As the shantymen – and women – worked their way down some national characteristics I’d never have suspected, the crippled Defiance was drawn in alongside the wharf. I bent my back with the rest, but once the fenders boomed against the side, the ropes were made fast and the gangplanks crashed into place, that was the end of my usefulness. The flurry of activity redoubled; everyone was either shouting orders or obeying them, or both. Nobody actually told me to get lost; but somehow I couldn’t seem to find a spot of the deck where somebody didn’t have a really good urgent reason for apologetically but firmly elbowing me out of the way.
I couldn’t resent it, either. I knew I was lucky the crew were still so intent on the chase, after the bloody rebuff we’d suffered – whether it was revenge, or general hatred for Wolves, or the money I’d offered that drove them. It occurred to me then that these half-immortals must have a strange attitude to money. They could never be sure they had enough. They’d know it was almost inevitable they’d run out of it, sooner or later – and equally, that there was no point in lingering too long in one place to earn a lot, because that would shorten their lives, drag them back towards the Core or whatever they called it. No wonder they were so keen on trade! And so eager to earn large amounts quickly, even in ways as dangerous as this.
But I hadn’t any of those drives. There was nothing I could do, and I was stiff, sticky, dirty and depressed. If I wanted some privacy and peace of mind I’d either to retreat to what was left of my cabin, or escape down the gangplank to the wharfside. I chose the latter, but my foot had no sooner touched terra firma than the mate and a party of seamen came clattering after me, barged me – very apologetically – aside, scrambled up on a long flatbed wagon drawn by a team of four immense horses, and trundled off into the shadows of the wharfside buildings. These were nothing like the grim walls of stone and brick I’d left behind. Just as decrepit, though – clapboard mostly, painted in what the lanterns told me were faded pastel colours, plastered with illegible shreds of posters. The windows were mostly boarded or broken, and grass grew around their stone steps. I was just about to sit down on one when a party of sailors came struggling ashore with huge sausages of canvas, evidently what sails had been salvaged, and began to spread them out across the cobbles, right to the foot of my step. Where they elbowed me – very apologetically, of course – aside. Never mind peace of mind; I wasn’t even getting to rest the other end.
Leaving the sailmakers to whistle and swear over the shot-damage, I wandered away down the wharf and peered around the first corner I came to. It was a street, like any other dockside street I’d seen, but less well lit. God alone knew what the two lamps visible were burning; it wasn’t gas or electricity – with that dim little flame it could be anything from colza oil to blubber. It told me nothing at all about where we were, or what kind of town it was; I was wondering if I dared look a little further when I noticed the figure standing hunched and abject under one of the lamps. Indistinct in the warm hazy air, and yet oddly familiar; somebody I’d seen before, somebody I recognized by their stance alone – and there couldn’t be many of those.
I took a step forward. It gave a great start, as if it had seen me, and ran a few steps out into the road, towards me. Then it hesitated, half turned as if called away, and stood irresolute in the middle of the dim road. I hesitated too, not sure who or what I was seeing; but I was still within earshot of the dock. One good shout would bring folk running; and the bare sword that tapped my calf at every step was a strange primitive comfort. Also, as I came nearer I could see that whoever it was wasn’t very big; not a Wolf. A woman, more likely, from the flowing outline of the clothes; and the impression of familiarity was getting very strong. Maybe I was just following some dockside tart – though after Katjka I’d be slow to take even one of them for granted. This one was shorter than her, though; more of a height with …
With Clare? I shook off the thought. A couple of steps more and I’d see more clearly – but then the figure gave another great start. It looked wildly down a narrow side-street to the right, then threw up its hands and waved me frantically back. I stopped, clutched at my sword and saw the figure whip this way and that like an animal caged within high walls. Then it whirled as if despairing and bolted towards the mouth of the side street. I called out. It glanced around, caught its foot on the curb and sprawled headlong – not exactly suspicious or threatening. I ran towards it as it picked itself painfully up, and for an instant I caught a glimpse of swinging hair, long hair. I couldn’t see the colour – but it was the length of Clare’s, at least. But with another panicky gesture whoever it was limped off into the shadowy street, and as I reached the corner I heard hobbling steps slapping away along the pavement.
Not being a total idiot, I didn’t rush in after it. Carefully I drew my sword, and stopped to let my eyes adjust. They did, and there was nobody lurking, nowhere for them to lurk against high concrete walls featureless as a jail. The road was uneven, puddled with glinting water, the long pavements were clear of everything except garbage – quite a lot of that – and those painful steps went on, with just a hint of gasping breath. I ran, leaping the puddles, skirting the softly-blowing shreds of paper and plastic, and in the gleam of a brighter lamp at streets’ end I glimpsed the figure again – slim, slight, limping desperately along with arms akimbo and hair flying. Not Clare; she was less delicate, more solidly built. But still that unnerving hint of the familiar, infuriating me, undermining all my cautious instincts with the desperate need to see. Where was the sun? We’d been all night on the river; surely it must be rising soon?
Left around corners limped my shadow-hare, left, left and right again. I darted after it, swinging round the lamp-posts like a child for speed. Then a new street opened onto a sudden brightness I found blinding; all I could make out at first were the rows of white lights that seemed to hang unsupported like stars in the hazy air, and among them, above a mass of glittering reflections, tall shafts of shimmering movement. My dazzled eyes rebelled at those dancing, glassy columns; the sound alone told me it was a fountain. Beyond it, beneath a shadowy row of arches, its reflections danced – and across them that shadow flickered, slipping from arch to arch. It was some kind of piazza, lined with shop windows dark and empty now; what shops I didn’t stay to see. My running footfalls rang echoes from the roof. We were in a city square, the hare and I, brightly lit by the white globes gleaming down from elegant wrought-iron lamp-holders on the high stone walls, from ornately fluted standards ringing the railings of the garden at its heart. And down its pathways, clipped and civic, the dark figure glided, beneath the hooves of a rearing statue and beyond, towards a white wall that towered over the far side of the square, higher than all the rest. Three sharp towers loomed out of the night, the middle one tallest – no, those were crosses on top. Three spires. It was some kind of church, or cathedral more likely; but odd, outlandish with its stacked columns and narrow-arched windows, and in the midst of them all a clock. Like places I’d seen in Spain or Italy, the kind they called romanesque – and come to think of it, the rest of the square had the same sort of look. We might have been somewhere in Spain – only not quite. So where the hell was I? Correction – plain where. They wouldn’t have cathedrals in hell.
Flagpoles stood stark and empty. Signs were too far for me to read without turning aside. And there in the gloom by the great barred door lurked my quarry, hesitant, fleeting, poised as if to dart inside – why? To seek sanctuary – from me?