The Ship Beyond Time Page 12

“What do you mean?”

  “Well.” Continuing forward, he tucked the pen behind his ear. “You might wish away our meeting, but that might have been the one good thing that came out of this—at least for me. You might wish away the robbery—but then you wish away the history as it was written. Would you risk ending the world to do the right thing?”

  I made a face. “I wish I could say yes.”

  He turned his head, his face lost in shadow. “You might wish many things, but that doesn’t mean they’ll come true. This doesn’t seem like that sort of fairy tale.”

  I bridled. “Would you do it? Would you really risk the end of the world just to keep your hands from getting dirty?”

  “Depends on the dirt,” he said pointedly. “Blood is harder to scrub clean. Would you kill an innocent if history dictated you must?”

  “I’m not going to be drawn into a textbook ethics debate designed to . . .” My voice trailed off as a low rumble hummed in the air. We both stopped in our tracks. “What was that?”

  Blake lifted his torch. Farther down the main path . . . was that the glimmer of bronze? I took a step closer, then another, as the rumbling sound came again. Squinting into the dark, I peered down the tunnel; it ended in a huge metal plate. No, not a plate. A door.

  “It looks like the sea gates,” Blake said, staring up at the wall of bronze. Then he knelt, dragging his fingers through the wet sand. “What time is it?”

  Dread seized me as I took his meaning: this was a sewer, and the sand was damp. The tides changed every six and a quarter hours; low tide would come around eleven this morning. But the gate would open before low tide, so the water could fill the tunnel, then drain away.

  How long had we been exploring?

  I grabbed his hand and yanked him back up the passageway as another low rumble shook the earth.

  “Up to the ledge!” We sped away from the doors as they began to roll open. Behind us, water burst through the widening gap and crashed onto the sand.

  A gust of air made our torchlight flicker. The sea poured in faster than we could run; we splashed down the closest tunnel as the icy tide swept over our feet. Blake threw his torch onto the ledge and vaulted up; turning back, he reached for me, but I was already up beside him.

  Still the water rose, rolling toward us and cresting in a wave. Together, we ran toward the archway; through it, stairs led up from the ledge. Blake took them two at a time; I was right behind him as the water roared through the tunnel, lapping at our heels. The stairway ended in a thick door. I pressed my back against it, but the water did not climb past the middle of the steps.

  Breathing hard, we stared at the swirling black tide at our feet. Our torches licked the bricks at the top of the alcove, not much taller than the door. Blake leaned down to tug off one of his boots, pouring out the water. “Always an adventure with you, Miss Song.”

  I wrung saltwater out of the hem of my cloak. “I thought you loved adventure.”

  “Oh, I do.” He shoved his foot back into his boot. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous.”

  I swallowed, looking down at my feet. Inches away from my toes, the water glimmered darkly on the stair. “No argument there.”

  How long till the tide dropped and the water drained? It wouldn’t be more than a few hours, but with the torches burning so high, we risked running out of oxygen before the water cleared the tunnel. Putting out the flames was an option, but I didn’t relish waiting for hours in the pitch black. The door at my back was silvered with age and crusted with salt; there was no sign it had been opened in quite some time. When I tried the handle, the rusting iron crumbled in my hands, and the door wouldn’t budge. I glared at the keyhole. “I wish Kash were here.”

  “Hmm.” Blake frowned, inspecting the latch. “Iron? In sea air? Hold my torch.”

  I stepped back as far as I dared, the heat from both flames playing along my arms. “Do you pick locks too?” I asked, but he shook his head.

  “No, Miss Song.” Then he drove his shoulder into the door near the hinges—once, twice—and they disintegrated into flakes and powder. With a roar, Blake pushed, and the door scraped over the stones, giving us an opening large enough to slip through. Panting, he took his torch back from me. “I do not.”

  The echo of his shout still rang in the alcove. A thrill went through me as I thrust my own torch into the room—excitement or fear? Would there be monsters . . . witches . . . devils? But the light played over barrels and buckets and spades tumbled together in the dust, and my heart slowed. “Storage.”

