"Lord, let this Thy seaman depart now in peace from this world."
As has always been the right of sea captains the world over, Pyra Quadde was reading the funeral service over Ordinary Seaman Kenneth Hill, before committing his tortured and mutilated body to the waiting deep waters.
"Though he has been a sinner, now are his sins washed whiter than snow and he is truly clad in the garments of the Lamb."
The gray dawn had finally broken, but the pale mist still lingered over the slate-dull Lantic. The crew was lined up on both sides of the main deck, bareheaded, to pay their last respects to their fallen companion.
The sails, still close-reefed, barely filled with enough wind to give the ship any forward way, and the sound of the water rippling under the stem was clearly audible.
"Now we render this body to Thy hands, in the sure and certain hope of eternal life to come. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. If Jesus don't get thee then Satan must." The service was concluded on a throaty chuckle of spluttering laughter.
The body lay on a wide plank, wrists tied across the front of the chest, giving the false impression of someone at his devotions. Hill hadn't even been given the minimal dignity of a length of old canvas for a shroud. Not even a shackle of anchor chain to weight the corpse down. In the shimmering light, the dark bruises and scratches cried out from the pallid flesh, the marks of the throttling clear and unmistakable.
"Is he ready?" the captain asked, folding her arms across her bosom against the chill of the dawning. "Standby."
Ryan was in the front row, and he studied the woman's face, seeing the smug lines of satisfied cruelty, like a spoiled cat that has caught itself a helpless sparrow. She licked her lips contentedly while he watched her.
"Tip the bastard in!" she called.
Four of the sailors stood steadying the funeral chute, two at each side. At Quadde's shouted command, they lifted the board, shaking it to shift the stubborn body, until it flipped loose and fell in a clumsy tangle of arms and legs. It hit the sea with an almost soundless splash.
The captain smiled. "Always a good diver, our Kenny. Used to love diving in... everywhere you can think of."
She turned on her heel and stamped off to her quarters, stick rattling a merry tattoo on the planks of the deck. Cyrus Ogg quietly dismissed the rest of the crew and ordered them about their business.
Jehu, the only man on the ship whose height approached Donfil's seven feet, was standing next to the Apache and Ryan.
"A maimed, unwilling sacrifice," he said, voice lower than the usual high-pitched babbling.
"What's that?" Ryan asked.
"We shall give, as need arise... Once the first price be paid, then there needs be no other. Not until the hunger moves again."
"What're you talking about?"
"Always the way. Short straw for Kenny there. And his lay to be split 'mongst the rest of us. One man poorer an' all of us the richer. Always the way on the Salvation"
He moved away from the two outlanders.
Ryan shook his head and went to the very stern of the slow-moving ship. He leaned on the rail above the helmsman's shelter, staring out along the disintegrating wake.
"Fireblast!"
"What is it, brother?"
"Look!"
He pointed out behind them, only about fifty yards astern, where the corpse of Kenny Hill bobbed and danced, upright in the water, looking as though it were calmly watching them sail away. Even as the two companions stared, a large gull came circling down and perched neatly on the thinning, plastered hair. Peering down, it delicately plucked out both of the staring eyes, tossing its head back as it swallowed them.
"If I had my blaster I'd chill that stinking bird," Ryan swore.
"And what good would that do thee or poor, lamented Seaman Hill?" asked a familiar voice from just behind them.
Ryan half turned. "No good at all, ma'am. Not to him and not to me."
"No, outlander. Now, the pleasures of the first day at sea are over. And we must be to the business of catching the great whales. I think that ye both have keen sight?"
Donfil and Ryan nodded.
"The mist is lifting and the wind freshens from the north." She sniffed appreciatively. "I can taste it."
Even as she spoke, the ship heeled over, timbers creaking, as the morning breeze caught her sails. Both men balanced against the sudden movement, without staggering.
Quadde noticed that and managed a thin smile. "Got your sea legs, already, lubbers? Good enough. Now go test them. Up the masthead with ye both. Get your glims raking the seas for a sign of the whale. Shout down and burst your lungs. And point where away ye see 'em."
Ryan looked up, seeing the spidery-thin rigging almost vanishing in the tattered remnants of the mist, the twin barrels fixed to the very top of the mainmast for the two lookouts.
