“Master, every night, I can hear it. Burbling, moaning, gurgling.”
“Proper mouths and vocal tracts do not rate much importance in Korbal’s estimation. Such noises are entirely natural given the creature’s physical constraints. Besides,” and all at once Bauchelain’s tone hardened, “we will ever have guests in our company, many of them far less pleasant that my companion’s quaint assemblage of organs and body parts as now resides in that chest. I was under the assumption, Mister Reese, that you accepted this commission in fullest understanding of such matters. After all, my principal hobby is the conjuring of demons. While my companion, Korbal Broach, explores the mysteries of life and death and all that lies in between. Is it not a given that we will all experience a plethora of peculiarities during the course of our adventures? Indeed, would you have it any other way?”
To that, Emancipor Reese found no possible reply. He stared, gaping, his eyes locked with Bauchelain’s.
Until the sorcerer turned away, with the faintest of sighs. “In any case, Mister Reese, the child should not be the source of your disquiet. I believe I spoke of this matter with you before-shortly upon our standing down for the open seas, in fact. This ship was in Moll Harbour for both resupply and repairs, in addition to taking on new crew. Of these purposes, it is the repairs that are relevant to our impending situation.”
Pausing, Bauchelain walked to the stern port and leaned both hands on the frame as he bent to peer through the lead glass. “Ah, dusk approaches, Mister Reese. And in moments we shall be in the throes of Laughter’s End. Iron nails, Mister Reese. Purchased in Lamentable Moll.”
Emancipor frowned. Now, mention of that stirred something in his head. The voices of two friends in a bar. Kreege and Dully, aye, the scroungers. Nails. Iron nails…
Bauchelain glanced back at Emancipor. “Tell me, Mister Reese. Since you are a native of Lamentable Moll. What, precisely, is a Jhorligg?”
Heck Urse knew he should be sleeping, right up until the bell sounded the night watch, but his mind was a maelstrom of anxieties, terrors and niggling worries. It was understandable, wasn’t it, that the shift over of duties from day to night would require some awkward adjustments, a stuttering transition, aye. And while Birds Mottle seemed able to plunge into deep slumber at a moment’s beckoning, well, she’d been in the auxiliary of the Chanter garrison at Toll’s City, hadn’t she? Close to a real soldier as any of them. As for Gust Hubb, truly the man’s luck was impressive. Imagine, losing an ear just like that and there was the ship’s cutter pushing into his hands a bottle of d’bayang nectar and a mouthful of that you could sleep through Burn’s own bowel movement no matter how many mountains fell over.
Alas, poor Heck Urse still had both ears, and none of a soldier’s talent for sleeping anytime anywhere. So here he stumped about, restless and wobbly as a whiskerless cat. And there at the stern rail dead ahead was one of the guests, the fatter one that nobody ever saw except when they did and that wasn’t common at all, except there he was, all cloaked in black and the hood drawn up.
Heck thought to wheel about, but then he’d be passing right by the captain again and once without a comment or command was lucky enough but twice was damned unlikely. Instead, and with a deep settling breath, Heck made his way to the rail beside the eerie man. “Near t’dusk, sir, an’ a calm night looks ahead, I’d say.”
The hooded head tilted slightly and Heck felt rather than saw those fishy eyes fixing on him. Repressing a sudden shiver, the swab leaned on the rail. “Ah, runnin’ out a line, I see. Angry waters ’ere about, so I’m told. Sharks and dhenrabi. Makes fishin’ a bit of a risk-you ever notice, did you, sir, that sailors nearly never fish? Just the passengers and the like. Odd, isn’t it? I’d warrant it’s t’do with the likelihood of us feedin’ those fishes some day, which is a crawly thought indeed.”
“Sharks,” the man said in a high, thin voice.
Heck blinked, then frowned. “What’s that? You fishin’ for sharks? Oh, I sure ’preciate a sense of humour, I do. Sharks, ha. Looking to snag a big one, too, are ya? Like, maybe, one of those gold-backs that’s as long as the Suncurl itself. Why, that’d be a fight or two, eh? You could lay bets who’d pull who aboard!” And he laughed, and kept laughing.
As long as his courage allowed, anyway, under that silent study from the shadowed face.
“Hah hah… hah… hah.”
Light was fading. The man reeled out a few more loops of line.
Heck scratched at his stubbly jaw. “Sharks like meaty bait,” he said. “Bloody bait. We ain’t had fresh meat aboard since two days outa Moll. Whatcha using, sir? Had a nibble yet?”
The man sighed. “No. Yes, you say true. Bait needs to be bloodier.”
