FIFTEEN

 

Tom felt sick at having to run away. He just knew that Dewar was going to get involved in the fighting, despite saying that he'd follow on after them. What had all those sword lessons and practice sessions been for if Tom was expected to flee at the first sign of trouble? In his heart he realised that he probably wouldn't have been much help but that didn't stop him feeling frustrated, angry, and more than a little ashamed.

  Beside him, Mildra clutched his arm, gripping tightly enough that her fingers dug painfully into his skin. He wondered about saying something but didn't – glad of the contact and not wanting to disturb her thoughts or do anything that might cause her to shift and let go of his arm.

  "It's for the best. We have to leave." She said this aloud, though he suspected the words were more for her own benefit than his. He glanced across to discover tears trickling down her cheeks.

  "Look forward," Ullel advised, "never back. That way lies only regret and sorrow."

  Tom was surprised to hear such philosophical advice from a fisherman, but then he'd been constantly surprised by these people ever since arriving in their village. Nor could he argue with what Ullel said. He turned to face the front of the boat, glad to do so as this meant he didn't have to meet the fisherman's eyes. He felt certain that he'd find only accusation there. The back of his neck tingled, as if the hairs were standing on end; he imagined he could feel Ullel's gaze boring into him and so shifted his shoulders, hunching forward slightly. Tom was acutely aware that this man had abandoned his home, his friends and family, all for his sake and Mildra's. He just hoped they were worth it.

  "Where was it Gayla told you to take us?" Mildra said, the tears still audible in her voice. It was the question Tom would have asked, had he summoned up the courage to address the fisherman directly.

  "To the Mud Skipper," Ullel replied. "Old Leon will see you across the Jeeraiy far quicker than I ever could."

  As answers went, this was hardly the most informative Tom had ever heard, but Mildra failed to pursue the matter and he was still wary of speaking to the fisherman.

  "And then…" Ullel continued, a little wistfully.

  "You can return to make sure your family are all right?" Mildra finished for him.

  "Yes."

  Mildra lapsed into silence after this exchange, keeping Tom company – he'd been there well ahead of her. The village was already lost to sight behind a spit of land and for long moments the only sounds were the mournful keening of wading birds and the rhythmic splash of the pole entering and leaving the water, as Ullel took them ever deeper into the Jeeraiy. The scalding alarm call of a disgruntled duck disturbed by their passage brought Tom out of his self-pitying reverie, but not to the point where he was tempted to speak.

  The uncomfortable silence was broken by Ullel himself, who began to name the various ducks and other birds they passed, telling them how this one was good to eat while that one had an elaborate and comical courtship display, while a third would only nest in a particular tree and a fourth produced the best eggs in the whole wide world. This casual friendliness worked to ease the knot of grief and guilt that had settled in Tom's gut and he started to relax, even asking questions when he spotted something new.

  A flight of large white birds came in close above their heads, flying in a V-formation, their long necks stretched forward. Tom and Mildra both ducked instinctively, as the ghostly shapes swept over them to land amid great splashes of foam some distance ahead, honking all the while.

  "Swans," Ullel said, a soft smile on his lips, "the white queens of the Jeeraiy."

  Soon after, the great expanse of water seemed to shrink and contract, as they entered an area which was less open, the land evidently more solid. Trees bordered the waterways and even sprouted from within them. At one point Ullel deftly manoeuvred the boat between the trunks of two such – great towers of wood and bark thrusting out of the water, part of a cluster of perhaps a dozen trees whose bases were completely submerged. They grew uniformly straight, with branches sprouting thickly towards the crown, as if they were arrows shot into the ground by a tribe of giants from amongst the clouds, darts that had ripped down through the sky and water and the mud beneath to lodge deeply in the world's skin.

  "Swamp cypress," Ullel supplied. "Very hardy, they have to be – the levels here rise and fall constantly; one day they're growing on land, the next in water."

