At first glance, the scraps that slid out looked like dried autumn leaves, a filthy wash of dead vegetable matter crammed into the bag like so much stuffing. It was only when Marius picked up a handful and examined them closely did he see what they actually were – scraps of paper: torn, crumpled, stained with dirt and age and, in some cases, blood; gathered from the corpses of who knew how many dead, written upon in a range of scrawls, some bearing the mark of culture and education, some barely legible, as if the hands that drew the words were controlled more by willpower than by any combination of withered and rotting muscles. Marius read through the few whose words he could discern – they were letters, from the dead to their living relatives. Marius scanned them quickly, mouth open in surprise. They were mundane, for the most part, of interest only to those who wrote them and, perhaps, those who might receive; it was the sheer number that boggled him. Each scrap was, he realized, a tiny plea for continuation, a need to reach out and reassure the author that the life they left behind had continued with some part of them remembered. Even if it were just the knowledge that Aunt Madge still complained of gout, or that young Roldo was still studying sail making at Ballico College, the dead needed someone to remember. But it was the simple notes, the ones written with large, clumsy letters, telling Mummy how much she was loved or Daddy how much he was missed, with strings of exes at the bottom like a line of illiterate signatures, that finally caused Marius to open his hand and let the brittle sheets fall to the floor. What was he supposed to do, he silently asked? There were so many. Was he to deliver them, like some sort of travelling postmaster? When they could not be read, when so many of them lacked addresses, as if the dead authors could no longer remember that important part of their previous lives? When the reactions of those who might have received them could only be a combination of grief, and fear, and anger towards the man who had delivered them? Marius was not the man to perform the task. Not him. He gathered the papers back up and replaced them within the satchel. So many letters from children. He placed the satchel on the floor and leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes. Concentrate on what can be done. Concentrate on escaping the sword hanging over him, on stepping onto the sandy beaches of the Faraway Isles and leaving dead children, and dead kings, and the continent of Lemk behind. For the first time since he had picked up the Scorban king’s crown, Marius allowed himself to relax. He opened his eyes, and stared through the window at the land he was going to leave behind.
A figure stood upon the wharf, an island of stillness amidst the ceaseless stream of moving humanity. As Marius stared, the figure stepped forward until it stood on the edge of the wharf, back to the press of movement, facing the flat stern of the Minerva, head tilted so the hood covering its face was pointed directly at the Marius’ window. Marius raised a hand to his mouth, slowly, as the figure reached up and pulled the hood back from its head, exposing his face. Marius bit down on his hand, oblivious to the sudden flare of pain that shot up where his teeth met the dead skin.
“Gerd?”
Marius slid his head backwards, away from the window, blinking in sudden fear. When he could trust himself to peek out the window again without panicking he did so. Gerd stood motionless at the edge of the wharf. As Marius watched he stepped forward, off the edge of the wharf, and dropped below the edge of Marius’ vision. He heard a dull splash, and then he was up off his perch and barging through the door, racing along the deck to bang his fist against the captain’s door. After an eternity, the door swung open, and Marius found his way blocked by the massive frame of Spone.
“What the hell is the… oh, my god.”
Marius stared up at the big man’s face. Spone was staring at him with a mixture of shock and disgust splashed across his features. Marius blinked stupidly, then, realizing the cause of the first mate’s shock, slowly reached up and pulled his hood over his exposed face.
“I need to speak to the captain,” he said warily. Spone nodded, then backed into the room, keeping as much distance between himself and Marius as possible. Marius hurried into the room, moving past the giant mate with an apologetic nod, and stepped up to the captain’s table. Bomthe sat before a bowl of stew, a chunk of bread in his hand. Another bowl sat in front of a smaller chair to one side. Marius glanced at it, then at the mate, pressed against the wall of the cabin some feet away.
“Captain,” he said without preamble. “We must depart, immediately.”
“I’m sorry, Mister Helpus–”
“Helles. It’s Helles, damn it.” Marius raised a fist to thump it on the table, recovered himself, and lowered it stiffly to his side.”
“I’m sorry, Mister Helles,” the captain smiled, aware of his victory. “But I’m not in the habit of altering my plans on account of an hysterical passenger. We will slip anchor with the first tide.”
“But… I must insist–”
“You shall insist on nothing, Mister Helles.” The captain took a bite of his bread, chewed, and swallowed. He laid the remaining chunk on the table and looked Marius squarely in the dark shadow of his hood. “I will do you the courtesy of explaining, Mister Helles, because you have paid the money I asked, and because it will make your journey much easier to understand me from the beginning. This is a trading ship, not a passenger ship. Its sole purpose is to trade goods. Moreover, it is my ship. I decide when we depart, where we depart for, when we eat, when we make landfall, with whom I wish to trade, and how long I wish to take to do so. I am answerable only to those who invest in my journey, and who require me to provide them with a return on that investment. You are not amongst their number.” He returned his gaze to his stew. “Return to your cabin, or I shall have Mister Spone escort you there. I will send you some food shortly. I do not expect to be interrupted again.”
“But… there’s…” Marius shook a hand towards the water at the back of the ship. Bomthe’s lips compressed into a tight little smile.
“I do not care what problems you are attempting to leave behind you, sirrah, so long as they do not accompany you on your journey. Your concerns are not mine. Now, leave my cabin, please, or shall I call on Mister Spone?”
Marius glanced at the giant ship’s master. He stared back at Marius, his features a blank mask of fear. Marius sighed, and dropped his head. He turned without a word and left the cabin. He was halfway along the narrow walkway towards his cabin, desperately trying to decide how to reinforce his door with nothing more than blankets and scraps of paper, when two hands appeared at the railing. As Marius pressed up against the wall in shock, Gerd hauled himself over the railing to stand, dripping, before him.
“Hello, Marius,” he said, a nasty smile spread across his features. “How was your shit?”
Marius said nothing. Gerd stepped forward. Marius slid a foot along the wall.
“What do you think you’re doing? Running away? Where to, Marius?” Gerd laughed, a sound like falling gravel. “Haven’t you heard the saying? ‘The entire Earth is the grave of great men’. L’Liva said that. You know, the philosopher? I’ve met him.” Gerd took another step forward. “You can’t run away from me. You can’t escape us.”