The Voyage of the Unquiet Ice (39 page)

And from across the water the voice came again, cold and impersonal. ‘
Chloe –
stand by to be boarded.'

A sickness and shaking took hold of Dow. Blood stank hotly amid the mangled bodies and the limbs torn from their sockets. His mind couldn't process such appalling injuries. The nearest corpse was that of Lieutenant Samson. Decent, bumbling, friendly Samson, who had sailed his boat so badly at first, and yet who had begun to show so much confidence and promise as an officer. His contorted face was a ghastly white; his legs, Dow saw, had been almost completely blown away.

And of a sudden Dow thought of Nell – where was she? Had the cabins below also been raked with fire?

Then Vincente was coughing again, his chest heaving, blood trickling from his lips. ‘Remove it,' he groaned, his hands grasping uselessly at the wooden dagger plunged into his heart. ‘Get it out …' Dow leant forward. ‘Sir, I don't think you should …' Vincente's eyes were blind. ‘The pain … please …' Helpless, Dow took hold of the great splinter. He shifted it very gently, only a little, and the captain, who had been arched up in his torment, relaxed suddenly and sank back down to the deck.

‘Thank you,' he sighed, as if very tired. Then, as Dow watched in dawning comprehension, Vincente's eyes went wide and faraway, staring up into nothingness. He smiled. ‘Ah … there she is ….' The words were so soft Dow had to bend his head to catch them. ‘… my own Chloe …'

And his heart went still under Dow's hand.

‘Captain,' Dow pleaded. ‘Captain Vincente.'

But the little man was dead.

Footsteps sounded upon the deck nearby, and raising his tear-filled eyes Dow saw a figure standing there, upright and unbloodied, clean of any stain of battle. It was Diego. The lieutenant was studying the carnage about him with a haunted look of disbelief. Then he beheld Dow and the captain – and Dow could see Diego's gaze move from the dagger in Vincente's heart, around which Dow's fingers were still gripped, then along Dow's arm to meet Dow's own gaze. The lieutenant's face lit with triumph.

‘Murderer,' Diego declared. And then he called it loudly. ‘Ho there. Help. There is murder most foul here!'

And in answer, from the main deck below, there rose the clamour of the boarding parties coming over the rail to claim their prize.

13. DIEGO'S REVENGE

E
ven after all the vast wonders he'd beheld in the north – giant bergs rolling in the sea, the gale-blown heights of the Ice Wall, the fuming basin of the great volcano – Dow was still struck, upon his second sighting of the vessel, by the sheer size of the
Twelfth Kingdom.

But whereas there had been a perilous beauty to the bergs and the Wall, and a grandeur in the fiery inner sea of the pole, Dow saw no such beauty or grandeur now in the spires and sails and hulking battlements of the capital ship – nor even the imposingness of brute power. Now he saw only a monstrosity; a vessel fat and complacent and floating in the only sea it was fit for, the stagnant waters of the Golden Millpond.

Or perhaps – Dow admitted to himself as his boat drew closer to the
Twelfth Kingdom
– it was just that his opinion of the ship was coloured by the knowledge of what awaited him on board.

Imprisonment – most certainly.

Death – quite possibly.

Vincente's gift had been intended to prevent those very things. But it had come too late. As for the papers Dow had signed, he had no idea what had happened to them. No doubt they'd been collected by the victors in the storming of the
Chloe –
but whether they'd been burned, or thrown into the sea, or merely hidden away never to be seen again, he couldn't say.

And it didn't matter. He would never now be acknowledged as a commissioned officer, as the captain had hoped, let alone as an adopted Ship King.

Now he was just a New Islander, and a criminal.

Gazing over the heads of the oarsmen, Dow studied the
Twelfth Kingdom
once more, especially the brooding palace and its brazen dome. There was one other reason, of course, that it all looked different to him now; a momentous reason, one that changed everything. And it was this: the occupant of that palace, Ibanez the Third, Sovereign of all the Ocean, was in fact sovereign no longer. While the
Chloe
had been absent in the north, the mighty and invulnerable Sea Lord had been overthrown.

The news had reached Dow even in the isolation of the
Chloe's
brig – where he'd been locked ever since the ambush. He was allowed to talk to no one, but the galley-hands who brought his daily meal whispered reports to him while he ate. These humble serving lads were among the few of the
Chloe's
original crew still left on board, considered too unimportant to imprison or replace. But humble or not, they were in perfect position to overhear the dinner-table talk of the
Chloe's
new officers – all Valdez or Castille men. And so it was that they, and Dow in turn, had learned of the great events that had transpired on the capital ship during the
Chloe's
voyage; events indeed that had rendered that voyage meaningless.

For the kingdoms of Castille and Valdez had not been content, after all, to grant the Sea Lord another three months grace to search for his missing son. Instead, within a fortnight of the
Chloe's
departure, they had staged a small but well organised coup, and quietly seized the throne; first by surprising Ibanez in his own home and taking him prisoner, and then by forcing him to name, as his joint successors, a young couple only newly wed – Emmanuel of the Ingot, who was the son of Carrasco of Valdez, and Henrietta of the Scale, who was the granddaughter of Ferdinand of Castille.