  Tom could have reached out and run his hand along the pale brown bark of the nearest, but it looked coarse and flaking, so he resisted the temptation, concerned that he'd only end up skinning his fingers and looking stupid for doing so. Their brief trespass between the trees was accompanied by raucous scolding from birds somewhere in the canopy; the irritated movement of the unseen avians still causing the foliage to rustle with menace long after the boat had passed through.

  Beyond this small picket of trees they found the way cluttered with lilies, their broad leaves glistening as if waxed. The plants grew so densely that individual pads overlapped like the scales of a fish to form one continuous raft. White flowers burst forth at erratic intervals to decorate the verdant expanse. Ullel didn't hesitate. His pole strokes remained as measured and sure as they had been all journey. He angled the boat to cut a course across the lily field, heading towards the bank. Her prow gently pushed the lilies apart, and when Tom looked back it was to see the individual pads already drifting back towards one another. Before long there would be no sign of their passage at all.

  A bright red frog, its back marked with regular black spots, watched them dispassionately, refusing to move even when the boat's wake caused the pad it was sitting on to undulate alarmingly. Tom wondered how such a brashly coloured creature survived out here, where it must surely make an easy target for predatory birds. Perhaps that was the point; perhaps its hide was a form of challenge and the creature had hidden defences which the birds knew about and so made sure to avoid.

  Tom looked to the front of the boat again and realised that they were not heading for the land after all, but rather towards a narrow channel, the mouth of which had been hidden until now. A willow grew precipitously close to the edge of the bank, leaning outward to weep yellow-green fronds into the water, effectively masking the narrow waterway behind it.

  Tom found himself fending off deceptively substantial branches and twigs as the boat sailed beneath them. Mildra simply ducked down, hands covering her head, while, glancing back, he saw Ullel squat and raise a hand to protect his eyes. The fisherman stood up again immediately they were free of the tree's foliage. The nonchalance with which he accomplished the pole, duck, stand, pole again sequence suggested to Tom he'd been this way a few times before.

  As they emerged from beneath the concealing willow, the first thing Tom saw was a large wooden shed or barn. Beyond the barn stood a stone-built cottage, reduced almost to the point of insignificance by the wooden building in front of it. It was as if the cottage had been deliberately hidden away behind the larger building, peeking out from its shadow. Tom remembered Dewar's comment as they approached Gayla's village about stone being hard to come by here, and guessed that whoever built the cottage must be either rich or know of a ready means of transporting things into the Jeeraiy.

  "Don't take any notice if Leon seems unwelcoming when you meet him," Ullel warned. "He likes to act tough, but underneath his sour words the man has a heart of gold."

  If Ullel intended this to settle their nerves, it failed as far as Tom was concerned.

  The fisherman brought them to a stop before the shed, which began perhaps half the height of a man above the water and proved to be larger than Tom first realised, while the ground in front of it was smooth and compact, forming a runway down to the channel they were in, any grasses that had once grown there worn away. Close to the shed a trench had been dug, with several lines of dark, near-black mud slabs lain out beside it.

  "Peat," Ullel said, seeing the direction of Tom's gaze. "Makes very good fuel once it's been properly dried." He then stepped from the boat and called out, "Leon, visitors!"

  There was no immediate response from the house, but a face peered at them from around the corner of the shed. Tom's first impression was that this was a boy, younger than him – no more than seven or eight years old – but with overlarge saucer-like eyes.

  Ullel smiled on seeing the boy. "Hey, Squib, is Leon here?"

  Evidently reassured by a familiar voice, Squib stepped out from his hiding place. He still looked like a boy, but one who hadn't eaten properly in a while, or perhaps a child's poor drawing of what a boy should look like that had somehow come to life. Tom had never seen anyone so thin. His limbs seemed little more than gangly spindles, which a stiff breeze might snap in two if it caught them at the wrong angle.

  "Who are these two?" The boy's suspicious gaze darted to Tom and Mildra. His voice was almost comically high-pitched.

  "Friends, Squib, just friends in need of a ride across the Jeeraiy." Ullel's relaxed voice and ready smile were a marked contrast to the hostility evident in the boy's expression. "Is Leon inside?"

