The Voyage of the Unquiet Ice (36 page)

Seeing this, Dow – after four weeks of labouring in the darkest corner of the forecastle sail room – pleaded with the sail-master for permission to likewise work out on deck, in the sun. A request to which the sail-master, not an unreasonable man, assented, with just one proviso. ‘A sailor always craves the sunlight,' he warned, ‘but remember, Mr Amber – it's the brightest day that brings the sharks to the surface.'

But Dow didn't care about sharks. He gathered up the tools of his current hateful trade – an armful of old rope from the bottomless pile, and his bucket – and climbed onto the sail room roof, which doubled as the
Chloe's
foredeck. From there, sitting atop a hatch cover, he could gaze back over the entire ship as he worked.

And what a change the sun had made. Gone was the bedraggled, ice-rimed, battened-down vessel that had fought its way to and from the North Sea. Now, with the ice melted and the decks dry and the shrouds festooned with coloured laundry, the
Chloe
was like a tree blossoming again at spring's approach.

Indeed, it seemed to Dow that the ship, though battered surely, had suffered little permanent harm from its journey at all. Sails had been torn in the storm latitudes, yes, but no masts or spars had been lost. And though they'd run hard against ice several times during the retreat through the berg fields, the hull had never been breached. As for the crew – most ships, on setting out upon such a voyage, might bargain for half a dozen fatalities through mishap or illness; such were the rigours of the north. And yet, although there'd been no lack of injuries, the
Chloe
was bringing its entire crew safe home alive.

Other, that was, than one man.

At which thought, Dow lowered his head and turned his blackened hands to the day's tedious duty: unravelling, one by one, and twine by twine, each of the tar-stiffened ropes in his heap, so that the threads could be remade as new ropes, or employed as caulking in the hull.

It was called
picking oakum,
and it was Dow's punishment for that one man's death. Or more officially, for disobeying orders, stealing the
Bent Wing 2,
and leaving the ship without permission.

It didn't sound so bad at first, just pulling apart old ropes. But picking oakum was in fact the most loathed duty on board, a chore especially reserved for the worst wrongdoers. Normally there might be three or four sailors assigned to it as reward for various infractions. But for the last month it had been Dow's task alone, by the captain's order. He was to pick oakum from dawn to dusk every day, with only a short rest at noon.

His companions in the misadventure of the
Bent
Wing 2
had all escaped with lighter sentences. The three surviving seamen had received no worse than a period of double duty, seeing they were of low rank and had only been following the orders of the ship's scapegoat. And Johannes and Nicky, who Vincente likewise did not regard as ringleaders in the affair, had merely been confined to the smithy for the rest of the voyage. There was Nell, of course, the true instigator, but as scapegoat, and a girl besides, there were limits to what Vincente could do with her, other than banishment to her cabin. And so it was upon Dow – as the other ringleader – that the bulk of the captain's wrath had fallen.

The most fitting punishment – Dow was informed by Fidel, who delivered the sentence – would have been a flogging, but Vincente had apparently baulked at going quite as far as that. After all, if Dow and the others had not stolen the boat, then the puzzle of the lost fleet would never have been solved, and the fate of the Lord Designate would have remained a mystery. So the captain had chosen to be merciful, after a fashion …

Dow though had since come to think he might well have preferred the flogging. Those four weeks slaving away in the forecastle – as the ship crept through raining ash, or weaved its way about the rolling bergs, or fought for its life in the northern storms – had been the most monotonous he'd ever known. No matter how much old rope he picked apart, and no matter how huge the pile of strands grew in the bucket, there was always more rope to come. The
Chloe
had miles of it. And meanwhile the tar stained his fingers black, his nails broke, his back ached from being bent over all day, and a thousand tiny hairy splinters made his swollen fingertips throb and ache.

Even so, it was no answer to Alfons's death, he knew. The guilt of that could not be assuaged by mere splinters and discomfort. The old poet had followed Dow into the chasm because Dow had asked him to, because Alfons had trusted him, and because of that trust, he was dead; wrapped in canvas, and piloting a holed boat for eternity upon the icy sea floor.

In fact, that was
two
old men now who were dead and lost forever in the deeps, because of Dow's rashness and failures …

It was the worst thing about picking oakum, maybe. No matter how the hands suffered, the mind was left free to brood. Even today, out in the sun and wind, it was little better. For what did the warmth and blue sky signify, other than that they had reached southern waters again and that the voyage was almost over.

And when it was, what then?

Dow could guess all too well. Vincente, surely, was done with him now, and there was no hope of being allowed to remain on board the
Chloe.
He would be sent back to the
Twelfth Kingdom –
there to live out his life, ostensibly as a guest, and treated kindly, perhaps, but still a prisoner in reality; and either way, never again allowed to go sailing on a
proper
ship.

And yet – Dow thought as he pulled angrily at the clumped rope strands – would that really be such a loss anyway, when all he managed to do was bring death to those who believed in him?

At that moment the
Chloe's
bow dipped into a fresh swell, then reared up sharply, and as Dow swayed where he sat, the bucket of oakum, held loosely between this feet, went sliding away. It clipped the edge of a fitting, tipped over, and the oakum within spilled forth – a shaggy mass of lightweight hairs. Even as Dow stood to go in pursuit, the wind gusted malignly and the oakum rose up like some ugly bird, separated itself into a thousand dirty threads, then went streaming down along one side of the ship, slathering up against all the freshly washed clothes and sheets suspended there.

