Marius lunged forward, lowering his head and driving it into Gerd’s chest. Gerd stumbled backwards, clawing at the older man’s back. Marius heaved upwards, driving Gerd against the railing, once, and twice. He heaved, and tipped his tormenter over the side. The younger man held on a moment, then his weight betrayed him and he fell away from the hull, tumbling as he fell twenty-odd feet to hit the water. Marius leaned against the railing, watching the rings spread outwards from the impact. How deep was the harbour below the hull line? How deep the Minerva’s draught? No question of asking whether Gerd could have survived the fall. The only concern was how long it would take him to reappear, and whether Marius could continue to block the dead man’s attempts to recapture him long enough for the ship to weigh anchor. He waited, and watched, stepping to the corner of the railing to keep his eye on the stern as well as the side, but Gerd did not resurface. Eventually, as dawn began to lighten the sky, and sailors emerged from below decks to make ready for departure, Marius retreated to his room and sat with his back pressed against the door, hoping his dead weight would be enough.
Out the window, where he could not see from his position on the floor, a figure hauled itself out of the water to stand on the dock, watching the Minerva as she slipped her moorings and made out of the harbour. Only once the massive ship was well out into the bay did the figure turn, and push through the crowds, away from the wharf.
Marius sat against the door for three days, afraid to move lest the past come crashing through his door and drag him beneath the surface of the world for judgment. True to his word, Bomthe sent Figgis down the narrow passageway three times a day, to knock on the door and leave a tray of food. Three times a day, Marius ignored the invitation, and the diminutive cabin boy snuck back an hour later to gulp down the rejected meal and report back to his master that all was well with the passenger. At lunch on the fourth day, however, he opened the door at Figgis’ knock, and did his best not laugh at the youngster’s look of disappointment. He tilted his head to Figgis to bring the tray in. Figgis laid the tray upon the thin shelf, and nervously eyed the closed door.
“Will that be all, sir?” he asked, shuffling his feet. Marius motioned him to sit, then nudged the tray closer.
“Tuck into that, lad,” he said, leaning back and smiling as Figgis nervously broke off a corner of the hard bread. “I’ve no great appetite, these days, and you look like you don’t get more than scraps for your tea.” He nodded down at the thin stew and broken biscuits. “Get stuck in.”
Thankfully, Figgis admitted that, indeed, he was the poor, hard-done-to soul he appeared to be, and that it was, indeed, almost impossible to survive on the pittance he was thrown by the captain. Marius clucked in sympathy, and begged him to try some of the stew.
If you want gossip, talk to the ruling classes. If you want the truth of things, speak to those who serve them, the ones who change the sheets in the morning, who carry the breakfast trays into bedrooms, who water the horses at the roadside inns and never, ever reveal how blue the stool of the monarch is this morning. Within half an hour, Marius and Figgis were firm friends, bound by shared experiences and an understanding of just how cruel a fate it was to serve under a master who swept a spoon through your stew before passing it to you, to remove the best bits of meat for his own plate.
The deal was ridiculously easy to strike – Marius would give the lad his food, and let him eat in the relative comfort of the tiny cabin, and in return, he would know all there was to know about the Minerva, her crew, and the countless feuds, arguments, love matches and working relationships that made up its society. And on his next visit, Marius would receive a bowl of hot water, a stick of soap, and a blade with which to shave.
“Tell me,” he said, as Figgis was wiping up the last of his stew with the final ball of bread, “about Mister Spone…”
FOURTEEN
No man makes captain without having served his share of dawn watches. The hours between three bells and seven are the loneliest in the world; the coldest; the wettest. It is reserved for those on misdemeanour charges, those whom the mates have come to dislike most, or like Mister Spone, those who have attained the highest working rank on the ship and need only the experience of commanding the worst men at the worst time of the day to complete their education. Such an education gives a master complete knowledge – only at the most miserable hour, with waves crashing across the bow deck and the wind making a mockery of the sails, can a man truly understand the paradise of a dry corner, away from the rain, where he can light a snout and smoke, undisturbed, for a few stray moments before the call of duty and danger requires him to re-enter the whirlpool outside. There were no such conditions that morning, but such a corner serves as well in the dry as the wet. Spone was crammed in, half-turned into the angle, striking a Lucifer against the wood, when Marius appeared out of the dark and stood before him.
“Mister Spone.” He clung to a beam as the ship pitched and rolled across the pre-dawn swell. Spone, his body perfectly adjusted to life at sea, stared at him and raised his hands into half-fists, unconsciously shielding his exposed side. He waited, saying nothing. Marius gripped tighter as the ship listed, then righted itself. “May I speak with you?”
Slowly, warily, Spone nodded, his eyes darting to the left and the right, seeking out ways to get around the man before him. When none presented itself he let them fall upon Marius, suppressing a shudder as he did so.
“You are a religious man, Mister Spone? A Post-Necrotist, I understand?”
Again, Spone nodded. Marius sighed.
“In that case, I must apologise for my appearance. It must have startled you.” Marius stared at the man for several seconds. “It must have terrified you,” he said, so softly that Spone could barely hear him above the wind. Marius stepped closer, transferring his grip from one stanchion to another. Spone shrank back as far as the corner would allow.
“I am not the hallowed dead, come back to wreak havoc upon the world of the living,” Marius said. “I am not dead at all. Give me your hand.” He held out his. Spone stared at it. “Please, Mister Spone. Your hand.” Haltingly, Spone gripped it. Marius pulled it against his chest.
“Can you feel that, Mister Spone?” he asked. Slowly, Spone nodded, eyes fixed upon Marius’ chest. “My heart, sir, beating, the same as any man’s.” Marius risked releasing the stanchion, reached up, and drew back his hood. Spone winced at the sight of his uncovered face.
“I know,” Marius said. “It’s awful. Totally ruined my chances with the ladies.” He laughed, and despite his confusion, Spone managed a small one in return. “Truth is, Mister Spone, I have no idea what it is, only that it affects me alone. Those around me are safe, have no fear on that count.” Marius let go Spone’s hand, and gestured ahead of the ship. “I’ve travelled far and wide for a cure, but nobody can tell me what it is, only that my flesh rots and my eyes film over, and as to the smell, well,” he shrugged, a comical, exaggerated movement. “Ruined with the ladies.” He offered his hand once more. “Once more, I can only apologise.”
This time, Spone shook it.
“Had I known of your beliefs, I would never have barged in upon you in such a manner,” Marius said. “I hope I did not cause you too much grief.”
Spone straightened out of his corner, and banished memories of four terror-filled nights awake in his tiny cabin, praying. “Think nothing of it,” he managed to say. Marius dug into his jerkin, and produced a Lucifer to replace the one Spone had dropped. He struck it, and leaned in, cupping it to protect it from the wind. Spone accepted the gift, and lit his snout.