  "He was, but he's out here now," said a voice far deeper than Squib's. Tom turned to see an elderly man approaching from the direction of the house. Two things struck Tom immediately: the man's pronounced limp – he walked quickly enough but relied on a gnarled redwood cane to do so – and the colour of his hair and whiskers. To call these grey would have been an injustice; they were white, reminding Tom of clouded steam which had somehow been captured and given substance.

  "Leon, good to see you!"

  "And you, Ullel. How are Gayla and the rest of the village?"

  There was an awkward pause, ending when Ullel's began to describe the raid and their current circumstances. Tom watched the grim set of Leon's face as he listened to Ullel speak. "Sorry news, sorry news indeed," the old man said with a shake of his head once the fisherman had concluded. "And you say these two want to be taken across the Jeeraiy?"

  "Yes."

  "And you're hoping I'll oblige."

  "Well…"

  Leon scratched his chin, looking at each of his three visitors in turn. "Ullel, I'm not sure I can help this time. You know I think the world of you, of Gayla, of your whole damned village, but times are hard. Running the Mud Skipper costs, and I can't really afford to be taking her out unless there's profit in the trip somewhere. Don't see any here."

  "Perhaps you'll find cargo at the far end of your journey," the fisherman suggested.

  "Maybe, but maybe and perhaps aren't anywhere near good enough. Sorry, Ullel, really I am, to you and your friends here; I'd love to help, but…"

  "Perhaps I could suggest something," Mildra said.

  Leon stared at her quizzically. "I'm all ears, young lady."

  "I noticed you walk with a stick, so there's a problem with your leg. May I ask exactly what?"

  "Too much dampness coupled with too much use over too much time. The knee's worn out, simple as that."

  Mildra nodded. "And if I were able to cure that, to restore your knee to the point where you could throw away the walking stick, would that be worth passage across the Jeeraiy?"

  "Hah! Lady, if you could do that, I'd give you a guided tour around the whole breckin' continent!"

  She smiled. "Across the Jeeraiy would be fine. Now, may I see?"

  Leon eased himself down onto the grassy bank, rolled up his trouser and presented the offending leg.

  "You're a healer, then, are you?" he said as Mildra knelt beside him.

  "When I need to be, yes."

  She reached to place her hand on his knee and he flinched, as if perhaps preparing to draw his leg away. She looked at him with arched eyebrow. He gave a sigh and submitted to her touch. "Sorry, long time since any woman's touched my leg."

  "Don't think of me as a woman then, just think of me as a healer."

  He gave a tight-lipped smile. "That's easy for you to say."

  Ignoring him, Mildra bowed her head in concentration, long hair falling to cover her face. Tom couldn't see whether or not she closed her eyes, but Leon certainly did.

  The old man's head lolled back, and a few breaths later he admitted, "Actually, that feels real good."

  After several moments the Thaistess removed her hands and lifted her face. She looked tired. "Try that."

  Gingerly, the old man got to his feet, putting the weight on his suspect leg and hobbling a few steps. "It feels… different," he said, "itchy inside, but…" and he broke into a broad grin. "Yeah!"

  Mildra smiled in response. "Good. Your knee was worn away. You had bone rubbing against bone. I've rebuilt the lining of cartilage that would normally prevent that from happening and at the same time smoothed out a couple of bone spurs caused by the rubbing, which would have been painful in themselves. I can't promise the knee will be as good as new, but you should find this a big improvement on what you've been living with, once you get used to it."

  "Lady, I barely understand a word of that, but I can tell you that my knee feels better already. You and your friend have got yourselves a ride!"

  Ullel seized the opportunity to take his leave.

  "We can't thank you enough," Mildra said, "either you or your people. May the goddess watch over you and help you to rebuild."

  "Yes," Tom added from beside her, "thanks – for everything." Inadequate, perhaps, but he didn't have the Thaistess's silken tongue, or a goddess to call on.

