Behind it, glinting dully in the wavering light, was a corner of King’s stateroom, a structure made entirely of gold. Marius remembered it passing in the afternoon sun, rearing from the poop deck like a bullion bar of the Gods. Now he stared at the bulky shadow, his hand raised to his mouth. It was impossible to believe. A fortune in gold, literally a king’s fortune, and all he had to do was climb down to it. Marius’ lips pursed, and his fingers gained fresh splinters as they tightened upon the wood. Climb down to it, all right, and then what? Naked, a dozen feet underwater, and without a single tool or friend to help. Well, he thought, maybe if I lick hard enough I can carry some on my tongue.
But he had to know. He had to at least touch it. Carefully, testing every step before he took it, he tiptoed over the edge of the hull and onto the nearest spar. It creaked ominously, and trembled as it adjusted to his weight. Marius froze, then, with nobody to be embarrassed in front of, turned his belly to the wood and inched his way down it like a child too scared to slide down a banister the proper way. He reached a cross beam and took a moment to rest. When he was sure it wouldn’t break and send him tumbling down into the dark below, he crept across it, resisting the urge to lunge at the next spar and hang for dear life. Slowly, footstep by quavering footstep, he made his way towards the stateroom, until he could reach out one trembling hand, and let himself fall onto the ice-cold metal of its port wall. He lay against it for several minutes, eyes closed, feeling the smoothness beneath his cheek. A bed made of gold. Not since his nights of pretending to be the Emir’s eunuch had he slept in a bed of gold, and this time, nobody was waiting to stick anything up his rectum should he try to carry any of it away. He ran a hand across it, fingers cupping the corner. A frown crossed his face. He ran his fingers back round the corner, then forward again, then opened his eyes and focused on the path the fingers had cleared in the ever-present algae.
Tacks. A line of tiny tacks, running along a seam just the other side of the corner. Marius focused, peered closer. He could just make out a seam. He picked at it with one finger, slowly worming his finger under until a flap opened up. He pulled harder, and the sheet peeled away, revealing the wooden upright to which it had been attached. Marius snorted. Tin plate! Tin plate, with the slimmest covering of gold foil, pinned to wood like any other structure. That cheap, lying, faking nutcase. Marius lay back against the wall, shoulders slumped. All that effort. The eight year-old within him shrugged as if to say “Adults. What did you expect?” and went back to playing in his room. Marius stared at the broken corner, and contemplated the journey to the ocean floor.
After a while, though, he shook himself out of his malaise. He was still on the Nancy Tulip. He was still at the door of the stateroom. Gods, even if there were no walls of gold to be found, it was still the ship of Nandus. And, he reminded himself, Nandus was a king, even if he was mad as a ferret in a bucket of honey. The thought that had been clamouring to speak since he had seen the name etched onto the stern raised its hand for attention, and this time, Marius let it talk.
If he hadn’t hatched some scheme about using the lifeboats to open a second front and left the ship before it sank; if he hadn’t thrown himself over the side when the sea swamped the deck; if he hadn’t been in the prow, on deck, anywhere else on top; then Nandus, mad as he was, but oh, most definitely a king, might be lying in whatever shape the sea had left him, on the other side of the wall. Marius stared at the open flap of metal, and began to laugh.
The dead had demanded a king. Nobody had said he had to be animate.
Marius slid over to the spar supporting the front of the structure. He made sure of his footing, dug his fingers under the flap of tin, and began to pull.
Marius ducked his head through the hole and peered into the black water. The water was stiller inside the stateroom than out, felt somehow thicker and more fetid against his skin. Slowly, he slipped inside, turning so he hung onto the edge of the framework with his fingers while his feet scrabbled for purchase. Something flapped at the limits of his vision and he stiffened, images of giant killer octopuses filling his imagination. Then he focused, and saw the tattered remnant of some type of tapestry, stirred by his kicking. Marius frowned. Surely, thirty years below water would destroy any fabric that had once hung on the walls. Which meant that the tapestry below must be made of some other material. Metal, perhaps. Marius had seen shirts woven from thin strands of gold and silver, soft as silk and worn by the richest, most stylish nobles in Scorby. He’d almost won one, once, in a game of Kingdom, but had been foiled by a messenger arriving with news of a royal coup, just as he was laying down a hand filled with a now-dead royal family. He blinked, remembering how much the shirt had been worth. The tapestry must be eight feet high, he decided, perhaps three or four feet wide. He could wrap it around himself like a toga, wear it rather than carry it. A tapestry that size, even if it were only made of silver threads… Marius was good at math. All con men are. But the equation had too many zeroes to keep track of. Suddenly, twelve feet below the surface seemed a lot warmer. Marius watched the bottom edge of the tapestry float into sight, then back again, counting the number of seconds in each ebb and flow. As soon as he was sure of the rhythm he held his breath, counted to the right number, aimed for the correct spot, and let go the beam.
And missed.
The trailing edge of the tapestry waved to him as he sank past, flailing in despair at the three inches of space between his fingertips and the fabric. The deck of the Nancy Tulip was thirty feet wide, and there was only a foot or so between each outer wall and the outer railing. Marius had launched himself at an angle, and his despairing movement caused him to tumble as he fell. He didn’t see the wall that jutted out from the rear of the building, only felt the solid edge as he crashed against it. Something snapped, and Marius had time to hope it was the wood and not his hip as he spun away and collided, back first, with the lower wall.
He slid down until he lay in the crook of wall and floor, staring up at the gloom through which he had fallen. Slowly, details began to emerge – from this angle he was able to make more sense of the interior architecture than he had when hanging from the other wall. To his right, a massive sliding door hung loosely upon its frame, its control wheel clearly visible. A bas relief was carved into its inner surface. Marius squinted, trying to make out details through the carpet of barnacles and plant life. A series of human figures. A procession of women, bearing whips and carrying saddles. Marius turned his attention to the rear wall. There were some aspects of kingly life that were better hidden, he decided. That was one side of Nandus he could live without understanding. He found the wall against which he had crashed, and smiled in relief as he saw where a chunk towards the end had been removed by his fall. The wall protruded several feet into the room, and now that he was looking, Marius could see another one maybe four feet above it, and another above that. Huge, triangular hinges hung downwards from the front edge, and the remains of what appeared to be a gate hung from lowest wall. Marius tilted his head to take in the view from the right angle. The gate reached about halfway up the wall. In fact, if he pictured it closed, and another one over the space above, he could easily see the spaces as some sort of cubicle, like the brothels of Hayst, or… Marius blinked in astonishment. Stables. They were stables. This entire stateroom, with tapestries of immeasurable wealth hanging from gold-plated walls, and floors, he realized as he attempted to stand, of the same slippery substance, turned over to horses. Well, one horse, he supposed. Littleboots, favoured friend of the King and the only four-legged member of the imaginary Scorban senate. In a way, Marius was relieved, particularly when he considered the whip-wielding women on the interior of the doors. But if this was the horse’s realm, one question remained. Unless he slept in the stables along with his horse, where were the King’s quarters?