​​​​9 A Nasty Piece of Work

THREADFIN STOOD AT the bow of a one-hundred-and-sixty-foot-long deck. It was the largest ship of what remained of the imperial fleet. The quinquereme cut through the swells of the Adalcis Ocean with pride. The viral felt damp and could taste nothing but salt as the spray misted across the prow.

The sails on the twin masts billowed in the wind, the oars raised, giving three hundred rowers some respite. Most of them couldn’t leave their positions since they provided much of the dromon’s ballast in open water. Barrels of water and sea-biscuits, dried fruit, fish, and such provided the rest. In the distance, to starboard, loomed the coast of northern Adalalcas. They would follow the coastline west until they reached Tiral. Over five hundred miles in total.

Threadfin turned as he heard footsteps approach. The first mate was a haggard looking man in his forties, sun-browned with an incongruous mass of whiskers and wrinkles, which made him look seventy. Behind him were rows of tents on the wide deck where the marines slept. These lined either side beneath the protective bulwark. Three large catapults and two ballistae occupied the centre, fore and aft of the main mast.

The first mate stank of the sea, of sweat, oil, fish and above all, salt.

‘How long to Tiral?’ asked Threadfin, from behind the veil of his dalba. He hated the dratted thing – Why should I have to hide what I am? His Darken had insisted he not upset the crew. Of course, to Threadfin’s thinking, the dalba advertised his presence. Pole had told them he was some sort of church paytor from an obscure vocation. He didn’t think anyone had bought it.

‘What you doin’ aboard this vessel, undeader?’ the first mate demanded, confirming his fears. ‘You don’t think you can hide what you are, do ya?’

Threadfin glanced at the man, noting the hatred in his eyes. The sailor was a Tiralian but most were. Problem was, Tiralians were a superstitious bunch. Sailors already being prone to the same stupidity meant the man beside him was twice as likely to toss him overboard. ‘I will remind you this ship and crew are under the command of my sister, Aiyana Mayala Todralan.’

The breather stepped closer, and Threadfin felt his magic respond. Filaments of power leaked from the dead pores of his scaly skin, feeding on his reserves, which were already low.

‘You think,’ the first mate whispered, ‘I’m afraid of you? Attack me with your evil magic, and this ship’s crew will chop you to pieces. I bet you’ll not kill all of us afore we get you. I’ve seen it afore, ya see. Oh, yes, there’s others like you, although not many. They didn’t get ye all with them purges, but we clean up the leftovers good.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Threadfin, ‘but it still wouldn’t save you, would it?’

‘Best way of dealing with Plagueborners I heard, is to chop ’em up into small chunks, and feed ’em to the sharks.’ Several of the crew had gathered, all ready to do as described. Some of them wore long narrow knives or daggers.

I could drain them all of life, but ... ‘Your captain,’ said Threadfin in a calm voice, looking for another way to deal with this, ‘let us aboard four days ago, for gold. We’ve paid our passage. Not to mention you’re an Icarthian in the imperial fleet. I’ll remind you one final time, my sister holds Icarthya and the Black Palace. She is a Todralan.’

He spied Vilt, Nevet and Pole approaching, the latter two with hands gripping hilts as they eyed the sailors. The sergeant held her composite bow in her right hand, unstrung, but she wore her daggers and sword. She’d borrowed spare arrows from the ship’s stock.

‘We all know what your sister is,’ another sailor said, ‘and what name she calls herself matters none to us.’ This was the bow officer, a burly man with a red beard, one of the few crew members who wasn’t Tiralian.

‘Everyone knows the imperium’s ended,’ said the first mate. ‘Civil war’s comin’, and then we’ll see who shits in the palace privy, eh? In the meantime, we’d like you off this ship.’

‘Problem boys?’ Pole asked in a loud voice. The Darken shoved through the knot of men. Nevet and Vilt had drawn swords, and positioned themselves behind the first mate. He’d die first. Threadfin noticed several of the crew arranging themselves too, but they had lost their confidence, looking nervous.

The first mate didn’t turn, but held his gaze on the mage. ‘You’ll keep out of this, Pole. You and your friends. The one with the scars is sort of cute though. I like scars on a bitch, though I prefer to give ’em personal.’

Vilt cursed, daggers flashing into her hands, the bow abandoned. She took a step towards the first mate, but Pole grabbed her arm. ‘Enough of this, Eb,’ he said. ‘You’ll be the first gutted if you keep it up. All them whores you keep warm in port will miss your gnarly hide so they will.’

‘I remember you, alright,’ said Eb, turning to eye the Darken, ‘you thieving bastard. Weren’t you meant to be executed? I mean, what do we pay taxes for?’