  As the fisherman departed, Mildra turned her attention back to Leon, advising him to take things carefully with the rebuilt joint. She suggested they not head off until the next day to allow it some rest.

  "Sounds reasonable," the old man agreed. "That'll also give the opportunity for your missing friend to show up. If he's not here by tomorrow, chances are he never will be."

  That comment brought home an uncomfortable truth. As Leon and Squib made preparations for the following day's departure, Tom had a chance to raise the matter with Mildra. "What do we do if Dewar doesn't show up?" he asked quietly.

  "We go on."

  "Can we, though? First Kohn and now Dewar; they were the strongest of us. What chance do you and I stand without them?"

  "The goddess will watch over us and keep us safe."

  She'd done a pretty lousy job so far by Tom's reckoning, but he kept quiet, suspecting that her faith might be all that Mildra had left to cling to, that her beliefs were what enabled her to remain so calm. He didn't see much point in undermining that.

 

Morning came and there was still no sign of Dewar. In his heart of hearts Tom hadn't expected there to be, but he still felt tempted to suggest they wait a little longer, just in case. Dewar was sullen company at the best of times and Tom found his overbearing manner a constant irritation, but, despite that, there was no denying how reassuring it was to have someone of his competence and confidence in charge. The prospect of continuing into the unknown without him was daunting, if not downright terrifying, though Tom chose not to say as much to Mildra, suspecting she already felt the same.

  They'd decided on morning as their start time and morning it was going to be; nobody else seemed inclined to delay. While Squib and Leon made preparations for the coming journey, Tom went for a stroll, to collect his thoughts and to settle his nerves, walking away from the house to a position where he had a good view across the Jeeraiy to the mountains beyond. He felt humbled by the vastness of the world, and still wondered at one level what a street-nick from the rundown basement of a mighty city was doing here. Funny, but he didn't mourn Dewar in the same way he had Kohn, regretting the loss of the man's knowledge and skills far more than the absence of the man himself. As Tom stood there, he thought back over the journey so far and the part he'd played to date, feeling a little ashamed of some of his actions and taking little pride in his contribution. He'd been content to sit back and let others do most of the work, relying on Dewar to make decisions and Kohn for his strength. Well, they were both gone. It was down to Mildra and him now, and high time he shouldered his share of the responsibility. He gazed again at the wilderness and at the distant peaks that waited, and felt a new resolve hardening within him. They would do this; they had to, for the sake of the prime master and those waiting back in Thaiburley but, more importantly, for Kohn and Dewar who had sacrificed their lives to give them the opportunity.

  Feeling calmer in himself than at any time since they left Thaiburley, he turned and walked back to join Mildra where she stood close to the house.

  The Thaistess greeted him with a troubled smile. "We are sure about this, aren't we?"

  He nodded. "Certain."

  "Good." Her smile widened into one of genuine warmth, as she perhaps saw the new determination in his eyes. "That's good!"

  "Where's Leon?" He was anxious to get going while the first flush of his renewed determination remained fresh.

  "He and Squib disappeared into the boathouse." Mildra nodded towards the tall, black-boarded shed.

  "Ah, so we're finally going to catch a glimpse of this Mud Skipper, are we?"

  "Looks like it."

  As if on cue, the great doors at the front of the shed swung a little way open. Squib emerged to pull them wide, scurrying from one to the other. This was followed by a great clanking sound, as if a vast chain were being dragged across something, and then a loud coughing. Smoke billowed from a chimney at the top of the boathouse, and the coughing steadied into the pounding huff and growl of an engine. Seconds later, the prow of a boat began to emerge. But it didn't come out of the shed on its own. Two metal joists extended horizontally from the boathouse, appearing from near the roof and slowly lengthening as they stretched towards the water. A series of thick chains hung from the beams, criss-crossing between them. They were attached to a metal cage, a cradle, in which sat what could only be the Mud Skipper. Tom stared in fascination as the two beams and boat emerged in steady unison. From the little he could make out the vessel looked bizarre, though it was difficult to see where cage ended and boat began, so he tried to reserve judgement until he could see the ship properly. Boat and cradle slid slowly down the short slipway amidst a cacophony of clanking and hissing and the groaning of stressed steel. Leon appeared in the doorway to the boathouse, yelling and gesturing at Squib, who raced up to join him. The pair disappeared inside.

