‘What the hell is this?’ Mark asked, still hugging the column, still watching for the crippled coral snake. ‘What now?’
There was no answer.
‘Hey,’ Mark shouted across the basin and up through the tangled forest on the other side of the Gloriette, ‘hey, dickhead, what’s going on?’
Again, nothing.
As the marble coping, the marble columns and the narrow arched bridge came into focus, their haunted shadows banished, Mark realised something else: apart from the humming lights, there was no noise; there were no swampy smells. No insects buzzed and nipped at his face; no birds screamed, no frogs belched, nothing moved about in the brush. It was as if he had suddenly found himself on an elaborate sound stage, and all the dials labelled ‘Swamp Effects’ had been turned to zero.
‘Hey, stinky!’ he tried again. ‘You still up there?’
The warehouse lights brightened the forest enough for him to see where someone had been working. The view, obscured thus far by vines, clouds of fog and shadows, was now relatively clear, and Mark couldn’t spot anyone moving on the side of the hill.
‘Must’ve gone out, got hungry,’ he murmured.
But the real lights, the natural lights that he had been trying to reach, those were still on.
Mark gnawed on his lower lip, took a last look around, and said, ‘Screw it. Let’s go.’ If the person on the hill, the one responsible for summoning all those gruesome and disfigured creatures, was truly gone, even for a minute or two, it gave Mark the chance to be there when he got back. ‘Then I can kick your head in for you, motherfucker,’ he murmured as he sneaked along the coping towards the next column in the row.
He was across the bridge and partially up the slope before the warehouse lights went out with a second noisy thunk. A few seconds later, the swamp sprang back to life. Insects buzzed, and nibbled at his ears. The humidity went up as the perpetually fading twilight returned, and Mark could hear animals – snakes, rodents and small birds – moving amongst the branches.
Did you miss me?
Mark was huddled in the folding roots of a banyan tree; he kept silent.
Oh Mark, my friend, where are you?
He couldn’t see anything from his hiding place, but he could hear someone shuffling around. Whoever it was had found his way back inside the swamp, or the Fold, or wherever this place was.
I’m sorry, old friend, but I was- what’s the phrase? – out of it for a while. I ran into your companions, and we had a bit of a disagreement, but everything’s fine now.
No, it’s not, Mark thought. You’re moving around too much. Something’s wrong. Did Steven beat the shit out of you? Got some nasty bruises, have you? He had to bite his lip to keep from answering.
Don’t feel like chatting? I’ll see if anyone down there can find you for me.
Mark searched for the coral snake. It would be coming; it could smell him, taste him, whatever it does with that nasty little tongue. He’d have to move soon.
Just a few seconds, Mark thought, just give me a few seconds to figure out what’s going on, and I’ll come to you, dickhead. I’ll be right there.
‘Blackford!’ Redrick screamed as he stalked up the gangplank, and when he failed to appear, the enraged Ronan shouted for Kem. ‘Is that thing ready to ship?’ He pointed at the crate, trussed up with double and triple safety ropes, just in case.
‘Yes, sir, ah, Redrick, sir. Sorry,’ Kem stammered. ‘It’s all secured and ready to go, sir.’
‘Load it onto the ketch and do it quick, but if you so much as scratch the planks on that crate, I’ll gut the lot of you; understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Kem said, trying not to let the monster see how much he was shaking. His companions nodded agreement. ‘Sir, if you don’t mind, sir, but are you all right? I mean, we all heard the commotion over that way; it nearly knocked the whole crane down on us, sir.’
‘Don’t waste my fucking time!’ Redrick cried, and stormed off, still screaming for Captain Blackford.
‘All right, boys, you heard him,’ Kem said. ‘Let’s get this done right, and we might just live to see tomorrow.’ Despite the intricate system of double-block pulleys and winches, the crate was heavy; two of his mates hurried to help him as he manned the main line.
‘Haul her away lightly, boys,’ Kem sang out, ‘just up over the side, and then we’ll ease her down gently. That’s the way.’ They guided the crate over the starboard rail and slowly let the main line relax back through the pulleys. The crate descended into the ketch’s hold. Kem watched the little boat’s first mate, waited for the correct hand signal, then said, ‘And… that does it, quick and easy. Nice job, boys. First round’s on-’
Kem was thrown to the deck; his assistants were tossed over the side. One fell onto the rail of the ketch; shocked onlookers heard bones snap before he slipped between the two vessels and sank beneath the deep-water pier. The other crashed into the ketch’s hold, striking the edge of the crate they had just transferred with such care. By the angle of his head, it looked like his neck was broken cleanly.
The blast had been close, on deck somewhere, and when Kem came to a moment later and saw Redrick Shen bursting from the aft companionway, leaving the door in pieces and planks in the quarterdeck splintered and jutting upwards up like so many broken teeth, he recognised the cause.
‘Blackford!’ Redrick shouted, ‘where’s my fucking stone, Blackford?’
Kem tried to feign unconsciousness, figuring it might save his life, but he was too late; his movement had been noticed.
Redrick bounded across the deck, crouched down and asked, ‘Did you transfer my cargo?’
‘We did, sir,’ Kem whispered. ‘It’s safely aboard the ketch.’
‘Excellent. Join them, and have their captain set sail for Welstar Palace immediately. I will catch up to you before the midday aven. Remain within hailing distance of the west bank. Understand?’
‘Yes sir.’ Kern’s head felt as though it had cracked. He raised his hand to check his scalp for blood, but stopped when he saw Redrick’s face.
‘Now!’ Redrick said; his voice alone was enough to terrify the veteran seaman. ‘Where is Captain Blackford?’
Garec crawled towards Captain Ford. ‘Is she all right?’
‘She’s a bit banged about, but she’ll live. How about you?’
‘I’m fine,’ Garec lied. His head was ringing. ‘We need to get out of here. I’m going for Gilmour. You two, get ready to move, and watch for that young-looking prick in the sloppy tunic – that’s Mark Jenkins. He clobbered me, could’ve killed me; I don’t know why he didn’t.’
‘Where’s Gilmour?’ Brexan asked, rubbing her temples.
‘The last I saw him, he had crashed through that hut, over near the pier. Keep my bow; I’ll be back.’ Garec stood with a groan. ‘Be ready to run back to the Morning Star.’
‘Wait,’ Ford said, and pointed towards the wharf. ‘Look!’
The wharf and the road that fronted it were filling with Malakasian soldiers, their black and gold finery bright in the early sunlight.
‘Whoring rutters!’ Garec shouted, ‘we’ll never reach him now.’ He searched the street. ‘I should’ve known better,’ he muttered. ‘I should’ve known the bow would be useless – but I’ve no choice, no rutting choice at all.’ He grimaced. ‘I’ve just got to try.’
‘Garec, look at that,’ the captain interrupted. He was staring at a wooden crate suspended above the Bellan’s main deck. As they watched, it was hoisted carefully over the rail and down into the hold of the small boat lashed to the frigate. ‘Look at the way those sailors are handling that thing; it’s got two extra lines for rutting sake, and it’s bound up tighter than a whore’s purse. You’d think it had Captain’s Mother stencilled on the side.’
‘Then we’re too late.’ Brexan finally spoke. ‘We’ll have to follow them upriver. Can we catch that boat?’
‘If we don’t waste any more time around here,’ Ford replied. ‘That’s a ketch, and they can’t get much sail on her at all. If we can get out into the tide, we’ll run up on her with no trouble. But Mark will see us coming. There won’t be any hiding a brig-sloop under full sail running up his backside.’