captain.
“Panic is a common affliction when spirits awaken, Captain Sater. Like pollen in the air, or seeds of terror that find root in every undefended mortal mind. I urge you to mindfulness, lest horror devour your reason.”
“So that scream was just some mindless terror?”
Emancipor could almost see the faint smile that must have accompanied Bauchelain’s next words. “I see the notion of loosed spirits is insufficient to assail you, Captain, and I am impressed. Clearly you have an array of past experiences steadying your nerves. Indeed, I am relieved by your comportment under the circumstances. In any case, that scream announced the most horrible death of one of your crew.”
There was silence then behind Emancipor and he lifted into view a bottle of black, bubbly glass, only to recoil upon seeing the thick glassy stamp of a skull on the body and a clatter of long bones girdling the short neck. He hastily returned it, reached for another.
“Spirits,” said Captain Sater in a cold, dead tone, “rarely possess the ability to slay a living soul.”
“Very true, Captain. There are, of course, exceptions. There is also the matter of the red road, Laughter’s End and its lively current. A most foul conspiracy of events, alas. To be more certain of what has awakened below, I must speak with my companion, Korbal Broach-”
“Another damned sorcerer.”
“An enchanter, of sorts.”
“Where is he, then? Not long ago he was on deck but then he vanished-I was expecting to find the creepy eunuch down here with you.”
Emancipor found another bottle, the murky green glass devoid of scary stamps. Twisting round, he held it up to the lantern light and saw nothing untoward swimming in the dark liquid within. Satisfied, he collected a goblet, plucked loose the stopper and poured his master a full serving. Then paused and, with great caution, sniffed.
Aye, that’s wine all right. Relieved, he straightened and delivered it into Bauchelain’s left, metal-wrapped hand, even as the conjuror said, in a light manner, “Captain Sater, I advise you to refrain from voicing such gruff… attributions in your description of Korbal Broach. As Mister Reese can attest, my companion’s affability is surely as much a victim of bloody detachment as was his-”
“All right all right, the man’s a damned crab in a corner. You didn’t answer me-where’s he gone to?”
“Well,” Bauchelain paused and downed a mouthful of the wine, “given his expertise, I would imagine he has…” And the conjuror’s sudden, inexplicable pause stretched on, five, seven, ten heartbeats, before he slowly turned to face Emancipor. An odd fire growing in his normally icy eyes, the glisten of minute beads of sweat now on his brow and twinkling in his beard and trimmed moustache. “Mister Reese.” Bauchelain’s voice sounded half- strangled. “You have returned the bottle to my trunk.”
“Uh, yes, Master. You want more?”
Trembling hand now, there, the one gripping the goblet. A peculiar, jerking step closer and Bauchelain was pushing the sword into Emancipor’s hands. “Take this, quickly.”
“Master?”
“A dark green bottle, Mister Reese? Unadorned glass, elongated, bulbous neck.”
“Aye, that’s the one-”
“Next time,” Bauchelain gasped, his face flushing-delivering a hue never before seen by Emancipor-no, not ever on his master’s normally pallid, corpulent visage. “Next time, Mister Reese, any of the skull-stamped bottles-”
“But Master-”
“Bloodwine, Mister Reese, a most deadly vintage-the shape of the neck is the warning.” He was now tugging at his chain hauberk, seemingly in pain somewhere below his gut. “The warning-oh gods! Even a Toblakai maiden would smile! Get out of here, Mister Reese-get out of here!”
Captain Sater was staring, uncomprehending.
Taking the sword with him, Emancipor Reese rushed to the door and tugged it open. As he crossed the threshold Sater made to follow, but Bauchelain moved in a blur, one hand grasping her by the neck.
“Not you, woman.”
That grating, almost bestial voice was unrecognizable.
Sater was scrabbling for her own sword-but Emancipor heard the savage tearing of leather and buckles even as the woman uttered a faint squeal And oh, Emancipor plunged out into the corridor, slamming the door behind him.
Thumps from the cabin, the scraping of boots, another muted cry.
Emancipor Reese licked his lips-yes, he was doing a lot of that, wasn’t he? Bloodwine, where have I heard that name before? Toblakai, said Master. Them giants, the barbaric ones. Tree sap, aye, mixed with wine and that’s fair enough, isn’t it?
Rhythmic creaking and pounding now. Womanly gasps and manly grunts.
Emancipor blinked down at the sword in his hands. The overlong, near two-handed grip. The rounded silver and onyx pommel, well-weighted and gleaming as if wet.
Desperate cries moaning through the door’s solid oak.
He thought back to that bottle’s neck, then looked down at the sword’s handle and pommel once more. Oh. One mouthful? Just the one? Gods below!
“You hear that?”
Birds Mottle squinted over at Gust Hubb. “Hear what?”
“Water. Rushing-I think we’re holed!”
“No we aren’t-feel it-we’d be sluggish, Mael’s tongue, we’d be knee-deep down here. We ain’t holed, Gust, we ain’t nothing so shut that trap of yours!”
They were whispering, since both understood that whispering was a good thing, what with Heck Urse creeping ever closer to the head in his search of whoever had done that scream and maybe finding what was left of the poor fool or even worse, nothing at all except maybe smears of sticky stuff that stank like wet iron.
“I hear water, Birds, I’d swear it. A rush, and clicks and moaning-gods, it’s driving me mad!”
“Be quiet, damn you!”
“And look at these nails-these new ones-look how they’re sweating red-”
“It’s rusty water-”
“No it ain’t-”
“Enough-look, Heck’s at the head.”
That did what was needed in silencing Gust Hubb, apart from his fast breathing right there beside her as they crouched on the centre gangway running the length of the keel. Both strained their eyes at that wavering pool of lantern light fifteen paces ahead. They watched as the black, warped door was angled open.
Then Heck Urse’s silhouette blotted out the glow.
“Look!” hissed Gust. “He’s going in!”
“Brave man,” Birds Mottle muttered, shaking her head. “I shoulda married him.”
“He ain’t that brave,” said Gust.
She slowly drew her knife and faced him. “What did you just say?”
Gust Hubb caught nothing of that dangerous tone, simply nodding ahead. “Look, he’s just peeking in.”
“Oh, right.” She sheathed her knife.
Heck leaned back and shut the head’s door, then, drawing his lantern back round, hurried back to where they waited.
“Nothing,” he said. “No one and nothing there.”
Gust Hubb yelped and clapped a hand to the bandaged wound on the side of his head.
Heck and Birds stared at him.
“Something nipped me!”
“Something nipped what, exactly?” Heck asked. “It’s a ghost ear now, Gust Hubb. It ain’t there, remember?”
“I’d swear…”
“Your imagination,” Birds Mottle said. Then she turned back to Heck Urse. “So what do we do now?”
Someone was coming up the walkway and they turned to see Ably Druther clambering closer.