  Tom glanced at Mildra, who met his gaze with eyebrows raised and a look of pure disbelief. They both grinned, and moved forward for a closer look.

  Dark smoke billowed from the boathouse chimney, and the sound of the engine from within intensified, growing simultaneously louder, faster, and higher in pitch, as the caged boat reached the water, where it stopped its outward progress and began to be lowered. Then it stopped, though the sound of the engine didn't relent. For brief seconds the boat hung suspended a fraction above the ground and the channel by which Tom and Mildra had arrived. Then it began to turn, ponderously rotating through ninety degrees with only a little bumping on muddy banks as the boat rocked in its cradle, until the hull paralleled the course of the water.

  Squib was back, shouting and giving a thumbs-up in the direction of the shed. With a dramatic hissing sound and renewed screeching as if metal was being ripped apart, clamps released and the cage split, parting in the middle with the two sides lifting high. The burden which the cage had carried from the boathouse dropped the short distance into the waiting water, where it bobbed and settled.

  Tom and Mildra had their first unobstructed view of the Mud Skipper.

  "Isn't she a beauty?" Leon said, striding down from the boathouse, his cheeks ruddy and sweat on his brow. As he walked he wiped his hands on a large oily cloth, which he tossed casually to Squib as he arrived at the boat.

  "She's… certainly impressive," Mildra replied. The response summed up Tom's reaction perfectly. There was no question that the Mud Skipper was striking to look at, but beyond that he had yet to decide quite what to make of her.

  The hull was painted white, though none too recently by the look of things, with a blue cabin and bright red funnel. She was far larger than any of the boats operated by the fishermen they'd seen on the Jeeraiy, completely filling the channel which had brought them here. However, it wasn't her size that caught Tom's attention, but rather her paddles. A great towering wheel protruded from her stern, composed of a whole series of paddle blades within twin circular hoops, while smaller versions were mounted on either side.

  "What exactly is she?" Tom asked.

  "Paddle steamer," Leon said, patting his boat's hull. "A stern-wheeler essentially, leastways she is when she's in the water."

  Squib had already clambered aboard, and was now lowering the short gangplank. Leon used this to follow the lad and looked back at his two guests.

  "Well, are you coming or not?"

  Tom glanced at Mildra, who shrugged. The pair of them went up the gangplank. The boat settled with their added weight, so that the two smaller wheels sank down to rest on the muddy bank to either side – it really was that tight a fit. Squib already had the engine fired up, venting puffs of smoke from the boat's red-painted chimney. Tom and Mildra found seats in the cabin, on Leon's advice: "At least until we're in the open water."

  As soon as they started moving, Tom understood why. The great stern wheel began to turn slowly, its broad blades dipping in and out the water. At the same time, the two side wheels began to rotate, their paddles digging into the mud and grass of the bank. The Mud Skipper jolted forward, her motion growing increasingly smooth as they gathered speed. Soon the two side wheels were flying round, gouging into the ground and throwing up a cloud of mud and grass in all directions, which included great clumps at times.

  Leon grinned and called in to them from his position at the wheel, behind the cabin, "That's why I named her the Mud Skipper." He continued, proudly, battling against the noise of the engines and the churning blades, "She's equally at home in wet mud or muddy water, and we've plenty of both around here. The stern wheel can be lifted, the side wheels lowered and raised, depending on conditions."

  In no time at all the Mud Skipper had exited the curtain of willow branches and scythed a path through the lily pads to reach open water.

  "You can come out on deck now," Leon called down.

  They found seats near the prow, and Tom was fascinated to see the side wheels lifted and brought in to rest against the cabin walls.

  Squib took the wheel and Leon came over to join them.

  "Well," he said, "what do you think of her now?"

