Lie to a ship’s officer and Hammaghiri would dock your pay. Steal from a fellow sailor and he’d likely have you keelhauled. Other than that, as long as a man did his job, life on the Thranskirr was good compared to the often miserable conditions to be found on similar merchant vessels. That did not mean it was considered an easy ship: Hammaghiri worked his men too hard for it to be so designated. But it was a relatively free ship. After completing his assigned tasks, what a man did on his free time was his own business, so long as it did not interfere with ongoing operations.
Therefore no one thought it unusual or worthy of comment or notice when half a dozen members of the crew assembled on the foredeck on an evening that was clear, moonlit, and warm. It was a beautiful place to be on a calm night, listening to the melodious percussion of the bow crashing through the nephrite-green water as the moon silvered the crest of each successive swell and drifting durugonds burped drum-like mating calls across the surface.
Their joviality was false and their relaxation a pretext, however. They had assembled not to drink in the delights of an amenable night but to listen to old Korufh. About himself he had gathered those he deemed most sympathetic to his views. They were attentive. Glancing skyward, the second mate saw that the mainmast sentry was at ease in his basket-like lookout. There was no one else in view. In any event, this far forward the sound of the bow’s wave-cutting would keep cautious voices from being carried to other parts of the ship. Counting his audience at the ready, he began without preamble.
“They’re demons. I suspected so from the first. That dog—unnatural a sight to any man’s eyes, even without Quilpit’s telling of the tale that took place at the arena in Charrush. The horse: far too alert to human speech. As for their master, one moment he play-acts the perfect fool of an adolescent, the next he fights like a mystic warrior out of legend. No, the proof of it lies in their very appearance. Not to mention in their actions.”
His audience was amenable, yes—but some still remained to be fully convinced.
“What proof have we that they represent a danger?” asked one of the attentive seamen. “Did they not save us from the sea brigands?”
Having anticipated the most obvious of objections, Korufh was ready with a response. “They were in danger as much as any of the rest of us. Who is to say but that they acted to save themselves, and that our consequent salvation was but coincidental?”
Murmuring among the assembled showed that this argument held weight, as Korufh had suspected it would. He was quick to follow up on the advantage.
“If this seeming youth is a good sorcerer honest and true, and not putting forth some kind of innocent act for our benefit, why would he not declare himself such when he first came aboard? Why a need to disguise himself and his abilities if not in the service of some devious plan? Only the piratical attack compelled him to reveal his skills. Otherwise we would know nothing of them or of him save one story told by the first mate, to which no one else on this ship was witness.”
“Just so,” muttered another of the group. “Honest men are open and up-front about their true intentions. Those who hide them are usually up to no good.”
“Then,” Korufh continued, “there is this business of us abruptly changing course near the beginning of a voyage.” He lowered his voice further. “The Captain is a strong man, but even a strong man can be taken in by the intrigues of a wizard. I would not put it past this Madrenga to have bewitched him.”
“I was told the amount the young stranger paid to secure his passage,” a third sailor said. “He can bewitch me thus anytime!”
There was laughter, which was not the response the second mate sought. He hurried to counter it.
“I will not dispute that it was money that paid for transport. But the coin had been handed over before the Captain ordered the change of course that sends us across the Sea of Shadows. You all know him. Would he have done such a thing had he not been placed under some kind of disorienting spell? What one fears in chancing such a crossing is exactly what has happened already. The sorcerer sends us into danger, then tries to gain our gratitude by countering it.” He sat back. “I do not believe for a moment that he was in any personal danger. You saw how he dealt with the enemy’s cannon. By such measures and demonstrations he attempts to gain our trust, perhaps also our admiration. Are such efforts expended for nothing? He has something in mind for us, this demon Madrenga. I, for one, do not look forward to what it might be, and would strive mightily to avoid it.”
The youngest of the group gave voice to his own feelings. “That’s what sorcerers and witches do, they do. Bind you to them through gratitude, or spell, or obligation, and then use you up like an old deck rag. Cast you aside alive or dead when they’ve done with you.”
“Is that a chance we want to take?” Korufh gave the assembled time for the thought to sink in. “Do we take control of our own destiny, or do we let this necromancer of a landsman determine it for us?”
“Hush,” whispered one of the men tersely. “The night watch comes.”
Conversation shifted to the main topics of interest among seamen; namely, the weather and women. It changed back only when the bored but alert night watchman completed his circuit of the foredeck and resumed his repetitive march sternward.
