Figgis looked solemn, his face a child’s play-act of seriousness. “I promise.”
“Okay.” Marius grasped the glove’s fingers and pulled, sliding it off in one swift movement. He held his hand before Figgis’ face. “You see?”
“It’s a hand.”
“Yes. And?”
Figgis looked at it, then back at the shadow of Marius’ hood. “It’s a hand.”
Marius looked at his hand. The boy was right. It was just a hand. His hand. Browned by the sun, the fingernails slightly ragged from too much time without attention, a maze of tiny scars and flaws from twenty years of living amongst the lower ends of society. His hand. He stared at it, and Figgis stared at him, a look of increasing worry on his young face.
“Are you all right?”
Slowly, Marius reached up and pulled back his hood. “What do you see?”
Figgis shrugged. “I don’t know. You? Listen,” he shifted impatiently. “What’s any of this got to do with me taking you below decks?”
“I…” Marius thought furiously, “I… do you know what fear of spaces is?”
“What? Like, being outside and all?”
“Yes, exactly.” Marius nodded. “I… I have it.”
“But I seen you walking along the wharf, and about topside with Mister Spone and all.”
“It’s… it’s difficult.” Marius lowered his eyes, as if staring at the floor, taking care to make sure his hand stayed within his line of vision. If he only had a glass, or something in which to see his reflection. “I can do it, but it… exhausts me. I… if I could spend some time, in that room, away from the outside…” He flicked his hand towards the open window. “I feel it, all the time, all around me…” He peeked up at Figgis. “Even if I could spend just a short time in this hidden store, away from people, away from…” he shuddered, “The sky. It would help me.
His eyes slid to the empty bowl at Figgis’ feet. The cabin boy followed his gaze, and coloured .
“Between third and fourth watch,” he said, scrambling to his feet and gathering up the bowl. “But only for a few minutes, mind?”
“You have my word.”
“And Mister Spone and the captain never hear of it?”
“Never.”
“And if you’re caught…”
“On my own head be it.”
“Okay, then.” He opened the door, and half slid out. “Shouldn’t we… have some sort of secret knock or something?”
“Don’t worry,” Marius smiled. “I’ll know it’s you.”
“Okay.” Figgis left without another word. Marius lay back on his makeshift nest and stared out at the sliver of sky visible through the window. After all, he thought, who else would come and visit? He held his hand up. As he watched, the skin dried out, grew pale, then grey. His nails darkened. Cracks appeared in their surface. Small flakes dropped from his skin, and the fingers withered until they were little more than desiccated claws. He stifled a cry of alarm, and scrambled in his lap for the discarded glove, pulling it back on with a shaking hand. He curled into a foetal ball, and slowly reached up to pull the hood down over his face.
Slowly, night suffused the cabin. Marius stifled a moan of despair as his eyesight adjusted to the darkness, picking out details in the room he knew he would be unable to see with living eyes. He heard bells sound to end the evening watch, and shortly thereafter, the muted barrage of feet thundering through the ship as weary sailors headed below to their hammocks for a few hours rest, and their replacements headed upwards to take up their stations. After that there was silence, other than the creaks and groans of a ship under sail, and the occasional sharp call as an order was relayed from mate to crew. A single toll of the bell marked off each hour. Then, just as midnight sounded, Marius heard a scratching outside his door. He sat up, suddenly alert. Three quick knocks rapped against his door, then a pause, and two more. He smiled. The never-changing nature of the boy child – a secret escapade must have a secret knock. Marius would almost lay money on being gifted a secret password by the end of tonight’s jaunt. He opened the door a crack.
“What’s the password?”
Figgis stood outside, a look of fear suddenly filling his features.
“You didn’t give me one,” he began. “Do you think we need–”
“I was just kidding.” Marius stepped outside and crouched on the narrow walkway. “Are you ready?”
Figgis nodded. “The captain’s sleeping at his desk, and Mister Spone’s in his bunk. As soon as…” He stopped as running footsteps sounded across the top deck, and crouched down next to Marius, eyes wide.
“Don’t worry,” Marius whispered. “It’s just the changing of the watch. Give it a minute.”
They waited in silence until the footsteps died away, and normal sounds returned. Marius laid a hand on Figgis’ shoulder. The cabin boy was shivering, whether from the cold or fear, Marius could not be certain. “Go on,” he whispered.
“Mister Hongg is master of the watch,” he said. “He likes to catch a wink in the lee of the mizzenmast. It looks like he’s standing watching the crew…”
“Not likely to see us if we use the near stairs, then?”
Figgis shook his head. “As long as we’re quick, and quiet.”
“Oh, I’m good at quick and quiet,” Marius said, then bit off the rest of his comment. Figgis lived amongst sailors, true, but there was no need to expose him to more bedroom wit than was absolutely necessary. “Let’s go, shall we?” he said instead, and ushered the young boy ahead of him.
The space between decks is a gloomy place at the best of times: packed tight with sweating bodies; badly lit; piled high with supplies necessary to survive a long voyage. Whilst the top deck may be polished smooth and presentable to visiting investors and dignitaries, no such effort is wasted on the lower areas. The wood is rough, the angles tight, and what little room is left for movement is cramped, fetid, and jealously guarded by anyone who manages to carve out a tiny allocation of personal space. As mindful as he was of the desire to hurry, Marius forced himself to step carefully through the maze of cargo. Far worse than missing out on the captain’s treasure room would be the consequence of discovery should he upset some precariously balanced box of victuals and ruin the contents by crashing them onto the floor. He tested each creaking step before he committed his full weight to it, slowly slinking down until he and his companion crouched beneath the steps.
“Which way, Master Figgis?”
The young cabin boy pointed deeper into the bowels of the ship. “At the end of the corridor, sir. The mate’s cabin is just down there, and the powder room, then the locked room before the rear food store.”
Marius nodded, memorizing the layout as Figgis spoke. It was all fairly typical of a Scorban trader, a layout refined through several centuries of sea-borne trading. The mystery room would normally be reserved for assorted junk that fit nowhere else – spare weaponry, maps of regions not visited upon the particular voyage, whatever items of trade the captain wished to keep for his own personal collections. It was tiny, perhaps three feet in either direction, the perfect sized for a moderate haul of purloined gold, or valuables not originally belonging to the ship’s owner. A ship is the same as a man, in certain ways. Never steal anything the ship cannot swallow. Marius nodded, and indicated the darkness before them.
“Lead on.”
Figgis took an uncertain step forward. Marius followed, observing the space around them as they crept. The
Mister Spone lay with his back to the world, his massive frame balanced precariously on the slim wooden