  He shrugged, then he winced, rubbing his shoulder. “We might still be able to find the pit. It was somewhere near the tunnels.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?”

  Blake gave me a look. “I thought you loved adventure.”

  A smile flickered on my lips as I wound my way through crates and boxes and piles of bricks. The room opened into a series of vaulted galleries, a cellar with pillars and arches at regular intervals. Tucked into corners were stacks of casks and dusty bottles, and farther down, neat rows of bones.

  Nothing moved; everything was quiet. The air was cold and still, and the dust was thick as carpet. And yet . . . I slowed and leaned down, peering more closely at the stones. “Look. Scuff marks.”

  “Footprints. Several pairs—or one person coming and going.” He gave me a wry look. “Do monsters wear boots?”

  “Some do.” I lifted my eyes; the tracks led through the catacombs to a thick oak door. Who was wandering about in the abandoned castle? Was it the same person who had tended the light glowing in the tower window last night? As Blake tried the handle, I passed the torch into my left hand, slipping my right into the pocket that held the gun.

  “Locked,” he muttered. “And this time, the hardware has been well oiled.”

  The firelight gleamed on the intricate brass of the keyhole. It was made in the same design as the one on the sea gates: a pair of mermaids, their hands and tails touching. But there was no way now to see what the lock protected. Tracing the footprints backward across the room, I found a stairwell leading up. “Should we follow them?”

  “I don’t see another route. Is that daylight up there?”

  At the top of the stairs, we came to a kitchen. Overhead, dingy gray light filtered through narrow windows, illuminating the huge work table that dominated the center of the room. There, a dozen bakers might knead dough or roll pastry for a feast. But instead of the smell of butter and yeast, there was only the scent of damp stone and mildewed plaster. Leaves stirred in the corners. Between a cold oven and an empty trough, a broken door opened onto a dying garden, the old herb beds and pathways a tangle of rotting weeds.

  The dust was thinner here, blown about by the breeze through the doorway; I lost the trail of footprints. Had they come in from outside?

  “Miss Song?”

  I turned. Blake was kneeling by an arched doorway at the opposite end of the kitchen. He held up his fingers—they were red with blood.

  I gasped, rushing to his side. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” He stood, wiping his hand on the stone wall. “But someone is, rather seriously.” At his feet, a black pool congealed, wider than his handspan, and marred by a footprint. Blake’s boots were still clean—not his, then.

  My heart pounded and my stomach turned. “Maybe . . . maybe an animal?” I whispered, but the thoughts swirled in my head—a witch, a monster, a man in the pit. I looked longingly toward the door that opened into the sunlit garden, but no—if someone was hurt, they might need help. In the gallery ahead, I could see the footprints fading into the shadows. Scarlet spattered the flagstones, shining in the light from the narrow windows lining the hall. Some of the leaded panes had broken. Glass shards glittered on the floor like diamonds, and some, red rubies. They rolled like gravel beneath my boots. I wrinkled my nose. “Do you smell something? Like . . . rotting meat.”

  “Maybe it is an animal.”

  “Maybe.”

 
The gallery opened into a grand room—grand in size, though not in appointment. The smell was stronger here, though the light was very dim—the windows high, the panes clouded with years of filth. It was a dining hall with a long oak table, lined with chairs and piled with droppings. Above, birds nested in iron chandeliers, murmuring over our intrusion. The ceiling would have been beautiful under the grime, painted with faded angels—no. Mermaids. They swam in a murky gloom, their bellies as white as fish.

  Then I saw movement out of the corner of my eye—a pair of legs behind the table. One foot jerked under the edge of a tattered silk robe. I grabbed Blake’s arm and pointed, suddenly terrified. But the foot moved again and the motion was unnatural, and there came a liquid ripping sound, like damp sails tearing. I swallowed, raising the torch as I stepped closer. Was the madman the victor, or a victim?

  Something crunched beneath my boot—the remains of a gull’s broken wing. Small bones littered the flagstones, telling a dire fortune. In the shadows behind a broken chair, something pale gleamed: a cracked femur. My blood raced through my veins as I crept around the table, sweeping my torch in a circle.

