‘Nemoctes,’ Stenwold said, with as much patience as he could muster, ‘I appreciate there’s all kinds of politics going on down here, but it’s nothing to do with me, and it’s nothing to do with my people. All I want to do is go home.’
There was a pause as Gribbern relayed that message faithfully, and then a longer one, while Stenwold had nothing to do but stare at the confining walls of Gribbern’s cramped home. At last Nemoctes replied. ‘I understand that,’ he said. ‘If it were as simple as you say, then I would take you to the shore myself, but what you say is not true. You yourself have confirmed it. Claeon has an interest in your world. The Littoralists are already spying there, and no doubt they have gathered allies. Whether it is war against you, or a plot to bring your people here to serve him, Claeon intends no good, and you are part of his plans. I regret, I deeply regret, but I cannot just let you return.’
‘If something is going on up above,’ Stenwold insisted, ‘then the best way to deal with it is to let me go up there and sort it out. I don’t want sea-kinden agents amongst my people, any more than you do, and nothing that Claeon might be planning is going to mean any good for us. Let me help you by acting where you cannot.’
‘That seems logical,’ Nemoctes said, but his tone gave Stenwold no hope. ‘It may well be what is eventually agreed. However, we must have a genuine conclave first, we Pelagists and Heiracles’s people, I hear rumours that the heir may yet be alive. We must let the water clear before we can see what is the best course.’
‘Right,’ Stenwold said. Abruptly the sense of confinement, the feel of Gribbern’s back pressing against his, the dim light, the stale air, it was all too much for him. He felt like weeping in frustration.
‘I give you my word that you will be allowed your say, and I will not have you used merely for Heiracles’s political ends. We will do with you what is best for our people, but also what is best for yours if this is possible.’
Stenwold found that he believed the distant voice, but it gave him no joy. One man’s oath was such a little thing in the wide sea.
‘Nemoctes,’ Gribbern said, then.
‘Speak.’
‘Reckon I have to break in here. We’re not alone.’
There was a moment as Stenwold and the far-off Nemoctes considered these same words.
‘We are followed,’ Gribbern explained, and there was the faintest tremor in his voice.
‘Who’s there?’ Nemoctes demanded, with Stenwold joining in, ‘Followed how? By who?’
‘Pserry says it’s Onychoi,’ Gribbern reported. ‘Not so far behind and tracking us through the weed.’
‘Speed?’ Nemoctes pressed.
‘Oh, reckon it’s close to ours,’ Gribbern said miserably. ‘Three, maybe four of them.’
‘Head deep and keep moving,’ ordered the tiny, Art-born voice. ‘I am coming for you now. I am not so far away.’
‘Don’t think I’m so worried about them,’ Gribbern muttered. ‘Pserry reckons they’ve been behind us since we set off, and getting no closer nor further, and we can run for longer than they can, but Pserry says there’s something else now, something moving in the weed above us, keeping pace.’ His voice jumped in pitch, just for a moment.
‘Stay calm, Gribbern,’ Nemoctes told him. ‘I am closing. I will be with you.’ There was a quality to those remote tones, though, that cut through the confidence he was trying to instil. Neither Stenwold nor Gribbern remarked on it, but they were both thinking the same thing: He is not so close. He is too far. Stenwold had no idea, in truth, what distance separated them from the invisible Nemoctes, but Nemoctes obviously knew, and his own voice betrayed him.
‘Don’t reckon anyone else is out there, then?’ Gribbern said. There was a faint tremble against Stenwold’s back, something being held in. ‘Who hears me?’
A new voice picked up immediately, sounding like an old woman’s: ‘I hear you, old Gribbern. I’m on my way.’
‘I’m close by Hermatyre,’ said another voice, overlapping, young and harsh this time. ‘Can you turn for me?’
‘Don’t think I can, at that,’ said Gribbern gloomily. ‘Onychoi’ll have me if I do anything but head straight.’