‘Uh, we don’t pay no taxes, Eb,’ said one of the sailors.

The first mate didn’t appear to hear. ‘And wasn’t it your lovely wife sent you to the Stone in the first place? Cold is that. Think I’d have liked her alright.’

Threadfin stared at his Darken as did some of the others. A wife?

‘You want to annoy those marines behind us?’ asked Pole. ‘Boring for soldiers aboard ship. Days on end with no excitement. They get all jittery, wantin’ to stab someone.’

‘Been making new friends?’ Eb sneered.

‘Didn’t come good on those gambling debts, I heard. Promises won’t keep you in one piece for long.’

Threadfin saw a dozen imperial marines had gotten to their feet, holding their weapons casually. All of them were staring at the crew, at Eb. With them was Tope, chatting to one, earning some laughs. The mage realised his companions hadn’t been idle. They’d been forming alliances, his Darken likely having understood the situation from the start.

The crew noting all this, scattered. The first mate, to his credit, took his time. ‘One way or other, you lot are off this ship.’

‘Sure,’ said Threadfin, ‘when we reach Tiral.’

‘Eight, ten days is a long time in open water, undeader.’ The first mate turned and left.

Typical of the way things were going, the captain chose then to patrol the deck. The soldiers turned to the examination of their armour, or chatted among themselves. Tope strolled over to join Vilt and Nevet.

‘Well,’ said the mage, ‘at least we’ve got allies.’

Pole snorted. ‘Wouldn’t get excited about it. Them lot there is about all there is as allies go. Fought in Byrsa so they know you saved their skins. Tope there, and myself, been reminding them is all. Soldiers don’t forget, but sometimes a reminder’s no harm. The rest, well, they won’t try harm you, but I don’t think they’ll get in the way of the crew. Most of those are recruits. Was also what this ship was doing in Byrsa. Your sister’s trying to rebuild the legions.’

‘You never mentioned a wife.’

Pole stared at him, jaw muscles bunching.

‘The first mate,’ said Nevet, taking Pole’s attention, ‘he knew you.’

‘Ebben Bandar,’ said the Darken with a nod. ‘Nasty piece of work. Crossed paths years ago. He ended up worse off and hasn’t forgotten. Don’t bother going to the captain over this by the way. Won’t do no good. He’s as superstitious as the rest. He knows who you are, but he likes gold. Besides, he probably thought you’d sink his ship if he didn’t let you aboard. Folk got funny ideas about what virals can do.’

‘No kidding,’ Threadfin muttered. He noticed Podral probing his left side, where a spear had grazed his ribs from behind, slicing open his leather cuirass. He’d since abandoned the armour. Medicus aboard had said he’d been lucky. Several inches to the right, though ...

His Darken grimaced, and placed a hand on Threadfin’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, lad, we’ll get there. Your dalba though, it’s a magnet for those who hate undeaders. You should take it off. Wear a cloak. Maybe stick to the cabin altogether.’

As the Darken walked away, the viral thought of several choice curses, but ended up mumbling. Bloody dalba had been his idea. No wonder his wife had tried to kill him. It didn’t seem like Pole was going to elaborate either, but Threadfin would find out her name. He’d noticed Vilt had seemed unsurprised at the news.

He’d secured a cabin, the only one on the ship, apart from the captain’s. He’d paid a small fortune in gold dralans for it too. If Aiyana knew what he was spending ... the cabin was located at the stern and above deck. Most dromons weren’t designed for comfort.

‘Where’s Grudge gotten to?’ Threadfin called to the others. ‘Haven’t seen him since we boarded.’

‘Tossing his guts up,’ said Vilt. ‘Never saw a man throw up so much in all my life. Unnatural if you ask me.’

‘Huh,’ said Nevet. ‘Grudge is unnatural. Who’d have guessed?’

‘Probably thinkin’ of his Ma,’ suggested Tope. ‘I feel sick myself, thinking of his bloody Ma. I bet she had thick hairy legs.’

‘Can we not talk about, you know ... any of that?’ Threadfin was now feeling a little ill too.

‘Told him to see the ship’s medicus,’ said Vilt, ‘but he’s a stubborn bastard.’

‘Weird is what you ... ow!’ said Tope, earning a punch in the arm from Vilt.

‘Yeah sure,’ said Nevet, ‘but he’s reliable. Best scout I ever came across, and handy with a sword in a tight spot.’

No one disputed that, and Vilt smiled with pride.

Spray rose over the prow, the bronze battering ram gleaming in the sporadic sunlight. It was in the shape of an angel, her bronze wings swept back and forming part of the bulwark. ‘I’m getting soggy,’ Threadfin noted. ‘Best get back to the cabin. Might be some time before I see a natron bath again.’

