‘Ever?’
‘Down is vast, and ever is a long time. But Bell is not the only geomancer, and hers not the only castle. It would be a kindness if they were taken by someone else; at least, they would not then starve.’
‘I’m not saying you’re wrong. Just… you know. Stuff like that has a habit of coming back and biting you on the arse.’ She punctuated her words with stabs of the hole-maker through the sail cloth.
‘I will watch my arse carefully.’ Crows folded his hands into his lap. ‘You are right. Miracles do sometimes happen, and so may Dalip Singh.’
She made more holes, then started to thread them together. She would find a way to open the portals, get her friends home, and… then what? Would the chaos brought about by the geomancers end because she’d finally cracked the problem? Or would she have to fight them all, either one by one or in groups? Because she was up for that. The Red Queen’s army would sweep across Down, opening every last dungeon and freeing every last captive.
‘You are smiling,’ said Crows.
‘Am I? Just concentrating.’ She needed the maps first, before any of that could happen. How long was this journey supposed to take? Probably not long enough, but if she was walking◦– or flying◦– she wouldn’t be able to sew at the same time. Better get on with it. Stop daydreaming and stitch like it was all that mattered in this world.
Mama could do this sort of shit, she bet. Luiza and Elena too, maybe. Dalip◦– did Sikh boys get taught needlecraft? She thought probably not. So there was at least something she could do better than him. She pulled and sewed and tightened, frowning at the stiffness of the cloth and the springiness of the thread.
Yet when she tied a knot in the end of the line, and snipped off the excess with the shears, she was◦– if not happy◦– satisfied with the result. The two pieces of sailcloth didn’t part when she pulled at them, and when she let go, they sprang back along the join. There were still things like drawstrings to consider, that would change a wearable cloak into a functional sack. There’d be no point in stealing the maps and then dropping them, one by one, into the ocean as the wind took them.
She had no idea about patterns or how to cut cloth in order to give it shape. There was no way around that problem: she’d just have to manage with as much guile and tenacity as she could muster. One thing was certain, and that was: she was learning. Her second attempt was far better than her first.
Crows was watching her closely, his eyes half-closed. She held up her handiwork for his inspection, and he pursed his lips and looked to one side.
This will be your undoing, she thought. Not magic, not power, not weapons, not cheating or lying, neither great plans nor sudden surprises, but this: your cynicism. I know what that’s like, but I’m better than that now.
‘You are smiling again.’
‘Just, you know. Finding something I’m not bad at, after years of thinking I’m shit at everything.’
‘Your stitching is workmanlike,’ he said.
‘What’s wrong with stitching like a workman?’
He fanned his fingers wide. ‘I could show you how to do better,’ he said. ‘Sailors have always had to mend their own clothes, even after the age of sail.’
This was better than her plan. Crows would show her how to stitch the bag she’d use to steal the maps.
‘You’re on. Can you do that at the same time as you move the boat?’
Whether he said yes or no, she had her answer ready.
‘It would be,’ he considered, ‘difficult.’
‘We’re in no hurry, right?’ Mary gathered up her practice pieces, the thread, the needles and the wickedly sharp spike. ‘And I need something to do while you steer.’
She waddled towards the stern and dumped herself on the other side of the rudder.
‘Now?’ He seemed disconcerted by her eagerness to learn.
‘Now,’ she said firmly.
She’d backed him into a corner, and he had no graceful way out. He shrugged. ‘It is a strange request, but, very well.’
He took the first of her attempts, snipped through the securing knot, and unthreaded in an instant what had taken so long to create. He selected a needle from the assortment, then arranged the work over his knees.
‘Like this,’ he said.
12
Once Dalip, Elena, and Mama had been manhandled aboard, the anchor was dragged up from the sea bed and the sail lowered.
Quickly, quietly, the ship headed out to sea, and the dark line of the shore slipped away.
The crew◦– difficult to count in the dark◦– numbered some two dozen. They seemed to know their duties, because they neither blundered nor swore at each other as they pulled on lines and lowered big boxes through hatches in the main deck.
Simeon warned them to keep out of the way, but nothing else. A few words with the steersman at the rudder, and he was off through the crew towards the prow, checking everything as he went.
The three of them huddled together, nervous. But, after a while, the activity slowed: some of the crew were assigned to take the watch, while the rest either broke into small groups to rest and talk, or individually to curl up on the broad deck and sleep.
Dalip listened to the creaks of the ropes and the soft flutter of loose canvas, and settled back against the bulwarks.
‘Who are these people?’ Mama hissed. ‘And where are we going?’
‘We’re going wherever they’re going. That’s okay, isn’t it? For a while, at least?’
Mama harrumphed, and put a thick arm around Elena, who sat between them, shivering. ‘It may be the best offer we have, but I don’t have to like it. If these men are pirates—’
‘They just call themselves that—’
‘And if I called myself a crack-head baby-killer, what’d that make you think about me, even if I wasn’t one?’
She had a point, even if Dalip wasn’t quite willing to concede it. ‘We’ve sunk so low that an offer from a bunch of pirates is the best offer we have. We may end up chained to the galleys and rowing ourselves to death, or made to walk the plank, or whatever, but no one here seems to be a slave, and there aren’t many places to hide them either.’
‘Trusting folk hasn’t exactly worked for us so far. They come to us with open hands and the minute we let our guard down, they close them into fists to beat us with.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve run out of ideas. And the time to argue was before we got into the boat.’
Mama would have usually folded her arms at that point, but one was still holding Elena tight. ‘You never used to sass me.’
‘This is the best I could do.’ He looked up at the moon, now almost overhead, the mast drawing a line between sea and sky. ‘We just have to hope that it’s enough.’
‘The boat is okay,’ whispered Elena, so quietly that Dalip had to lean in to hear. ‘It cannot be as bad as the beach.’
Perhaps it could. They might be about to find out. Simeon was now making his way back to the stern, his three-cornered hat marking him out from the others.
He pulled up one of the chests that was still on deck and sat astride it, his knees almost touching the boards.
‘It’s all shipshape and Bristol fashion. Tomorrow, we’ll show you the ropes◦– because there’s one thing this tub doesn’t go short of, it’s rope◦– and you’ll see how it all works. Rules are very simple here on the good Ship of Fools: captain’s law. If you disagree with that, now or at any point, you get put ashore at the next available opportunity.’ He drummed the top of the chest with the flats of his hands. ‘But we’re all survivors here. There are no passengers on board, but there are no slavemasters either. Muck in, and you’ll do perfectly well.’
Mama disengaged herself from Elena and moved forward. ‘They’re good words, Mr Simeon, fine words even, but we haven’t seen much kindness from strangers hereabouts. What makes you so different?’