The square outline of Dawson gave a grunt that could have been yes.
‘There was a fire. A big fire.’
‘And you were at your wits’ end, trapped like a rat, and opened a door. Was that it?’
‘Pretty much. You?’
Simeon laughed. ‘Oh, nothing so dramatic. My gambling debts had caught up with me, I’m afraid, and I was hiding in a broom cupboard under the stairs. The, shall we call them gentlemen, I owed money to◦– several hundred pounds at the time◦– were searching my lodgings upstairs. And when I say search, I do mean they were very thorough. I could hear my worldly goods breaking through the stout planks, and then heard their feet above my head. Some urchin, damn his eyes, on the promise of a shiny sixpence or two to keep mum and direct the dastards back on to the street, gave me up and gained a shilling for his troubles. Nothing for it, I thought. They could drag me out and do whatever they wanted to my mortal frame, or I could show them a clean pair of heels.’
‘And you saw Down.’
‘Indeed I did. I couldn’t work it out at first, then like the impulsive idiot that I was, thought I’d chance it. Many adventures later, here I am. Not the same man, either.’ Simeon paused long enough to twist his mouth into a sour smile. ‘But everyone here changes, eventually.’
They were at the top of the dune, and Dalip pointed to the brightest part of the luminous fog.
‘I buried one of my friends yesterday. I took the light from the man who killed her.’
Dawson slid down the slope and retrieved the egg, and held it up for Simeon to see.
Simeon rubbed his pointed chin for a moment. ‘Just one question, old chap. Why did you let it shine?’
‘We left it here to mark the grave, not knowing it was a light. But when I woke up, and found it like that, I… what was the worst that could happen? We’re pretty much beaten. We’ve nothing left but hope.’
‘You do realise that one of those damned geomancers could be along in a minute to stitch you up like a kipper and drag you away to their lair?’
‘We’ve already done that. Didn’t fancy it much, so we escaped. Are you,’ asked Dalip, trying to stop himself from pleading, ‘taking on crew?’
‘Who are the we?’
‘There’s three of us left. Everyone else is either dead or missing.’
‘We have berths. It’s an uncertain life, being a pirate, but I’ve found it’s safer on the briny than land, and we’re a merry band◦– Dawson notwithstanding. The rules are few, but we have to work together to protect our freedom. Jeopardise the ship and you’re over the side, which is somewhat unfortunate if there’s no land around. If you agree to follow my orders and learn to be useful, we’ll take you aboard. What do you say?’
‘I’ll put it to the others.’ Dalip thought for a moment, then dug through his pockets. ‘I don’t know if this means anything but I can pay our way.’
He held out two fistfuls of coins and let them fall into Simeon’s cupped hands.
‘Hah. I told you. Sikhs: good, honest men.’ He tipped the treasure into his three-cornered hat. ‘Go and fetch your fellows. We’ll wait for you by the boat. Dawson: hide that light.’
11
‘You are very quiet, Mary.’
She’d made shit up, about finding everyone dead and there being a slow, smouldering fire on which they all burned. It was close enough to the truth that she didn’t have to tell him about the portal, because knowledge of the portal was power. If there wasn’t a map of it in the crate, she’d draw it herself when she could. For now, she’d have to remember the shape of the land and the directions of the lines of houses.
What she said she’d found was excuse enough not to talk. The truth was, she didn’t know how easy plague was to catch. She hadn’t seen any rats, and the men hadn’t got anywhere near her◦– but she’d touched the stone Nathaniel had thrown at her. That, surely, wasn’t enough?
And if it was, she’d be making damn certain she gave it to Crows before she died.
How long? A day? Two? She should have asked. Or she shouldn’t have hung around long enough to ask. All she had instead was uncertainty.
So, yes. She was quiet. Checking herself for fever, or a cough, or feeling sick. She felt fine, though. Tense, nervous, sad, but not ill.
‘Just leave me alone.’
‘Very well. I will, I believe, catch myself some breakfast.’
He hadn’t taught her how to power the boat◦– not refused as such, more simply neglected to pass on the information◦– so when he collapsed the standing wave that pushed it forward, the wave travelled ahead of them and washed into the swell. The boat began to slow, and to bob.
Crows moved from the stern seat from where he controlled the rudder, to perch on the side. The boat tilted, and the waves lapped at the rail. Crows lifted his feet and pitched backwards into the green, churning sea. The splash he made was lost almost immediately. The boat righted itself and, just like that, he was gone below the surface. Moments later, a loop of scales rose from the surface, the water cascading from the edges of their overlapping edges, and a head, sleek and snake-like, leaned over Mary from a great height.
Mary stared into the glassy black eyes, determined not to look the least bit concerned. He could, easily enough, eat her. But she wouldn’t go quietly: he could fit a small brown girl in his maw, but not a giant falcon. He risked the maps, if nothing else, and he didn’t dare.
‘Go, if you’re going. It’s not like we’re moving while you’re pissing around in the water.’
The head turned away and scanned the horizon. Looking for land, or the best place to fish? Who knew? The waves closed over the crown of Crows’ black head and he was gone.
She waited a minute◦– actually counted out the seconds, one elephant, two elephant◦– then searched the boat from stem to stern.
Down had provided a locker at the pointed bow, and it was almost big enough for her to climb completely inside. She found coils of rope, heavy parcels of thick white cloth, and odd-shaped pieces of wood as long and thick as her forearm, square at one end, rounded at the other. There were paddles, too, short and broad.
A sail, then, and something for when the wind didn’t blow. Dalip hadn’t expected to move the boat by magic, and if there was a sail, there had to be a mast◦– she knew that much. When she turned around and looked properly beneath her feet for the first time, she saw the long tapered pole lying in the bottom, next to the beam of the keel. In the centre was a wooden bung, which she heaved out, and there was the hollow to receive the mast.
She couldn’t lift it upright on her own. There were other lengths of wood too, but she’d exhausted her knowledge. There’d be no sailing away for her, and even if she could, she couldn’t outrun Crows in serpent form. If she got the better of him in a fight, tied him tight with the rope so he couldn’t change, then she was still stuck. Unless she was able to recreate the wave which chased them across the bay, that was.
Too many ifs. Her head was starting to hurt. What she could do, was what she’d already thought of: make a bag from sail cloth and carry the maps aloft, out of Crows’ reach. She’d never been one for needlework, but she was willing to give it a go and, somehow, she was going to have to do it right under Crows’ nose and not have him suspect anything. It was a plan, but she needed tools. A knife, at least.
She traced an uneven path, past the crate, to the back of the boat, and found two more cupboards, closed with little brass catches.
If there were sails, there might be a way to repair them. And there was: a series of thick, hooked needles as long as her finger, thread that was as stiff as wire, spring-gripped shears, curved knives with bone handles, squares of spare cloth.