The captain cupped his hands beneath the tap as one of his soldiers pulled back on it. A trickle of liquid came out, slower than before and a different shade in the moonlight.
“Indeed, you have just brewed this,” the captain said as he prepared to drink, “For it is yet warm.” The brewer sat up straight.
“I must confess,” he continued, “That its smell is not altogether pleasurable; for it is sharply tinged and stabs itself into my nostrils.”
After letting it flow over his hands and onto his boots for a moment, the captain raised his hands to his lips and drunk deeply of the warm Atiltian Scotch. His face collapsed as he swallowed and his eyes snapped shut in revulsion.
“Blasphemy!” he cried, “That this sour scum is named Scotch. In Hibernia this would be considered nothing more than vile excrement!” His face shook and he spit repeatedly. “Go on, brewer,” he commanded, “Go on, and take your putrid concoctions with you. I will never drink again!”
The brewer bowed, then quickly spurred his horses forward. “What the devil?” he said to himself as he drove off, “Can it have been so bad? And so warm?” He shook his head. “Whatever became of it, that old boozer got what he deserved. And many times over at that!”
Chapter 60
The Floatings was still in the moonlight. No torches were allowed – on account of the densely packed ships – and the harbor was left without any light but the moon’s. Nothing could be heard but the breathing of the tide and the snoring of the groaning ships. The brewer drove his wagon down the first pier that reached into the harbor, at whose end a small cutter was waiting. A ramp connected its deck to the pier, where a shrouded man was waiting.
“Ambiance!” the man called out.
“Forever, and justice!” the brewer returned.
“For all,” the man finished. Then, stepping forward, he said, “Your delivery is late, but it will do. Help me roll the cargo aboard, for I will pay only once it is in my possession.”
“Very well.”
The two unhooked the barrel from the wagon, and rolled it up the ramp. Inside, the four men were jostled around, but still made no noise. The Fardy brothers were indeed patient, when it came to matters of business. Once on deck, it was placed in a cargo room off the stern, prepared in advance. The cloaked man paid the brewer and the latter returned to his wagon and thence to his home. Before the other man had returned to the cargo room, the Fardys and Clifford had come out the trap door beneath and sat on the floor, slightly disorientated.
“We are clear, then?” the black Fardy asked as the man returned.
“Yes,” and the man pulled the cloak from his body, revealing himself. “It is good to see you again, my friend.”
“As always, my dear clerk,” and the two men grasped hands. “You have done well in this, and the king was satisfied with your service, as well. But, for now, are the men prepared?”
“Yes, and growing impatient. The crews of the Timbers have the cables set, and the harbor authorities are expecting them to be leaving at dawn,” their faithful clerk answered.
“So all that remains is to,” the black Fardy raised his left eyebrow rather than finishing the sentence. The others knew his meaning.
“Yes,” the clerk said, “That is all. The Marins are ready to be sunk. All that remains now is to take command. Mutiny.”
“Then we go, though I would not call it mutiny. For the Marins are our own by right!” the black Fardy rose and strode quickly out of the room, the others following.
Above deck, the cutter was creaking through the harbor. Its sides were strewn with the nets of fishermen, and if any doubted their cover the smell of fish was embedded onto the planks. Several sailors made the crew, steering skillfully through the sea of wood and rope that was the Floatings. At times, it was so dense one could walk across as if on dry ground. Yet none of it was anchored: it was a dynamic city. There were no maps or charts, for every moment everything was entirely rearranged. Rather, it was a special skill the navigators of the Floatings had, which would guide them safely along. They were both quick and keen.
The man presently at the rudder was one of these navigators. He was tall, with a strong build but a wiry frame. He was neither bearded nor clean-shaven, but rather had always the rubble of several days which he assiduously cultivated. His hair was dark by nature, but lightened by constant exposure to the sun, and of late had turned a light red. His eyes were too close together on the inside, but they were also large and were perfectly aligned with the outside of his face. Between them, his nose hung down, though it was neither blunt not fat; rather, it came down close to his face before suddenly veering outward to a sharp, medium point. He wore a hooded jacket over his shirt, though it was not stormy in the bay. Yet while the hood cast a shadow over his face, it did not dampen his eyes, which could not be overlooked. His left was the color of silvery moonlight, but his right as yellow as the sun.
“Lionel,” the blond Fardy called him by name, “How long?”
“There she is, already!” and he pointed to a Marin, riding low in the water. Beside it was a Timber, and to their left was another pair: Timber and Marin.
“The signal, then, Lionel.”
Lionel bent the handle of the rudder down, latching it to keep the ship’s course straight. Then he drew a pipe and match from the flap of his jacket and pretended to light the first with the second. He left the first match alight for three seconds, then blew it out and lit a second match for five seconds, lighting the pipe with it. A short time later, the same pattern was repeated by each of the nearby vessels: the Timbers and the Marins.
“Good: they are ready,” the clerk said. Then, turning to the black Fardy, he continued, “My masters to the first, and Lionel, Clifford, and myself to the second?”
“Of course. When it is over we will meet upon the first Timber?”
“Patience,” Clifford laughed, bouncing his shaggy eyebrows, “For if all goes well, I will be sleeping in a feather bed ere twelve hours have passed.”
“And may Gylain sleep below the sea!”
As the blond Fardy said this last line, the cutter passed the first Marin. The Fardy brothers – each armed with a short sword – looked over at the edge of the deck to the Marin, but a few feet below them, as it was mostly submerged. Several men stood there. When they saw the Fardy brothers, they motioned for them to jump. It was no more than five feet down and as many over. They landed with a soft thud.
“We are ready,” said the black Fardy.
“And so are they,” the blond Fardy gestured to the cutter, which had already reached the second Marin.
“Then we have only to capture the captain,” said one of the men, stepping forward from the shadows. He was short – no more than five foot – but strongly and stoutly built. He was evidently a dedicated geometrist, for his face was as round – proportionately – as his nose, his mouth, and his belly.
“Timultin!” cried the blond Fardy, “We are at last reunited! How have these treacherous days befallen you? But patience, for we have no time for idle speech at the moment. Where is the captain?”
“In her quarters: I am on watch.”
“ Her quarters? By the devil, let us hope it is not the devil. But come, we cannot delay! You must watch us as we imprison her . Come, to the bridge.” With that, the black Fardy entered the Marin through the third story door – the first and second were already many yards beneath the surface.
The door opened into a bare sealing room. They sealed themselves in and entered the main portion of the Marin, into a hallway lit only by covered lanterns. It stretched beyond sight in either direction, curving with the contour of the Marin, for it was the primary thoroughfare, connecting the various departments together. On the outer side there were no doors except the airlocks, but on the inner side doors were spaced an even three feet apart. Some led directly to rooms, others were steep, narrow stairways that tunneled into a deeper section of the floating mini-city.