The discussion lasted well on into the night, until Korufh decided to call an end to it. Off-duty crew enjoying the night air was normal. Extending such relaxation into the wee hours of morning at the expense of necessary sleep might occasion comment. Korufh was not yet ready to act. At this point in his plans, scrutiny was a streetwalker seriously to be avoided.
While the Thranskirr’s cook had one full-time galley assistant, the remaining necessary food preparation and serving help was shared by several members of the crew. The one Korufh took into his closest confidence would be responsible for carrying out the most delicate, if not necessarily the most dangerous, part of his plan. Another week passed before the second mate felt sufficient confidence in his design and in his co-conspirators to put his plan into effect.
Drugging the monster dog and the deviant horse were simple enough matters, but ultimately useless and possibly even dangerous unless their master could be similarly incapacitated. It was given to a willing Molt Reddan, an innocuous but cold-hearted seaman, to insert the premeasured dose of seproth extract into the iniquitous young man’s potatoes. Korufh had chosen the dinner carefully. The slightly bitter taste of the seproth would be more than adequately masked by the thick gravy that inundated the boiled spuds.
Still, no one, least of all Korufh himself, knew whether the extract would have its desired effect. Ordinarily, the dose measured out by the second mate and surreptitiously administered by the sailor Reddan should be sufficient to knock a big man flat cold. But someone who could catch cannon balls with one hand and then throw them back at the ship from which they were fired was, if naught else, no ordinary personage. All the conspirators could do was shovel down their own nightly meal—and wait.
The second mate knew his men as well as he knew his ship. Holding off until the night watch was assigned to members of his cabal ensured that they could go about the disreputable work confident they would not be disturbed.
At the appointed hour he joined a dozen of his fellows in slipping quietly from their bunks and hammocks. So as not to arouse suspicion among the rest of the crew they exited quarters one at a time. Assembling on deck, they awaited further instructions from the second mate.
While he and a chosen group slipped quietly into the main rear cabin, the rest set about the business of preparing the passenger’s mount. Animal fat was used to over-grease the block and tackle of the cargo crane to render it as silent as possible. By the time six of the men had succeeded in silently manhandling the anesthetized heavy animal onto one of the ship’s large wooden cargo platforms, the others had returned hauling dog, master, and the passenger’s possessions. As final preparations were being made to conclude the business some objections were raised concerning the disposition of the passenger’s clothing and gear.
“There may be valuables,” one sailor murmured hopefully. “Why should we not keep them?”
“Truth,” concurred another. “See this finely-wrought scroll case that is fastened to his belt? I reckon it would bring a double handful of silver in the main market at Yordd.”
Korufh growled softly at the hopeful thieves. “By all means, take everything. Our story is to be that this creature took his leave of us voluntarily, for reasons no ordinary man can fathom. Would he do so and leave his possessions behind? Were the Captain to discover any of them in your sea chest, what do you think his reaction would be?” The mate spat over the side. “Your miserable carcass would join this Madrenga in the water, only without a platform on which to float. No—everything that belongs to him, everything he owns, goes with him.” Korufh’s expression turned wolfish. “Or would you chance waking in bed to find that a ring or scroll holder or sword had taken demonic possession of you. Turned you into a salamander, or worse, slithered up your bunghole.”
“Or shriveled your genitals,” added another of the crew whose thoughts and emotions were wholly in tune with those of the second mate. “Or worse, banished them.”
“I once heard tell of a demon who switched a soldier’s face with his nether workings,” added another sailor. Nervous laughter greeted this revelation. Every man bent to his work with redoubled effort, and no more was heard of keeping anything that belonged to the demon or his animals.
The two newly arrived bodies; one human, the other canine, were dumped unceremoniously beside the horse. Clothing, weapons, and the double pack that on land was slung over Orania’s hindquarters was piled atop them. As an anxious Korufh whispered orders, men strained to manipulate the fat-silenced crane.
Emitting a barely perceptible creak, the thick loading platform rose off the deck and into the air. Under the second mate’s direction it was winched over the starboard side and then lowered into the water. At a signal the metal latches at each of the platform’s four corners were released. Ropes were withdrawn and the crane’s boom swung back over the deck.
