The League of Sharks (18 page)

‘I don't know,' said Junk. ‘Garvan knows these waters. Knows where he was when he caught me in his net. Cascér and I went straight down from that point – and no door. It must have closed. It's the only explanation.'

‘Then we need to find another way,' said Otravinicus.

‘I'm open to suggestions.'

Otravinicus shook his head. He had nothing.

Junk changed the subject. Partly because he wanted to think about something else for five minutes but mostly because a series of questions had been niggling away at him. ‘Can I ask you …' he said, ‘about the American? About “Han Solo” …' He always wanted to snigger when he said the name. ‘Who was he? Where did you meet him? Where did he come from? Why was he here?'

‘He came to me in much the same way that you did. Our paths crossed. He knew who I was. Knew I could
help him. Knew he had something I wanted. What's the phrase you use? Something about dangling a parrot. He dangled just the right parrot to get my attention.'

‘Carrot. You dangle a carrot.'

‘Are you sure?' asked Otravinicus with a frown.

‘Pretty sure,' said Junk. ‘You must have been with him for a fair while. Your English is very good.'

‘We were together for several weeks. We went on a journey together.'

‘Looking for this island he wanted?' said Junk.

‘No, actually that came after. He wanted to go a small town called Ollamah on the southern coast of Jjen.' Junk pictured the map Otravinicus had shown him back in Arrapia but he couldn't recall Jjen. Then he thought about the map Garvan had drawn in the sand and remembered Jjen was roughly where the Arctic was.

‘What for?' asked Junk.

‘He needed to collect something. A crate.'

‘What was in it?'

Otravinicus shrugged. ‘He didn't say.' He reached over to grab a copper-coloured bottle from in front of a now comatose crew member. The drink of choice on board was a heavy port-like wine that was almost black in colour. It was called mosshut. Otravinicus poured two glasses, a small one for Junk and a much larger one for himself. He rose unsteadily and picked up his glass. ‘Tomorrow is another day, Junk, and tomorrow we will decide what to do next. Right now I'm going to get some sleep.' With that he tottered away. Junk looked at the dark
liquid and took a sip. It burned the back of his throat as he drank and filled his belly with a moment of golden fire that delivered a satisfyingly soporific sensation. The world around him danced and swayed and a gentle breeze tickled his bare feet. The captain and Gaskis started singing. Junk's eyelids grew heavy and he drifted off to sleep with a contented smile on his lips.

*

When he woke several hours later his head felt heavy. He took a deep breath and scratched as he glanced about. Gaskis and a couple of other members of the crew had also fallen asleep on deck.

Junk had spent the previous three nights out here so he wouldn't have to deal with Garvan's snoring, and he was about to turn over on the bench he was on and go back to sleep when a movement caught his eye. Someone was tiptoeing slowly towards him from the far end of the deck. Junk was in the shadow of an overhang and he figured that as long as he didn't move too much, whoever it was wouldn't see him.

Junk realized that he had jumped to the conclusion that whoever it was didn't belong. He couldn't see any detail so it could be a member of the crew, but there was something about the way the figure was moving that caused Junk to fear him. His movements were controlled, wary, and above all silent. Junk knew this crew well enough to know no one aboard did silent with any great conviction. Whoever it was didn't want to be discovered.

Junk remained very still and even lowered his eyelids so that the whites of his eyes wouldn't give him away. The figure was extremely tall and dressed all in black. As he drew nearer, a cloud pulled away from the moon and a blanket of light spread over the deck of the
Casabia
. The black figure was wearing a hooded cloak and his face was lost in shadow. He was broad as well as tall. He crossed silently to a door that led below deck and went in.

Immediately Junk was on his feet. He shook Gaskis, but the lanky navigator just grumbled in his sleep and didn't stir. He tried the other two crew members nearby and they were even more soundly asleep or more likely passed out from too much mosshut.

Junk stood and considered his options. What to do? Who was the intruder? Did he mean them harm? Junk decided he had to assume that he did. Otherwise what was he doing sneaking around the ship in the dead of night?

