ARC: The Corpse-Rat King (24 page)

“Oh, crap.”

The witch lay face down, one arm emerging from her filthy robes. Two small rings glinted in her open palm, directly between the King’s legs. Her face, what Marius could see of it above the line of the sand, was contorted in terror, her one visible eye wide open and staring. Something small and wet lay next to her mouth. In a certain light, if one were thinking of it in the right way, it might have been mistaken for the end of someone’s tongue. Marius tore his gaze away from her face, and found the King staring directly at him.

“Um…” Marius looked around him for any chance of help. Nothing. He pointed at the rings in the witch’s hand. “They’re mine.” Something inside him cringed, and disavowed all knowledge of the idiot who just said that. To make matters worse, his body now seemed to be acting independently of his thoughts, and was edging along the body to crouch and extend a cautious hand between the King’s legs. Marius checked in with his conscious mind, only to find it repeating the phrase “Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t” in a small, frightened voice, so he let it be. To his immense relief, the only thing his hand deigned to touch was the witch’s hand. Before he could protest his innocence, his hand snapped up the rings and slipped them onto his little finger. With nothing else to do, he straightened, and found himself face to face, inches from the king.

“I, um…” He smiled, a helpless, crazy thing that crawled across his lower face and refused to leave. He stepped back hurriedly, doing his best not to trip on the witch’s body. Desperate to look anywhere but the blank, non-accusing stares of the villagers he glanced over the King’s shoulder at the surf breaking on the sand. His jaw fall open, and without thinking he ran forward, bumping past the King and splashing into the surf.

“Where are the boats?” he cried, turning to face the natives. “Where’s the captain? Where are the fucking boats?”

The natives were looking past him, out towards the horizon. Marius went very still. He turned to follow their gaze, knowing as he did so what he was about to see.

Out towards the curve of the Earth, barely visible even with Marius’ dead sight, a small, muddy patch of white might just be a sail in full billow. As Marius watched it grew smaller, and dimmer, and faded away completely. The cows hide slipped through Marius' suddenly unfeeling fingers, and fell into the surf with a soft splash. Marius followed it seconds later, his legs giving way beneath him as if cut through by an axe.

“They didn’t do
that
by accident, did they?” he asked nobody in particular. Behind him, a multitude of feet shuffled, and slowly slithered across the sand, back towards the village. Within a minute he was alone, naked in the water.

SEVENTEEN

Marius sat in the sea for two days. Behind him, life for the natives returned to normal. The new King took up residence in his roundhouse. The bones of the old King were recovered from the embers and loaded into a large cane basket, which was taken to a tree at the highest point of the island, overlooking the bay, and hung amongst the remains of all the previous island rulers – no matter what he might face in days to come, the new King would be comforted by the knowledge that his forebears watched over him. The cane tables were broken down and returned to their various huts. The spoiled food was buried where native pigs could root it out later and eat, safely away from the local children. Those who had travelled from outlying villages made their goodbyes and wandered back down the forest paths towards their own homes. The timeless struggle of life on the Dog Crap Archipelago went on, much the same as it had every day of the previous three hundred years.

Marius squatted in the surf, dead eyes staring blindly at the empty horizon. The sun crawled towards its peak, driving the villagers indoors as the relentless heat reached its apex. Marius reddened under the onslaught. The surf slowly deepened, covering his outstretched legs, rising over his waist. The islanders returned to their tasks as the sun began the long descent towards night, and still Marius remained unmoving. Towards dusk, a thousand tiny stirrings announced the arrival of mud crabs from their lairs beneath the sand. They crawled over Marius’ immobile form, something in his flesh persuading them against an exploratory nibble. Birds arrived, attracted by the crabs, and as the water deepened into the night, fish. Still, they ignored Marius and he ignored them. He had no thought for survival. He had no thoughts at all. With no escape, and no possibility of returning to Scorby with a ruler for the dead, he was finally, irrevocably trapped. There was nothing to do but wait. The dead would arrive in their own time. After that, whatever fate could be considered worse than death, well, it would be his.

