‘Where?’
‘Above.’
He looked up, and almost cried out. There was light, but it was not just that cold, sterile light given off by her creature. There was a blue above him that he had almost forgotten, and he lunged to his feet, one hand extended as if he could grasp the sun and hold it close to him, take it down to burn away all the horrors of the depths.
‘I have to go outside,’ he told her. ‘Please, I have to feel the air.’
She had retreated all the way across the chamber from him now, as though he had suddenly become a dangerous madman. He did not notice any signal from her, and certainly she did not voice her permission, but there was an opening now, where a moment before the floor had been unmarred. Water was instantly washing about his ankles, and he knew he would somehow have to swim – out from under the monster’s bulk – but in that moment he did not care about its stinging tendrils, or the drag of the water, or his own inability. He pulled the caul over his head and simply dropped through the gap into the sea.
For a moment he was sinking, but he was still within a forest of tentacles, and they allowed him purchase. He struggled through them, finding that a path opened whichever way he turned, fighting his way through the dense geography of the creature’s underside, knowing only that the air was there somewhere beyond, if he could only reach it.
There came a moment when there was nothing above him but the water, and Stenwold kicked and scrabbled, flopping and grasping his way up along the curve of the creature’s side, until his head broke the lapping surface of the water and he could pull the caul from his face.
It was a bright day: the sky was near cloudless and the Lash was not clogging the horizon. Stenwold Maker fought his way up on that rubbery, giving slope and, from there, on to that scant section of Lyess’s companion that broke the surface Once there he collapsed onto his back, arms outstretched and looking into the vast, welcome emptiness of the sky, smelling the fresh salt air.
If I could only fly, the thought came to him. But he knew the answer to that one: if he could fly, he could maybe escape Lyess, but never the sea. He could not know what direction to go in, and nobody, of any kinden whatsoever, could possess the stamina to make it to land from this remote spot. There was nothing but water from one end of the horizon to the other, and not a sail to sully the endless waves.
Still, it was sweet. It was a pleasure he had taken for granted all his life, but it was so sweet now.
How long he lay there, his tattered clothes drying, stiff with salt, he could not have later said, but at last the thing beneath him began to move, to subside slowly into the water. Damn her, he thought, instantly bitter. Was this so hard? Is Nemoctes’s schedule so rushed? Do we not have ‘time’? He tugged on the caul and slipped back into the sea, knowing that he would have no option save to return to that captivity or else to drown. This time the sea-monster’s tentacles brushed him forward in rippling eddies, almost dragging him to the point where the open mouth waited to swallow him again. Cursing all sea-kinden he dragged himself through, feeling it close so swiftly that the cold, gelid flesh of it slobbered against his foot.
He gave out a cry of disgust and turned to glare at Lyess. ‘What news?’ he ordered of her. ‘I assume there must have been some news, that we must now hurry to these Hot Stations?’
Kneeling with head bowed, her hair flowing over her face, Lyess made no answer.
‘Speak to me,’ he insisted. ‘What has happened that we have to go under again?’
‘We had to descend,’ she confessed, very softly, and then looked up at him. Stenwold heard himself make a strange sound. Her skin, the skin of her face, was cracked and wrinkled, as though she had aged decades. ‘The sun harms us,’ she told him. ‘My companion and I, we cannot bear its touch.’
Would you like me to show you the sun? she had asked. He felt ill. ‘Your face… will you…?’
‘I will be well soon,’ she assured him. ‘But the sun will kill us if we let it. That has been known. We are much more of the sea than the other sea-kinden. To us, the land is only an echo in the memories. We were the first – or almost the first.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
She just stared blankly back at him and asked, ‘What for?’
Laszlo woke at the words ‘Hey, land-kinden’, finding that he understood them, and his current situation, without any clutching confusion. He was lying in one of the cargo nets that draped the interior of Wys’s barque, and had found it served as a hammock by any other name. He opened an eye to find Phylles regarding him suspiciously.
‘Someone here you should see, Wys says,’ the Polypoi woman told him. She kept her distance, mostly, and he guessed it was because she was unsure of what dangerous Art he might possess. Which would be a wise thought, if I was something other than a Fly.
He dropped down from his roost with a flicker of wings that made Phylles back up several steps more, then saw immediately who she had meant. Wys and Fel were both standing near the hatch, along with a tall, broad-shouldered man in armour.
‘Who’s he?’ the Fly asked. ‘How’d he get here?’ Phylles flicked a finger past his shoulder, towards the window. There was something hanging in the water, and Laszlo had to stare at it a while before he understood. It was of almost the exact size and shape as the submersible, save that it was still living. Where Wys had placed her hatch sprouted the head and arms of a sea monster, The eye was enormous and white, with a tiny pinprick of a pupil, set beneath a mottled leathery flap that looked to Laszlo like some kind of poorly fitting cap. There was a forest of writhing tendrils in front of the eye, far more than any creature could surely find a use for. Compared to Arkeuthys, Laszlo decided, it looked placidly inscrutable, as though it knew a great deal that it wasn’t letting on about.
He marched over to Wys, determined to see what madman had come sailing to them aboard such a beast. The newcomer looked as though he was some kind of Kerebroi, and a powerful and elegant one, at that. His skin was darker than Paladrya’s, or that of the oubliette guards: the sort of faded brown that bones turned to out in the desert. He had a high forehead, long black hair curling from a widow’s peak, and his beard gleamed with oils. His armour impressed Laszlo the most, if only because it was comprehensible to him as something that could be manufactured and worn. The individual pieces had obviously been accreated: moulded out of something like crabshell into the form of breastplate, shoulder-guards, greaves and the like, and fantastically wrought into the shape of waves and sea-wrack, scallops and coiled snails. But at least it was a suit of plate armour such as land-kinden might wear, rather than the monstrous, all-encompassing carapaces of the Onychoi. Hanging from a loop at his waist was a truly nasty-looking weapon, a crowbar crossed with a pickaxe, that must be of some use in levering both men and monsters out of their shells. There was also a shield slung across his back.
He was possibly the most normal person that Laszlo had seen in some while.
‘Little land-kinden,’ Wys gestured, ‘meet Nemoctes.’
Laszlo gave the man a grudging nod. He remembered that name, at least, from their interrupted conference.
Nemoctes regarded him evenly. ‘Greetings to you, land-kinden.’
‘The name’s Laszlo. Where’s Master Maker?’ Laszlo saw no particular reason to be polite about it.
‘Safe,’ Nemoctes assured him. ‘As safe as we can make him. There were complications or I would have sent word earlier.’
‘What complications?’ Laszlo wanted to know.