Riverkeep (23 page)

“But the mormorach 'in't got no soft points: his hide can't be breached by normal barbs such as ye'll find on the end o' yer pointy sticks, an' even if ye can manage to cut him, his leaks stop the second they touches water. He's got gills so's he never needs to surface for breath, he's stronger than a hundred men, stronger than any ship or any wind or any number of gods you cares to call on for help. He'll grow, bigger an' bigger without stoppin' so long as he's got enough to eat, an' his jaws could smash through the transom of a keep's bäta like it was a floatin' wafer. Today I had 'im on the ropes, hurtin' an' blind, jus' where I wanted 'im, an' he jumped up
regardless and took one o' my masts from me—cut me with the spines o' his tail, too.”

Murdagh shifted in his seat and showed Wull the bandages, wetly blotched with claret, on his right arm.

“Gilt's had worse'n that,” said Murdagh, slow-blinking his damaged eye, “an' he can take it. But you's not got any idea what you's wantin' to face, Wulliam Cut-Squirt, an' for all the gumption you's shown comin' here I's not impressed, 'cause front like that'll jus' get you killed.”

Wull formed a reply, but felt the swollen warmth of his cut cheek and the impassive stares of Murdagh's crew and bit it back.

“All I want is his name,” Murdagh carried on, “an' his skull for my prow; what value might be in his flesh is mine, but I got little enough int'rest in that. My crew can have the bounty, an' I 'spect they's no plans to share it with any other, least not some cut-squirt keep who shows up wi' a hard-luck tale an' a bad attitude,” said Murdagh. “Now—leave.”

He found the fruit on the floor, kicked it toward himself with the tip of his whalebone leg, and lifted it, resuming the work of his knife at its husk while Mix dragged Wull from the tavern and onto the freezing, cobbled ground of the market.

“Let me go!” he said, wriggling in her grip.

“Why?” she said. “So you can go back an' make a bigger fool o' yourself?”

“I wasn't . . . he's—”

“He's a mean old man whose head's full o' the sea, an' goin' back in 'in't goin' to change his mind, is it? All it'll do is get you another scar for your cheek.”

Wull sagged in her grip. “How did you get so strong?” he said. “I thought you were a tiny little girl?”

“When it suits me,” said Mix, releasing him.

They turned and started the slippery walk back to the guesthouse.

“Now what will you do?” she said.

“I don't know. Take the bäta, I s'pose.”

“But Mrs. Vihv said—”

“I know what she said! But what's my choice? Row it back an' watch Pappa die quietly on the way? What did I come here for if not to go out for it?”

“But
you'll
die,” said Mix. “You think Paps wants that to happen in tryin' to save him?”

“I don't know what he wants anymore,” said Wull, rounding the corner and spying the guesthouse through the mist.

“Yes, you do,” said Mix quietly.

Mrs. Vihv burst through the door. “You're there!” she said. “I've been worried out my box here! He's gone!”

“What? Who's gone?” said Wull, his guts collapsing. “My pappa?”

“No! The babby! Bonn! He jumped up and ran off an' she's near to—”

“But Pappa's all right?” said Wull.

“Bonn's alive?” said Mix.

“What?” said Mrs. Vihv. “What d'you mean he's alive?”

“Wulliam! Mix!” said Remedie, bursting into the street. Her eyes were frantic, her skin pale. “Bonn is gone! He's
gone
!”

“What's this 'bout the babby bein' alive?” said Mrs. Vihv.

“Nothing, Mrs. Vihv, thank you, we'll go an' look for him now. I'm sure it's all right,” said Wull, leading the landlady by the arm toward her front door.

“Strange things's happ'nin' of late,” she said. “It's that thing an' its magic! I swear I saw one o' my sand frogs twitchin' in its jar the other day. . . .”

“We'll be back soon,” said Wull, pulling the door closed. “Keep an eye on Pappa for me, please. When did he go?” he asked Remedie, turning.

“Moments ago. The landlady wouldn't believe me, at first; she held me back from going after him, and now he's gods know where. . . .”

“We'll find him,” said Wull. “Don't worry. He can't have gone far.”

Remedie snatched up his hand. “He's so strong, Wulliam,” she said hurriedly. “Not like a flesh-child. He'll run without cease, and he's no need for food, save the sun and clean water. I must away now to have any chance!” She kissed Wull's forehead and held his face. “Take care of your father. Be brave.”

As she set off, she pulled Mix into a firm hug, whispered in her ear, then ran into the green darkness beyond the houses.

