‘My lord?’
‘Can you, man?’
‘Er… no…’
‘Of course you can’t! But can you see where the light isn’t?’
The captain stared at him and then looked up again in terrified obedience. And there was somewhere where the light wasn’t. As the fizzing green tongues waved in the wind they seemed to be edged with… blackness, perhaps, or a moving hole in space.
‘That’s octarine!’ shouted Ahmed, as another wave sloshed over the deck. ‘Only wizards can see it! There’s magic in these storms! That’s why the weather is so bad!’
The ship screamed in every joint as it hit the waves again.
‘We’re coming right out of the water!’ wept Jenkins. ‘We’re just going from crest to crest!’
‘Good! It won’t be so bumpy!’ shouted Vimes. ‘We should pick up speed again now we’ve got those bedsteads over the side! Does it often rain bedsteads out here?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I’m not a nautical man!’
‘No, rains of bedsteads are not an everyday occurrence! Nor are coal scuttles!’ Jenkins added, as something black crashed off a rail and over the side. ‘We just get the normal stuff, you know! Rain! Snow! Sleet! Fish!’
Another squall blew across the bounding boat and the deck was suddenly covered with flashing silver.
‘Back to fish!’ shouted Vimes. ‘That’s better, surely?’
‘No! It’s worse!’
‘Why!’
Jenkins held up a tin.
‘These are sardines!’
The ship thumped into another wave, groaned, and took flight again.
The cold green fire was everywhere. Every nail of the deck sprouted its flame, every rope and ladder had its green outline.
And the feeling crept over Vimes that it was holding the ship together. He wasn’t at all sure that it was just light. It moved too purposefully. It crackled, but it didn’t sting. It looked as though it was having fun—
The ship landed. Water washed over Vimes.
‘Captain Jenkins!’
‘Yes?’
‘Why’re we playing with this wheel? It’s not as if the rudder’s in the water!’
They let go. The spokes blurred for a moment, and then stopped as the fire wrapped itself around them.
Then it rained cake.
The Watch had tried to make themselves comfortable in the hold, but there were difficulties. There wasn’t any area of floor which at some point in every ten seconds wasn’t an area of wall.
Nevertheless, someone was snoring.
‘How can anyone sleep in this?’ said Reg Shoe.
‘Captain Carrot can,’ said Cheery. She was hacking at something with her axe.
Carrot had wedged himself into a corner. Occasionally he mumbled something, and shifted position.
‘Like a baby. Beats me how he’s managing it,’ said Reg Shoe. ‘Of course, any minute this thing is going to fall apart.’
‘Yes, but dat shouldn’t worry you, should it?’ said Detritus. ‘On account of you bein’ dead already?’
‘So? I end up at the bottom of the sea knee-deep in whale droppings? And it’ll be a long walk home in the dark. Not to mention the problems if a shark tries to eat me.’
‘I shall fear not. According to the Testament of Mezerek, the fisherman Nonpo spent four days in the belly of a giant fish,’{70} said Constable Visit.
The thunder seemed particularly loud in the silence.
‘Washpot, are we talking miracles here?’ said Reg eventually. ‘Or just a very slow digestive process?’
‘You would be better employed considering the state of your immortal soul than making jokes,’ said Constable Visit severely.
‘It’s the state of my immortal body that’s worrying me,’ said Reg.
‘I have a leaflet here which will bring you considerable—’ Visit began.
‘Washpot, is it big enough to be folded into a boat that’ll save us all?’
Constable Visit pounced on the opening. ‘Aha, yes, metaphorically it is—’
‘Hasn’t this ship got a lifeboat?’ said Cheery hurriedly. ‘I’m sure I saw one when we came on.’
‘Yeah… lifeboat,’ said Detritus.
‘Anyone want a sardine?’ said Cheery. ‘I’ve managed to get a tin open.’
‘Lifeboat,’ Detritus repeated. He sounded like someone exploring an unpleasant truth. ‘Like… a big, heavy thing which would’ve slowed us down…?’
‘Yes, I saw it, I know I did,’ said Reg.
‘Yeah… dere was one,’ said Detritus. ‘Dat was a lifeboat, was it?’
‘At the very least we ought to get somewhere sheltered and drop the anchor.’
‘Yeah… anchor…’ mused Detritus. ‘Dat’s a big thing kinda hooks on, right?’
‘Of course.’
‘Kinda heavy thing?’
‘Obviously!’
‘Right. An’… er… if it was dropped a long time ago, on accounta bein’ heavy, dat wouldn’t do us much good now?’
‘Hardly.’ Reg Shoe glared through the hatchway. The sky was a dirty yellow blanket, criss-crossed with fire. Thunder boomed continuously.
‘I wonder how far the barometer’s sunk?’ he said.
‘All der way,’ said Detritus gloomily. ‘Trust me on dis.’
It was in the nature of a D’reg to open doors carefully. There was generally an enemy on the other side. Sooner or later.
He saw the collar lying on the floor, right by a little fountain of water trickling from the hull, and swore under his breath.
Ahmed waited just a moment, and then pushed the door back quietly. It rattled against the wall.
‘I don’t intend to harm you,’ he said to the gloom of the bilges. ‘If that was my intention, by now you’d—’
She wished she’d used the wolf. There would have been no problem with the wolf. That was the problem. She’d easily win, but then she’d be nervy and frightened. A human could stay on top of that. A wolf might not. She’d do the wrong things, panicky things, animal things.
She pushed him hard as she dropped down from above the door, somersaulted backwards, slammed the door and turned the key.
The sword came through the planking like a hot knife through runny lard.
There was a gasp beside her. She spun round and saw two men holding a net. They would have thrown it over the wolf. What they hadn’t been expecting was a naked woman. The sudden appearance of a naked woman always caused a rethink of anyone’s immediate plans.
She kicked them both hard and ran in the opposite direction, opened the first door at random and slammed it behind her.
It was the cabin with the dogs in it. They sprang to their feet, opened their mouths — and slunk down again. A werewolf can have considerable power over other animals, whatever shape she’s in, although it is largely the power to make them cringe and try to look inedible.
She hurried past them and pulled at one of the hangings over the bunk.
The man in the bunk opened his eyes. He was a Klatchian, but pale with weakness and pain. There were dark rings under his eyes.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘it would appear that I have died and gone to Paradise. Are you a houri?’
‘I don’t have to take that kind of language, thank you,’ said Angua, ripping the silk in two with a practised hand.
She was aware that she had a slight advantage over male werewolves in that naked women caused fewer complaints, although the downside was that they got some pressing invitations. Some kind of covering was essential, for modesty and the prevention of inconvenient bouncing, which was why fashioning impromptu clothes out of anything to hand was a lesser-known werewolf skill.