This ruse was necessary. If he opened one of the foul-smelling things in the middle of the night, it would wake the whole crew, and he could not afford that. His plan required he avoid fighting as much as possible. So if he made regular visits through the day and into the night, closing one barrel and opening another, the crew would pay neither him nor the odor any mind.
He found the seafire stowed a little aft of center, a perfect spot for setting a fire. The twelve large barrels stood two high next to the fire lances. Thick ropes tied them all fast to the struts of the deck. Argoth glanced toward the bow of the ship. Ahead, under the forecastle was where the crew slept. They would probably shut the door to their quarters against this stink. And that would only make it easier for him should it come to this.
Argoth pried the bungs out of three of the barrels, releasing the strong, unhealthy vapors into the hold. He held his breath and wedged both the bungs and hatchet tightly between two crates. Then, with the first part of his plan executed, he returned to the Skir Master and fresh air.
They sailed until the New Lands disappeared behind the horizon, then the ship’s captain called for the crew to strike the sails.
The aftercastle swept back out over the water farther than any ship Argoth had ever seen. But it did so not to accommodate another mast. No, the Skir Master used that deck to work his magic.
Argoth climbed the stairs to that deck. Above him a team of four sailors stood in a row on a balance rope belaying the last of the sails to its yard. Others tied down the coils of rope: something he’d never seen done before. Soon the ship no longer leapt to the wind, but sat in the water, rolling gently with the waves.
In the middle of the aftercastle stood a railing like something you might put around a pulpit. A pace or so aft rose what looked like a huge bowl turned on its side; the mouth of the bowl faced the sea off the stern of the ship. The bowl stood taller than a man and was woven of stiff, bronze wire, but the weave wasn’t solid. It looked more like a large, dark lattice with gaps in the weave that would allow a man to slip an arm through. It glinted in the sunlight, and as Argoth approached he saw silver lines threading through the whole of it.
“Come,” said the Skir Master, standing next to the bowl. He pointed to a spot along the railing. “There is the best spot for viewing the catch.”
Argoth took a spot at the railing next to the captain. The massive Leaf stood close to the bowl to assist the Skir Master. Two of the crew stood by the other stair, holding a young boy between them.
“Captain,” said the Skir Master. “The bait.”
“Affix him,” the captain said to the two crewmen. They brought the boy to the bowl. He looked at Argoth and smiled, his eyes full of pleasure and lassitude.
He was drugged.
He stood in the trap, and when they bound him with hemp cords, he laughed in a high, little boy voice. Argoth thought of Nettle lying on the table in his workroom, his eyes brimming with tears. The sight of that boy pained him.
The Skir Master stood before the boy, poking and prodding him, inspecting him like livestock. Then he checked the bonds.
Argoth spoke aside to the captain. “I thought the practice was to use a goat or ram.”
The Skir Master answered. “Some fish fancy flies, others worms, others a bit of stinking gore. It all depends on what you’re trying to catch and what the beasts are biting.”
“Yes, Great One,” said Argoth.
The ship rolled with a large wave, and Argoth held to the rail.
An officer called to the captain from the main deck. “Everything secured, Zu.”
“Great One,” the captain said and bowed slightly to the Skir Master.
The Skir Master faced Argoth, his coat flapping in the breeze. He withdrew a large spike from his coat pocket and held it up. “Here is the spark. When I set it and quicken the weave, the bait’s essence will rise into the sky like a smoke. It will call to them like bloody chum calls to sharks.” Then he turned and inserted the spike into a slot. When it was set, he inserted a pin crossways through the end of the spike to secure it.
The boy in the bowl sagged.
In that moment Argoth told himself he was not like the Divines. There was a difference. But then the boy looked up through his drugged eyes and Argoth saw Nettle, drugged and lying on the table.
What had he done to his son?
“Can you hear it?” asked the Skir Master.
“Great One?”
“The singing.”
Argoth did not know what he meant.
He patted the great bowl. “The weave. It’s calling, singing. They all do, great and small. That is the Kain’s art-to weave the songs of power. You can hear this one if you listen carefully.”
Argoth knew that weaves thrummed when you quickened them. But singing? He closed his eyes and focused. He heard the waves slapping the hull, the creak of the rigging. Then he heard something else. Something very soft that he immediately lost. He focused, then caught it again-a chorus of winds, rising and falling in a pattern, with a deep rumble running through them. Then one voice rose above the rest. He opened his eyes in wonder.
“All living things sing,” said the Skir Master. Then he smiled, and the look in that smile was so malevolent it took Argoth aback. But as soon as it came the look was gone.
“I see,” said Argoth.
“No, you don’t.” The Skir Master gestured out over the sea. “Empty. Nothing but a few thin clouds, right?”
Argoth did not have an answer.
“It’s full,” said the Skir Master. “Teeming with life. The air, waters, heavens, and earth-teeming. The Creators let nothing go to waste. Humans see, smell, perceive almost nothing.”
“And do you see it all, Great One?” asked Argoth.
The Skir Master did not reply. Instead he reached into his coat and retrieved something made of gold. He held it out to Argoth. “Put these on.”
Argoth bowed slightly, then walked to where the Skir Master stood inside his pulpit railing.
All this time the bowl and boy had claimed Argoth’s attention. Now he saw the pulpit railing circled a large weave of bronze inlaid into the deck of the ship.
Argoth took the object from the Skir Master’s hand. It was made of two wafers of milky stone, about the diameter of duck eggs, affixed between two bows of gold. Two long hooks were attached to the points of the bows.
“Spectacles,” said the Skir Master. “Place the bow upon your nose and the hooks about your ears.”
Argoth hesitated.
“It’s wondrous,” said the captain. “I’ve looked through them myself.”
Argoth could not fathom how he might see anything through the opaque stones, but he put the spectacles on. He felt a thrumming and knew it was a weave.
“Give it some time,” said the Skir Master.
Argoth stared at the milk walls of the stones. He wondered how many other weaves were aboard this ship. For a moment he thought about looking for them. They would be a boon to the Order. But then he discarded the idea. He was going to have enough problems enthralling the Skir Master and finding out who else knew their secrets.
He stood at the railing for half an hour and then he noticed the stones begin to clear. That or he was seeing things.
“Great One?”
“Do you see them, Clansman?”
He saw a flash of something: the palest of lavenders with a yellow streak running through it. Then the milk of the stones was gone, and he saw it was not one thing, but three, no, five.
He took in his breath. There before him was a ghostly image of the ship and bowl. He could see the Skir Master and the sea. But they too were insubstantial. Mere phantoms. And clustered about the boy were creatures as long as one of his arms. They had attached to him like a remora attaches to a great fish.