Furious cries from the sunbathing sailors sounded up and down the deck. Dow stared at the mess numbly, then sighed and bent his head, and stumped down the stairs to retrieve what he could.

Which was when he encountered Diego.

Until that moment, Dow had seen nothing of the lieutenant during the entire return voyage. In a way that was only to be expected, for Diego had no business in the sail room, especially not the dark corner where Dow was confined. But Dow could hear well enough all that happened on deck, and so could tell that Diego had withdrawn from the daily running of the ship. The voices of all the other lieutenants were recognisable as they shouted orders to the crew; but Diego's voice had been strangely absent.

Dow had at first thought – darkly – that Diego must be caring for Nell, attending to her in her cabin. But Dow himself and the others from the
Bent Wing 2
had recovered from their ordeal in a matter of days; Nell could be no different. So what was Diego doing all this time?

Then rumours had begun to pass about the ship, tantalising and contradictory. The lieutenant and the scapegoat had argued, some said. She would not see him, said others. No,
he
was refusing to see
her
, said others again. Whatever the truth, Dow could only assume that it had something to do with Nell's venture into the chasm. Diego would not approve, of course, especially that she had gone with Dow. But was it more than that? Had Nell perhaps told Diego some of what had transpired while she and Dow were alone upon the mount?

Had she told him
everything
?

Dow couldn't know. He hadn't seen Nell either since the terrible day they returned from the pole. But strangely, as he thought of her and of Diego, he found himself – against all likelihood – feeling almost sorry for the same man that he hated above all others. For Ignella of the Cave would never, he was sure, kiss Diego the way she had kissed Dow, so hungrily, so fervently, there under the threat of death on the volcano's flanks.

Now, as Dow blundered among the laundry, apologetically collecting what he could of the oakum, he brushed aside a last sheet and found himself at the railing – and treading very nearly upon Diego's heels, for the lieutenant was leaning there, staring out to sea. Dow just had the time to note Diego's oddly preoccupied expression before the lieutenant turned in ready annoyance, which only sharpened when he saw who'd interrupted him.

‘Hold there, seaman!' Diego ordered, and Dow, who'd been backing away, was obliged to stop, stand at attention and salute, trying in vain with his free arm to hold on to all the hairy threads of rope. ‘You fool! Who gave you permission to bring this rubbish on deck?'

‘The sail-master, Excellency.'

‘Did he? Did he?' Diego advanced a step, fists clenched. ‘Well he didn't give you permission to deface the ship, that I know!'

‘No, Excellency.'

‘Your duty was set as a punishment, New Islander. Not as an idiot holiday to sit out in the sun!'

‘No, Excellency,' repeated Dow, retreating still in confusion and surprise. Diego seemed extraordinarily angry for so minor an incident – angry in a way Dow had never expected, not even if Nell really had told him of their talk, and worse, of their kiss. After all, no matter how enraged he might be by jealously, Diego was surely too proud to let it show.

The lieutenant only came closer, the anger like an unreason in his eyes. ‘You should've been flogged. If this ship had a proper captain you would've been. Vincente has been too weak with you all along.'

But at that, Dow would retreat no more. He straightened, to meet his opponent's stare.

‘You'll learn soon enough he can't protect you,' Diego threatened lowly, but close in Dow could see beyond the lieutenant's rage, to a wild unhappiness that lay beneath. ‘You, or anyone else who stands with you. I'll soon be cousin to a Sea Lord, and then you'll see. I won't be made fool of by a peasant. Or spurned by a girl debase enough to consort with peasants.'

Dow, his own temper roused, opened his mouth to retort, but then suddenly his head was rocking back strangely. It happened once, twice, and then again. At last he realised; Diego was punching him.

It didn't even occur to Dow to hit back – a serious offence in any case, to strike an officer. He merely went reeling through the laundry, oakum spilling everywhere, with Diego stalking furiously in his wake, fists swinging, until finally, amid many shouts, various lieutenants and midshipmen came running, and held Diego off so that Dow could regain his balance.

‘Fools!' Diego raged. ‘Why is everyone so blind on this vessel?' He shrugged himself free of his fellows, and ripped impatiently at a hanging sheet that had tangled with his arm. ‘What a miserable excuse this is for a ship and a crew. Sail on then in your witless ignorance,' he said, addressing all the seamen and junior officers that stood about him gaping, ‘but don't blame me when your beloved Vincente leads you into disaster.'

And off he stormed towards the stern.

Dow rubbed his jaw disbelievingly. It wasn't that it hurt so much; it was still just a matter of the shock of it. What in the world was
wrong
with Diego? It was one thing to be angry with Dow, and Nell perhaps; but why was he equally enraged at the entire crew? Something had stretched his nerves to breaking point, clearly, even before Dow had stumbled into him.

Sailors were guiding Dow back to the forecastle, some gathering up his bucket and his lost shreds of oakum. The sail-master was waiting, a puzzled look on his weathered face. ‘Well lad, I didn't intend that you make yourself a punching sack. I think you'd best return to your duties indoors for now. You're not hurt are you? It's just a bruise or two by the look …' Dow felt at his jaw again, and shook his head. His teeth were all present and there was only a little blood where he'd bitten his lip.