  "Beautiful," Tom conceded, "she's simply beautiful."

 

Tom and Mildra both agreed that this was definitely the way to experience the Jeeraiy. The Mud Skipper didn't hang around, and they were seeing several day's worth of this sprawling, diverse land all in one go. They passed fishermen in long narrow canoes with stabilisers to either side – something that seemed eminently sensible to Tom as he watched them stand and cast their nets – and villagers who waved and called out greetings. At one point they came close to a party of the same broad-faced animals they'd encountered before stumbling on Gayla's village. The beasts were again submerged, with just their eyes and nostrils visible above the water.

  "Best to stay clear of those," Leon advised, pointing. "They can be bad tempered so-and-sos."

  For a while their course paralleled that of a wooden causeway standing proud above the water on a forest of stilts. The causeway linked a series of islands together and seemed broad enough for two or three people abreast. Tom even saw a couple of the stocky marsh ponies being led across one section. He could only marvel at the ingenuity and sheer determination that must have gone into making such a raised pathway in this environment.

  For the most part on that journey, Tom found himself simply sitting back and relaxing, succumbing to the wonder of this place.

  A great shouting broke his tranquil mood. He looked around to see a bunch of gangly-limbed figures rushing towards them, apparently running across the very top of the water.

  "Skimmers," Leon muttered, "that's all we need."

  They looked humanoid, but at the same time were clearly not human. There was something unsettling about their movements, which were almost insect-like in the way they skated across the surface of the water. Their limbs and indeed their whole frames were improbably slender, while they wore on their feet the most bizarre boots Tom had ever seen. Great saucer-like fans of translucent webbing supported by a splay of skeletal struts spread out from the base of each leg, enabling the skimmers to glide over the water. They looked to be children, all boys, and all a good deal younger than him. Nor did they limit themselves to shouting. As they came close to the Mud Skipper, they began to pelt the craft with fruit, greeting each hit with a chorus of cheers. They reminded Tom of a group of boisterous street-nicks up to mischief, though these looked far too innocent to be up to anything serious, with their over-large brown eyes and guileless expressions. In fact, there was something vaguely familiar about these spindle-limbed, wide-eyed creatures. Tom glanced from the pack of harassing skimmers to Squib, and back again.

  "Yes," Leon said, presumably seeing the direction of his gaze, "Squib is a skimmer, which is why these lowlifes keep giving me such a hard time whenever we're out this way." Squib was at the far side of the boat, jumping up and down, shaking his fists and hurling high-pitched insults back at the chasing posse of youths. If he heard Leon talking about him, he gave no sign. "He was born without the webbing, you see. He couldn't live as a skimmer, couldn't survive. To them he's just a freak. If I hadn't taken him in when I did, he'd have died. So whenever we come this way, we run the risk of this happening – the kids coming out to harass us and taunt him"

  Tom stared at the nearest pair of youths, gliding across the surface on their great webbed discs. "You mean those things are their feet?"

  "Of course. What did you think they were?"

  "I don't know, shoes or something."

  "Huh! You really think anyone, human or skimmer, could have come up with footwear as weird as that?"

  Leon had a point.

  "Squib!" Leon yelled. "Calm down for Thaiss' sake, or you'll end up going overboard."

  The youngster's torrent of abuse and aggressive gesticulating had built to an alarming crescendo, with spittle flying from his mouth and body gyrating as if he were on the verge of a fit. At Leon's words he paused and looked round, favouring them with a broad grin. "Aye, aye, skipper."

  "Not that I can really blame him," Leon said quietly to Tom and Mildra. "Those skimmer kids are a real pain in the ass."

  At that moment, a bright green globe came flying towards them, narrowly missing Tom but splattering on Leon's shoulder. It burst to dribble a trail of viscous piprich pulp down Leon's chest.

  "Right, that does it!" the old man roared, shaking his fist at the skimmer responsible, who had peeled away and was beating a retreat, laughing triumphantly. "You pesky brecking water fleas! Squib!"

  The Mud Skipper's mate was beside him in a flash. "Is it time?"