Mix watched her go, then looked at Wull, eyes twinkling. “Bonn's
alive
,” she said. “Boy, am I glad I snuck onto your boat. It would have been right borin' on that bradai skiff!”

“We need to find them,” said Wull. “Remedie needs our help.”

“No problem,” said Mix. She pulled back her sleeve, exposing a thin wrist that was marked with pale, elegant lines near to the elbow. Close to, Wull saw that they were husked and rough, like bark.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“Ssh,” said Mix, grinning. She reached for his hand, linking their fingers together.

Wull watched the skin of her free hand change, becoming looser, almost jagged. “Mix? What did you steal?” he said, knowing the answer by the feeling that surged through his arm.

“This,” whispered Mix, and closed her eyes.

Wull watched as she pushed her free hand into the wet ground and felt, through her skin, the moment it dissolved and broke like wave-battered sand. He felt her consciousness disappear, her senses taking over his mind as
she began to see, to
really
see, the forest: she saw, and Wull saw, the breeze—not as it moved their bodies and tugged their hair, but as it played on the white leaves of trees, waved stiff grasses in the clearings, and toppled crumbs of earth; together they felt the slow, constant stirring of the soil, a great soup of roots and insects and worms and burrowing things turning over each other and moving the earth like breathing lungs; they felt the sudden, thrumming strike of fast mammalian heartbeats around them like little pools of light, the sonic tingle of the animals' frayed nerves playing through their bodies like hammer strikes on iron.

They felt each other's presence in the world, the weight of all their unique strengths and separate energies drawn to the other like water gathering in a rock pool. Wull felt Mix's heart thudding alongside his own, and knew in that moment that his heart beat in her chest.

And then they found what they'd been looking for: two sets of footsteps, running, one light and quick, the other farther back—frantic but sure.

Mix opened her eyes and smiled, drew back her hand, and rolled down her sleeves.

“What was that?” said Wull, once he'd recovered his breath. He found he couldn't look Mix in the eyes.

“How'd you think I found you in the woods before?” she
said. “Got pretty tricky when your heart slowed down in the cold—a real close one. An' it's how I know what's really happened to your paps.”

Tears welled in Wull's eyes. “There's still some o' him left in there,” he said. “I know it.”

She nodded. “I know there is,” she said. “Just enough. Remedie's already half a mile away. I need to go after them. She's goin' to need my help, I'm sure of it.”

“Don't go,” said Wull. “I mean, if Remedie needs help, then go, of course, I don't mean—”

“There's . . . people . . . lookin' for me, too—people that won't ever stop lookin'. I need to keep movin'.”

“Because you stole that . . . thing by accident?”

She smiled. “I really didn't mean to, you know, I just . . .” She pulled back her sleeve, showing Wull the barklike markings on her skin. “The folk chasin' me, they don't care. It's theirs, this power. They's wantin' it back, an' they'll kill me, I know it—I've felt their thoughts through the world the way we felt Remedie an' Bonn jus' now. You don't need me here. You've got everythin' in your steady hand, Wulliam Riverkeep.”

Mix lifted onto her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. Wull pressed his hand to where her lips had touched him and felt the green lightness of spring on his skin.

“I don't want you to go,” he said, startling himself.

“I know.”

“Will I see you again?”

“Count on it. Look after Paps.”

Wull nodded.

“It's goin' to be all right,” said Mix, then she turned and ran into the frosted shadows of the forest.

Wull watched until she disappeared, then headed for the guesthouse.

“Have you found him?” said Mrs. Vihv as he entered, dragging his feet. She was bent over the gut-splayed frog, a magnifying lens strapped to her head.

“Remedie's gone after him,” said Wull. “Mix went after her.”

“They've gone alone? All the gods, we'll have to send folk after them!”

“No,” said Wull, stopping her by the arm and shaking his head. “They'll be fine. They're . . . very strong. They'll be fine on their own. I had to stay for Pappa.”

Mrs. Vihv placed her hands on her hips and looked at him. “You're sure?” she said.

“Definitely,” said Wull, thinking about what Mix had done.

“All right then. How'd you get on with the captain?”

“Badly. He told me where to go an' no mistake,” said Wull. “I've never met anyone like him in my life.”

Mrs. Vihv nodded and returned to the frog. “There's not many who have, the way I hear it. An' imagine—there's not even much o' him left. What must he have been as a younger man? You shudder to think.”

“I felt sorry for him,” said Wull.