‘I am near,’ said a new voice, and the sound of it raised the hairs on Stenwold’s neck: a woman’s voice but strange and ethereal, as though it had been made solely to be heard disembodied and ghostly. ‘I am coming.’
‘Only…’ Gribbern choked on the word, and then continued gamely, ‘Only Pserry’s telling me there’s something real big over us, and I’ve got a nasty feeling…’
‘I’m on my way, so just keep moving,’ Nemoctes insisted. Other voices added their encouragement, but Stenwold could feel Gribbern shaking.
‘Nemoctes,’ the sea-kinden whispered. ‘Pserry’s scared.’
‘I’m close now,’ Nemoctes said, but there was a haggard edge to his words.
‘Gribbern, be strong,’ said the strange woman’s voice.
Stenwold could clearly hear Gribbern’s breathing growing quicker and more ragged as though the exertions of his beast were transmitting themselves to him. Pserry was definitely moving faster now, the gentle rocking motion becoming a bouncing jolt as the creature scuttled between the weed stalks.
‘Land-kinden,’ Gribbern said, sounding immensely calm, ‘reckon you’d better take that caul up.’
‘What good will that do?’ Stenwold asked. Caught up in the other man’s fear, he had not been thinking of himself. Now the appalling weight of water returned to mind, the drowning crush of it. How long would the caul give him? Five minutes? Less? ‘Gribbern, I cannot survive out there.’
‘Take it up, is my advice. Maybe Nemoctes… in time, maybe.. .’ Abruptly he lurched forwards, as though stabbed. ‘Nemoctes!’ he hissed. ‘They sent Arkeuthys!’
Stenwold felt the same blade of horror in his own gut. It was the sea monster, the great sea monster whose horrifying eye had observed him on the deck of the barge, whose many arms had plucked him down into this cursed world. Arkeuthys, the name that inspired terror even in its own allies.
‘Gribbern, listen to me,’ Nemoctes was saying, though in truth neither of them was listening to him. ‘Keep straight, let the weed protect you. Even Arkeuthys… Gribbern, hold out! Just hold out!’
A moment later Stenwold was slung sideways as Pserry turned without warning, the entire bulk of the creature slewing sideways and then taking off again, even faster than before. ‘What is it? What happened?’ Stenwold shouted, but Gribbern had no words for him. With equal suddenness Pserry turned again, practically bounding over the uneven seabed, jostling and bouncing its two passengers.
Gribbern cried out.
Stenwold slammed backwards into him, their little boxlike world abruptly jolted forwards so that for a moment the wall Stenwold was facing had become the ceiling, and Pserry’s tail must have been pointing straight up. Then they landed in a great clatter, and began scrabbling desperately away again. For a moment Stenwold thought they had pitched down a crevasse, but then his heart went cold.
It almost had us then, he realized. The monster was right above them.
‘Not going to let you down,’ Gribbern said, though whether it was spoken to Stenwold or Pserry or the absent Nemoctes was unclear. The woman’s voice was still saying something, but Stenwold could not catch it. Gribbern turned to him, twisting round awkwardly, his shoulder clipping Stenwold’s chin. ‘Put the caul on!’ he insisted. ‘Put it on!’
He had meanwhile taken up something, some kind of weapon, from the clutter lying around them, some kind of beaked mace.
Stenwold dragged the caul over his face as Pserry lurched over some obstable. Stenwold could almost hear the frantic skitter of legs.
A moment later the chamber was full of water, of the sea rushing in. It hammered Stenwold onto the floor, but Gribbern was manhandling him, shoving him towards the abruptly opened hatch. Stenwold went through in a tangle of limbs, flailing wildly into the open water, almost dragging the caul from his head in an instinctive terror of drowning. He had expected pitch-dark, but there were lights here, gleaming globes the size of a man which were tethered throughout the weed, illuminating its tangled, claustrophobic snarl of waving green.
Stenwold touched the seafloor, kicked off without meaning to, his arms waving helplessly. He saw Gribbern, the mace like an anchor drawing him down to the mud, his coat spilling out around him.