As the sun rose on the third day, several men emerged from the King’s round house and drew an outrigger from its berth amongst the dunes. They dragged it down the beach and into the water a foot or two to Marius’ side. A minute or so later a hand fell on his shoulder. Marius shuddered. Slowly, as if having to remember how to do so, his head swivelled around to view the hand, then followed the arm upwards until his eyes met those of the new King. He blinked. The King tilted his head to indicate the boat behind him. Marius’ gaze followed the movement. He stared at the boat, then back at the man standing over him. The King took a step backwards and offered his hand. Marius stared at it for several seconds, as if unable to work out what it was. Then, slowly, he reached out and took the hand in his. The King leaned back, and hauled Marius to his feet. Together they sloshed through the surf towards the boat. The islanders held it steady as the King climbed in and took his seat in the prow, then two of them took Marius by the arms and hauled him inside, seating him halfway along the boat’s length. The villagers clambered in behind him. The King barked a short command, and they leaned into their oars, driving the boat past the first line of breakers and out towards the ocean.

It took less than ten minutes to power their way clear of the bay. Marius sat in silence, watching the King’s broad back as the waves sped by underneath the boat. He leaned forward into the spray like a pet dog leaning out of a carriage window, face extended high to catch as much of the breeze as possible. The rowers sat around Marius, impassively leaning forward and back with each stroke, looking neither left nor right as they concentrated on their rhythm. Lulled by the regular pushing of the boat against the water, the heat, and the absence of human sound, Marius found his mind wandering to the journey ahead. There seemed little doubt that the King had decided to chase the
Minerva
. Understandable, really. A dead body on the beach and then Marius sitting in the water, all in the first few hours of his reign – these were the sort of things that could easily be seen as omens of bad things to come. Marius could admire the speed with which the King had arrived at a solution. When in doubt, make a decision,
any
decision, and deal with the consequences later. Any movement is better than none. Advice, he recognised with a rueful grin, he would have done well to follow instead of wasting two days in despair while the ship raced onwards. The island men seemed indefatigable. Perhaps, if they took the task in shifts and the
Minerva
ran out of wind somewhere along the way, they could catch up. Then what? Wait until night, row silently under the view of the watch, a stealthy ascent of the outer hull? And then… well, then he would make a decision, and deal with whatever consequences arose. No matter the result, he decided, he would remember the King’s kindness, and find a way to reward him in suitable fashion.

As Marius was pondering, the boat slowed and came to a stop. The rowers immediately fore and aft of Marius shipped their oars. Marius peered at the surrounding ocean. Featureless water rolled away on all sides. The King had turned in his seat, and was staring impassively at Marius. Marius raised his eyebrows in enquiry.

“Is something wrong?” he croaked, noting with surprise how thin and broken his voice sounded after almost three days of exposure. In response the King looked beyond him, and slowly nodded once.

Immediately, strong arms wrapped themselves around Marius, pinning his arms to his sides. The rower in front of him turned. In one fluid movement he swept up a net from the floor of the boat and jammed it over Marius’ head. While Marius was still stunned into immobility, the sack was drawn tight. Hands gripped his ankles. Marius found his senses and began to struggle, but it was too late. He was hoisted from his perch, and swung into the air. The tension on the net ceased. He hit the water, and immediately began to sink.

Marius panicked as the water closed over him, the thrashing of his arms only serving to wrap the net tighter about his head. After a few moments the panic passed. He stilled his body, spread his arms and legs in an effort to retain some buoyancy. Slowly, he reached under the edge of the net and worked his fingers along the edge, lips tightening in rage as he felt the rocks tied onto it to add weight. He pulled it off, and watched it spiral into the dark below him, then flailed about until his head broke the ocean’s surface.

The outrigger was already a hundred feet away, the islanders heading back to their beach with all possible speed. Marius spluttered as his head cleared the water and stared after them.

“Bastards!”

The effort of shouting unbalanced him. He slipped beneath the surface, then fought his way above once more.

