The League of Sharks (20 page)

‘This is a private order. You are not welcome here.'

‘I understand. Brother Rard made that clear. We didn't give him a lot of choice, to be fair,' said Junk. ‘Our captain's awfully persuasive. He's outside and would like to talk to you. Brother Rard says he needs your permission to let him in.'

‘It is not given, boy.' Brother Antor glared down at Junk. Junk realized at that moment that he was shaking with fear so he held his hands behind his back so no one would see. ‘You will leave. You will take your people and go back to your ship and you will leave this place. You will not continue your search for the Room of Doors. Is that clear?'

Something inside Junk changed right then. He was aware of it. Perhaps it was Brother Antor's patronizing tone, the way he was telling Junk what to do. There was
to be no debate. The thought occurred to Junk that this Brotherhood of Pire had no more right to the Room of Doors than him. Less maybe. After all, he had been inside it. He knew what it was. They didn't.

‘Is that clear?' said Brother Antor again, more forcefully this time.

Junk looked him in the eye and shook his head. ‘No,' he said. Brother Rard and Brother Hath gasped audibly. Clearly no one ever said no to Brother Antor.

‘We are the Order of the Room of the One True God, Pire,' said Brother Antor through clenched teeth. ‘We are the Brotherhood of Pire. Defenders. Protectors. Avengers.'

‘Yeah, yeah. I got it,' said Junk. ‘Brother Rard told us all that, but who are you to say who can and can't go into the Room of Doors?'

‘We are the Order of the Room of the One True God, P—'

Junk cut him off. ‘I know. I heard. But you don't even know what the Room is. You've never been in it. I've been in it.'

‘Hanisiki,' said Brother Hath from behind them. He bent his head in urgent prayer. Junk guessed ‘hanisiki' meant something along the lines of ‘blasphemy' or ‘lies'.

‘You may not enter the Room of Doors,' growled Brother Antor. ‘It is not possible. It is a divine place. Only Walkers—'

Junk cut him off again. ‘Only Walkers are permitted to enter. Envoys, right? Otherwise they'll get their skin burned off their flesh and their flesh burned off their
bones, et cetera, et cetera. Well, I'm not a Walker or an envoy or anything else. I'm just a kid from Murroughtoohy. I'm three million years away from home. You have any idea what that feels like? Of course you don't.' Junk was angry as hell right now. ‘Now I'm on a quest to find a murderer and I need the Room of Doors to help me. Brother Rard here says you have a key.'

Brother Rard and Brother Hath both glanced automatically at the bronze box on the altar. Brother Antor growled at their stupidity.

Junk took a step towards the altar. ‘So the key's in there, huh?'

Before he could take a second step, Brother Antor roared and pounced on him. He grabbed Junk and slammed him up against the wall, knocking the breath from his lungs.

‘For ten thousand years have we been the guardians of the Room of Doors and the key. In that time, many have tried to take it and all have failed. Their bones fill this mountain. If you try to enter the Room of the One True God, Pire, then we will hunt you down and destroy you. Take this message back to your captain: you travel with the coorratun, Otravinicus, which makes you our enemy. You have till sunset to leave Murias, then leave our shores, then leave our waters. I want you on the other side of the world.'

‘You can't tell us where we can and can't go,' said Junk defiantly.

Brother Antor's nostrils flared. He dragged Junk
roughly to the altar. There was a small door beneath, which he kicked open with his toe. Junk flinched. Inside was a furnace. A fire raged within. Brother Antor reached down to the base of the plinth and retrieved a metal rod about a metre in length. At one end was a small claw, which he thrust into the furnace.

Junk glanced back at Brother Rard and Brother Hath. To his dismay, Brother Rard had his head bowed as if he couldn't bear to watch what was about to happen. In contrast, Brother Hath was grinning sadistically.

‘Don't!' said Junk, trying to pull away from Brother Antor, but his grip was vice-like. ‘What are you doing?'

Brother Antor turned and grabbed the front of Junk's shirt. He ripped it open, exposing his chest.

‘You say I can't tell you what to do, but I can and I am and you would do well to heed me.' With that, he wrapped the end of his sleeve around the handle of the metal rod and drew it out of the fire. The tips of the claw were bright orange. ‘The only reason I am letting you live this day is because you are a child.' And with that he pressed the red-hot claw into the flesh of Junk's chest.