Mrs. Vihv flashed him a look. “All o' us are worthy o' pity,” she said, “even the worst behaved o' us.
Especially
the worst behaved, sometimes. Sit down then—your pappa's been asleep since you left, pretty much. Woke up an' ate some fish then nodded off. His . . . eyes, they're interestin', aren't they?”

Wull looked up from the armchair, his nose smoke-stung and his vision running in the acrid press of the room.

“What?” he said.

“I said your pappa's eyes are interestin'. How long have they looked like that?”

“Since he got sick,” said Wull. “They . . . clouded up, an' he doesn't see so well now.”

Mrs. Vihv gave him a prolonged stare. “An' you know why that is, don't you?” she said softly.

“No,” said Wull. “He's ill, something in his mind, is all. This thing in the mormorach can cure him. It's why I need it. An' why I'm goin' after it even without Captain Murdagh an' his damn boat, an' it doesn't matter what you say to me!”

“All right, son, you know your own mind,” said Mrs. Vihv. “It's jus' that . . . I've seen eyes like that before, once,
before I came here, when I was still set up in the city an' payin' someone to fetch me samples from the coast. They were in a goat's head at the time, but it wasn't a goat was lookin' at me.”

Wull kept his face turned away, looking at the flames.

“It was a bohdan,” said Mrs. Vihv, “an' I only found out later how lucky I'd been. That's why his arms are tied, isn't it? An' why he's only eatin' fish.”

“He's still in there!” said Wull. “He is! I see it sometimes and I hear him . . . jus' at the edge o' his voice I hear him!”

“All right,” said Mrs. Vihv as Pappa, coughing and cursing, woke in his chair and started to mouth the sour crust of scales on his lips.

“It that speaks?” he said, looking around. “Untie the arms!”

“You need be careful o' this,” said Mrs. Vihv. “I won't talk you out o' it because I can't imagine what you's been through to get him here, but be careful. It'd live inside you as quick as look at you—you've done right to keep his hands bound. There's no guarantee this creature'll cure 'im, though there's magic enough in it. But you need to understand it's not jus' a mind sickness your pappa's got. There's another creature livin' in 'im.”

Wull nodded. “I know,” he said, and the moment of saying it out loud fell from him like lead weights.

“Be up to bed now, an' sleep. There'll be bacon in the mornin'—burned's the only way I can make it so I hope your taste runs that way.”

“Thanks,” said Wull. He gathered Pappa under the arms and led him to the stairs.

“Sleep, it that speaks, stinking boy,” said Pappa quietly.

“We can sleep now, Pappa,” said Wull, and as he climbed the steps, holding the bones of Pappa's arms through his smock, he felt too the writhing, acid weight in his belly telling him that tomorrow would come sooner than he could ever prepare for it, and that it would decide his fate whether he was ready or not.

Homunculus: literally, “little man.” While the roots of this term are in the notion of preformation—of male seed each carrying a fully formed and tiny man (discredited: see
Hertsökr, N.
)—the term includes all forms of humanity created or built by any means other than the carrying of a fetus in the female womb, this including golems, revenants, and other reanimated forms. The homunculus displays outward signs of life but remains dead internally, possessing, in the words of J. H. Steele, “no circulatory, respiratory, or digestive function whatsoever.” Homunculi are officially classified “unalive” however, rather than dead, owing to the theological complexity of their existence and their outward display of human physiology and function. There are frequent instances of their having demonstrated empathy,
compassion—and even love.

—Encyclopedia Grandalia,
University of Oracco Print House

Wull was awake long before the dawn burst its yolk over the horizon, sat up in bed with his aches fading into the background of his fear.

Beside him, in the other narrow bed, Pappa lay stiffly, his open mouth running spit, the jaw too wide, the tongue too long. Wull could feel the real Pappa inside, like the slipping grains of an hourglass—and he knew they would run out today.

Whatever happened, it would be today.

He climbed down the wobbling stairs as soon as he heard Mrs. Vihv at the breakfast plates, and sat in the cold, slow charcoal of the parlor while she pottered about, breaking eggs and apologizing to herself for cursing.

“MORNING! BREAKFAST IS
—
Oh, you're there, Wulliam. Good morning. I didn't hear you get up.”

“I couldn't sleep,” said Wull.

