truth was unearthed? His mother and father, his brother and sisters – might not the Ship Kings seek them out too?

Panic freed his tongue. ‘I was born in the highlands, sir, it's true. But my family all perished in a landslide of mud and ice that swept through my village when I was a child. I was alone in the world, except for a distant relative who lives in Stromner. And so I was brought here.'

‘A distant relative . . .' Vincente mused. ‘And yet you told me just a moment ago that you have no family.'

‘My guardian is old and unwell, sir. I hoped not to trouble him with this.'

‘You must address me as
Excellency
, boy, not
sir.
Aboard this ship, only officers may address each other as
sir.
And it's no longer up to you, who will be troubled and who won't.
'
The captain turned to his first officer. ‘Are you content, Commander? The lad was orphaned, it seems.'

‘I am, sir,' replied Fidel, with a slight bow.

Dow felt a cautious surge of relief. But then Vincente did an alarming thing. He straightened, and looked not at Dow, but over Dow's shoulder. ‘And what about you, Nell? What do you make of the boy?'

Dow, with his guards standing close at either hand, could not turn to look, but the skin of his back crawled. Someone was
behind
him.

‘I don't like the look of him at all, Captain,' came a voice. ‘Flog him and be done with it, I say.'

In his utter surprise Dow did then half turn, but there was no need, for the speaker was moving forward to stand before the captain.

It was her, as he'd known it must be from her first word. The girl from the cabin window. She was unmistakable, and her voice was as he'd somehow known it would be; high and proud and faintly cruel.

But at the same time she was nothing like he'd imagined, she was something altogether stranger. Her clothing was the first revelation. Ever since that first glimpse, Dow had pictured her as being attired in the same kind of bejewelled finery that he'd seen worn by the Ship Kings women of the town. But in fact she was dressed in men's clothes, dark and plain, with an officer's coat over the top for warmth, her hands jammed deep into its pockets. Her hair, too, was dark, and cut as short as a man's, although it did not at all make her look boyish.

But it was her
face
that unnerved Dow so. He had wondered, that day through the cabin window, if there was something wrong with it – now he truly saw. Her cheek, her nose, her forehead – her every exposed feature was jaggedly criss-crossed with fine scars the colour of blood. It was as if someone had long ago taken a razor to her face and randomly cut a multitude of wounds there, wounds that were delicately thin, and yet deep enough to leave this welter of red lines.

‘He claims to have lived in Stromner since childhood,' the girl was saying. ‘If that's so, then he can't have been in any doubt about the extent of his crime. All folk hereabouts know that strictest law forbids New Islanders from trespassing upon the high decks of our ships. The lash is no less than he deserves.'

The lines continued even down her neck, Dow saw. And when she blinked, she revealed wisps of scars upon the very lids of her eyes. And yet if Dow looked away slightly, then the whole effect might have been only a hint of colour – a blush, almost – upon her pale skin.

‘Aye,' observed the captain, ‘and yet risking such punishment, trespass he did. Something up here must have seemed worth the cost to him, and I think we may know what that something was.' He returned his attention to Dow. ‘Tell us, boy, what exactly did you hope to discover at the binnacle? What have you heard about it, who told you, and why were you seeking it out?'