Junk screamed like he had never screamed in his life. He felt the pain in every inch of his body. It spread out from his burning skin and travelled to the tips of his toes and the centre of his brain. The world around him flared into whiteness. He felt as if the bones in his legs had suddenly turned to liquid and they flopped uselessly beneath him. He sagged violently. The only thing keeping him upright was Brother Antor. He was a puppet master
manipulating an impotent marionette. Finally Brother Antor pulled the rod away, letting it clatter to the stone floor, and Junk's agony subsided. ‘I will not be so tolerant again,' said Brother Antor. With that he hurled Junk halfway across the room, where he landed hard at Brother Rard's feet. Brother Rard helped him to stand and half carried him towards the door.

Junk pulled away from Brother Rard. He would walk himself. He felt angry and humiliated. The excruciating pain emanating from his chest pulsed out to the edges of his body. The room was spinning. He was sure he was about to vomit. His footsteps were shaky and faltering but he was determined not to stumble. Brother Antor's arrogant certitude reminded him of the priests back home. Whatever they thought became the word of God, and no one was allowed to question it. He pulled his shirt together to cover up the wound. Brother Rard laid a gentle hand on his arm but Junk shook it off angrily.

‘Don't cover it like that,' said Brother Rard sympathetically. ‘The cloth will … adhere to the skin and it will not be easy to get off.' Junk let his shirt flop open. Perspiration was pouring down his face and he concentrated on walking. He didn't want to fall down. He wanted to get out of there as quickly as he could.

They didn't speak as they headed back to the huge front gate. Brother Hath was with them and he unlocked the gate. He shot Junk one last sneer as Junk hobbled out.

Brother Rard escorted Junk to the basket and settled
him inside. Brother Rard paused and looked as if he was about to say something but he didn't. His shoulders sagged and he let the basket descend.

On the way down, Junk let himself cry. He was brimming with rage. He stopped before he reached the bottom, where Garvan and Hundrig were waiting. Despite Brother Rard's warning, he covered up the wound before he got out.

‘Are you OK?' asked Garvan in English. Junk nodded. ‘What happened?'

‘I'll tell you back at the ship,' said Junk. They started walking, but Junk was finding it increasingly difficult. He was struggling to remain conscious, but soon lost the fight and crumpled to the ground. Garvan and Hundrig dashed to his side and saw the burn on his chest. They couldn't find words between them so said nothing. Garvan gathered Junk up and carried him back to the ship.

*

Back on board the
Casabia
, Junk woke in bed to discover a clump of foul-smelling wet grass sitting on his chest. He reached up to remove it but a hand came out of the darkness and stopped him. It was Lasel.

‘No,' she said, ‘it's buchelous grass. It will help the wound. Go back to sleep.' Junk did as he was told.

*

Junk slept for a few more hours and woke feeling better. His chest throbbed dully and was stained green by the buchelous grass but its restorative qualities
were impressive. The burn had already started to scab over.

He got up slowly and got dressed. He found his clothes washed and neatly folded at the end of his bed. His shirt had been repaired so that the rip was nearly impossible to see.

He went up on deck and found Lasel, Garvan, Otravinicus, Cascér and the crew all together. They had been discussing what to do but hadn't reached any sort of consensus. Otravinicus wanted to attack the monastery in revenge for what had happened to Junk. Though what the doctor really wanted was for Hundrig and his crew to attack. Otravinicus wasn't planning on storming any monasteries himself. Hundrig, like all of them, was outraged by the torture Junk had experienced at the hands of the monks but he was not entertaining any talk of attack.

Junk recounted everything that had happened in the monastery. When he got to the part about the box on the altar that held the key, Garvan sat up a little straighter. Clearly it meant something to him, but he didn't say anything. He let Junk continue. Junk repeated Brother Antor's threats of extreme violence if they didn't leave by sunset.

‘Such arrogance!' said Otravinicus forcefully when Junk had finished. ‘These people who think their beliefs give them the right to tell us what we can and can't do. They're nothing but terrorists.' He started pacing. He was angry. ‘I say we go back there and break down that
door and take their damn key.' It was what he had been saying for hours, but his focus had shifted slightly after discovering the existence of the key.

