Bloodrush (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 1) (5 page)

Now the faerie was crouching under the lip of the trusty rucksack, eying the towers and cranes of Boston’s sprawling port, which yawned like the maw of some giant stag beetle. Between its jaws, a horde of ships and fractured islands jostled for space in a forest of masts and spars. If Rhin squinted, his keen Fae eyes could make out the clock towers and balloon docks of the city proper, lurking in the thick sea-fog that clung to the shoreline.

Merion was squinting too—not because he wanted to sightsee, but because the rain seemed to be pursuing a vendetta against his eyes. It was that horrid fine kind that soaks you to the bone in minutes. He had been standing on deck for the past hour, watching America crawl out of the fog to greet them, piece by jagged and sea-washed piece.

Boston looked like London from the water, but flatter, as though somebody had flattened the whole city with the back of a colossal frying pan. Its buildings, what few of them he could see through the confounded, blinding drizzle and sea fog, were squat and wood-built. At least by the docks they were. When he blinked, he spied a few lonely towers here and there, in the far distance, but nothing so special as the spires of his home. He felt cold on the inside, and the rain had nought to do with it.

‘Boston,’ he muttered.

‘Looks … delightful,’ Rhin replied, in a whisper.

‘An admiral once told me that the only port worth taking the time to ogle at from the water was that of Venezia. Before the sea swallowed it, of course,’ Merion said, not knowing where that little scrap of nonsense had bubbled up from. ‘And I also remember my father saying something about the docks being the arse-hole of a city. Besides, we aren’t staying.’

‘Eloquent, that Prime Lord,’ Rhin chuckled, then immediately winced. He could even feel Merion’s body shift a little, through the straps of the pack. Strangely the boy didn’t sag, as he’d expected, but somehow
stiffened
. Rhin bit his lip. ‘Sorry. Too soon,’ he said. ‘You okay?’

Merion nodded. ‘Just fine.’

Rhin knew that was a lie, but he didn’t push the matter.
Melancholy crumbles, and anger snaps
. He knew that better than anyone. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that arse-hole better pucker up for our arrival.’

‘If we ever get to the wharf, that is,’ replied the boy.

Merion was right. There was a long, winding queue of ships between the bow of the
Tamarassie
and the wharfs of Boston’s inner harbour. They jostled like rats in a barrel. Merion scowled and pouted, and stuffed his gloved hands deeper into his pockets, trying to dig out some warmth. ‘What a foul welcome this is.’

It was then that a familiar voice rang out. ‘Hey, son! There he is. C’mere!’

It was the old American woman, swaddled in an oversized sealskin coat with a hood big enough for her head and some extra luggage. She was marching towards him across the slimy deck, beckoning him repeatedly.

Merion prodded himself with his own finger. ‘Madam?’

‘Don’t worry about ma’am-ing me now. C’mon. We’re getting off.’

Merion shook his head. ‘Pardon me, it sounded as though you said you’re
getting off
?’

‘That we are. Captain Smout has ordered some boats be dropped, so we don’t have to wait for the ship to dock.’

‘But my luggage …’

‘See this is why I travel light!’ she said, patting her huge coat. ‘Don’t worry, you can collect your things once the
Tamarassie
’s made port. Give her an hour or so. In the meantime, you’re free to roam the docks.’

Merion wasn’t sure that he wanted to ‘roam’ anything, never mind a foreign port, no doubt overrun with scoundrels and thieves. Witchazel’s instructions, which, incidentally, were crumpled up in a tight ball in the pocket of his overcoat, were to meet a gentleman by the curious name of Coltswolde Humbersnide. He would be waiting at the
Tamarassie
’s allotted berth, the Union Wharf, just south of where the Charles River met the Mystic River. What an odd name that was, Merion thought, not for the first time since turning his back on London. He wondered if it were Shohari-speak.

‘My apologies, madam, but I’m to meet a man at the Union Wharf, you see, and …’

The old woman simply tutted. ‘And so you shall, young’un. Now c’mon!’

And with that she seized his wrist and towed him away, off towards the stern and a rickety boat bobbing up and down on the oil-slicked waters of the harbour. The scents that assailed his nose were quite astounding, and potent too. Merion felt that familiar bile rising in his throat again. But he had no time for puking. The woman practically lifted him onto the rungs of the rope ladder, and down he went.

