“Sharks,” the man said in a high, thin voice.
Heck blinked, then frowned. “What’s that? You fishin’ for sharks? Oh, I sure ’preciate a sense of humour, I do. Sharks, ha. Looking to snag a big one, too, are ya? Like, maybe, one of those gold-backs that’s as long as the Suncurl itself. Why, that’d be a fight or two, eh? You could lay bets who’d pull who aboard!” And he laughed, and kept laughing.
As long as his courage allowed, anyway, under that silent study from the shadowed face.
“Hah hah… hah… hah.”
Light was fading. The man reeled out a few more loops of line.
Heck scratched at his stubbly jaw. “Sharks like meaty bait,” he said. “Bloody bait. We ain’t had fresh meat aboard since two days outa Moll. Whatcha using, sir? Had a nibble yet?”
The man sighed. “No. Yes, you say true. Bait needs to be bloodier.”
“That it would, sir.”
“And, perhaps, more substantial.”
“Aye, I’d so wager. And a good-sized hook, too, why, a gaff-hook, in fact.”
“Yes. Excellent notion. Here, hold this.”
Heck found himself holding the bundle of line, feeling the thrum of waves and depths as the trailing bait was tugged in steady rhythm. He turned to advise the guest that he was about to go on watch, but the man had wandered off.
He stood, wondering what to do. If the bell sounded and the fool wasn’t back by then, why, he’d be in trouble, would Heck Urse.
Boots sounded behind him and with relief he turned. “Glad you’re back, sir-oh, Captain!”
“What in Hood’s name are you doing, Heck?”
“Uh, holding this line, sir.”
“You are fishing.”
“No sir! I mean, it was one of the guests! The fat one, he was fishing and he asked me to hold this until he got back, and I never had no chance to say I couldn’t, cause of the night watch and all, so here I am, sir, stuck.”
“You damned idiot, Heck. Tie it off in the rail. Then go wake up Birds and Gust, the sun’s nearly down.”
“Aye, Captain!”
“Last one I heard of was about twenty years ago, when I was upland in Theft so I never saw it for myself,” Emancipor said, cursing his sudden sobriety which probably came from whatever Bauchelain had slipped into the tea he was now drinking. “They caught up to it down under the docks. The tide was out, you see-if it’d made water they’d have never gotten it and not a fisher boat would dare the bay for months, maybe years. Took twenty strong soldiers to kill it with spears and axes and the like, and even then only four walked away from the scrap.”
“A formidable creature then,” Bauchelain mused from behind steepled hands.
“Aye, and this one was only half a day old. They grow fast, you see, from eating their mothers.”
“Eating their mothers?”
Emancipor glowered down at his tea. “No one knows for sure, but the tale is like this. Jhorligg seeds swim the waters, like little worms. And if one finds a young woman in her time of bleeding-a conch diver or pearl swimmer or net crawler-why, that worm slides right on in, steals the womb, aye. And she gets big and big fast and then bigger still, and she starts eating enough for three grown men and keeps eating for six, seven months, until her skin itself starts to split. And then, usually on a moonless night, the Jhorligg rips its way free, straight through the belly, and eats the woman right there and then. Eats her all up, bones and all. Then down it races, for the water.”
“Curious,” Bauchelain conceded, “yet not as unlikely or bizarre as one might think. Parasites abound, and the majority of them dwell in water, both salt and fresh. Finding means of entry into hosts via any available orifice.”
“Jhorligg just ain’t beasts,” Emancipor said. “Nearly as smart as us, it’s said. They deliberately swim into nets and then curl up tight, until they’re pulled aboard, then they tear loose and murder every fisher in the boat, eat them all. Some even use weapons, swords and the like lost overboard or thrown to the spirits of the sea. But Master, Jhorligg live in the shallows, coastal waters only. Never open sea. Never out here.”
“Reasonable,” murmured Bauchelain. “Too much competition in these waters, not to mention the risk of becoming prey. Now, Mister Reese, what you describe is a wholly marine creature that navigates on land only at birth, in the manner of turtles and dhenrabi. Yet is quite capable of lithe endeavours on a fisher boat’s deck. By this, we must assume that it can survive out of water as necessity demands. But, I wonder, for how long?”
Emancipor shrugged. “It’s said they look like lizards, but long and able to stand on their hind legs. Got a long sinewy tail, and two clawed arms, though it’s said their bite is worst of all-can pull a man’s head right off and crunch the skull like eggshell…” He trailed off then, as Bauchelain had slowly leaned forward, eyes piercing.
“A most interesting description.”
“Not the word I’d use, Master.”
Bauchelain leaned back. “No, I imagine not. Thank you, Mister Reese. I trust your senses have returned to you?”
“Aye, Master.”
“Good, set to my armour, then, and quickly.”
“Quickly, Master?”
“Indeed. We are about to find ourselves on the red road, Mister Reese. Tonight,” he added as he rose, rubbing his hands together, “shall prove most fascinating. When you are done with the armour, hone my sword-the red-bladed one, if you please.”
Armour? Sword? Emancipor felt his insides grow watery with burgeoning terror, as he only now became aware of the veritable cacophony of sounds emanating on all sides. Groaning timbers, the squeal of joins and click of shifting nails, the strange moans of things thumping alongside the hull, then slithering under to come round to the other side.
Suncurl pitched drunkenly, and darkness took the sky beyond the lead glass porthole.
And somewhere down below, in the hold, someone screamed.
Bena Younger heard the terrible shriek and cowered lower in the crow’s nest.
Oh yes, my darling daughter, the night begins! Many are the terrible secrets of Laughter’s End, an’ could we fly wi’ wings of black now’s the time to leave the nest, dearie! But who in this world can flee their terrors? Hands o’er the eyes, ye see, and voices t’drown out all sordid griefs, an’ the mind has wings of its own, aye so beware the final flight! Into the abyss wi’ all flesh left behind!
The stars swirled strange overhead and the Suncurl wallowed as if the wind had gasped its last. Black waves licked the hull.
But we are safe, darling, ’ere above the squalid fates. Like queens we are. Goddesses!
As yet another scream railed from the darkness below, Bena Younger realized that she did not feel like a queen, or a goddess, and this reach of mast and the nets of cordage creaking almost within reach did not seem nearly high enough for whatever horrors were unveiling themselves beneath the deck of the Suncurl.
While beside her, Bena Elder crooned and moaned on, with hair standing on end and fluttering about, brushing her daughter’s face like the wings of moths.
“Who was doing that screaming?” Heck Urse demanded, reaching his lantern as far ahead as he could, the shadows dancing about the hull of the creaking ship, the rough, damp timbers of the ceiling brushing the top of his head. He peered into the gloom of the hold, sweat beading cold on his skin.
Others were awake now, but few had ventured beyond crowding the hatch leading from the crew’s berths, and Urse recalled-with a sneer diffident in its bravado-seeing all those white rolling eyes, mouths open, round and dark like the tiny pocks in cliff walls where swifts nested. Cowards!
Well, they hadn’t been soldiers, had they? Not a one of them, aye, so it was natural they’d look to Heck and Gust and Birds Mottle, not that any of them was quite free with their professions. No, such things came by obvious, in this hard confidence and the like when things were fast swirling down into some dark ugly pit. So here he stood,
