No Present Like Time

Back above, she said, “Jant, you have the cabin under the poop deck.” She opened a door onto an empty compartment with a sloping floor, one meter wide by two long, and a meter high. One hinged shelf was folded back against the wall above a hook for a hammock. Was I expected to fit in there?

“It’s a fucking closet,” I said.

“I swear, it’s the most luxurious passenger accommodation we have! Well, if you want to sleep outside, feel free…Come on, Lightning, let me show you the fo’c’sle.”

At least my cabin was farthest from the waves. I could lean out of the porthole and judge the level of water against the planks of the hull to determine how fast we were sinking. It had the best view, fresh air, and I could fly from the deck above. The motion of the waves swayed my cabin the most but that didn’t bother me. I was anxious to be rid of Mist’s smiling face so I folded myself into the tiny wooden box. What the fuck was I doing here?

Once noticed, the ship’s movement was relentless. I could still fly home, but then I would have to face the Emperor. I was stranded between two terrible eventualities. I sat cross-legged, elbows on knees, head in hands, fingers through my black hair like a waterfall.

Footsteps boomed up and down the tilted ladders between decks and above me. Timbers creaked. On second thoughts, Petrel seemed extremely flimsy. The sailors adjusted something, the floor righted and, even-keel, she began to gather speed.

I shuffled farther into the cabin, bolted the door and opened my razor. I started to divide up my quarter-kilo hoard of cat. I tipped out the powder on a book cover, cut it and made paper wraps of roughly a gram apiece. Why did I buy so much scolopendium? So that Cinna couldn’t sell it to his victims? No, because I need enough to stay high for the whole voyage. With an ex-addict’s ingenuity I hid the paper wraps in every possible niche, wherever they were concealed from view. I wedged them in the ceiling joists and between the floorboards. I taped them to the underside of the shelf, packed them into the lantern and the squat candlestick. I concealed wraps between the pages of books, in the whetstone pocket of my knife scabbard. I even sewed them into my coat lining.

An hour later I still had two hundred grams left in the envelope, enough to poison the entire crew of both caravels. I tipped a fingernail-full of cat into a beaker of white wine. It touched and dissolved like melting snow. I cut a line on the book cover and snorted it. My jaw sparkled. I threw the porthole open and threw up, monumentally, down the Petrel’s side.

Then I returned to the poop deck, dazzled by brightness. The fresh wind made me shudder. The mainland was ridiculously small and featureless-I could see the entire Cobalt coast, a pale green line edge-to-edge of the horizon, already turning blue. The Awndyn cliffs were a faint smudge less than half a centimeter high. In every other direction spread the indistinguishable ocean. I didn’t want to look at it. “It’s as if we can see the whole east coast,” I said to Mist.

She laughed and shook her head. “Say goodbye to it, Jant.”

I could fly back even now. I leaned over the stern and stretched my wings to feel the wind under them.

“This is something you’ve never seen before?” the Archer asked calmly.

“It’s horrible.” I hissed a breath. “It’s a travesty.” I always have to work in their world. Lightning has visited the mountains on adventurous expeditions and once when I needed help; but I defy any of them to trek to the high plateaus. I cross boundaries more vertiginous and worlds far more precarious than this, I told myself, but I didn’t feel at all reassured. “Are we in water deep enough to be attacked by sea monsters?”

Mist tutted. “Jant, there is no such thing as a sea monster. I have circumnavigated the Fourlands. I have sailed past this longitude for six hundred years, so you can absolutely take my word for it. Monsters are just the tales of drunk, braggart harpooners. You might see a whale spouting in the distance, but that’s about all.”

I sipped my doctored wine and watched the Stormy Petrel’s green wake curve out like lace from a loom. The horizon receded; I expected a clap of thunder or something when it merged with the haze and vanished. I stared in that direction for long after, memorizing the position. In an hour’s time Petrel would carry me too far to fly home.

I turned away from the railing. I had been looking out to sea for so long the size and bustle of the ship surprised me. My hands were weak, my glass was empty. I took a step and the deck tilted. Shit, if the others see my condition they are definitely going to know. I must reach my cabin, lock door, sleep it off. I edged along the railing to the top of the ladder, and felt about with one foot for the rungs. I can step down, it isn’t so far.

