On her feet, Dart turned and stared up at the god she had mistaken for a groundskeeper. She remembered crashing into him, striking him with her knee. Her gaze tore away, unworthy, horrified at how she had treated him.
Lord Chrism lifted her chin to face him. “It seems my Oracle chose well indeed.”
9
“Are we still supposed to be panicking?” Rogger asked. “Because I’m getting sores on my arse from all this waiting.”
Tylar shrugged. He had no idea why they hadn’t been attacked yet. He and the thief, along with Delia, sat on a shadowed bench under a fold of sail and watched the seas.
The Grim Wash lay mired in the tangleweed, like a bottle-fly in a spider’s web. The slack sails fluttered weakly with the occasional gust of wind, as if trying to fly free. But escape was impossible.
Tylar stared at the entwining growth. The field of tangleweed undulated with the ocean swells, surrounding the ship in all directions. It took a spyglass to see the open water now.
Earlier in the day, they had crashed broadside into the edge of the choked patch. While they foundered there, the tangleweed flowed past the ship’s flanks, encircling the boat, its passage marked by a ghostly scritch-scratching against the planks, like drowning men clawing to board the ship. Captain Grayl had attempted to keep at least the keel clear by lowering a man on ropes with an ax, but with every chop, more weed writhed up from below. It was futile. The weed was relentless. Even the galley cook reported tendrils sprouting through the boards of the galley, twining inside.
With the ship mired, there was nothing the crew could do but watch the sun crest the sky and begin its slow fall toward the western horizon, baking the ship beneath it.
Eyes narrowed at Tylar. “We should just throw his arse over the rail,” he heard a sailor mumble to another. “Give the watery god what she wants.”
Tylar had heard similar rumblings all day. Only the captain’s goodwill protected him from attack. But how long would it last? Gold bought only so much loyalty, especially among the ilk that bartered with the Black Flaggers.
As the day wore on, the heat continued to rise, damp and salty, smelling of wet weed. It didn’t help the crew’s temperament. The occasional gusts brought a bit of movement to the air, stemming the heavy heat and wafting upon them a sweetness from the fields of blooming spore heads. The thorny flowered stalks pushed above the roll of weed, jostled sluggishly by the current. They looked like white-haired old men, skeletally thin, shaking their heads at the sorry state of the wooden intruder into their midst. But these flower-headed men remained their only companions. The weed hid all else below.
“Are you certain this is Tangle Reef?” Tylar asked for the hundredth time.
Captain Grayl spoke behind them, where he oversaw the repair crews. “It be the Reef, surely. I’ve never spotted a patch of tangle so large. It can be no other.”
As confirmation, Rogger tapped the brand on the underside of his right forearm, reminding everyone that he had been here before. “The good captain is correct.”
Tylar motioned to the spread of weed. “Then where are all the trading barges, the supply ships, the floating dockworks that service the city below the waves?”
Delia answered, waving a small silk fan before her face. “The Reef is as changing as the seas it rides on. It is a living creature whose heart is Fyla.” She touched her chin with the back of her thumb, respect for letting a god’s name pass from her lips. Though the young woman had nailed her fate to theirs, she was still a handmaiden and would not speak harshly of another god, even one meant on capturing them, most likely killing them.
Delia continued. “The weed moves through the Deep by Fyla’s will, but it still requires preparation. Once the hunt began, she would have no choice but to unfetter the Reef’s support ships, to withdraw her surface docks below. There are limits even to the tangle’s reach.”
“It reached us fair enough,” Rogger grumbled, glaring down the length of the Grim Wash.
The wavecrasher listed about four hands to port, tilting the crowded decks. Most of the ship’s crew had come topside, standing, sitting, pacing, all eyes on the horizons. Some attempted to keep busy under the baleful eye of Captain Grayl. Others stood by the rails in supplication, rubbing prayer beads between palms, spitting into the sea to add their waters to the Deep. But most, like Tylar, Rogger, and Delia, stared listlessly at the weed, awaiting certain doom.
“So why isn’t Fyla attacking?” Rogger asked, keeping his voice low. “She must know you’re here.”
Tylar shook his head. “Perhaps she’s consulting with the other gods.”
Rogger spat over the rail in irritation. “It’s not like our watery mistress of the weed doesn’t have the time to dally. We’re certainly not going anywhere. There’s no swimming to freedom, not through this snarl. It’ll pull you under before you’re past the ship’s shadow.”
The chief mate crossed by them, headed for his captain. He had come up from below. His leggings were soaked from the knees down. Not a good tiding. He tapped Grayl’s shoulder.
“Captain, we’re taking on water in the bilge. I have men working the bellows pumps, but it’s a lost battle.”
“Maybe Fyla means to sink us,” Rogger said, leaning back and stretching. “Why dirty her hands with air breathers when she can drown the lot of us?”
Delia stirred. “No. Fyla would want to face Tylar at the very least.”
“Face a godslayer?” Rogger asked doubtfully. “Would she take such a risk?”
“For Meeryn, she would,” Delia answered. “Fyla and Meeryn were close. Both were water gods of the warm seas. Once a decade, the Reef would sweep into the Summering Isles. And though Meeryn could never leave the islands to which she was bonded, the two gods would meet near the Tumbledown Beaches. Fyla would ride in upon a woven carpet of weed, pulled by a pair of silverback dolphins. I saw such a meeting once with my own eyes. Two gods within arm’s reach of each other.”
Tylar could only imagine such a sight. As the Hundred were bound by blood to the lands they settled, it was rare for one god to meet another. Occasionally those who shared neighboring realms would meet at the borders, but even that was rare.
“Some say,” Rogger began, lasciviously cocking up an eyebrow, “that the two were once lovers. Before the Sundering. Now I’d slap down a silver yoke or two to see those two together.”
Color rose darkly to Delia’s cheeks, but before she could reprimand him, shouts burst from the port side.
“The weed is opening!” a man in the high riggings called down. He pointed an arm.
Those gathered atop the deck rushed to the port rail. Tylar was pulled along with them, trailed by Rogger and Delia.
A lone sailor left on the starboard side rubbed prayer beads together. “Everyone on your knees!” he yelled to his ship-mates. “Beg forgiveness from she who moves beneath! Cast the blasphemer from our sight!”
A few glanced to the crazed supplicant until someone in the rigging threw a tin cup at the man’s head. He cried out and went silent.
Captain Grayl stepped to Tylar’s side, plainly worried the tense crew might mutiny against his sworn charge. “Stay close,” he warned. “No telling when the lot of ’em might forget how you fought off the jelly shark and saved their filthy hides.”
Grayl cleared a way to the port rail. Tylar stared at the rolling spread of weed. Its sweet scent wafted stronger now.
“Something’s rising!” the crewman in the nest yelled.
They all saw it a moment later. Through the gap in the weed, a huge black bubble rose from below. It surfaced, sluicing water from its iridescent smooth sides.
“A deepwater pod,” Rogger said.
The top of the bubble peeled open like the petals of a nightshade. Cupped within the center were six men, tall, muscled, hairless from crown to heel. They were naked, except for snug loincloths that blended with their skin, a fish-belly paleness striped in swatches of gray, brown, and ebony.