And all without the civil war that everyone – Vincente included – had so feared would tear the empire apart. There had been no battles, and the
Twelfth Kingdom
, for all its thousand guns, had been no defence. Instead, it seemed, treachery and cunning had been enough. The galley-hands' furtive reports to Dow spoke of secret preparations far in advance of the coup, of clandestine meetings between the rebel kingdoms and various captains of the Home Fleet, and of moneys paid and promises made; and of similar arrangements with certain marine sergeants of the Sea Lord's private guard.

Then on a night carefully predetermined, a large party of Castille and Valdez dignitaries had visited the capital ship under guise of reopening negotiations with the Sea Lord over the succession. In the early hours, as most on board slept, those dignitaries – and those of the Sea Lord's guard working with them – had seized control of the palace and of Ibanez's apartments. They had also secured the
Twelfth Kingdom's
magazines, so that the forces loyal to the Sea Lord had little powder or shot with which to mount any resistance.

The ship had fallen with barely a struggle.

As for the Home Fleet – ironically, Vincente's own advice to the Sea Lord had weakened Ibanez's position. For Ibanez had, as he'd promised, dispatched a fleet of his own ships to the Twin Isles, to investigate Vincente's suspicions that the sail-less boat had come from there. Thus was the Home Fleet reduced at exactly the wrong moment, and outnumbered by the Castille and Valdez fleets when the coup took place. Of those ships remaining, many were captained by men now in league with the usurpers – and so again, few shots were fired. Within a single night and morning, the thing was done.

Indeed, the pretence had quickly been established that the coup had never happened at all. The official version being promulgated was that the Sea Lord, during negotiations, had simply accepted at last that his son was dead, and so had appointed, as was only proper, two new heirs to take Nadal's place. Details of the true events, even if they could not be kept entirely secret, were to be suppressed as far as possible, and denied in public. The kingdoms loyal to Ibanez might well suspect – or even be certain of – foul play, but short of starting a war themselves, what could they do about it now?

Which had left, of course, only one loose end; Vincente's expedition to the north, and the danger that he might actually find Nadal and bring the Lord Designate home, throwing everything into chaos.

And so a fleet had been sent to lie in wait …

The
Twelfth Kingdom
loomed very near now, and Dow's boat turned to approach the floating docks, the rowers putting up their oars to glide in.

Dow knew none of those rowers, nor either of the two marines guarding him. For the
Chloe –
which floated behind him on the Millpond's calm waters, patched and repaired from the battle, but still only a ragged, bereft version of itself – was crewed by strangers now. Once the victors had taken possession of their prize, they'd put their own men aboard, and dispersed most of the original crew across the other four vessels.

Exactly how many days had passed since then, Dow hadn't been able to count, down in the darkness of the brig. But he knew that they'd been roughly two weeks sail from Great Island when the attack came, so it was at least that long. Certainly it had been time enough for the wounds he'd received to almost heal, leaving him with two deep scars about his left shoulder, and a lasting stiffness in the muscles there. He would never, he suspected, have full free movement of that arm again – but he knew too that he was one of the lucky ones.

Of the others, at least of those best known to Dow, Captain Vincente was of course dead – buried at sea, along with Samson and the rest of the fatalities from that awful day, hurriedly and without the proper ceremony due them. And Commander Fidel's whereabouts were unknown. Although unscathed by the battle itself, he'd been bound cruelly by the victors and taken away to one of the enemy ships, not to be heard from since.

Which left – outside of New Island of least – only three people in all the world that Dow cared about; and one other too, that he despised. And, as it happened, all four of these individuals were in the boats following just behind his, for they too were being delivered now to the
Twelfth Kingdom
.

His own craft docked. Dow's guards hoisted him up – his hands were tied behind his back – and deposited him on the pontoon. Then he was marched up the boarding ramp. Looking back down, he could see the second boat landing at the dock. In it were Johannes and Nicky, each flanked by two marines. Beyond, the third boat was standing by. It carried Lieutenant Diego of the Diamond, and at his side, face downcast, sat Nell.

It seemed an age since Dow had seen her last. She looked smaller than he remembered, and the rush of feelings that came to him was confusing, not least because he did not know what role she was to play here. But there was no such confusion at the sight of Diego; Dow's smouldering hatred threatened to flare into rage.

But then he was shoved through the hatchway into the dimness of the
Twelfth Kingdom
's lower decks, and he calmed himself. There was nothing he could do about Diego. Not yet anyway. He must be patient.

His guards led him onwards. At first, little seemed to have changed on board the capital ship since Dow's visit three months earlier. The gun decks were as shadowy and cavernous as ever, and the long lines of cannon had again been run out for display. But when Dow emerged onto the open spaces of the main deck, he saw no carnival crowd gathered on the green expanse of lawn. Instead, there were only armed marines standing about beneath the trees – and many more guarding the stairs that led up into the palace. All loyal, no doubt, to the new regime.

The view beyond the rail was different too. Beneath the hazy sky, and spread across the calm seas, were the mustered fleets of the Ship Kings empire, come to attend the spring session of the Lords of the Fleet. But the armada was much smaller than the one that had attended the winter session. Rumour from the galley-hands had it that only Castille and Valdez had been allowed to bring their full fleets, and that the other kingdoms had been restricted to three ships apiece; and that
one
kingdom, apparently, had not come at all.