I crashed heavily onto the half deck, shook my wings and arms to locate them. Yes, of course the floor is bloody tipping, I told myself; we’re on a sodding ship. I clawed the cabin open, threw my coat down but it slid toward the door. I have taken too much. But it feels so good, oh god it feels good. The buzz and dislocation comes on slow when I drink cat. So I forget to be careful and I always drink too fucking much. It’ll peak soon, I hope. I was clever to return to the cabin while I still could. Now there’s no coast only sea no land to land on only sea. We must trust our memories that the Empire still exists.

I’ve taken too much. I lay on my quilt, curled up, eyes closed-can’t observe the outside world anymore, too much going on out there. Thoughts rush around my mind and cat begins to break them down to their constituent cycles. Consciousness is circular. Thoughts come in cycles. There are big, slow, infrequent cycles and fast rings repeat inside them. Words are made when sound cycles click the right combination. Consciousness is circular; thoughts come in cycles. There are big-It’s happening to me! I think I’m dying. Don’t worry, I won’t die; this has happened before. I hate it when this happens. I’m probably going to Shift. And I haven’t been to Epsilon for years. Epsilon. Words are made when sound cycles click the right combination. Oh, no, it’s starting to happen-am I dying? Don’t worry, I won’t die; this has happened before. God, I hate it when this happens. I’m probably going to Shift. And I haven’t been to Epsilon for years. Probably going to Shift. Last time, I almost died. Rayne said I was dying. Don’t worry, I won’t die. This has happened before. I hate it when this happens (it’s happening to me; it’s happening to me). I’m going to Shift. And I haven’t been to Epsilon for years. Consciousness is circular; thoughts come in cycles. Haven’t I just thought this? Words are made when sound cycles click the right combination (-to me, it’s happening to me, it’s happening to-) What is? This feeling of dying. Don’t worry, I won’t die, this has happened before. Words are made when sound cycles. God, I hate it when this happens. I’m probably going to Shift. And I haven’t been to Epsilon for years (-me, it’s happening to me, it’s happ-) I think I just thought that (-ening to me, it’s happening to me, it’s happening to-) oo to me ahp ap hap happening oo fu tu to me see words are made when words are made words worr dd hut hur lur wur wor words are ay ma may dde words are made words are made ugh dug dur wer wur words arr are geh neh ney ay made words are made ur err are arr…ar…r…

Shouts assailed from all sides and before me were market stalls running into stalls out to where the horizon met the orange sky. Constant Shoppers hustled and bustled, a little boy selling postcards of Epsilon darted through the crowd. I recognized the Squantum Plaza bazaar.

I sat on the pavement cross-legged and concentrated, changing my appearance from just a pencil sketch of Jant to something more solid that looked like me, with a few improvements.

Having brightened myself up, I staggered to my feet. I swore I would never come back here and now I’ve broken my promise again. A small gray cloud appeared above my head and began to rain on me. “All right,” I told it, waving my hands. “All right! I’m not that depressed!” The cloud showered a few more desultory drops and dissipated.

There were market stalls of mildewed books, cloth and raffia, cakes and beer. Horse brasses, porcelain, thousands of gemstones spilled on velvet. Flat green grief toads sang mournfully in glass tanks. Stalls sold ancient sea-krait scales, barometz root-looks like a sheep but tastes like turnip-trained falcons apparently “the best hunters in the Scarlet Steppe” and confused stacks of bamboo crates full of finches that cheeped and fluttered.

There were bonsai ents-little gnarled trees with root-legs stumbling around on a polished tray. A marsh gibbon capered on a stall’s canopy. It had pale green silky fur and round intelligent eyes; its back legs ended in duck feet. I couldn’t help laughing at it. The monkey pulled its top lip back in a bubblegum-pink grimace.

Now that I was trapped here for an uncertain length of time, I decided to enjoy myself. I went looking for the pair of golden shears that was the sign of the Bullock’s Bollocks bar. It was no easy task because Epsilon changes constantly.

A crowd of nasnas with tour guides wended their way between the tables. Nasnas are men with one arm and one leg each. The two nearest me were heavyset columns of flesh, and they supported each other, hopping along