Captain Lochery himself was on deck as they approached the ship. He positively grinned with delight when he saw Shadrach and bounded down the gangplank to meet them.
‘Master Shadrach!’ he cried, grasping Shadrach’s hand in both of his and pumping it firmly. For Shadrach, who was used to handshakes with all the vigour of a cucumber sandwich left out in the rain, this was a surprise, and all he could manage were a couple of ‘Oh!’s and ‘Ah!’s in response.
Lochery, who outmatched his vaguely Scottish name with an accent that would have made Robert Burns sound English by comparison, was introduced to Shadrach’s companions and was polite and friendly with them all. When he reached Cabal, however, his mood faltered. He took in Cabal’s clothing, and said, ‘You’ll be a strong-minded one, that’s plain enough. This place will be a trial to you, no doubt.’
Cabal remembered the witch’s reference to a trial, but decided that he was not so foolish as to see meaning where there was only coincidence. ‘It has been noted before now, yes. Thank you.’
Lochery shook his head. ‘No, son, you don’t understand. The Dreamlands were built by dreamers, and dreamers are what they expect. Like a body fights an infection, this world will fight you.’
Cabal’s lips thinned. ‘Then I shall fight back.’
Lochery laughed, a fatalistic laugh of the sort reserved for gladiators, soldiers on suicide missions, and explorers leaving tents who ‘may be some time’. ‘I like your pluck, Master Cabal, but this is a world you’re talking about. You can fight it, but you will lose.’
Cabal looked around him. ‘I have no sense of the Dreamlands going to war with me, Captain. Do you? No black clouds, water spouts or monsters come to destroy me. I feel no more threatened than I might on Brighton beach.’ He spat into the water for punctuation. ‘Heaven forfend.’
‘Oh, it won’t be anything like that,’ said Lochery. ‘But I’ve seen men like yourself come here, and one of two things always happens.’ He leaned closer and spoke in a hushed tone. ‘The Dreamlands either destroy ’em, or absorb ’em. I’d buck up your ideas and try to fit in if you don’t want the ’Lands to do it for you. For an example, I went to sleep in the wrong opium den. Well, wrong in one sense. I don’t know what they’d mixed their stuff with but it brought me here. I guess it killed me too. My old body, that is. No goin’ back for old Cap’n Lochery. But, as you see, I fitted in. You should try to do the same, sir, or things won’t go so well for you.’ Seeing Cabal’s expression he raised his hands in conciliation. ‘Not a threat, son. Just a friendly warning.’
‘Do you always hand out metaphysical advice to your passengers?’ asked Cabal, growing a little heated.
‘Only those that looks as if they need it,’ said Lochery, with infuriating good humour. ‘And, for the truth, you’re not passengers yet. No negotiations have been made, no bargain has been struck.’
Shadrach held up a handful of gold from his purse and said, ‘Passage for we four to Oriab Island, Captain Lochery.’
Lochery’s grin widened. ‘And now they have, and now it has.’ He stepped to one side and bowed them to the gangplank. ‘Step lively, gentlemen. The tide turns soon, and then we’ll be away to Baharna, capital city and – ’tis no secret – the only city on Oriab Island. The only one standing, at least.’
It was their second experience of nautical travel on the expedition so far, but taking passage upon a form of ship that had been obsolete for the best part of six centuries was a very different matter from eight days aboard a modern steam liner. In the first instance, the Edge of Dusk was small, barely fifty tons, and lacked the comforts that Messrs Shadrach and Bose, in particular, had enjoyed so much while crossing the Atlantic. To be precise, the Edge of Dusk lacked any and all comforts, including privacy. The vessel’s single toilet was a cubbyhole in the rear quarterdeck with a piece of cloth held across the entrance by two nails. Inside was a bench with a hole and the ocean ten feet below. This, Captain Lochery proudly believed, was the very cutting edge of hygiene technology. Indeed, in high seas, it doubled as a bidet. This intelligence Shadrach and Bose received in a pallid silence, while Corde laughed, and Cabal looked at the horizon in the direction of Oriab Island.
They would be expected to sleep in hammocks along with the crew – as captain, Lochery had a small closet aft that he called his ‘cabin’ – and during the day were expected to stay at the rail and therefore out of the way as much as possible. Shadrach had suggested that, since they were paying passengers, seats upon the quarterdeck might not be unreasonable, but had quickly learned that, to a sailor, this was deeply unreasonable. Instead they had grudgingly been given permission to sit on barrels on the foredeck with the proviso that they get out of the way immediately if ordered by any member of the crew. Going from ordering stewards around to being ordered around by any passing sailor was a great humiliation for Shadrach in particular, and he spent much of the first two days of the trip standing by the bowsprit, stony-faced and uncommunicative, to the extent that the crew started calling him ‘the spare figurehead’ behind his back.
The time between standing at the bowsprit he passed much as the others did; swinging unhappily in a hammock, putting off visits to the frightful cubbyhole as long as possible, and being gloriously and violently sick on a regular basis. During the Atlantic passage, they had all suffered some sea-sickness for the first day or so, but had quickly overcome it and had mistakenly come to the conclusion that this was all the time necessary to find one’s sea-legs. Compared to the steam liner, however, the Edge of Dusk was like spending every hour of every day being blindfolded and lobbed at short, random intervals on to a trampoline. The horizon wantonly flung itself around at peculiar angles and the contents of their stomachs followed it faithfully, even while their inner ears told them that everything else was lying, and ‘downwards’ was actually this way. The crew found the sight of their passengers leaning over the rails hugely amusing in the absence of any other form of entertainment, although they quickly got a sense that it was unwise to laugh at Cabal. He never seemed particularly stricken, barking up his breakfast in a perfunctory way as if he had planned to do so all along, then strolling over to the water-butt and taking a mouthful from the scoop to rinse his mouth before spitting it out over the rail to follow his bacon and biscuit. None of the crew had ever seen a man vomit in a dignified manner, and it worried them in an disquietingly undefined fashion.
There was some commotion on the third day when the lookout sighted a sea serpent about a league off the port bow. Cabal barely felt it necessary to use his telescope to examine it; the creature was vast, a mile long and thicker than the Edge of Dusk was tall. They watched it swim by in a series of undulating humps that barely disturbed the waters, the sun glistening off the slick grey scales, unaware or uncaring of the tiny ship that sailed so near.