Korufh joined several of his fellow conspirators in rushing to the railing. With a steady breeze behind her, the Thranskirr was making excellent progress to the northeast. The current, on the other hand, was flowing in the opposite direction. Within moments, the platform drifting on the swells was almost out of sight. By morning … Korufh allowed himself a tight-lipped smile of satisfaction. By morning it and its insensible passengers would be one with the vast open expanse of the Shadows. That is, if by then they had not already slid off the slick platform and drowned: something he dared not risk in the immediate vicinity of the ship itself lest the cold water revive the trio prematurely. As for the cargo platform, there were more than a dozen such on the Thranskirr. No one, including a captain busy with other matters, would think to look for a missing piece of wood until the business of the missing passengers had receded into memory.
He felt no remorse. Better for men to have no truck with demons than to rely on the whims of supernatural beings to remain friendly. Such creatures might save a ship from attack one day only to consign it to an even worse fate the next. The second mate had confidence in his own skills, in the crew, and in the seamanship of Captain Hammaghiri. But even the best man, when presented with coin piled high, can see his judgment impaired. Korufh felt he had done nothing more than polish the Captain’s glasses so that he could see things clearly. As he would, the mate was confident, on the morrow when the sun shone down on a ship that had been cleansed of unnatural presences.
One by one the conspirators retired to their sleeping quarters. Korufh had a last word with the two men of the night watch to rehearse one final time the sentences they should speak if they should be questioned on the night’s happenings. Then, content in conscience and secure in spirit, he too allowed himself the pleasure of returning to bed.
Neither member of the evening watch glanced in Korufh’s direction as they exited the Captain’s cabin. This was according to plan. Not that such eye contact would have imperiled any of them, but the perceptive Quilpit might have taken notice. So the crewmen ignored the mates as the two senior members of the ship’s staff waited their turn to be interviewed.
Korufh was pleased that there was more puzzlement than anger in Hammaghiri’s voice when he ordered them to enter. The Captain was seated in the usual place aft of his desk, charts and navigation tools and items of a personal nature illuminated by the morning sun that poured in through the rank of windows behind. He was clearly troubled, but not panicked. A good sign, Korufh felt. Interlacing his fingers and holding them up before his chin, the older man regarded his officers.
“You were both at breakfast. You know that when our passenger—our guest—the young Mr. Madrenga, did not appear, it was assumed that he was sleeping in. You know that subsequently I sent a man to check on him, only to be told that he was not to be found in his cabin. You know that I then ordered a search of the entire ship, only to find that there was no sign of him or of his animals. Even more strange, all of his possessions appear to have vanished with him.”
“It certainly is strange,” Korufh agreed helpfully.
Hammaghiri was visibly conflicted. “What sort of man commits suicide by taking his possessions with him? He was anxious to fulfill a mission that had been entrusted to him. Why would he abandon it, and life itself, when he was set determinedly and successfully on such a course?”
“It makes no sense to me, sir.” Quilpit was distraught. “It’s true I didn’t know the young man well, but I thought I knew him well enough.” He shook his head dolefully. “It’s plain I did not.”
To Korufh the moment seemed right. “Perhaps he was not a man. Perhaps he was not even young. Both aspects may be utilized by other beings as easily as a man changes his shirt.”
Hammaghiri and Quilpit were staring hard at him now. This did not bother the second mate. He had expected such a reaction and had prepared for it.
“Consider, my friends. This young fellow arrives seeking passage not around the Sea of Shadows but straight across it. His dog swallows fighting animals whole and bites rudders off ships. His horse, if that is what it is, runs ‘round a ship’s capstan fast enough to set it ablaze and fends off an entire boarding party all by itself. And their master—their master affects a youthful innocence that belies hidden motives and abilities. Such as playing catch with a cannonball as if it was a child’s toy. Who can imagine the reasonings of such a creature?” He straightened. “While I hope he has come to no harm I, for one, am not entirely displeased to believe that he has for reasons of his own decided to take leave of the Thranskirr and proceed onward toward his goal in a fashion and by means of which no normal man can imagine. In that I wish him good speed and a fair wind. Having seen what we have seen of him, I believe no honest sailor can do more.”
A troubled Quilpit was wrestling with his thoughts. “It would explain why all of his possessions and all of his gear have gone missing with him. But how could he travel across the water laden with such possessions? Not to mention the armor all three of them wore.”
Korufh shrugged. “Perhaps he can swim as well as his dog. Or his horse. Remember how back in Charrush the tail and mane of the latter seemed to propel it through the water from quay to ship as if they had become fins. Or maybe if sorcerally called upon, his animals can grow wings.” His voice fell conspiratorially. “Or even he himself.”
