Salamaine's Curse (10 page)

“The gates! The gates!”

Breathing hard, Tom drew to a stop. The towering walled gates of Divino loomed just ahead. He peered through the night and realized why Porter and Willa had been so frantic. The enormous, impenetrable gates—gates toward which the
Purgatory
coasted at an impressive clip—were firmly bolted shut. The gatekeepers who monitored the river traffic had either been taken by scavengers or had deserted their post. Either way, the
Purgatory
was headed for disaster.

Umbrey's ship was sturdy, but it was no match for massive wooden gates reinforced with thick bands of iron. A collision would almost certainly shatter the hull, splintering the ship into pieces.

While half of Umbrey's crew was occupied battling the scavengers who had slunk aboard, the other half loosened the rigging to let the sails go limp in an attempt to slow the vessel. It worked, but only to a degree. The tide, which they'd raced to catch, propelled them relentlessly toward the gates.

Until that moment, Tom had merely been keeping pace with the ship. Now he sprinted faster.

The guard tower was tall and rectangular, with an interior staircase that twisted upward at least one hundred feet off the ground. Tightening his grip on his torch, he threw open the door and bounded up the stairs, terrified that with each twist of the staircase he'd come face-to-face with a scavenger.

Incredibly, his luck held. He reached the top, breathing hard. The guardroom was empty. No sign of scavengers. Tom's gaze flew to the thick wooden lever in the center of the floor. He slipped his torch in an empty sconce and threw himself upon the release. He heaved and tugged, but the lever wouldn't budge.

He repositioned himself and tried again, his jaw clenched and his muscles trembled as he strained to shove it forward. Finally he felt a slight give, and the iron bar, which opened via a series of interlocking cogs and levers, groaned upward.

The gates parted ever so slightly, like a massive door cracking ajar. A further series of ropes and pulleys were necessary to draw the wooden barriers fully open, but he simply didn't have time to operate them. The
Purgatory
might hit the gates, but at least the vessel would make it through. That would have to do.

As Tom peered out a narrow window in the guard tower, the shape of an idea took hold—a plan that might just get him back aboard. Moving solely on instinct, he slipped through the small opening and stepped out onto the topmost edge of the wooden gate. The beam was twelve inches across, easily wide enough to accommodate him. As the gate wasn't secured, it swayed as he lowered himself atop it, but only a little.

Holding out his arms for balance, he crouched down low and carefully crept toward the opening where the two panels met. He reached the end of the gate and fixed his gaze on the
Purgatory's
approach. The
Purgatory
sailed straight toward him. Perfect. Now all he had to do was get a little closer …

The ship was nearly there, sailing straight toward him. He had a clear shot to the main mast. He took a deep breath and readied himself. From his vantage point atop the gate, he would be nearly eye-to-eye with the crow's nest. All he had to do was reach out, grab it, and then climb down the rigging until he reached the deck.

His plan was simple. Almost foolproof. And if he hadn't misjudged the breadth of the
Purgatory's
hull, it might have worked.

Instead, the ship's starboard side slammed into the gate as it passed, knocking him off the top of the gate as if shaking a monkey from a tree.

Tom managed to throw out his arms and kick off the beam as he fell, thrusting himself toward the ship's foremost mast. His fingers brushed rope, but closed on air. Rough canvas grazed his cheek. He twisted and turned, but couldn't catch hold of anything to slow his descent. He tumbled wildly, careening headfirst down one of the
Purgatory's
sails as though he was riding an enormous canvas slide.

He finally managed to grab a rope as his shoulder hit the edge of a horizontal mast that divided the upper and lower. He caught it with both hands and held on tight. He swung out wide, sailing over the river and back across the deck, knocking down two of Umbrey's men in the process—both of whom had been too busy fighting scavengers to pay attention to Tom's wild acrobatics.

His second pass over the deck wasn't quite as dramatic. Unable to direct his flight, he slammed straight into the mainmast, hitting it dead-on. The force of the impact sent him reeling backwards. Once again he found himself lying flat on his back, blinking up at the night sky. The ship pitched and rolled beneath him as he fought to regain his senses.

For the second time that evening, Umbrey leaned over him, his scruffy face blocking the night sky.

“You know, lad, there are easier ways to come aboard.”

Beside him, Porter let out a sharp breath. “Oh, but we couldn't have that. Then he might not be the center of attention.”

Tom looked at his brother. Ignoring the protests of his aching ribs—he'd slammed the mast
hard—he
eased himself into a sitting position. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Porter stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his features tightened in an expression of simmering hostility. As though he actually believed Tom had
wanted
to tumble off the gate, slide headfirst through the rigging, crash into the main mast, and risk splitting his skull like an overripe melon. Just to get a little attention.