“That makes sense, right enough. I'd a bit of trouble myself, thinkin' o' you an' your pappa, and the young ladies havin' left in the night. Quite a thing, that wee babby takin' off like that. An' this mornin' all my specimens were bashin' themselves off their jars like they'd jus' been whisked out o' the sea. Strange things happ'nin', no doubt. Maybe it will do the trick for your pappa, right enough, this thing you say's inside the mormorach.”

Wull nodded, lifted a shard of bacon to his mouth. “I hope so,” he said.

“An' on that score, I heard a thing this mornin' from Mrs. Frame what does for Mr. Lockstop, somethin' that seems like right good luck for you—there's a shippin' clerk arrived late last night an' taken lodgin's down at the Brunswick Tavern. You mus' o' just missed him!”

Wull sucked carefully at the blood from the bacon-wound in his gum.

“What's a shipping clerk?” he said.

“Well, they sort o' make arrangements for the boats. Supplies, an' so on. An'
crew
. Seems you might find a way aboard Captain Murdagh's boat right enough!”

“Does it cost money?” said Wull, leaping to his feet.

“Often they takes a cut o' your cut, so to speak, but here, take this jus' in case.”

Mrs. Vihv's hand went to her hair and withdrew a tightly rolled wad of ducat notes.

“Oh, I couldn't. . . .” said Wull, backing away. “That's your money. I couldn't take that from you. . . .”

“But I wants to give it you!” said Mrs. Vihv. “You can pay me back once you earn your way. Here, I'm makin' you take it.” She pressed the money into Wull's reluctant hand.

“But why?” said Wull.

She shrugged.

“I spend most o' my time killin' frogs an' sea cucumbers an' urchins. It'd be nice to put some o' the proceeds to helpin' save your pappa.”

Wull felt the corners of his eyes prickle. “I don't know how to thank you for this,” he said.

“Don't. Jus' pay me back once you rake in the treasure!” said Mrs. Vihv. “I'll take care o' your pappa when he wakes up. Off you get to the tavern now.”

Wull threw his arms around her waist and buried his face in her smock.

“Thank you!” he said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Be off, ye daft sod,” said Mrs. Vihv, laughing. “If you're not there quick enough, some other enterprisin' sort might take your place.”

Wull ran upstairs, looked at Pappa, still grumbling in sleep, unmoved since he'd left. He slipped on his seula-gut shift and his coat; then, as he was forcing his feet into his big boots, he looked at the sack that held the mandrake and lifted it onto his shoulder. He wouldn't be able to do anything with it, but the thought of Mrs. Vihv finding it made him nervous. It was another strange thing, by all accounts, and he wasn't sure it would escape her questing scalpel.

“I'm goin' to kill the beast today, Pappa,” he said. “I'll find a way onto that boat an' I'll kill it an' then you'll be better.”

He leaned over and kissed Pappa's feverish brow, then ran down the stairs and sped into the ice-misted air of the coastal morning.

He ran through the foot-slipping streets gleaming like a
fresh catch under the moisture of the new day, and quickly found himself in the market square.

“If it isn't the long lad of las' night,” said the barkeep as Wull barged into the Brunswick. The main drinking hall smelled of stale yeast and hay, and there were people still sleeping in corners and under tables. “If you've come back to try your luck wi' the captain, I'll start by tellin' you he 'in't even here.”

“I know,” said Wull. “I've come to see the clerk.”

The barkeep waggled his eyebrows and chuckled.

“That'll be Mrs. Frame spreadin' gossip, I reckon, since she's the only one what's been by at this ungodly hour. Clerk's in room three, up the stairs an' to the left. I knows he's up 'cause I already gave 'im his breakfast. Runny eggs, he wanted, an' sliced water squash. Bit of a strange order, but I's served stranger.”

Wull was already running up the stairs, taking them three at a time, his knees clacking together in stumbling enthusiasm.

“Quiet now!” shouted the barkeep. “I's other guests what's not even up yet!”

Wull slowed his feet with difficulty and knocked on the door of room three. When nothing happened, he knocked again, and was about to knock a third time when the door opened and a long, expressionless face peered down at him with eyes that were strainedly red and raw.

“Sir,” said Wull, “I've been told you can get me to crew on Captain Murdagh's ship—I've got money, an' I'll happily pay you what you see fit from my share o' the catch if you could find a way to get me on it this mornin'. I have to go today, sir. I'm sorry to barge in on you like this so early in the mornin', but I have to go today!”

The clerk peered at him quizzically, took in the sack over his shoulder, then retreated to a desk in the corner.

“Sir?” said Wull. He stepped over the threshold. “Sir, I'll gladly pay you what you want. . . .”