  "Oh, it's time all right." Leon's words were almost growled. He unlatched a panel in the side of the ship's cabin, revealing a coiled-up hose. Squib started to cackle maniacally, hopping from foot to foot in excitement as he accepted the nozzle from his captain.

  A piece of rotting fish sailed between them to spatter against the cabin, signalling a fresh chorus of cheers from the circling skimmers. "You'll be laughing on the other side of your faces soon, you maggot-riddled water cabbages. Ready, Squib?"

  "Yes yes yes!" The lad had the nozzle over the ship's side, training it at one of his tormentors.

  Leon turned his attention to a small wheel in the same recess that had housed the hose, turning it rapidly. A belch of liquid leapt from the nozzle to dribble into the water, followed by another more sustained spurt, which soon developed into a stream. Even then, the hose's discharge still didn't reach as far as the skimmers, despite Squib's best efforts. They continued to circle, jeering all the louder.

  "Can't wait for this," Leon confided to Tom and Mildra, grinning maliciously.

  "But the hose isn't reaching them," a puzzled Tom felt obliged to point out.

  "That's the beauty of it – the hose doesn't need to. Watch."

  Even as he spoke, the first of the young skimmers went down, splashing into water that would no longer support him. Two more followed instantly, then another. The jeers had stopped, to be replaced by panicked screams and splutters of dismay. At least, the jeers from the water had ceased. Beside Tom, Squib now launched into a new apoplexy of jumping and fist-clenched air punching, firing off fresh volleys of ridicule and insult interspersed with cackles of unfettered hilarity. Even Leon was laughing and pointing, as the entire pack of youths floundered.

  "Oh this was worth waiting for," he said, wiping the corners of his eyes with pudgy fingers, "it really was."

  "What did you do?"

  "The hose was loaded with a chemical – something I cooked up myself. It lowers the viscosity of water, weakens its skin if you like, so that the skimmers just fall right through. The effect won't last for long, of course – the Jeeraiy will soon disperse the chemical and everything will go back to normal, but for once in their lives those heartless, brainless bullies have been given a taste of what it's like to be Squib; a skimmer who can't walk on water."

  The incident put both Leon and Squib in fine spirits for the remainder of the journey, which passed without any great incident. Tom was surprised at how quickly the mountains, which had seemed so distant, loomed above them; wondering how many days it would have taken to get this far without the Mud Skipper. His respect for the peculiar craft rose accordingly.

  "This is Pellinum," Leon said cheerily.

  The town enjoyed a spectacular setting, no question about that. Some distance behind it, a great curtain of waterfalls plunged down a mountainside, the rumble of their thunder a constant background noise, causing Leon to raise his voice.

  "Decent enough folk, but don't let them sell you any of their so-called religious souvenirs; tat, the lot of it. This early in the season you should be able to find yourselves a room cheaply enough, if you've a mind to enjoy a comfortable night before you go on, and I'd advise you to. There won't be much comfort in those mountains you're so determined to explore."

  Tom barely heard him. At that moment all his attention was focussed on the waterfalls, which had to be one of the most awe-inspiring sights he'd ever seen.

  They moored beside a long wooden jetty, which already had a number of other boats clinging to it like leaves to the branch of a tree, though none were as large as the Mud Skipper. Squib leapt off and secured them to a mooring. Before he'd even finished tying off, a group of children came charging along the wharf, yelling for Leon to sound the boat's whistle. Laughing heartily, the skipper obliged, tugging on a chain to vent three high-pitched toots of steam.

  "As you can see," he said, turning back to his passengers, "we're hardly strangers here." The man smiled broadly, clearly loving the attention. "This is as far as we go. Hope you've enjoyed your time aboard the Mud Skipper, and thank you, young lady for sorting out my leg. Never thought I'd hear myself say such a thing, but, Mildra and Tom, may the goddess be with you."

  It was Mildra's turn to smile. "And with you, Leon and Squib – not forgetting, of course, the magnificent vessel known as the Mud Skipper."

