'New crewmembers will fall in on my left and be recognised!' he screamed, in a voice that suggested he would fall on them with beak and talons. 'Face forward, order of rank! And by the lions of the sea, if you waste our time I'll have you lick every man's heel on the Chathrand, beginning with those sporting boils or open sores, Rin drown me if I lie! Mr Kiprin Pondrakeri, seaman!'
A muscular sailor with a shaved head and tattooed arms leaped forward through the crowd, knocking aside men and boys in his haste.
'Mr Vadel Methrek, seaman!'
A turbaned man followed the first. As they scrambled for the ladder the crew struck at them — not gently at all — and hissed, and growled Rotter or Lousehead or Bottom o' the barrel! The soldiers joined in; even the tarboys struggled to land a few blows.
The mystified passengers looked on, appalled. But the crew were relieved: now at last they knew why they had been called on deck. No one, not even Uskins, was truly angry. This was a procedural passion, and one more way of seeking good luck on the voyage. From time out of mind it had been the practice of the Merchant Service (and the Arquali navy) to induct crew members with threats and insults — the better to protect them from the ghosts of dead sailors, who might feel jealous if they received smiles and friendly applause. Every recruit knew of these rights. They would, in fact, have taken grave offence if treated kindly.
Pazel and Neeps jostled with the rest, looking for someone to abuse. By the weird logic of the service, to hang back now was the only true form of contempt. Rounding the starboard windscoop, Pazel saw a wiry Simjan sailor rushing forward, arms wrapped protectively about his head. 'Scum!' he cried, and pulled back his fist.
A rough hand caught his arm. He was yanked backwards, off balance. Jervik's fist came down like a club against the side of his head. The next moment he was on the deck. Moisture struck his chin: Jervik's spit.
'You ain't crew no more,' he said. 'Don't you forget it.'
Then Jervik was gone into the melee. Pazel felt as though a horse had kicked him in the face. In a blind rage he forced himself to stand — and just as quickly fell, dizzied and weak. I'll get you, Jervik, I'll get you, damn your dumb soul.
Neeps found him as the free-for-all came to an end: Pazel had crawled to the back of the crowd and laid his face against a cool iron breastplate. Neeps helped him stand up. The look the small boy wore might have given a Turach commando pause.
'That's it. Jervik's dead. He's blary dead, is all.'
Pazel probed the already-welling bruise at his cheekbone. He knew his immediate problem was no longer Jervik but Neeps, who might just be capable of attacking Jervik in front of eight hundred witnesses. But before Pazel could speak a new hush fell over the ship. Rose was stepping forwards. Once more all eyes were on the captain.
'Our new bosun, Mr Alyash, will be making some changes to the rotations-'
'Alyash looks like he just got sick on himself,' snarled Neeps, who hated everything at the moment.
Pazel looked at the short, broad, powerful man on the quarterdeck. His skin was very dark, but on his chin and at the corners of his mouth there were pale pink blotches. A few ran in streaks halfway down his neck.
Pazel squinted. 'There's nothing on him, you dolt. That's his skin. If he got that way by a wound it must have been a long time ago.'
'A wound?'
'Don't ask me,' said Pazel. 'And for Rin's sake don't ask him either! I'll bet you he's an improvement on Swellows anyway.'
'Captains of the watch will report to Mr Alyash when we adjourn,' Rose was saying. 'Now then: as we set sail, Dr Rain was struck down by gout. I have relieved him of his duties. Henceforth Dr Chadfallow will be our chief medical officer.'
There were hisses, but not too many. Chadfallow stood accused of many things — even of collaboration with Arunis — but poor medicine was not among them. Rain on the other hand was a fumbling menace. Better to be cured by a traitor than killed by a quack.
'Admission to sickbay requires his signature,' Rose continued, 'but for minor concerns you may apply to our new surgeon's mate, Mr Greysan Fulbreech.'
The boys could scarcely believe their ears. During the ceremonial violence neither had heard Uskins shout out his name (it must have come after Jervik laid Pazel on the deck). But there Fulbreech stood among the new recruits: the same glamorous young man who had accosted Hercol during the wedding procession, making the same shallow, almost condescending bow.