Junk looked around for a weapon. His toe stubbed an empty mosshut bottle and it started to roll. He moved quickly to block its progress and picked it up. It was heavy. Made of thick glass. He held it by its stout neck and whacked it against the palm of his other hand. He winced in pain. That worked. He followed the black-clad figure inside the ship.

A steep flight of steps led down to the first deck. Junk moved slowly and quietly and listened. He heard nothing but the waves lapping against the sides and the ship creaking. There were lights running the length of
the first-deck corridor but they were dim and didn't give off much light. The doorways he passed were thick with shadow and threat.

At the end of the corridor Junk reached another flight of steps, leading down to the next deck, but he stopped. Ahead of him, the door to the bridge was ajar. Had the intruder gone in there or carried on down? Junk wasn't sure what to do. He had to make a decision. The door to the bridge was rarely left open so he moved forward. Just as he reached up to push back the door, he heard a noise behind him. It came from below. Someone was moving around down there.

Junk descended the steps lightly, wary of revealing himself to the intruder. He reached a long straight corridor with eight doors leading off from it. One door was open. The door to Otravinicus's cabin. Junk moved closer.

He paused at the threshold and listened. He heard no sound from within. He reached out slowly and put his hand to the door. He froze. He did hear something. It was a low, guttural murmur. Continuous and rhythmic. Junk slowly pushed the door open.

The moon shone brightly through a porthole. Junk saw the black-clad intruder standing over Otravinicus as he lay asleep. Cascér lay next to him.

The intruder had removed his hood. Junk could see him more clearly now. He was huge, solid, broad-shouldered with a square granite jaw and a heavy brow. His head had been shaved save for two strips of jet-black hair, like parallel Mohicans, that ran from his brow to
the base of his skull. The murmuring was coming from him. He had his head bowed and Junk guessed he was praying. He didn't understand the words being spoken, but he didn't need to. The intruder opened his eyes. They were silver and penetrating. He raised his arms and Junk saw something metal glinting in the blue light. A dagger. The intruder held the weapon, two-handed, above his head, ready to bring it down.

‘Coorratun,' he said.

‘NO!' screamed Junk as he raced into the room. The intruder turned. Otravinicus woke. Cascér leaped out of bed. Junk swung the mosshut bottle with abandon and connected with the intruder's nose, which disintegrated in a spray of blood and mucus, showering one side of Junk's face. The intruder fell hard to the floor and lay gurgling at Junk's feet.

It was morning before the man in black regained consciousness. When he did he found himself on the main deck, bound securely to the central mast. Everyone on board was gathered around him. He was sporting two black eyes that made him look like a panda, and the
Casabia
's medic had splinted his nose. He looked a mess.

Hundrig stood over him and explained who he was, namely the captain of this land-ship. ‘You are Uuklyn?' said Hundrig, speaking Jansian.

Lasel, Garvan and Junk stood together. ‘Uuklyn?' whispered Junk to Garvan, looking for an explanation.

‘A country to the east. Over the border,' replied Garvan.

‘And,' continued Hundrig, ‘from the look of you, you're a religious man.' He nodded his big head at the intruder's double Mohican.

That's what identifies a religious man here? thought Junk. Not like the priests back in Ireland, that's for sure.

‘Why is a religious man stealing on to my ship and attacking my passengers?'

‘You can torture me. You can burn the eyes from my skull. I won't tell you a thing.' He made a show of closing his mouth and turned his boxy chin resolutely to the side to illustrate how there was absolutely no chance that they would get any information out of him. A moment later he turned back to Hundrig. ‘Other than this … I am of an order of monks. We have vowed to protect the Room of Doors. The Room is divine. You are looking for the Room. It is forbidden for mere mortals to set foot inside. No mortal can enter the Room. The wrath of God Almighty would rip the skin from their flesh and the flesh from their bones. Their bones would turn to ash and the ash would be blown away by the breath of God. That is the fate that awaits anyone who dares enter the sacred room. I will not say any more.'

Hundrig scratched his head and looked around, searching out Junk. They exchanged a look and then Hundrig turned back to the intruder. ‘For someone who isn't going to say anything, you're kind of chatty. What's your name?'

The intruder shook his head. ‘I will say no more.' He paused and then continued: ‘Other than to say that I was christened by God himself. He called me Brother and told me I was Rard. Brother Rard. I have had the light of the divine shine down upon me. I am worthy and you are not. I will say no more to you, coorratun.'

