‘I do understand,’ Gilmour said, ‘but given the circumstances, we might not have a choice.’
Steven sighed. ‘So what’s the main passage like?’
‘Oh, it’s not that tricky,’ Gilmour said nonchalantly. ‘The only captains who lose their ships in the archipelago are those in a great hurry to reach Pellia. They spot what they believe to be a deep passage west and run aground a few avens later. It’s a maze of twists and turns in there, and many wrecks litter the shallows. There’s no place for them to sink, so they break apart, leaving bits jutting up above the water. It’s quite unnerving to see if you haven’t been through before. They look like skeletons, some wearing sheets, all crippled by the wind and the rocks.’
A waft of pipe smoke drifted past Steven; it smelled sweet, familiar. Gilmour said, ‘A safe, deep-water channel runs northeast during this Twinmoon, and if you know it, or you have a good chart, you can make it through, but it feels wrong because you have to run far east before you turn southwest and run downwind into Pellia.’
Steven watched the sail fill as they moved towards the next bend in the fjord’s serpentine passage. ‘If Mark left Orindale for Pellia, and with that wave he sent for us, we have to assume he did, but if he’s travelling in a heavy ship with a deep draft, he’ll have to take the long way through.’
‘The only way through.’ Gilmour punctuated this point with his pipe stem.
‘The only way for a deep-drafting ship, a frigate or maybe a galleon, certainly. But what if we did make the run up there in this thing, could we take a short-cut?’
‘In this? We could, but we’d never catch him. I can see where you’re going, but a frigate or a galleon, they’ve enough sail on them to capture a typhoon. They might be bigger and heavier, but they’re much too fast for us, even with our magic. We’d probably survive the crossing; I’m not worried about that. We have enough power between us to get there in one piece. But even conjuring up a Larion tailwind, we’d never overtake Mark.’
Steven looked downcast. ‘I guess you’re right. And if we use magic, we’re just inviting him to crush us with another surprise from the bowels of that spell table. It was just a thought. I’d have liked to get there before he does.’
‘Sorry.’
Steven crept aft, careful not to rock them; he didn’t feel up to bailing icy seawater. ‘I’ll give Mark credit: he did a good job patching this tub together. There’s not a leak or a bit of rot that I can find, and the sheet seems to be in good shape.’
‘It’ll be a shame to abandon it out there.’
Steven took a bit of the old cloth between his fingers. ‘So you think they’ll be there?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Ever the optimist, Gilmour. That’s a good trait.’
‘I try.’ Gilmour shifted the tiller and released the sheet, crying out, ‘Jibing.’
‘Ducking,’ Steven replied, suiting actions to words.
‘What’s for dinner?’ Gilmour set a course for their camp, re-fixed the sail and re-lit his pipe.
‘Not a blessed thing,’ Steven replied, ‘unless you’ve got more than an unending supply of tobacco hidden in that cloak. Let’s hope Garec and Kellin hired a ship with a five-star galley. We’re going to need it.’
The Gloriette pool tilted, righted itself and then tilted the opposite way. Mark hung on to the marble column, expecting the ground beside the rectangular coping to do the same. It didn’t. He listened to the water slam into the far end of the marble tub, then slosh right and bounce back out of the darkness. It went on that way for a while, as if someone had balanced the whole lot on a see-saw.
The screaming started as a faint wail in the distance and rose in volume and intensity, then broke. Mark knew it was human; the high-pitched cry was interrupted only by frantic gulping for breath, then the scream modulated from a piercing shriek to a staccato of noisy panting shouts.
Ah, welcome, Redrick. Nice to have you with us.
The lights came up, dim at first and then bright enough to see the remains of the coral snake coiled in the mud, the rectangular pool, still sloshing back and forth, the marble columns, the coping and the arched bridge leading up the marshy slope to freedom. Distracted by the light and the brief opportunity to take everything in, Mark ignored the familiar voice; he even ignored the screaming.
‘Hello, jerkweed,’ he said to the snake, ‘how’s your head, still crushed?’
The serpent sentry lifted what was left of its head and attempted to hiss at him. It was decomposing in the humidity. Mark kicked the rotting snake into the pool, though he knew the ghoulish creature would be back.
Mark?
He moved to the next column. The snake was swimming after him, though it was struggling; he had broken many of its bones. He listened out for anything approaching through the foliage, but all he could hear were the cries of another soul damned to Hell – what did he say, Roderick? Rhetoric? He tiptoed across the coping and dashed for the next column in line. The lights were still on, and the marble bridge was only three columns away. ‘Three left,’ he muttered, ‘and then I’m coming for you.’
I’ve got you a present.
He wiped sweat from his face and checked his snakebites. The one he could see, on his wrist, was oozing a thick, pasty substance. He squeezed at the inflamed area around the punctures and frowned when a tablespoon of milky foulness spilled over the back of his hand. It had the consistency of hardening glue and smelled of summer gangrene, but once rid of the tapioca pus, the punctures ran freely with blood, cleansing themselves. Though he couldn’t see as well, Mark endeavoured to repeat the procedure on his leg. He didn’t feel sick or woozy or about to puke, nor did he feel his temperature rising, although any change would have been difficult to sense in this swampy heat.
Are you ignoring me?
Yup.’
But I’ve brought you something.
‘You mentioned that. It’s not a cheeseburger and a couple of cold beers, is it? Because that’s tops on my Christmas list these days. Otherwise, blow me.’
I’ll show you.
A black man, stripped to the waist and screaming in unholy terror, floated by in the pool. It sounded like all his nightmares were being realised, everything that had ever frightened him: the dark, the creature that haunted the woods outside town, the rainbow-coloured snake in the grass, it was all here. Mark had no idea if their new resident was seeing and feeling the same things, but he didn’t doubt that whatever held the sorry sod in its grip was unpleasant. He held fast to the third column from the bridge and watched the newcomer slip into the darkness of the other place. It was worse in there, like being trapped inside a stone.
So what do you think?
‘I think you’re a sick bastard,’ he said, checking the brush in hopes of catching sight of whatever might be waiting for him. ‘What did that guy ever do to you? Did he bang your wife? Steal your lunch money? What?’
I told you, Mark. He’s a present.
‘What do I want with him?’
Come on. I’ll show you.
A feeling of mild vertigo set him spinning as Mark felt the cool marble become insubstantial and waxy. Worried he might get trapped by the wrists, he backed away, checking for the snake and feeling the world upend. He tumbled backwards into the damp mire, watching as the giant tumorous tadpoles swam hurriedly after the newcomer.
‘Christ Almighty, they’re going to eat him,’ he shouted, and tried to roll into the pool, hoping to grab a few of the tadpoles and toss them into the swamp, where maybe they’d be eaten. But before he could move, the lights came up, brilliant yellow, and the air cooled.
He was lying on his bed. Steven was in the kitchen and the aroma of fresh coffee was snaking its way up the stairs. It was morning in the Rockies; the winter sun, unbearably bright at this time of day, had broken through the window to blind him. He revelled in the familiarity of things he knew by touch: the cool side of the pillow, the flannel blanket, the clean woollen socks, dry on his feet. Mark rolled over and pulled a bit of blanket between his knees; he didn’t know how anyone slept with their knees knocking together. Outside the wind brushed the ponderosas, singing a song unmistakable to anyone who had ever been in the mountains. There was no more perfect place on Earth than the Colorado hills.