‘What?’ asked Nevet, ‘ain’t sea salt no good for, well, you know?’

‘Sea is wet, stupid,’ said Tope.

‘No way, the sea’s wet?’ Nevet nodded to the others. ‘I’m getting something to eat. Talking makes me hungry. Anyone?’

The viral made his way to the stern, passing by the huge catapults. He couldn’t waste time worrying over the first mate. He had boarded this ship because his power had become unreliable. He needed a way to fix the problem and quick. He didn’t trust Eb Bander not to try something.

As he reached the cabin, he tore off the dalba, and hurled it over the side. Turning, he saw Bandar watching him. Ducking inside, Threadfin knew he had to learn the extent of his problem. He no longer believed they’d make it to Tiral.

Oh well. Guess it’s time for some dangerous experimentation. Just nobody go and tell that mothering Darken of mine.

‡

WITHIN THE CRAMPED cabin, the undead mage sat on a wooden bunk. A squall was coming, and the heaving motion of the ship had turned Pole from pale to green. Threadfin was always amazed at how breathers changed colour. The Darken had gone outside twice in fifteen minutes. The others would position themselves nearby on deck, ready to react to any threat.

‘Not surprised you’re ill,’ Threadfin commented, as Pole stumbled back inside. ‘You shouldn’t have had those eggs. You know, now I think about it, they didn’t look fresh; all yellow and runny.’ The crew had taken on several so-called fresh food items in Byrsa, before matters turned ugly, including eggs and several types of dried fruit. It had all looked questionable. They often used up the fresh items first, saving their twice-baked biscuits for the longer journeys at sea.

‘You stinkin’ undead lizard-faced ...’ Pole managed, before unlatching the door and rushing outside.

Lizard, eh, he thought, hah, good one. Threadfin was delighted his Darken was becoming imaginative with the insults. They had a good relationship, but inventive insults gave it a little spice.

Holding up the bronze fragment, which he’d brought with him, his smile fell. His talent enabled him to use reflections, windows into other worlds. In most of those worlds there existed other Threadfins, all of them breathers. Those worlds, he couldn’t enter. Not without losing himself, well, to his other self. Besides, without the Shathra Stone, he couldn’t enter other worlds anyway. He had tried, seeking a way to follow Lorn, hoping she’d chosen one where he didn’t exist. All his attempts had failed in dramatic fashion.

Still can’t figure out how she managed it. What he could do, was hop to another location in this world, which didn’t used to be a problem. He needed to understand why it wouldn’t work anymore, before he could attempt to fix it.

Pole barged into the cabin. He looked a little better, less green. The gruff Darken held up a single finger. ‘Todder, I’m warning you not to mention—’

‘Wet, runny eggs?’ suggested Threadfin in a helpful tone. ‘Or do you mean those wrinkly dried peppers, all black and gooey on the inside. Makes them easier to eat, I suppose. Slides down the throat nice and soft. No, I promise on my scaly hide, not to mention any of those.’

The ship heaved upwards on a swell, and down with a roll to starboard. Pole forgot to shut the door on his way out. It slammed against the wall of the creaking cabin. Threadfin was about to get up and shut it, when he caught sight of a figure in the fragment’s reflection.

The previous image of Lorn sitting behind him had vanished. Instead, a lithe dark-haired woman was running. By her movements, she appeared exhausted. Yes, it was Lorn. Was he seeing her as she was now or was this the future? Might be the past, which wouldn’t help. Well, none of it helped, since he couldn’t follow her.

He ignored the swinging door and reached out, questing for life aboard the ship. He’d borrow a little, feeding off the rowers below, careful not to draw too much. His reserves weren’t bad, but for what he wished to attempt, he needed more. The pustules on his body bulged with vitality, pink and healthy, a contradiction Podral in his current state wouldn’t appreciate. A few sick rowers wouldn’t matter, not with these winds. At least, he hoped not. Yes, there, he couldn’t possibly hold another drop of lifeforce.

A tendril of his magic, a wisp not a hair’s width, leaked from his fingertips to touch the mirror’s surface. He needed to do some careful probing before using his full power. Something latched on to his magic, feeding on it. Threadfin let out a yell. Too late, he saw his reflection leering back. It drained all the magic from him, as it reached for his soul. Threadfin began to drain more from the ship’s crew, from the marines, trying to stave off the attack.

The first mate burst in, a bloodied knife in each hand. Blood also plastered the left side of his face. Blisters covered the rest. There were several others cluttered behind him, amid the sounds of intense fighting.

Bandar snarled as he lunged for the mage.

It proved too late for Threadfin to do anything – though his free hand moved to one of the weapons he wore. A pointless gesture.

As usual, it had all gone horribly wrong.