Willa stepped between them. “Look, forget it, both of you. We all made it aboard and that's what matters. We can't fight among ourselves. Not if we want to get the book.” Turning to Tom, she said, “Now, are you all right?”

He rose and stepped around her, standing nearly toe-to-toe with his brother. “What's your problem?”

“No problem.” Porter gave a cool shrug. “It's been a while. I guess I'd just forgotten how you love to play the hero.”

“Play the hero?
Are you serious?”

“We had a plan. All you had to do was get on the ship. But I guess that was a little too complicated for you.”

“What'd you expect me to do? Just stand there and let those scavengers attack that woman and her kids?”

“It wasn't about you! Her husband was right there, seconds away. But you had to go and risk everything—”

“And what if I hadn't?” Tom challenged. “What if I'd just followed you aboard? You would have crashed into those gates. That's what would have happened. This ship would be torn to pieces, and we'd all be in that river right now, fighting off scavengers. Think about it. Is that what you want?”

Porter's eyes went icy. “Like I said, you're a hero. You saved us all.”

A sharp gust of wind blew across the deck. The upper sail, likely the one he became tangled up in when he'd fallen, bellowed out with a deafening
crack!
Tom's rope whipped past them, slithering across the deck like some kind of underwater snake.

“Where's my crew?!” Umbrey bellowed. “Do you lazy bilge rats need to be told to tighten the halyard line?!”

A sailor sprung to and secured the wayward line. Umbrey watched the man see to his task, then returned his attention to Porter, Willa, Mudge, and Tom.

“I've got bigger problems on my hands than your petty little squabbles. I run a ship here, not a blasted nursery. Split up and cool off.” He looked at Willa and Mudge. “You two go below decks and get some sleep. And you two …” He reached for a pair of long wooden poles equipped with vicious-looking iron hooks. He thrust one pole into Tom's hands, the other in Porter's. “You start on the starboard side, you start on the port. Comb the hull for scavengers. You find any of those slimy creatures, hook ‘em and cast them far enough out to sea that they can't come back. You let one sneak onto my ship and I'll personally feed you to it. Understood?”

Tom gave a tight nod, as did Porter.

“Good. Get to it.”

Willa sent them both a fuming glare and stormed away without a word, which made Tom feel far worse than Umbrey's scolding had. She was right. If they were going to make it through the Cursed Souls Sea, he would have to find a way to get along with his brother.

By the time he had finished his task (he'd only found one scavenger on his side, but judging by the hissing and howling and subsequent splashes he'd heard on the opposite side of the ship, Porter had had to deal with three), he was considerably calmer. He triple-checked to make sure he hadn't missed any, then returned his pole to its proper place by the main mast.

He looked around. Porter was gone. The flickering lights and shrill chaos of Divino were long gone. Umbrey's crew, or at least the ones who remained above deck, moved about their tasks with quiet efficiency. The stars had shifted. Time had passed, but there was no way to guess how much. An inky black sea surrounded them. It lapped against the hull, setting a soft, steady rhythm to the night.

Tom was suddenly aware how exhausted he was. His muscles ached and his eyes were sore with the strain of keeping them open. He wanted to find Umbrey and find out more about the scavengers, but his thoughts were too cloudy. Better to wait until the morning.

He'd followed a crewman below decks earlier that night when he'd changed his clothes. Not knowing where else to go, he headed in the same general direction, hoping he'd stumble upon the sleeping quarters. The
Purgatory
was a large ship, fitted with rough-hewn ladders that led from one level to the next. Tom wandered through a maze of dimly lit passageways, descending deeper and deeper into the belly of the ship.

The thick scent of kerosene oil and greased gears greeted him as he moved lower, causing him to wonder if Umbrey used some sort of engine to power his ship, a mechanical thrust to give them extra power beyond the capacity of the sails. But he quickly dropped the thought as he came upon the crew's quarters.

It was a large, low room with maybe thirty hammocks suspended from the ceiling joists. A chorus of deep, throaty snores greeted him as he entered. A single lantern, the wick turned down low, hung from a central beam and gave the room a shadowy glow.

He spied Porter, his pale blond head a beacon in the darkness, sitting in a hammock at the far edge of the room. A lone empty hammock swung beside him. Tom bit back a sigh and warily approached him. He'd hoped, after their argument, to put a little distance between them, but apparently that wasn't going to happen.

“Where are Willa and Mudge?” he asked.

Porter tilted his chin toward a blanket that had been hung in the corner, providing Willa a makeshift space for privacy. Mudge rocked in a hammock on the opposite side of the blanket, fast asleep.