“If that were the case,” Hammaghiri interjected, “then he would not have needed to book passage on a ship like the Thranskirr in the first place.” He was staring evenly at Korufh, as if the second mate might know something he was not saying. But Korufh had been around too long and seen too much to be rattled by a hard gaze, even one as penetrating and forceful as that mustered by the venerable Captain.
“I wouldn’t know, sir. I know the minds of men, but not those of wizards and warlocks. Ignorant as I am of their reasons and motivations, I cannot begin to give an explanation for what to we mere mortals appears incomprehensible. Possibly he simply grew impatient with our progress and decided, by methods unguessable, to proceed ahead on his own.”
It was quiet in the cabin for a long moment before Quilpit broke the silence.
“We have to go back.”
“What?” In their simultaneous exclamation of surprise and disbelief, Hammaghiri and Korufh were in agreement.
“We have to look for him. I don’t know what happened to him. No one can know that, unless he can be asked. I don’t know why he chose to disappear together with all his worldly goods without venturing so much as a by-your-leave to me, or to either of you, or to anyone aboard ship. I do know that if he suffered some sort of accident, or mental derangement, or believed himself misplaced in time or space, that he may even now be floating in the current behind us, treading water while scanning the eastern horizon and hoping for the reappearance of the ship he abandoned.”
Korufh wanted to argue against the first mate’s suggestion but knew he dare not protest too vehemently. Thus far suspicion had avoided casting its noisome eye on him, and he devoutly wished it to continue so. He was therefore much relieved when instead of asking for his opinion, Hammaghiri himself responded.
“One must be realistic, Quilpit. I myself developed a fondness for the young man. It existed before he saved our ship and ourselves from brigandage, and only grew thereafter. But the sea is vast and unpredictable. Were we to come about, we would have the current beneath our keel but the wind would be in our faces. It freshens, and gives promise of continuing to do so. We would risk having to sail all the way back across the Shadows, with all the dangers that presents, while missing our delivery dates on the eastern shore. Our contracts would be voided and the ship’s reputation irreparably besmirched. All in the hope of finding in the great expanse of the sea a man, a dog, and a horse—who may even as we speak be traveling by means safe and sorceral to the same protected harbor we seek.” Unlocking his fingers, he pressed his open palms down on his desk and rose.
“While I feel a deep concern for our missing passenger, my first responsibility is to this ship, to the men who serve on her, and to her owners. We will offer to the sea gods our prayers for the continued good health of our honorable young friend, his horse, and his ugly dog, in the hope that by whatever means at their disposal they may arrive safely at their intended destination. I hope, thusly, no less for them than for ourselves.”
“So we will sail on?” Discouraged but realistic, Quilpit had as much as conceded to the Captain’s logic.
Hammaghiri nodded somberly. “If the gods wish it, it may be that we may meet up with our young passenger again. Who knows? Perhaps we might encounter him in the markets or streets of Yordd.”
Knowing the truth of the situation, this was not a likelihood that concerned a now completely at ease Korufh. But he felt bound to embrace it, if only to show that he was unafraid of the possibility.
“What would you do if we did, sir?”
The Captain looked surprised. “Why, I would inquire as to his means of travel without us, of course—and offer him a prorated refund of that portion of the journey he chose to conclude in lieu of our assistance.
“Gentlemen, you are dismissed. Return to your duties, as I shall to mine.”
Though cold and wet go together as naturally as coffee and chocolate, they constitute a much less pleasing combination. From a sound sleep Madrenga awoke to a decidedly discomfiting evening. Snugged tight against him, Bit was snuffling and kicking in his sleep. Across the platform, Orania was kicking her legs as she sought to stand.
Platform?
He sat up quickly. His possessions, including his knife become sword and all of his clothing, lay in a heap at his feet. Orania’s saddle and tack were present, too, and Bit’s spiked collar. Like the rest of him, all were soaked with salt water.
Of the Thranskirr there was no sign.
Rising, he was thankful that the wood they were standing on was at least strong and stable enough to support all of them. It rocked but did not tip over even when Orania gained her footing. Of course such stability might be due, he knew, to the fact that the wooden platform was slowly becoming saturated, in which case they could look forward to the inevitability of their present refuge sinking beneath their feet.
Turning a slow circle, he scanned every horizon. There was no sign of sails or mast, much less an entire ship. He did not shout for help because there was no one to shout at. How had this happened to him? An evening meal had been shared, in good company. Then he had retired, with Bit curling himself beside the bunk, and both had fallen into a deep sleep. A very deep sleep, he told himself.