"Aye, ma'am," he said, beckoning for the Mescalero to climb with him.
"Quickly, outlanders. Ye see how a poor seaman can perish of the cold through disobeying my orders? It might be your turn next if ye don't jump, jump and jump!"
Ryan thought of the strangler's marks on the cold corpse. And began to climb toward the light.
Krysty Wroth stood with her face pressed against the cool glass of their attic room, staring out through the murk, toward the tops of the masts that peeked through the fog. She'd hardly slept at all, and her night had been racked with dreadful visions that jerked her awake in a shivering sweat.
Ryan had been at the center of all her black night dreams. He was walking through an echoing, deserted castle. A dank, ruined place, standing at the center of a dreary expanse of sedge and stunted willows. Broken glass daggered in every window, and the stairs were slippery with bright moss.
She'd watched him, hanging at his shoulder like a shade of pending death.
Ryan had moved slowly and painfully, like a man suddenly tired and old, his back stooped and his feet scraping along the worn stones. His head never turned from left to right as he trudged wearily through the dim passages.
But that had not been the worst.
There had been a shadow.
Insubstantial, like some blasphemous entity from beyond time and space, of all colors and of no color at all. It was following Ryan, floating like a ragged sheet carried on a strong wind. Though it didn't seem to move with any speed, it closed in on the stumbling figure, rising in the air and hovering, seeming, to Krysty, to be about to strike at him.
As it plummeted toward Ryan, Krysty had woken, mouth dry, palms sweating.
Now she looked across Claggartville, conscious of the others around her climbing out of sleep.
Jedediah Hernando Rodriguez brought their breakfast up the narrow stairs himself, passing the pair of lounging sec men, who were engrossed in a game of chess on an old plastic hand set. The tray contained a loaf and a half of new-baked bread, with a crock of butter and some oversweet blueberry jelly. A chipped enamel pot held a simmering brew of acorn coffee.
He laid the tray on the rickety table between two of the beds, turning to leave without saying a word. But Krysty stopped him with a hand on his arm, making the innkeeper jump and become even more pale.
"What? There's guards that I shan cout for and... I mean I can shout for them and thee wilt..."
Krysty laid a finger to his lips, hushing him, managing a smile through her seething hatred of the traitor.
"Quietly. I'm not going to hurt you."
He licked his lips, whispering, "I had to do it. Thou knowest that. She'd have done... Thou knowest not what Pyra Quadde's like. She... I didn't mean harm. Thy tall friend'll be safe... long as he strikes truly with the irons. And ye will all be safe. Once ville council decides what work ye will be given."
"We know that," J.B. said.
Doc muttered something that sounded like "lickspittle," but nobody took any notice. Lori was sitting on one of the beds, sulkily picking at rough skin around her heels.
Krysty pulled the innkeeper toward the window. "Do other ships sail where the Salvationgoes?"
"Aye, mistress. That they do. But they keep away from the waters where Pyra plows the furrow. No man wishes to rock that boat, thank 'ee very much."
"But could a good captain track down where she'd gone?"
"Pyra always goes to the Great Banks. Everyone knows that. There's a ship out there now from this ville. The Bartleby. Captain Delano at the helm."
"I saw men on that ship there." She pointed to the second set of masts along the quay.
Rodriguez squinted where she pointed. "My seeing's dim at such a distance. The one with the white jack flying at her masthead?"
"No. The red flag next to it."
"Red?"
"Yes," Krysty grated, fighting to keep the impatience from her voice.
"Your fingers are creasing my good satin shirt. It cost a deal of..."
"The ship, Rodriguez," the Armorer persisted, quietly and calmly. "It's name?"
"It be the Phoenix. Named so as it was built from the burned shells of three other vessels, in the cold years after the time of the darkening skies. Aye, the Phoenix. Captain Will Deacon."
"I saw men busy about her. She is a whaling ship, like the Salvation?"
"She is. She sails on the first tide tomorrow. It'll be around three in the morning. But why do ye ask?"
"Just idle curiosity, Rodriguez, that's all," Krysty replied. "Nothing else. And thanks for the food."
The landlord of the Rising Flukes left the room, looking slightly puzzled.