“Have you ever killed a man?” asked Fahr in a quiet voice.
“A bit late to be asking,” I said. “Assuming that’s what you’re a-wanting me to do.”
“Not want, Blue,” said Fahr. “Never want. But they won’t let us leave because they want theTouchstoneand the chimeric. We’ll need to be creative.”
“Good thing you know how to lie, then,” I said.
He sat back, satisfied with my response.
The canal was perhaps three boats wide and flanked by walkways built from rotting wood. A sliver of orange sky couldbe seen between the catwalks high overhead, and rain broke through in patches to the canals below. Rope bridges swung between piled hulls, and damp laundry hung from rig and mast. I saw faces in doorways and in port windows as Bilgefolk stopped to stare, but they disappeared as we floated by.
There was a splash next to the prow as a woman emptied a chamber pot, and the contents swirled alongside several fish heads before it all sank in the inky waters. Fog the gap and the extra tot. Here, I could have used a whole bottle to steady my nerve.
As we made our way through the labyrinth of stacked ships and canals, I saw a child sitting under a barnacled bowsprit, watching us with large, round eyes. Her hair was matted, her clothes tattered, and she clutched a rag-wrapped doll in her arms. Except the doll wasn’t a doll, but a piece of gnarled driftwood with knots that resembled a face. My heart twisted in my ribs. She was me, little, hopeless, wayward, lost, and I ached to see her alone in this bleak, broken barge-city, with only a stick for comfort.
We left her behind, no more than a ghost under the shadow of the sprit.
Gong-gong-chunk-chunk, gong-gong-chunk.
That strange mechanical sound was louder now, and I sat forward when I saw what lay ahead. I turned to Fahr.
“What the hels is that?”
“A steam mill, I think,” he said, but he, too, was sitting forward. “I’ve never seen one like this before.”
Along the side of the dock was a shanty with thick smoke billowing out of a stack in its roof. Next to it, a huge, iron paddled wheel churned up the canal waters, and I had to blink the sting from my eyes as we rowed by.
“What makes the steam?” I asked. “There’s not much on this craft that can be burned.”
“Captive ships,” said Buck from the oar. “Take what ye need, burn the rest.”
She ate ships foolish enough to trade with her.I swallowed heavy. Kit was right. Wood was more valuable than anything on the sea.
With all the smoke that Bilgetown produced, I realized that there were likely dozens and dozens of paddled wheels scattered throughout Bilgetown, and that it was these wheels that allowed the town to move. Not sail, not oar, certainly not whales, and I had to admit it was brilliant. I stared at the shanty and its gonging, chunking wheel until my neck ached from the twist. With a deep breath, I turned back to the fore.
On a walkway beneath the prow, a man swung a lantern, so we docked the longboat next to the side. Fahr and I climbed out with the ropes, and the seamages grabbed the chest. For his part, Buck stood his ground.
“I’ll stay,” he said, patting the side of the longboat. “This ain’t grist for no mill.”
We followed the lantern man through a narrow doorway and up a set of winding steps. The candlelight that greeted us hurt my eyes.
“Welcome, ye of the infamous Ship of Spells,” said a wiry man sitting at a table. “I be Yoric de Sous, magistrate of Bilgetown. This here’s Ten Polley, the commandeer and me trusted mate.”
Yoric de Sous was a study in contrasts. No shirt but a woolen cap over a thick woven headscarf, no teeth but two gold earrings, and watery ale in an ivory chalice. The man named Ten Polley was a bruiser of a swab, wearing a wildcat-skin vest and oxhide breeches. A white skull was painted on his tattooed face, and claws hung from a chain around his wide neck.
“Devanhan Fahr, First Mate of theTouchstone,” said Fahr. “Seamages Norrick Cable and Filop Dion, Ensign Bluemage Honor Renn.”
“And where’s Thanavar?” asked de Sous.
“You said he wasn’t welcome in Bilgetown anymore.”
“He ain’t,” said de Sous. “Just got a man saying he saw a sea ghost on theNil’hellyndeck and thought maybe it were him.”
“Have you welcomed another skiff from theTouchstone, Mr. de Sous?”
“We have not, Mr. Fahr. We have not.”
Polley leaned forward, eyes on the chest.