 

The marsh man pushed down on the pole with exaggerated care, moving his shallow boat slowly along the edge of a great mat of reeds and grasses. Around his feet lay a number of tubers and two fat fish – his original reason for being out in the boat, before he was lured away from fishing and foraging by the promise of greater reward. He planted the pole again with great deliberation, making sure it was firmly set before pulling on it to haul himself forward. The last thing he needed was to have the thing snag on treacherous roots which would inevitably be lurking just beneath the surface this close in.

  A plume of smoke hung above the site of old Gayla's village like some sombre exclamation mark. He didn't need to go any closer to know that the roofs and walls would be smashed and the buildings alight. There were bodies enough bobbing in the water to confirm this as a raid. The water surrounding the nearest one writhed with motion, as a shoal of tiny snippers fed. He could even see the occasional silvered flashes of individual fish as they darted in to tear off a mouthful of flesh with their razor sharp teeth before flitting away again, leaving room for the next, only to return a moment later for a further bite.

  He avoided the corpses that were obviously locals – they wouldn't have anything on them worth salvaging – and would normally have been going through belts and pockets of the raiders' dead by now, but he'd spotted one that was potentially even more valuable.

  A body lay snagged in this bed of reeds, half in, half out the water. By his clothing it was obvious that this was neither a local nor a raider. A traveller, then; probably a pilgrim on his way to visit the goddess, which meant he would be carrying provisions and the means for buying more, not to mention whatever he might have brought to offer the goddess as tribute. Now there was a prize worth running the risk of a few grass roots.

  The goddess was smiling on him today, because no other small boats were here yet – he seemed to be first on the scene, but that wouldn't last. The smoke would be visible for many leagues across the flat openness of the Jeeraiy, and every marsh man with a boat was bound to be hurrying here as fast as they could row or pole. For now though, he had the pick, and he intended to make the most of such rare good fortune, starting with this pilgrim.

  The body was lying on its side. By edging the boat right up against it, he was able to half drag, half roll the fellow into the boat, deftly adjusting his own balance and footing to ensure the craft didn't tip over. This wasn't a big man, nor richly dressed, but who knew what might be concealed within his clothing? As the marsh man knelt to investigate, the corpse's eyes sprang open. Startled, he let out an exclamation and jerked back.

  Before he could think to do anything further, the suddenly very animated corpse's hands shot out and grabbed his shirt, pulling him downwards once more. At the same time, the man's face lunged up, headbutting him.

  Pain exploded across his temples. Caught by surprise, disorientated and hurt, the marsh man lost his balance and fell, vaguely aware that the boat was rocking dangerously beneath him. Somehow he landed in the boat and it hadn't tipped over, but this respite was short lived. Strong hands gripped his shirt, hauling him up, and the next instant he was flung through the air to crash heavily into the water.

  Instinctively he tried to suck in a lungful of air but took down a great gulp of foul water instead. He felt himself sinking and struggled to turn around, to get his feet beneath him and kick for the surface. Even as he did so, disaster struck. He felt his foot snag and entangle in the very roots he'd been trying to avoid with his pole. Panicking, he tugged and tugged, but the roots held firm. The water wasn't deep here, and he knew the surface had to be close above his head, yet with his foot trapped it might as well have been a hundred miles away. He was a marsh man. Surely he couldn't die like this?

  Knowing it was likely to be his final effort, he pulled for all he was worth, flexing his foot, and felt a surge of relief as his heel came free and the finger-like grip of those clasping roots reluctantly loosened. Suddenly he was shooting upwards, clawing at the water until first his hand and then his head broke the surface.

  Sweet air! He spluttered and splashed and gulped in as much as he could, all the while looking round in panic for his boat.

  Then he saw it, already some distance away and continuing to move further; the figure of the pilgrim standing straight and working the pole.

  "My boat," he gasped, trying to shout. "Come back, you brecking bastard, that's my boat!"

  But if the pilgrim heard him he gave no indication, instead continuing to move steadily in the direction of the distant mountains.