‘Please don’t fall. I’m not a fan of drowning,’ muttered the faerie in his rucksack.

Merion’s heart leapt for a moment as his foot missed one of the slippery wooden rungs. ‘Neither am I, now keep your head down.’

‘Aye,’ Rhin said, as he melted into the shadows.

The boat lurched when he touched it. He felt a rough hand snatch at his flapping coat, and he was yanked down onto a wet bench. A family of three sat opposite him, eyes half-closed, silently enduring the drizzle.

‘Good morning.’

‘Нет, спасибо,’ replied the man, in a language that was utterly foreign.

‘Of course.’ Merion shook his head and stared at the floor awash with water.
Some inheritance this was turning out to be
, he thought, and instantly the red flush of guilt flooded his cheeks, making his neck itch.

He heard a shout and looked up to see that the old woman was now shimmying down the ladder, and with ease too. The boat rocked hideously as she climbed aboard, making the mother of the foreign family moan rather woefully. Merion could have sworn she was slowly turning green. The father gently patted her shoulder, whispering something in her ear while the son was busying himself with kicking his shoes together.

‘Here we all are, then,’ announced the woman with a clap. ‘Are we off, boys?’

‘Yes ma’am,’ replied one of the two sailors, as he and another put their hands to the thick oars.

Mercifully, the drizzle became bored and moved south with the same breeze that came to poke at the fog. A little sun pierced the murky morning haze, and Boston was allowed to sparkle for a time. Under the spring sun’s eager light, the docks took on a different feel. Colour spilled out of every nook and cranny. The cranes were not made of weathered, ashen wood, as Merion had judged, but of a wood that was a deep crimson mixed with coffee. The ships’ banners, which had hung so lifeless in the rain, now shone with bright reds and jolly yellows.

As they swung to and fro between the ships and the pillars of the tall wharfs, Merion caught glimpses of markets and inns and performers poking their heads above the crates and railings. A little something stirred in him then, a boyish lust for vivid colours and noise, and perhaps the slightest hint of danger. He rose slightly from his seat, but the old woman by his side dragged him back down. ‘You’ll tip the boat, young’un. Be careful now.’

‘Of course, madam.’ Merion sat back down, but kept his neck craned and his eyes peeled for wondrous things. ‘Is it far?’ he asked. All thoughts of father and fate had momentarily been banished. Such is the fickle, blessed nature of a thirteen-year-old.

Wharf by mesmerising wharf, they crept north. The current was against them, but the sailors were thick-set like their oars, and they battled on, grunting to each other as they rowed. They could hear the cries from the merchants and shopkeepers over the roar and splash of the port.

‘Fish! The freshest fish this side of the Iron Ocean. Kippers, cod, pollock and shark!’

‘Glow-worms! Genuine glow-in-the-dark worms! Buy two and I’ll make them glow in the day too!’

‘Pickled crow eggs for sale!’

‘Genuine wolf-skin caps!’

‘Roll up, roll up, and feast your eyes on my special …’

‘Meat! Every meat under the sun, and under the earth too! Loin of bat, in fresh!’

Merion let himself drown in the noise.

Before long, even the gaps between the big ships became crowded, and they were forced to cut their journey short. The boat’s nose was pointed wharfwards, and was soon nudging the cloth fender of a little pontoon. A skinny set of stairs led up to the main promenade.

Merion got to his feet first. As the sailors tied the boat off, he hopped ashore, swiftly followed by the old woman. He followed her up the steps.

‘Now, madam, how exactly do we,
I
, get to Union Wharf from …’ His words were stolen by the roar as his head cleared the top stair. All too suddenly, he was drowning in a sea of humanity.

The promenade was flooded with people, all heading in seemingly opposite directions. It was a wonder there was no screaming, no injuries. It deafened and blinded him all at once, and it was all he could do to not get swept away in the current. He found the woman’s strong grip around his wrist again, hauling him through the river of people and out onto the quieter side of the promenade, where painfully colourful stalls lined the harbour’s squat brown buildings.

Merion took a moment to dust himself down, and to check his pack (and faerie) had not been ripped from his shoulders in the stampede. All was safe, and so he turned to his helper. ‘My thanks, madam,’ he began, but quickly stopped as he noticed she was walking away. ‘Erm. Excuse me? Madam?’

Thankfully she stopped, though she only turned her head. ‘What is it, young’un?’

