8
Gulliver Fank, proprietor and pot boss of the Canny Crab in
“You have no tables?” the cutthroat asked again. “None at all? Looks quiet enough inside.”
Fank stood and fidgeted in the doorway of his shop. A rangy old man with a loose neck and spotted hands, he worried a wooden ladle with a cloth while he spoke. “Alas, no,” he said. “Fully reserved this morning, sirs. It’s the fog, I suppose.”
Caulker raised an eyebrow. “The fog?”
Fank shrugged. He seemed determined to avoid looking at John Anchor, or at the massive rope which struck skywards from the big man’s harness. “The fog always brings more customers. You know how it is…the sailors don’t sail, civilian airships stay grounded. Everyone’s stuck in town, so our business picks up.”
“Well they ain’t stuck in your place,” Caulker persisted, peering over the other man’s shoulder at the empty tables and chairs. He was enjoying this. That bastard Fank had thrown him out on his arse on more than one occasion and banned him the last time. All for pilfering a copper double tip from one of his tables. “We could take a seat and move if anybody turns up,” he said amiably.
Fank failed to suppress a wince. “I really am most terribly sorry, sirs. It is simply not possible.”
Anchor stood behind the cutthroat with his huge arms folded across his harness and a wide grin on his face. His eyes gleamed with mischief. “Always this same problem for me,” he boomed. “Never can find a table in good broth shops. It is my colour, yes? You don’t like the dark skin?”
“Gods, no,” Fank said quickly. “It’s not that at all.” He rubbed briskly at his ladle, still avoiding the other man’s eye. “We have a…uh, policy regarding patrons bringing rope inside the shop.”
“Ah!” Anchor cried.
“Rope?” Caulker asked. “Since when did you have a policy about rope?”
“Since this morning,” Fank admitted.
The giant smacked his hands together. “No matter,” he said. “Bring a table outside. We will sit in the lane. Two bowls of chowder, hot beans and bread, crab salad, cold fishbeers.”
Fank glanced up into the heavens, then seemed to shrink. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Chowder, beans, bread, and…yes, of course.”
Once the cutthroat and his guest had installed themselves at the hastily positioned table and had taken their first sips of fishbeer, Anchor said, “Now, my friend. You are telling me the scarred angel did not ever arrive in this town?”
“People would have noticed,” Caulker said evenly. “Not much goes on in Sandport without the whole town finding out about it. When any decent-looking woman turns up, they post a notice on the board outside the Mudlark. And you’re talking about an angel here, a witch who drinks the blood of innocents at darkmoon. Trust me, tongues would wag.
“But she can’t be far away. The Spine caught Carnival’s two friends in Olirind Meer’s Tavern not long ago, the same pair who originally left Deepgate with her. A temple warship destroyed half the building with a gas bomb to get to them.”
“These friends…Where are they now?”
“The Spine took them back to Deepgate for tempering. They’ll be locked in a temple torture cell by now.”
“Deepgate?” Anchor beamed. “I had planned to make visit there also. There is a small thing I must do there for Cospinol. We go to the chained city and speak to Carnival’s two friends. Maybe they know where she is hiding.”
Caulker hesitated. He didn’t want to march into Deepgate if he could help it, not with all those poison fires burning out of control and the Spine rounding everybody up for tempering-not to mention all those ghosts which had taken to haunting the place at night. It would be better if he could kill Anchor somewhere in the Deadsands. There were many dangers in that desolate wasteland, places where an unwary traveler might find himself in serious trouble. One such location sprang to mind.
“It might already be too late to speak to her friends,” he said truthfully. “We don’t know what the Spine have done to them. I reckon Carnival is holed up in the Deadsands somewhere, out of sight but still near to her prey.” More likely the angel had flown hundreds of leagues away by now, but he wasn’t going to suggest this to Anchor, not when the big man had on him a pouch of soul-infused jewels.
“The Deadsands? This is the desert between here and Deepgate?”
Caulker nodded.
“Good. We walk to Deepgate through the desert, all the time looking for Carnival. Killing two boars with one stone, yes?”
“Birds,” Caulker corrected. “Two
Anchor gave him a puzzled look. “Not in the RiotCoast. Tell me, Jack, you know these Deadsands well?”
“As well as any other man.” This at least was true: Jack Caulker had spent enough time robbing merchants in his youth to know all the old bandit trails and boltholes well enough. He wasn’t overly fond of the sand itself, but could find his way between the occasional water springs if need be. “Why are you hunting her, anyway?” He glanced up into the fog and then lowered his voice. “What does your god want with
The big man beamed. “No need to whisper, friend. Cospinol hears everything I hear. But he never listens, so it is no problem. My master wants this angel because she drank his brother, Ulcis.”
Caulker sputtered into his beer. “
“Yes, drank. Like a cheese.”
The cutthroat frowned. He was about to ask Anchor to expound, but then thought better of it.
The other man gave a roar of laugher, then slammed his tankard down on the table. “She slaughtered half his army, then drank him. What a feat! No wonder Cospinol seeks her. Her blood contains many souls.”
The massive rope on Anchor’s back thrummed. The giant paused, his ear cocked towards the sound, and then leaned close to Caulker and whispered, “He says I speak too much.”
“He’s listening to us now?”
“Yes, you want to ask him a question? He will answer one question for you. Cospinol knows many things: the tides, the stars, why the moon circles the earth. He understands the hearts of men and why his mother, the goddess Ayen, closed the gates of Heaven. And he knows what the Mesmerists are planning. Sometimes he even knows things that have not yet even happened, but mostly he’s wrong about those.”
“Um…” Caulker blinked. What question to ask of a god? He might not get a chance like this ever again. “Well…” he said, thinking hard. “Well, I suppose…” He rattled his fingers on the table. “All right, then, how and when will I die?”
The rope trembled again. Caulker thought he heard distant shrieks and manic laughter from high up in the fog; he sank deeper into his chair. The question had been the first thing to come into his mind, but now he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know the answer.
Anchor listened for a moment, then laughed heartily. “Cospinol doesn’t know the answer to this. Now he’s angry. He says you asked the wrong question.”
Caulker felt somewhat relieved. “Can I ask him something else?”
“No.” The big man bent forward again. “Listen, friend Jack. You want to live a long time, yes?” He waited until the other man acknowledged him. “Good. I understand such a desire. Me, I have lived longer than any man on this world-longer even than this scarred angel I hunt. It is my reward for collecting souls for Cospinol-” He jerked a thumb upwards. “But these days there are so many bad men. The world is rotten like an orange. Most up there are blackhearts, scoundrels, and thieves. Wicked wicked souls.” He shook his head, and his tone became serious. “Cospinol knows I won’t eat bad souls, so he feeds me only the good ones. Gives me more strength to pull his ship, you understand?”