Perhaps his dinner company had not been such good company as he thought.
But why would anyone on board do this to him? Hurriedly he checked his pile of possessions for one particular item, only to heave a sigh of relief when he found the scroll container where he had left it last, fastened to his belt. Even his half full purse was there, with its heavy coin and sprites’ memento. Not robbery, then. But what? Try as he might, he could not conceive of a motive, could not think of why anyone he had met on the Thranskirr would wish such a fate on a traveler cast in their care.
It didn’t matter now. Reconnoitering his gear brought the welcome discovery that a set of clothing within one of Orania’s backpacks had remained untouched. Stripping off his wet shorts, he let the fading sun dry his bare flesh before he donned fresh attire. While he might not need the covering for warmth, he knew it was important to keep himself protected from the naked sun lest his skin broil and peel. Such sores were to be avoided as long as was possible. Also, he felt better with the precious scroll container and the belt to which it was fastened once more securely buckled around his waist.
As night fell and the only illumination came from the moon and the stars he reflected more fully on his desperate situation. Gazing down at his companions he found himself envying them their ability to sleep regardless of the circumstances. Never before had he regarded sentience as a curse: he did so now. How much easier it would be, how much simpler all of life, if one had only to react to matters of the moment. Forethought brought with it worry, contemplation fear, while the offspring of analysis was confusion.
Lying down against Orania’s side kept most of him out of the water that sloshed over the wooden platform. A single strong swell, a sufficient gust of wind, would tumble all three of them into the water. Then his mission would be well and truly come to an end, along with his own life. Whatever mysterious enchantment had empowered and saved him up to now could not turn him into a fish. For all the size and strength he had acquired since leaving Harup-taw-shet, if dumped into the open ocean he would drown as miserably as a chick in a cow bucket.
What a sad, strange way for a lifelong landsman to die, he thought. Especially for one who had not lived much of a life at all, and with a royal assignment wasted to boot. Reaching down, he felt once again at his waist. Knowing the scroll was still there, safe in its tightly sealed cylindrical container, provided reassurance all out of proportion to its unknown contents.
I’ve failed, he told himself remorsefully. Failed Chief Counselor Natoum, who had shown confidence in him. Failed the Queen, who had done likewise. Failed himself and his trusting companions.
He started to cry. While Orania slept on, the noise awakened Bit. Yawning, the dog stared at his master for a moment. Then he crawled over, advancing through the water on his belly and all fours, to lay his head against his master’s legs. Strange, Madrenga mused, how the simple act of petting a dog can mute the most monstrous of fears. He fell asleep like that; lying on his horse, his hand resting on his dog’s head, with a dense fog closing in around them. The thickening mist shut out the rest of the world like a benign acid bent on dissolving reality.
He awoke to the mournful aria of Bit’s howling and sat up. With Orania stirring beneath him he had no choice but to move anyway. The world was still swathed in mist. So deep and thick it was that he was unable to tell if it was night or day. He could see only a short distance in any direction. It was as if gauze had been draped over his face. Of one thing there was no doubt: they were still drifting at sea. Ominously, the water that pulsed as if from a great heartbeat was now deeper where it swept across the platform. The process by which the wood was becoming more and more waterlogged was increasing. The platform, like the rest of his life, was steadily sinking away.
Nothing penetrated the fog save Bit’s despondent howling. How far the sound carried Madrenga could not estimate. He had no more reference points for sound than he did for sight. But the yowling was heard, and drew listeners. Or mayhap it was merely coincidence.
After all, the vast expanse of water was not called the Sea of Shadows for no reason.
Though it showed no sail, the ship that parted the veil of damp vapor came toward him nonetheless. Her naked hull and masts were the same shade of gray as the air itself, as if they were formed of big chunks of fog that had been shaped and turned and sawed on mystical lathes. Here and there a touch of dark green could be seen: signals and signposts suggesting that the angular vessel was as much a part of the sea as a traveler upon it. As he sat regarding the ghostly apparition Madrenga could hardly move. It would not have mattered if his muscles had been able to respond. He had nowhere to go anyway.
Shapes appeared near the bow. So bright was the anatomical whiteness of their bones that their skeletons were visible through their ragged attire. Here were the shades and shadows of men and women who had been lost at sea. While most journeyed onward to whatever land the dead inhabited, these ship-lost souls found themselves still traveling, for whatever reason, on a vessel with no course and no destination. No safe, warm, welcoming harbor awaited them as they sailed interminably on a heading toward a distant Hell.
