WE SHOULD NEVER HAVE LEFT THE ICE
Mister Smoke and Missus Slink had been gone for far too long.
Something’s happened to ’em, thought Petrel as she and her friends stumbled along a rough coastal track. According to the cap’n’s calculations, they should’ve reached that ship by now. They should’ve sent a message, but they haven’t. They ain’t coming back—I’m sure of it! I’m never going to see ’em again.
Her only consolation was the messages from the Oyster, which came every four hours and were disjointed and scrappy.
… STIL … HERE, said each message. ST … HOLD … OUT. WHER … AR … YOU?
“There must be a loose connection at their end,” said the captain. “That is why they are not getting our replies. I wish they would fix it.”
“So do I, Cap’n,” said Krill grimly. “But at least they’re alive, and they’ve still got the bridge. Albie hasn’t won yet.”
All the same, he was dreadfully worried, and so was Petrel. Between one message and the next, she imagined Albie storming the barricades, Squid and Dolph dead and the Oyster turning south.
As bad as the situation was, hunger made it worse. The dried fish was long gone, and this particular bit of coast seemed to offer nothing but stunted trees, low thorny bushes and rocks.
Last night, Petrel had dreamed she was eating a toothyfish, so sweet and juicy that she could still taste it when she woke up. The withered roots called taters, which Fin had found halfway through the morning, were a poor substitute.
What’s more, the captain insisted on going into every village they passed. The others did their best to dissuade him, but on this one matter he would not be budged. “We are here to change the world,” he said.
The trouble was, they weren’t changing the world. They weren’t even changing a tiny part of the coast of West Norn. No one in the villages would talk to them, no matter how politely they offered information about water pumps, mechanical plows and windmills. Fin had been sure that folk would be grateful for simple machines that made their lives easier, but it seemed he was wrong. The villagers of West Norn were too frightened of the Devouts to be grateful for anything.
It bothered Petrel to see them so cowed and voiceless. It reminded her of the way she used to be, which she didn’t want to think about, and she found herself getting angry with the villagers and blaming them for their own misery—which made her feel even worse.
The only one not dispirited by their failure was the captain. He simply grew more determined to find the Singer and the Song, which, he said, would make all the difference.
And now they were walking again. The snow had melted, the day was damp and miserable, and everyone except the captain was snappish. To take her mind off her worries, Petrel trotted up close behind Fin and said, “What does your mam look like? What color’s her hair?”
Without turning, Fin said, “You have asked me that a dozen times since we left the ice.”
“And I’m asking again.”
“I cannot remember her hair.”
“What about her eyes?”
There was an edge to Fin’s voice now. “I cannot remember her eyes either.”
Petrel knew she should give up. Instead, she walked closer, so she was almost treading on his heels. “How about her name?”
Fin stopped dead and said, through gritted teeth, “I was three years old, Petrel. Her name, as far as I was concerned, was Mama. Now, can you tell me how, in the whole of West Norn, I am going to find a woman called Mama?”
He didn’t wait for her reply. As he walked away, Petrel thought she heard him mutter, “Besides, she is probably dead.”
There was no answer to that. But Petrel might have kept digging anyway, if the captain hadn’t suddenly stopped and picked up something from the path.
“It is a bird!” he said. “A pigeon. Look.” And he opened his hands to show them.
The pigeon was smaller than the gulls and albatrosses of the icy south, and its feathers were blue-gray, with dark stripes across the wings and tail. Its eyes were closed, and it lay panting in the captain’s grasp.
He ran his clever fingers over its wings. “Nothing is broken,” he said. “Perhaps it was chased by a hawk and is exhausted. If I take care of it, it should recover.”
He made a cooing sound, and the bird opened its orange eyes and blinked at him.
“It belongs to the Devouts,” said Fin. “See?” He gently extended the pigeon’s leg, which had a scroll of waxed paper tied to it. “They use them as messenger birds.”
“What’s it say?” asked Krill.
Fin unraveled the bit of paper. “‘Demon and companions sighted in coastal village, District 2. Believed to be heading north.’”
“Just as well that didn’t get through!” said Petrel. She stroked the bird’s feathers. “I’m sorry for you, pigeon, being attacked and all. But it’s a good thing you didn’t make it.”
Fin shook his head. “This bird did not make it, but the Devouts always send more than one. Which means they know we are here. They will be hunting—”
He broke off, his eyes darting back the way he and his companions had come. Petrel froze. So did Krill. The captain was as still as a bollard, his hands cradling the bird.