“That it would, sir.”
“And, perhaps, more substantial.”
“Aye, I’d so wager. And a good-sized hook, too, why, a gaff-hook, in fact.”
“Yes. Excellent notion. Here, hold this.”
Heck found himself holding the bundle of line, feeling the thrum of waves and depths as the trailing bait was tugged in steady rhythm. He turned to advise the guest that he was about to go on watch, but the man had wandered off.
He stood, wondering what to do. If the bell sounded and the fool wasn’t back by then, why, he’d be in trouble, would Heck Urse.
Boots sounded behind him and with relief he turned. “Glad you’re back, sir-oh, Captain!”
“What in Hood’s name are you doing, Heck?”
“Uh, holding this line, sir.”
“You are fishing.”
“No sir! I mean, it was one of the guests! The fat one, he was fishing and he asked me to hold this until he got back, and I never had no chance to say I couldn’t, cause of the night watch and all, so here I am, sir, stuck.”
“You damned idiot, Heck. Tie it off in the rail. Then go wake up Birds and Gust, the sun’s nearly down.”
“Aye, Captain!”
“Last one I heard of was about twenty years ago, when I was upland in Theft so I never saw it for myself,” Emancipor said, cursing his sudden sobriety which probably came from whatever Bauchelain had slipped into the tea he was now drinking. “They caught up to it down under the docks. The tide was out, you see-if it’d made water they’d have never gotten it and not a fisher boat would dare the bay for months, maybe years. Took twenty strong soldiers to kill it with spears and axes and the like, and even then only four walked away from the scrap.”
“A formidable creature then,” Bauchelain mused from behind steepled hands.
“Aye, and this one was only half a day old. They grow fast, you see, from eating their mothers.”
“Eating their mothers?”
Emancipor glowered down at his tea. “No one knows for sure, but the tale is like this. Jhorligg seeds swim the waters, like little worms. And if one finds a young woman in her time of bleeding-a conch diver or pearl swimmer or net crawler-why, that worm slides right on in, steals the womb, aye. And she gets big and big fast and then bigger still, and she starts eating enough for three grown men and keeps eating for six, seven months, until her skin itself starts to split. And then, usually on a moonless night, the Jhorligg rips its way free, straight through the belly, and eats the woman right there and then. Eats her all up, bones and all. Then down it races, for the water.”
“Curious,” Bauchelain conceded, “yet not as unlikely or bizarre as one might think. Parasites abound, and the majority of them dwell in water, both salt and fresh. Finding means of entry into hosts via any available orifice.”
“Jhorligg just ain’t beasts,” Emancipor said. “Nearly as smart as us, it’s said. They deliberately swim into nets and then curl up tight, until they’re pulled aboard, then they tear loose and murder every fisher in the boat, eat them all. Some even use weapons, swords and the like lost overboard or thrown to the spirits of the sea. But Master, Jhorligg live in the shallows, coastal waters only. Never open sea. Never out here.”
“Reasonable,” murmured Bauchelain. “Too much competition in these waters, not to mention the risk of becoming prey. Now, Mister Reese, what you describe is a wholly marine creature that navigates on land only at birth, in the manner of turtles and dhenrabi. Yet is quite capable of lithe endeavours on a fisher boat’s deck. By this, we must assume that it can survive out of water as necessity demands. But, I wonder, for how long?”
Emancipor shrugged. “It’s said they look like lizards, but long and able to stand on their hind legs. Got a long sinewy tail, and two clawed arms, though it’s said their bite is worst of all-can pull a man’s head right off and crunch the skull like eggshell…” He trailed off then, as Bauchelain had slowly leaned forward, eyes piercing.
“A most interesting description.”
“Not the word I’d use, Master.”
Bauchelain leaned back. “No, I imagine not. Thank you, Mister Reese. I trust your senses have returned to you?”
“Aye, Master.”
“Good, set to my armour, then, and quickly.”
“Quickly, Master?”
“Indeed. We are about to find ourselves on the red road, Mister Reese. Tonight,” he added as he rose, rubbing his hands together, “shall prove most fascinating. When you are done with the armour, hone my sword-the red-bladed one, if you please.”
Armour? Sword? Emancipor felt his insides grow watery with burgeoning terror, as he only now became aware of the veritable cacophony of sounds emanating on all sides. Groaning timbers, the squeal of joins and click of shifting nails, the strange moans of things thumping alongside the hull, then slithering under to come round to the other side.
Suncurl pitched drunkenly, and darkness took the sky beyond the lead glass porthole.