Regaining his presence of mind, Madrenga considered sliding off the platform and ordering Orania and Bit to come with him. It was their trusting expressions and attitudes as much as his own indecision that prevented him from doing so. While he continued to debate, the shadow ship slid alongside. Nets deployed like spider silk. He was saved the trouble of trying to make up his mind.
Lifted onto a murky deck into which his feet sank up to the ankles, he rose without trembling. It was not confidence or self-possession that saw him stand so, but rather the fact that his body had done so much shivering during the chill damp night that it could shake no more. Orania shook her head, sending water flying toward and through several of the attentive watchers. Ever affable, Bit padded over to the nearest shadow and tried to lick its hand. Though his tongue passed through the miasmatic digits, the tall shade of a long dead seaman drew his skeletal hand back with a moan of disgust.
“A long while it has been since one of the animate has come among us.” The shadow woman who spoke had hair that fell to her waist and was still tinged with blond, though half her face was missing.
“This one burns with life.” Reaching out, a fat gloominess put a hand on Madrenga’s arm. He felt only a slight tickling sensation as the sausage-like fingers passed through him. A clammy tingle, as if the blood in his limb had ever so briefly been replaced with sea water.
Like milk with tea, curiosity began to blend with fear. “Who are you?” he asked. He thought he knew the answer, but the question was all he could think of to say anyway, and some sort of response seemed to be wanting.
“Sailors overboard.” The Harund who spoke was a ghost of a beard mounted on a pair of stick-legs. “Passengers storm-tossed. Sea-soldiers slain in battle. Brigands who did not live long enough to collect. We are flesh made flotsam, condemned by chance or curse to sail this sea until a time unknown and unappointed. In all that time we have no company save our own—and that of the occasional guests or guest we may chance upon.”
“Am I your guest, then?” Madrenga spoke boldly. There was no point in begging or pleading, he knew. For one thing, he had no boat upon which to be set free. For another, there is no charity among the dead.
His query stimulated some conversation among the shadows. Their words, like their discorporeal selves, were difficult to discern. From what he could make out, opinion seemed divided between enjoining him to stay for story-time, throwing him back overboard, or stretching his limbs between the masts until the sway and twist of the sea and sky tore him apart. All these words were whispered, the various vocalizations as faint as the throats from which they sprang.
“It is the Mark of the Moon’s Month,” one shade said from deep within half-collapsed shadow armor. “For a day and a night, revelry reigns on the water. See first how he dances and sings, and then we will decide.”
“Yes! … Truth! … Let it be so!” A chorus of ghostly attitude stirred the damp air on a deck of gray splinters held together by heartache.
Madrenga swallowed. He had no reason to think that whatever enchantment had rendered him progressively bigger and stronger had done anything to improve his voice. As for dancing, he had seen more graceful puppets performing in a booth. But he would give it his all. He would have to.
And then what? Become a passenger on this ship of post-death? Destined to sail to and fro across a great sea until he, too, perished from want of food, or water, or human companionship? Looking down at the worshipful Bit, he tried to view his peculiar circumstances through the eyes of a dog. One day at a time, Bit would tell him if he had the power of speech. Life is to be taken one day, one moment, one bone at a time. Could he, Madrenga wondered, do less?
So he smiled at the circle of shadows that now surrounded him and lied most efficaciously. “I’m happy to participate in your celebration, though this is the first I have ever heard of the Mark of the Moon’s Month.”
While no louder than the barking of frogs, the sounds that rose from the assembled shades were unmistakably expressions of delight. He was careful to conceal his own lack of enthusiasm. After the celebration, of which he truthfully knew nothing, then what?
One bone at a time, he reminded himself. Surrounded as he was by a multitude of bones, or at the very least the specter of them, he could hardly forget.
Where once had been day, now there was night. Madrenga knew this, not because the fog had lifted or the sun had shown through, but because it was told to him, and he had no reason to doubt it. Certainly it had grown darker on the deck of shadows. Just when he was concerned that vision was to be denied him for the duration of the celebration, the looming darkness was split by the lighting of first one, two, a dozen torches. They blazed high, the flames glittering off dew-laden masts and spars, deck and cabins. Fashioned no less of shadow-stuff than was the rest of his surroundings, he was left to wonder how fire could spurt from fog.