But the clerk shook his head, flashed Wull a hungry smile, and began to write very quickly on a scrap of paper.

“I's not a great reader, sir,” said Wull.

The clerk pushed the paper into his hand.

Wull read it slowly, taking care to untie the loops of frantic pen that splattered the parchment. He looked at the clerk's face then at the mandrake.

He thought of Pappa.

“Here,” he said, handing over the sack. “We parted on bad terms, and I don't know if I'll ever see him again—but if I ever do, I'll bring him to you. Is that enough?”

Mr. Pent nodded and then rummaged in his coat. He handed Wull a small, brown lump, then recommenced his frantic scribbling.

The hills above Canna Bay were solid in their whiteness, snow-capped for months of the year, their immense height keeping the ice high out the reach of the coastline's salt. The only creatures happy to endure their privations were the hardy little tock ponies, their patched hides peeping through the drifts as they dug their tough noses into the cold to find the ungrowing scruff of grass below.

A small herd of them scattered at Tillinghast's approach. As he'd run through the night, the temporary bindings on his body had shaken loose, and he held chunks of himself in his hands, his fingers mashing the wet straw back into place. He looked down at the arc of little houses, saw the tufts of smoke and the bobbing craft—and the one seagoing ship, white in places with bone, sailing out into the open sea beyond the breakwater.

While his vision flickered, he grabbed at the apparitions before him: Clutterbuck, Wull, Mix, Remedie, all stepping out to catch him as he fell, small noises of pain escaping his lips. He saw the mandrake, too, full grown and ready to be given its freedom as he'd been given his, ready to enter the world and be counted among humankind.

Murky liquids were pressing through the gaps in Tillinghast's stitches as he swelled in painful, uncontrollable ways. He ground on, catching his balance on legs that bent like trees in a storm, and thought only of finding Wull, the boy's stubborn name like a drumbeat in his head.

Tillinghast wrapped his arms around his sagging bulk and whispered words to bring himself comfort.

“Who're you then?” said Samjon.

Wull looked out over the
Hellsong
's gunwale at the flashing wave wash and tightened his grip on the rigging. He'd never seen water from such a height, and was astonished to find his guts roiling queasily as the great ship smashed and leaped through the breakers, the gongs lowing mournfully as the hammers rolled on their surfaces.

“I'm Wull,” he said, tightening his grip on the rigging, feeling himself smashed between sky and sea.

“I din't know we was takin' on new crew,” said Samjon. “I might not be the youngest now. How old are you?”

Wull blinked at the unexpected question. “I'll be sixteen tomorrow,” he said.

“Oh,” said Samjon, “I'm still the youngest then. I'm Samjon. I'm the cabin boy.”

“What's that?” said Wull.

“Skivvy, really. I do the jobs o' everyone else for half the pay an' all the kickings my backside can take.”

“That doesn't sound good,” said Wull.

“It's not,” said Samjon cheerfully, “but I'll be the bo'sun's mate if I keeps up like this, then I'll get to kick someone
else's
backside.” His eyes glittered at the prospect. “What d'you do?”

“I'm an . . . oarsman.”

Samjon's brows furrowed. “We 'in't got any oars,” he said.

“I know,” said Wull. He tried to think of something to add, and settled for looking out to sea.

“All right,” said Samjon. “How'd you manage to get onto the crew? I got on after cleanin' the captain's floors for a year an' because my aunt Ethel knew a woman who worked for a man what used to be on the crew of another boat what's captain knew Captain Murdagh.”

“I went to a shipping agent,” said Wull.

Samjon's eyes widened. “That's money, that is. How much did it cost?” he said.

Wull sighed. “Everythin',” he said, rolling the witch ball Pent had given him between his fingers.

“Swing those hammers!” shouted Murdagh, stamping onto the bridge and pointing his crutch at the crew. “Let's wake that beast up an' let him know he 'in't sunk us yet! He c'n take another mast today if he likes—we'll come back tomorrow an' beat the gongs some more until the meat shakes off 'is bones!”

The crew ran to the rails, knocking Samjon and Wull aside, and began to heave on the thick ropes that bound the
hammers in place. The gongs set to ringing, a sky-splitting boom that moved inside Wull's head and hurt the soft parts of his ears.

Samjon gestured to him and they staggered away, the ship thudding heavily as they passed the breakwater and entered the wide sea, suddenly at the mercy of the waves, its ribs creaking audibly under the strain.

“What are they for?” shouted Wull.