A slow, rhythmic thud reached their ears.
“Horses!” mouthed Fin. “Coming up behind us!”
For a moment, Petrel felt as if she were back on the Oyster, and the Officer bratlings coming after her with the tar bucket.
Except she knew every single hidey-hole on the old icebreaker and could conceal herself easily. Not like here.
She caught her breath. There must be somewhere to hide! She stared frantically at the unfamiliar landscape and saw a clump of vines and fallen trees. She pointed. There! The others hurried off the track after her, moving as quietly as they could through the low scrub.
The sound of horses grew louder. One of them snorted. A man called out, “Are you sure they were heading this way? If you are wasting our time, you will be sorry.”
When she heard that, Petrel just about fell over with fright. That last village! I told the cap’n we should go around it!
She urged her friends on, scrambling around bushes and over rocks, until she and Fin and the captain were tucked up inside the clump of vines, with the pigeon lying on the ground beside them. Krill was nearly there too; he just had to climb over those last few wet rocks.
Except he was going too fast, and his foot slipped. One of the rocks tipped under him. His weight skewed in the wrong direction—and he fell sideways, his starboard leg suddenly useless, his hands grabbing at the ground so he wouldn’t make too much noise as he fell.
There was no time to lose. Fin, Petrel and the captain grabbed hold of Krill and dragged him into the shelter of the vines. He didn’t make a sound, not even a whimper, but his face was contorted with pain, and the sweat poured off him in torrents.
And then the horses were passing by no more than fifteen paces away, and all Petrel and her friends could do was crouch behind the thin curtain of vines, hoping they would not be discovered.
The horses were long-nosed creatures with hoofs as big as portholes. The two men who were riding them wore brown robes and wide-brimmed hats to keep the rain off, and had shiny, satisfied faces, as if they’d recently eaten a large meal. Across their backs they carried axes, and tied to each of their saddles was a wicker cage containing several pigeons.
A third man walked in front of the horses. He didn’t look satisfied. His cheeks were so hollow that it hurt Petrel to look at him.
“I am sure they went in this direction, gracious sirs,” said the thin man in an anxious voice. “There is a reward for sighting them, is there not? I sighted them, I did. Four of them! What is the reward, gracious sirs?”
“The reward is for us sighting them, you fool,” said the plumper of the two riders.
The second rider said, “How long ago did you see them?”
“No use asking him that,” said the first man. “The peasants are not capable of measuring time.”
The villager, his face unreadable, said, “Not long at all, gracious sir. The clouds have barely moved in the sky since they left our village.”
“Really?” The second rider shaded his eyes. “They cannot be far ahead of us, then. Come, let us hurry!” And they disappeared up the track.
Petrel waited for several minutes, to be sure they’d gone, and then she crept out from under the vines. Behind her, she could hear the captain murmuring questions. “Do you have pain here, Krill, around the medial malleolus? What about here, around the lateral? No? My medical knowledge is not as good as my maps or my telegraphy, but I do not think your ankle is broken.”
“We’re stuck now, ain’t we?” Petrel said to Fin when he followed her out. “Krill’s ankle might not be broken, but it’s sprained at the very least. He won’t be able to walk on it, not for a week or so.”
Fin nodded. “And we cannot carry him. Not even the captain is that strong.”
Neither of them suggested going on without the big man. He was crew, and they couldn’t leave crew behind.
“We will have to stay here,” continued Fin, “and wait for Mister Smoke and Missus Slink.”
“Which might not be so bad,” said Petrel, doing her best to sound cheerful.
But it was bad, and she knew it.
She thought back to the time, all those weeks ago, when they had decided to leave the ice and head north. She had had everything she wanted then. Good friends. Good food. The reassuring decks of the Oyster under her feet.
And now nearly all of it was gone.
She felt a tear spring to her eye and wiped it away. But she couldn’t wipe away the thought that came with it. It sat there inside her like a tater, wrinkled and sour.
Albie was right. We should never have left the ice in the first place.
* * *
By the time the Claw reached the coast, Rain had been singing under her breath for days, and the world still did not make any sense.
Un-cle Poosk wants me back
Because blood is thicker than water
Un-cle Poosk wants me back
Because blood is thicker than tea—
She had tried to believe it and could not. Uncle Poosk might have saved her from starvation, but beyond that he did not care what happened to Rain. Girls could not become Devouts.