‘How do I get to Union Wharf, from here?’

‘Go thataway,’ she raised a hand to point down the promenade. ‘And keep on going ‘til you see the sign for it. North, understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then good. Fare well, young’un. You keep your skin on, in the wilds,’ she said, waving.

And so Merion was left standing alone, sandwiched between the crowds and the merchants, in a foreign city and on the cusp of a strange land—and chilled to the bone by the woman’s parting words.

‘See?’ He could hear Rhin chuckling. ‘The bolts are loose.’

‘What on earth did she mean by that?’ Merion asked, his voice cracking ever so slightly.

‘Not a clue, my friend.’

The young Hark scowled. ‘Well then, north it is.’

After a few hundred yards of violent jostling, the promenade began to widen, and the crowd thankfully began to thin. The buildings grew taller too, with every step. On the surface, Boston shared a heart-aching number of similarities with faraway London. There were the proud men in their tails and their top hats. There were the high-society ladies, shrouded in servants and tittering between themselves. There were street performers, beggars, and wiry street children, covered in filth from head to toe. Not to mention the whores of course, whistling at every eligible male that passed. Merion couldn’t help but stare. One girl, her shirt invitingly unbuttoned, caught his eye and winked. She waggled a finger at him, but Merion’s nerve failed him, and he hurried on.

Sadly, no matter how hard Boston pretended to be London, Merion couldn’t help but perceive the city’s feral undercurrent. The doorway of America was tinged with something wild. Perhaps it was a glint in the eyes of the men who lingered in dark doorways, guns at their belts and hats pulled low over their faces. Perhaps it was the occasional gibbet hanging here and there, cradling a skeleton in an old uniform.

The edges were simply rougher, the polish not as bright. No matter where he looked, or how hard he pretended, there were no towering arches and white pillars, no slender smoke-stacks or shining examples of industry, no scarlet soldiers on patrol, no copper-gold balloons swimming amongst the clouds. And there wasn’t a single roast chestnut barrel anywhere to be seen. Merion’s stomach growled in anguish.

‘Are we close, do you think?’ he asked of Rhin, distracting himself with conversation.

The faerie hummed. ‘A little further, I think. What’s that next sign say?’

Hanging above the arches of each major wharf were boards painted with curling letters. Merion mouthed each of their names as they passed:
Goldrock Wharf, Long Walk Wharf, Ebenezer Wharf, Lincoln Wharf, Union Wharf …

‘We’re here. Thank Almighty,’ he said, slightly relieved.

‘And the
Tamarassie
is almost here, look.’ Merion felt Rhin move in the rucksack, and he turned to face south, where the battered old tub could be seen worming its way between cargo tugs and fishing skiffs.

Merion breathed an almost contented sigh, and began to look around. The wharf was almost empty, save for a rain-soaked blonde man with freckles adorning his cheeks. He was tightly wrapped up in a suit that was too small, even for him, and holding something in his hands.

‘That man has a sign with my name on it,’ Merion said.

‘Better go see what Mr Sign wants, then.’

‘I’d hazard a guess at me,’ Merion muttered.

Gloved hands still buried deep in his pockets, he strode over to the young man, his chin tilted at just the right angle. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he called out.

The man beamed and then bowed not once, but twice, as if he hadn’t performed it right the first time around.

‘Welcome to America,’ he said, striding forwards to thrust out a hand. ‘Coltswolde Humbersnide, at your service. It’s not every day we have a son of the Empire visit, I can tell you that,’ he proclaimed, in a crumbling parody of the Empire’s tongue. It was as though somebody had punched his accent in the face. Most of his words had the accent of America, yet every now and again one would slip, and the man squawked a word sounding suspiciously British. Perhaps he was stuck between the two.

Merion bowed in return. ‘Tonmerion Harlequin Hark, sir. A pleasure. Though I am quite confused: my father always said there was no love for the Empire in America.’

Humbersnide’s cheeks flushed with a smidgeon of red. ‘Oh, well. No, I suppose there isn’t. In any case, I think it’s a
downright
,’ and here the accent veritably fell over and died, ‘pleasure to have you here, in our fine city.’

Merion luckily remembered his manners. ‘Thank you, Mr Humbersnide.’

‘Please, call me Coltswolde. I work for the same firm as Mr Witchazel, you see, Boston branch. We have been here eleven years now. Our office was the first in the New Kingdom.’