That word again. Junk guessed it meant ‘infidel' or something like that.

‘So you know all about the Room of Doors, do you?' asked Hundrig. Brother Rard said nothing this time. ‘Except of course you don't. My little friend here …' Hundrig reached out a gargantuan hand and put it on Junk's shoulder. Junk felt as if he was about to be pushed through the deck by the sheer weight of it. The captain gathered Junk close, so he was standing next to him, in front of Brother Rard, and continued: ‘… He's been in your divine Room of Doors, and far as I can tell his skin is still on his flesh and his flesh is still on his bones. Is that about right, Junk?'

‘Yes, Captain,' said Junk. ‘Skin, bones, flesh, all accounted for.' Junk and Hundrig both looked at Brother Rard. He didn't look happy.

‘Blasphemy!' he spat. ‘Only a walker may enter the Room of Doors. You are no walker.'

‘Walker?' asked Hundrig.

‘I will say no more,' said Brother Rard … again.

Hundrig looked at the others and shrugged. He couldn't think of anything else to ask. ‘Anyone else want to give it a try?'

Dr Otravinicus stepped forward then. ‘If I may … ?' Hundrig gestured for him to go ahead and he went and sat down. He had been standing for several minutes now and it was a hot morning.

‘Brother Rard,' said Otravinicus. Rard did not react. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Otravinicus.
Sznarzel Otravinicus. But I think you know that, don't you? You came to kill me.'

Brother Rard started muttering quickly under his breath, in his own tongue, which Junk didn't understand but it sounded like he was praying again.

Otravinicus ignored the noises the monk was making and spoke over him. ‘I am considered by many to be the leading authority on the Room of Doors. Now, I know of the Church's feelings on the subject, but I am unaware of a brotherhood of monks specifically dedicated to the protection of the Room. Tell me, what is the name of your order?'

Brother Rard kept up his muttered prayers for another thirty seconds or so. Then he stopped, took a deep breath and looked up at Otravinicus. ‘The day you die will become a sacred day to my order.'

‘Well, it's always nice to be remembered,' said Otravinicus gaily.

‘We are the Order of the Room of the One True God, Pire. We are the Brotherhood of Pire. Defenders. Protectors. Avengers.'

‘Sorry. Never heard of you.'

‘Of course not. You are coorratun.' That word again. ‘Unworthy.'

‘And the head of your order? What's he called?'

‘The light, the air, the water, the earth.'

‘Catchy,' said Otravinicus, with a smirk designed to rile Brother Rard. It worked.

‘Silence! You are not worthy to breathe his name,' shouted Brother Rard.

‘I don't know his name.'

‘And you never will. Brother Antor is God's chosen son. You are not. You are a parasite crawling on the belly of a worm infecting the faeces of a mongrel dog. He will vomit you into the gutter and you will be washed away with the rest of the filth.'

‘My, my, what a lot of anger. You need to learn to relax more. Maybe get a massage. So where do we find this Brother Antor?'

Brother Rard frowned, trying to work out how Otravinicus knew the name of his superior. It took him a moment to remember that he had said it. He admonished himself under his breath.

‘I will say no more,' he said.

‘Why did you come to kill me?' asked Otravinicus again. Brother Rard looked away and refused to answer. ‘It's a reasonable enough question, isn't it?' Again Brother Rard said nothing. ‘Did this Brother Antor send you to carry out his dirty work?'

This was too much for Brother Rard and he couldn't hold his silence any longer. ‘He did not send me. He did not need to. You are the sworn enemy of the Brotherhood of the One True God, Pire. You are blasphemy in a devil's form and you do not deserve to live. It was Pire, the One True God, who spoke to me, who sent me on my quest. My quest is not yet complete but one day it will be.' He looked deep into Otravinicus's eyes to make sure he didn't miss the point he was trying to make.

While all this had been going on, Lasel crossed to
a bench where the contents of Brother Rard's pockets and his cloak lay. She looked through his few meagre possessions. In a small leather pouch she found some sort of cured meat. The smell caught at the back of her throat. She knew this smell well. She resealed the pouch.