‘You haven't seen the place,' said Hundrig. ‘It's a fortress. Only one way in or out. It would be impossible, plus there was no storming of monasteries mentioned when you hired us, Doctor. I abhor what they did to Junk but will not put my crew in danger needlessly. I'm sorry, Junk.'

Junk shook his head. ‘No, I wouldn't want you to.'

‘I'll pay you double,' said Otravinicus.

‘We are not mercenaries, Doctor,' said Hundrig. ‘We are sailors. There are places where you can hire such people, and if that's what you want I will gladly ferry you there, but nothing more.

‘Triple?' said Otravinicus hopefully.

‘
Nothing
more.' Hundrig sounded so definite that even Otravinicus finally conceded. ‘We'll be ready to set off in an hour. What's our heading?'

Otravinicus was silent for a few moments as he stewed. He was a man who liked getting his own way and didn't react well to being told no. ‘North,' he said finally. ‘Back to Arrapia.'

‘What?' said Junk. ‘No. You said we'd go to Cul Sita. You promised.'

‘And you promised you could find the Room of Doors for me. There's nothing I want in Cul Sita. The answer lies in that monastery, and getting in there will take planning and research. The best place for that is back in Arrapia.
I'm sorry, Junk. I truly am.' Otravinicus turned to leave but paused. ‘Listen,' he said, ‘I have paid the captain in advance. The ship is ours until the end of the month. Once I am back home, the captain can take you south until the money runs out. You should reach the waters off Glarn Sita by then. A resourceful lad like you will be able to make it the rest of the way, I'm sure.' He smiled as if that had solved everything.

*

Junk sat up on the
Casabia
's prow and looked out at the sun as it started to dip. Garvan came and sat with him.

‘Should we go and rebuild my cabin now?'

Junk thought about that. He liked to build things. It cleared his mind. Back home he used to help his father whenever he could. He had helped him build the staircase. Though he was very young, so wasn't actually that much help. He had scratched his name on the underside of one of the treads. He wondered if that was the only evidence now that he had ever been there. Had his mother removed all other traces of him?

‘What do you think?' said Garvan.

‘No. I'm sorry, Garvan,' said Junk. ‘I can't stop yet. Not until I find him. I promise I will help you then.'

Garvan was quiet for a few moments and then he nodded. ‘I knew you were going to say that. I will go with you.'

‘You don't have to. It'll take you a long way from home.'

‘No. Actually it will take me closer to home.'

Junk frowned. He didn't understand. He waited for Garvan to explain but he didn't say any more and Junk was forced to ask, ‘How come?'

‘How come what?' asked Garvan.

Sometimes it was exasperating talking to Garvan. ‘How come that takes you closer to home when your island is half a day that way?' said Junk, pointing.

‘I don't come from that island. I just live on it,' said Garvan. ‘I was born on a different island. It's called Cantibea. Do you remember when I drew the map in the sand?'

‘Of course,' said Junk.

‘There was Glarn Sita, Unta Sita, Daté Sita and Cul Sita. Well, in the middle of those is Cantibea. It's quite small in comparison.'

‘I see,' said Junk. ‘And do you know people there? Any family? Anyone who can help us?'

Garvan nodded. ‘My family's there still.' He paused, and Junk could tell there was more to the story so he said nothing and let Garvan come to it in his own time. ‘But I can't go back.'

He didn't say any more so Junk had to prompt him. ‘Why not?'

‘I would have to do something I don't want to do,' said Garvan.

‘What?' asked Junk.

‘Kill my father.'

‘What? Why?'

‘Tradition,' said Garvan.

‘What sort of crazy tradition is that?'

‘Cantibean tradition. It's how one king succeeds another,' said Garvan, and it took Junk a few moments to process that information.

‘Wait. Are you saying your father's the king of Cantibea?'

‘Yes,' said Garvan.

‘And you're supposed to be the next king?'

‘Yes,' said Garvan again.

‘You're a king?' Junk was incredulous.

‘No,' said Garvan. ‘Not until I kill my father, and I don't want to do that.'