He took another step, and rose a little further. He seemed to have no interest in looking down: as a child of high-rise blocks of flats, vertigo wasn’t a problem Mary suffered from. Coming down again was going to be hard on Crows if he did.
She moved the short distance to the map box, and sat down next to it, waited another moment or two, then nonchalantly undid the clasps. Her sewing was nestled in the top, and she retrieved all the pieces and laid them out on her lap.
Did she have time for this? Possibly. Was this the plan? No. Was this the only chance she was going to get? Yes, yes it was. Even though she couldn’t turn into a falcon and fly away with the maps, she could still bag them up and climb the cliff herself. While Crows was doing whatever he thought necessary to persuade her up, she’d be already halfway to the White City.
As for which direction to head◦– it was a city. How hard could it be to find? And once there, she could lose herself in its streets and he’d never find her.
All she had to do was sew up the two halves of the cloak, deliberately left unfinished, and with a few deft tugs, the seams would tighten and become a functional, if not pretty, kit bag. The holes were already punched, and she was sure she could whip through this in a few minutes.
She checked on Crows’ progress. A third of the way up. She could do this, if she concentrated.
She kept making mistakes, and having to go back on herself. She blinked and scrubbed at her face, and the thread she was using swam in and out of focus.
She deliberately poked herself in the leg with the hole-maker, hoping that the pain would sharpen her senses, and it did, for a little while. Her sweaty, trembling hands couldn’t grip the needle properly, and she almost fainted◦– or fell asleep: she couldn’t tell which.
Crows was almost invisible, his black cloak merging with the shadows. Magic or no, he was still very difficult to spot.
She kept on, and when she was finally finished, she put it all aside and staggered down to the sea.
The cold was biting, sharp like teeth on her arms as she plunged them in. She knew what she was going to do next would hurt, and she was right. Her head and neck submerged, and the effect was like a slap. She was awake, and gasping, almost howling her breaths. She still had to climb.
People had been subjected to worse than being a bit hungry, a bit thirsty. There was a refugee kid in the same hostel as her, who’d walked across half a continent with his clothes hanging off him. If he could do that, she could do this.
She looked up, and couldn’t see Crows.
She picked her way to the open box, and the maps stirring in the soft breeze. She looked at them, and having dried her hands on the back of her dress, she pressed down on them, compressing their volume and making it much more likely that she could carry them all off.
She laid out her sail-canvas cloak on the ground, and started shortening the seams, pulling the thick thread a little at a time along its outer length, gradually bunching the cloth up until she had a deep pocket.
Slowly, it changed. She needed a way to fix it to her◦– some of the sail lines from the boat would be just right◦– but it was as good as it was going to get. She took the first handful of maps, and laid them gently at the bottom, then went back for more. The box gradually emptied as the bag filled.
The compass went in on top, and she couldn’t help unwrapping it for a look before tucking it away again.
The needle swung lazily around, and settled to point resolutely inland. If that was meant to be a sign, then she’d take it as one.
She worked the thread tighter, and gathered the loose material in her fist. She lifted it up to test it. It turned out that a pile of loose papers weighed a fair amount, but much less than the crate they lived in.
Now to cover her tracks. It took her three goes to get the chest far enough up against the side of the hull for her to get underneath it and finally topple it back inside. If that was difficult, she now had to put her shoulder to the prow of the boat. At first, it wouldn’t move, not even a little. She knew, frustratingly, that Dalip would have had the answer, but she was too tired to try and think like him, and all she could do was swallow down the rising bile, redouble her efforts and push all the harder.
The keel rasped, and the cobbles rattled.
She put both her hands against the wet planks, and like a miniature Atlas, tried to lift the world. The boat slid back down towards the sea with a jerk, and then stopped. A wave came in and raised the stern slightly, then it retreated. Mary slumped against hull, gasping. Another wave, another slight rise and fall of the boat.
One last go. She waited, and watched, and pressed her back to the underside of the curved bow, and waited some more. Then the instant she felt the wood shift, she dug her feet in and heaved against them. She fell backwards, and tumbled into the surf, but the boat was back in the water. It bobbed and bucked, and with each cycle of wave peak and trough, it floated a little further away.
She dragged herself back to shore, and watched for a few seconds more. The boat was now side on to the beach, and drifting towards the rocks.
She didn’t know if it would work, but if she, the maps, and the boat had all disappeared by the time Crows got back, then of course he’d go and look for her.
She wouldn’t be here to be found, though.
Mary wrapped a cut line of rope around her waist, once, twice, and fastened it. The ends went through punched holes in the sail cloth, and tied tight.
She was ready. She had no idea what waited for her at the top of the cliff, but it had to be better than whatever Crows had planned for her. All she had to do now was to put one foot up on the first stone step and begin.
14
The prow of the Ship of Fools nosed into the cove. Dalip, taking his cue from the other rowers, shipped his oar and held it upright. He looked behind him to see where they were heading.
From the open sea, the island had looked little more than a hummock of green. Closer up, it was surrounded by wall-like cliffs. Simeon unerringly guided the ship towards them and a gap in the palisade appeared. He ordered the sail to be furled, and the oars broken out.
Dalip rowed, like Elena and Mama rowed, inexpertly. But by watching and learning, he could keep stroke, and not crab his oar. By the time the opening narrowed to barely twice the width of the hull, he’d mostly got the hang of it.
They raised their oars to allow the grey walls to slip by. The cliffs softened, and then sloping land met the sea at an arc of white sand. It was a hidden anchorage, safe from storms, and somewhere to rest: a pirate hideout, even.
The oars went back into the square-cut holes in the bulwark, and they rowed cleanly and crisply towards the beach. The keel grounded◦– Dalip felt the gentle lift under his feet◦– and that was all there was to it.
The oars were stowed away again, and the sea-chests. The deck was cleared, and even the mast demounted. It didn’t take long, and when it was done, the crew either jumped over the side or lowered themselves down into the thigh-deep water.
Mama wasn’t so keen.
‘Where are we, and why are we doing this?’
‘This is shore leave, good lady,’ said Simeon. He batted his hat against his leg, and scrubbed some of the remaining salt off with his sleeve. ‘There are no portals here, and there is nothing else of worth to a geomancer either. As long as we are discreet, we may come and go as we please.’
Mama went to the side and looked down. ‘Have you a ladder?’
‘We have rope.’
‘Well, you’d better get me some of that, or I’m going to be here all day.’
Elena went first, and helped support Mama’s weight as she was lowered down. They waded ashore, and Dalip watched as the other crew wended their way inland.