“Come back, you traitorous…”

He gagged as he took in another mouthful. The islanders ploughed on, not one of them looking back at the spot where Marius floated. Marius watched them getting smaller. Make a decision, he thought. Well, the King had certainly done that. Now, all that was left to Marius was movement. Any movement was better than none. He fixed his eyes upon the slowly diminishing stern of the outrigger, and started to swim after it.

In thirty-eight years of life, Marius had seen cities at every edge of the continent, from the Borgho slums in the east to the great perfumed quarters of Tal in the west, from avenues carved into the cliff faces of the Northern Mountain Kings to the vast mobile tent markets of the caravanserai that endlessly circled the Southern Dry. He had served in more armies than there were countries; watched rebellions begin and be quashed; gulled coins; seduced princesses, whores, mothers and virgins; argued politics with students and talked philosophy with all three emperors; been imprisoned and escaped more times than he could remember; looted battlefields; hunted witches; swindled, lied, cheated, conned, duped, plotted, regretted, defrauded, deceived and always,
always
, stayed one step ahead.

He had never once learned to swim.

The next few minutes were full of movement. Unfortunately for Marius, most of it was downwards. He thrashed his arms with the best of intent, but no matter how he shovelled water behind him, slowly, inevitably, his head slipped below the waves. Still, being dead had its advantages. Removed from the need to breathe, the water around him was no impediment to his industry: he beat on, movements slowed by the weight of the water, and did manage to achieve some form of progress. For every foot of forward momentum he achieved he slipped seven lower, until he glanced down and was embarrassed to see the white sand of the ocean bottom only a foot or so below his dangling feet. Marius ceased his efforts and settled gently onto the sand.

For a moment or two he stood, stupidly staring at the ocean floor. Then he doubled over and placed his hands on his knees. His body shook, and only the tiny fish that darted this way and that around the ocean floor were witness to his fit of hysterical laughter. Eventually the laughter slowed. Marius straightened, and drew his hands across his eyes, which prompted another bout of laughter as he realised the futility of trying to wipe away tears whilst half a fathom below the sea. When he had at last regained his composure, he set his shoulders, and offered silent thanks that he had not turned around during his landing. He lifted his foot and took a slow step forward, testing his balance against the underwater tides and the increase in pressure. When he had completed it safely he paused, made sure of himself, and took another step. Then he was off, taking sluggish, heavy steps, ignoring the alien life that swirled around him before flitting off on its own particular path. Sooner or later, at some point ahead, the land would begin to rise. He would emerge, like an Old God from the surf, and stride up a beach. And then he would find out where he was, and make plans, and see an end to the events that had taken his life so far out of his control.

Somewhere ahead of him, the King of Scorby lay in state, viewed by thousands of loyal subjects a day, guarded by the finest palace guards, counting down the days to his immolation and ascension to Heaven. Marius pursed his lips, and began to hum an extremely dirty marching song he had learned in service to the King’s father. After walking the length of an ocean, armed with nothing more than two wedding rings and a dirty song, stealing him and delivering him to the armies of the dead would be a doddle.

The dead do not tack. They do not lie becalmed, waiting for a stray wind to propel them. They have no need to turn into a storm, or pull into sheltered bays to effect running repairs. A dead man, finding himself under fifty feet of water, with nothing to do but trudge along in a straight line, mile after mile, stopping neither for sleep nor weather conditions, with only the task of following one foot after another and avoiding coral outcrops and the attentions of any stray predator that might wish to investigate his passage, can make thirty miles a day without conscious effort. Marius did his best to take interest in his surroundings, but so far below the surface the world is a dark and gloomy one, and even with his dead vision he could see only a few feet in any direction. Tiny fish darted here and there, colourless and pale. Small, scuttling things ran across the sand at his feet, stirring up puffs of sediment that added to the general gloom. Once, something massive and slow slid overhead, announcing itself with a long wave of disturbed water. Everything around Marius stopped as it passed, and even he paused, aware of the sudden emptiness the giant, unseen shape caused. Only once it had passed by did life slowly return to the space around him, and he continue his plodding journey.