He was still wondering when the Mark of the Moon’s Month celebration was to begin when he found himself in the midst of it.
They came pouring out of shattered ports and rotting hatchways, fell like phantom flowers from the branches of yardarms, waltzed onto the main deck from the main stern cabin. Each was dressed in his or her finery, though given a steady degradation of spirit that sometimes stretched back for millennia it was sometimes difficult to tell male from female. More recent shadows were better intact. Some retained sufficient aspect of flesh to almost be appealing.
He was grateful that the one who approached him first was definable of gender. Breasts that had not yet begun to degrade bulged from the lip of a low-cut gown the color of blood-infused sputum, and her black eyes were not so far sunk into her skull that he had to strain to see them. She paused before him; contemplating, assessing, deciding. Finally she extended both arms. Her fingers were long and so supple as to be almost cephalopodan.
The music started. It arose not from a band or an orchestra but from the depths of the shadow ship itself. The entire hull expanded and contracted like a bellows, generating a sound akin to a full pipe organ. Echoes of ghostly woodwinds piped from groaning spars while the ragged rigging strummed and plucked. Last to make itself heard was the percussion caused by the slap of the sea against the hull itself. He was not listening to music, he realized as his deathly consort began to spin him around the deck: he was inside it.
He could feel his own bones vibrating in time to the music and his organs pumping in identifying rhythm with the hull. Where there ought to be dread was joy. Faster and faster the ship played itself while everywhere on board the shadows of those stuck in a seaward limbo pirouetted and spun about one another.
Rising from the deep, a brace of whales joined in, their sonorous singing causing the last unaffected bits of the spectral vessel to quiver with delight. Squid of monstrous size and bejeweled flesh rose to flank the vessel to starboard and port, refulgent patterns of colored light racing in perfect tandem along their cylindrical flanks while eyes the size of dinner plates glowed like irised suns. Sonophores sparkled everywhere and comb jellies paraded rainbows within the mist. From the deep dark depths rose all manner of bioluminescent monstrosities and serpents to bathe the ship and its celebrants in an explosion of heatless, heartless light.
As the dancing grew wilder and more uncontrolled, Madrenga’s mistress for the evening began to sing. Despite recognizing neither melody nor language he did his best to emulate her words. He could be accused, tried, and convicted of tunelessness, but not a lack of enthusiasm.
Dizziness assailed him. The enveloping fog had become a voluptuous cape, wrapping him in an embrace that was at once damp and comforting. No one and nothing within reach of the music was immune to its rhythmic blandishments. Out of the corner of an eye he saw Bit dancing with half a child. While she hopped grotesquely on one foot in perfect time to the music, the dog bounced and spun on his hind legs. Madrenga had seen him stand thus before, but only for a minute or two before being compelled to drop again down onto all fours. As it was with his master, the evening was summoning forth unexpected talents.
From Orania, too. She did not rear up on her hind legs and presume to waltz. On all fours she pranced partnerless in the center of the deck and dashed around the fore and main masts, teased by giggling sights and tempted by promises of the sharing of shadow food. In truth, Madrenga thought she looked a little drunk. As he no doubt did, letting himself be spun about by a feminine apparition formed of fog and mystic miasma.
Then a most wondrous thing happened.
The fog broke. For an instant, or maybe two. A full moon shown unimpeded down on the deck. The music and dancing stopped as all aboard halted whatever they were doing and tilted back their heads to look upward. Conversation ceased abruptly, as did all singing.
For that brief, argent interlude the ship of shadows was whole again. Sturdy and gleaming with fresh paint, she slipped over the swells as cleanly as any fast cutter. It was no less with her passengers and crew. Men and women, Harund and even one or two Selndar, stood on her deck dressed in the finery of many lands. Gilt armor gleamed on stalwart soldiers while jewels of every cut and description adorned the flesh of women whose skin shaded from pure white to obsidian black. None of the men were less than handsome, none of the women wanting in beauty. The revealed moon having drawn his gaze as powerfully as the others, Madrenga now lowered it. Had he found the wind, he would have gasped.
The woman standing opposite looked but a few years older than himself. Such beauty he had never before beheld: not in paintings idealized, not in sculpture venerated, and most certainly not in the flesh. Her eyes were jewels of the night, her body a mathematician’s wet dream, her lips formed from the juice of the ripest pomegranates.
“Only at this time,” she told him in a voice of vanilla and honey, “do we become briefly again what we once were.” She gestured skyward with fingers that unfolded like the petals of an orchid. “At the Mark of the Moon’s Month.” Her sadness was epic. “We who loved the light now have none.”