'Say, we can ask him about Thasha's father!' said Neeps.
Pazel nodded. 'And we can ask him what in the Nine Pits he's doing aboard.'
'There is one further matter,' said Rose, silencing the crowd again. He nodded to someone below, and the tarboy Peytr Bourjon started up the ladder to the quarterdeck. Peytr was a tall, lean whip of a youth. He and Dastu were the ship's senior tarboys, just one voyage away from making full sailors. Peytr was climbing awkwardly. As he stepped onto the quarterdeck, Pazel saw why: he had a large red object tucked under one arm.
'I'll be blowed, that's a gumfruit,' said Neeps.
So it was: a scarlet gumfruit. The lumpy, bright-red fruit was about the size of a pineapple. The flesh was said to be spongy and bitter; they were no one's favourite, as far as Pazel knew. Pazel had never seen one aboard a ship: they spoiled quickly and attracted flies.
'Gumfruits come from Ibithraed,' said Neeps. 'My grandmother used to buy 'em for Fifthmoon dinner.'
'Peytr's from Ibithraed too,' said Pazel thoughtfully.
'Is he? Pitfire, that's why he hates me! He thinks my granddad pissed on his granddad.'1
Peytr handed the gumfruit to Rose, and took a few steps back. Clearly someone had explained what was wanted of him.
'The worst is behind us,' shouted Rose unexpectedly. 'Do you know why that is, men? Because we've left something heavy, something suffocating, behind us in the Empire. That something is hope. I see your faces! You would laugh at me if you dared. But look at the old men among you. They are not laughing. They know what you will come to know. Hope was never something to cling to. Not for us, lads. Not for you, or for me.'
He lifted the great scarlet fruit above his head. 'Look at this gorgeous thing,' he said. 'Brighter than the red lanterns on the Lily of Locostri. Brighter than the girls' painted nails. Who wants a bite? First come, first served! Come on, no tricks — who wants a great, juicy bellyful of red?'
The eight hundred before him stood silent, for everyone knew that gumfruit rind was toxic.
Rose nodded, satisfied. Then he lowered the fruit and squeezed hard with his left hand, digging in with his fingers. With wrenching motions he tore the rind away in inch-thick chunks, letting them fall carelessly about the deck. Ten seconds, and it was done. Now his hands cradled the inner fruit, cream-white and slippery as a newborn.
'Hope is the rind,' he said. 'Beautiful, and poisoned. This is life, naked life, and it's all we've ever really had. Do you hear me, lads? You've got to strip that rind away.' His eyes were blazing now as they had not done once since Etherhorde. 'I couldn't do you that service until now — Ott would have stabbed me, if Sergeant Throatcutter over there didn't do it first. But I'm doing it today — I'm handing you the blary respect you deserve.
'Hope is back there in Simja, back in Ormael and Opalt and Etherhorde and Besq. Hope belongs to somebody else. We're done with it. And that means I don't have to lie to you any more. Fact: we do the Emperor's bidding or he kills us, and kills our kin. Fact: we're to cross the Ruling Sea with no trial run, and in the time of the Vortex. Fact: what awaits us in Gurishal is worse, if we're ever lucky enough to get there.'
Moans began escaping from the onlookers, but Rose spoke over them. 'Keep looking at this fruit. Look hard. It's not a choice of this or something better. We don't even have the choice of tossing it and going hungry — not unless we want our families nailed up for the birds to pick. Now get over here, Mr Bourjon, and tell me what you think of gumfruit.'
Peytr jumped; he had been gazing at Rose in blank confusion. 'The… the truth, Captain?'
'Gods of Death, boy, the truth!'
'I… I like 'em, sir. Always did. Since I was small.'
Rose looked hard at him, then nodded. Very carefully, the captain passed the wet pulpy fruit into the tarboy's hands. Turning to face the mob again, he raised his sticky fist before his face and sniffed appraisingly.
'Gumfruit kept his people from starving, through nine known famines, ' he said, pointing at the tarboy. 'He