No, it was her brother he wanted—Bran, who was young enough to be an Initiate, young enough to be molded into the right way of thinking.
She tried again.
Bro-ther Thrawn wants me back
Because—
Cuttle was at the periscope, watching the coast road. To her own surprise, Rain was getting used to life on the underwater ship. By listening carefully, she had learned the names of things and had even grown accustomed to the sound of the machines.
What was more, she was beginning to like Cuttle, who was quieter than the others and more cautious. She liked Poddy too. The two younger children did not pinch and bully her the way Initiates would have done, or whip her to show who was in charge. Since the fight, when she had tried to break the depth gauge, they had mostly treated her like a strange sort of animal that had to have its ankles tied to the chart table for its own good.
Rain was still making up her mind about Gilly. But she did not like Sharkey, not one bit. She did not like the way he ordered everyone around and the way the other children looked at him as if he could do no wrong.
Right now he was pacing up and down, though he could take only three steps before he had to turn around and go the other way, and with two of those steps, he had to duck his head. Occasionally he paused, jerked his chin at Cuttle and said, “Well?”
“Two Ghosts on foot, sir,” said Cuttle, without taking his eyes from the periscope. “Heading sou’west.”
“That’s all?”
“Aye, sir. That’s all.”
Rain went back to her singing.
Bro-ther Thrawn wants me back
Because—
“Sir,” cried Cuttle, “come and look at this! There’s a thing with wheels, and Ghosts marching beside it, heading nor’east—”
Sharkey bent over the eyepiece. He watched whatever it was for a few minutes, then straightened up and glowered at Rain. “A beast,” he said. “Pulling a box on wheels.”
“A horse?” said Rain, who had come to realize that the Sunkers knew almost nothing about life on land. “A horse and cart?”
Without a word of thanks, Sharkey went back to the periscope, turning the little knob that made things look bigger and closer. “Three Ghosts walking. And there’s a couple more in the—the cart. Least, I think they’re Ghosts.”
“Must be, sir,” said Cuttle. “Can’t be Sunkers. They’d’ve been gobbled up already.”
“Aye…,” said Sharkey. For once, he did not sound sure of himself.
“The Devouts do not eat people,” said Rain. As usual, they ignored her.
“Wake Gilly,” said Sharkey. “She’s got the best eyesight in the fleet.”
Cuttle’s sister was curled up on the bunk above the batteries, where the Sunkers took turns sleeping. Cuttle shook her gently. “Gilly.”
The girl was awake in an instant, running her fingers through her short hair and rubbing her eyes. “What?”
Sharkey made way for her. “Have a look, Gill. Who’s that in the cart? Can you see?”
Gilly yawned, rubbed her eyes again and took the periscope handles. “Where, sir?” Then she stiffened. “It’s the adm’ral!”
“That’s what I thought,” said Sharkey, as grim as Rain had ever seen him. “But it can’t be.”
“I know it can’t,” said Gilly, her voice muffled by the eyepiece. “They should’ve eaten her. But it is, sir! It’s the adm’ral and she’s alive!”
At the helm, Poddy swung around, her face shining. “Does that mean Ma and Fa might be alive too?”
“They might be—” began Gilly.
“Nay,” said Sharkey. “It doesn’t mean anything.” He snapped out a series of orders, his shoulders stiff. “Cuttle, take us down to eighty-five feet. Heading one three four. Make your speed nine knots. Gilly, get the collapsible skiff ready.”
“Aye, sir!” they cried—and Rain put her hands over her ears so as not to hear the orders repeated three or four times.
But when Cuttle came to check something on the chart above her head, she whispered to him, “Where are we going?”
“North,” said Cuttle, “to tomorrow’s handover. Doesn’t look like a trap, but we’re going early just in case.”
Rain nodded as if she was pleased. And she was! She needed to see Bran again, needed to make sure he was all right. That was more important than anything.
And so, even though she liked Poddy and Cuttle, she did not say a word about the exchange. Not out loud, anyway.
But under her breath she sang one of the oldest songs she knew. One that Mama had taught her, after making Rain promise that she would never sing it where she might be overheard.
Would you walk into the jaws of a tiger?
Would you pat a hungry bear on the snout?
Would you trust a rabid dog
Or walk a rotten log
Or believe the words of a Devout?