It was not within him to ask by what curse she and her companions had been condemned to the shadows. He had neither the experience nor the knowledge to understand anyway. He could only be sad with her, could only draw her close and feel the delicious curves of a body that was momentarily once again radiant with life.
Then the fog closed back in. The moon disappeared, banished somewhere above, and once more all was mist and gloom. The dancing slowed, the music went away like a scream in the night, and he found himself again surrounded by the decaying shades of the dead. With the light and the moment of the moon went all joy, all pleasure, all compassion.
“He cannot sing,” a raggedness of a sailor croaked, “and he dances only when a woman leads. Kill him.”
“And his animals, too,” hissed a shape who a moment earlier had been an image of beauty and font of desire. “Feed them to the fishes and the water serpents.”
Stunned, Madrenga turned to the enthralling vision who had been his companion for the celebration. But she was gone. Standing in her place was a hellspawn harridan with barnacles where her ears should have been and hollow eye sockets crawling with eels. The cackle that came from where lips had once promised chilled his blood.
“Save me the finest piece, for I would try to taste what I cannot kiss.”
Orania held her ground as the crowd closed in. Drawing his sword, Madrenga backed up against her. He was under no illusion concerning his weapon’s effectiveness against the spectral horde, but he felt bound to try and defend himself. Standing at his feet, Bit charged forward and snapped powerful jaws. They came away with a leg, whose owner simply laughed at the osteal excision. A moment later the dog was spitting out water.
A thunderous bellow halted the advance of the whispery circle.
“What’s all this? Why was I not awakened for the celebration? By Balatho’s lightning, I’ll wrap the lot of you around the mainmast and knot you there for eternity! I, Admiral Baros Soen Dailanceon, swear this!”
Shadows parted to make way for a shade twice the height of any other present. It was the echo of a Golgox giant, clad in the tattered uniform of a senior naval officer. Torn epaulettes hung from shoulders better suited to the body of a bear. Earlobes that had once been stretched by weights hung low while eyes were shaded by a shelf of solid bone from which thick hairs thrust and curled.
A nervous tittering arose from the assembled. One shade, serving as supplicant on behalf of his fellows, took a daring step forward and pointed at the grim-faced Madrenga. Beside him, Bit whimpered and Orania whinnied nervously.
The figure continued to advance until it was looming over the castaway. It would have blocked out the moon, had the moon stayed to observe. Huge glowing eyes glared down at the youth as a hand big enough to fit completely around Madrenga’s waist reached for him. He started to raise his sword. Young man and primeval shade locked eyes. The ancient admiral snarled like a mad thing.
Then his glowing eyes blinked. He halted, drew back his reaching hand, and fell backward, throwing up his arms to shield his face.
“Fools of the dead! Can none of you see what you so blindly have brought aboard? Are you as devoid of perception as you are of life? Unclean, unclean! Tainted even to the deceased!” By now he was back on his massive feet and scrambling in the direction of the stern cabin from whence he had emerged.
“Cast it off! Give it and its creatures a boat lest by trying to drown it you only make it enraged. Even a shadow may feel pain from something capable of inflicting it. Send it away before it thinks through all things and realizes itself!”
Bewildered by the reaction of their fearsome commander, the shadows of the ship hastened to comply. A small boat was lowered into the water. Though itself composed of nothing but fog, it floated as buoyantly on the swells as did the larger vessel. Full of questions but not daring to say anything that might delay or inhibit his departure, Madrenga allowed himself and his companions to be placed in the small boat by the same means that had brought them aboard. His possessions were thrown over the side and he had to strain to catch them before they landed in the water. Standing in the front of the boat, his feet poised on the bow, Bit was barking furiously as the shadows on board.
“Make haste, make sail!” Even in his confusion Madrenga recognized the deep voice of the Admiral. “Away from this contamination and out to the safety of the middlemass!”
No less confused by the unexpected turn of events than the shadow ship’s compliment, Madrenga sat on the hard watery bench at the center of the boat and watched until the ship faded from view. Or faded into it—he could not be certain if it had sailed away or simply become one with the mist that surrounded it. Something had frightened the Admiral. Something menacing enough to scare even the dead. Him. The Admiral of ancient specters had been frightened of him. Madrenga brooded on this. But not for long.
Because the more he pondered what had just happened, the more he began to frighten himself.