  On the floor, the madman lay, his dead eyes open and staring at the dirty ceiling. His belly was a red ruin. Above it, two green eyes glowed, and jagged teeth gleamed wetly as the wolf’s lip curled back in a snarl.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The beast was monstrous, a knotted mass of fur and muscle behind those yellow teeth, and larger than any wolf should be. Suddenly I was very aware of the other tales in Souvestre’s little book of fables—mermaids, morgens, man-eating wolves—and the words of the madman: a monster slavers in the castle.

  The animal stalked closer stiffy, first one step, then another; still I held my ground. I had never seen a wolf before, but I’d done a lot of reading. “Wolves fear fire,” I said to Blake, my voice trembling. Then I thrust the torch boldly toward the creature. “Shoo!”

  The low growl intensified as the wolf crouched.

  The gun. I fumbled in my pocket; fabric ripped as I tore the derringer free. I leveled the barrel only moments before the wolf sprang, but as I squeezed the trigger, the gun jerked upward and the bullet went wide.

  Overhead, the birds took wing in a flurry of feathers; before me, the creature was a blur of black fur and bright teeth. I had one more bullet, but my clumsy finger slipped on the catch. I threw the torch, and the animal twisted, landing on splayed paws the size of my hands. The wolf growled again, and I tried to level the shaking gun. But Blake dropped his own torch and grabbed the weapon from me. As the wolf leaped, he fired—and the beast went limp in midair, rolling toward us, blood trickling from the empty left eye.

  I stared at Blake, breathing hard, my ears ringing with the sound of the gunshot. Then I glanced at the madman’s body; my stomach roiled and I looked away quickly, breathing shallowly through my mouth.

  Blake was turning the gun over and over in his hands. The silver barrel gleamed in the low flame of the dying torches. In the shadows, pigeons cooed, as though to comfort him. “Where did you find this?”

  “I took it from . . .” I swallowed. “It was in your jacket. When you came aboard. I just . . . I thought you wouldn’t want it back.”

  He held it out, between thumb and forefinger, as though it were filthy. “I don’t.”

  I took it gingerly—the barrel was hot—and dropped it back in my pocket. Then I looked at the wolf, dead on the floor. Blood and gore clotted on the animal’s muzzle. The single remaining eye was starting to glaze; the empty socket was a dark red hole. “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

  “My father.” His voice was flat, and his hand crept to his side, where the bullet had hit him, back in Hawaii. “I was always the better shot. That night, I aimed to wound. He meant to kill.”

  I shifted my weight, the gun heavy against my side. “I’m sorry, Blake.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Really?” I looked for the truth in his eyes; they were like stars, far and cold. “You think that?”

  “I made a choice that night too, Miss Song.” His voice was soft. “I could have aimed differently.”

  At the look on his face, a current ran through my chest—was he talking about his father, or me? But then he straightened his jacket and stepped toward the body, kneeling down carefully to avoid the mess. I swallowed again; a sour scum coated the back of my tongue. “Leave him, Blake. He’s dead.”

  “I know. But . . .”

  “But what?” I approached slowly, at an angle, not wanting to look. I could see enough out of the corner of my eye: the crater of the abdomen, white and pink and purple, like a strange orchid. I had seen death before, but never in such vivid, violent color.

  Blake stood then, slowly; his face was troubled, and he drummed his fingers against his thigh. “I don’t think it was the wolf that killed him.”

  “What?” My eyes were wide, darting around the room. “What then?”

  “You said he wore a key?”

  I nodded. “Around his neck.”

  “It’s gone. And someone slit his throat.” He chewed his lip. “Quite a clean cut. A razor, perhaps. Or a very sharp knife.”

  “A knife?” A fresh burst of energy sped from my heart to my limbs to the tips of my fingers. I did look at the man then, at the red welted skin of his throat, obscenely parted, like hungry lips. The room seemed to tilt like the deck in rough weather. The smell in the room was nauseating—wet fur and cold flesh and the metallic tang of blood. The echo of the shot was rattling in my skull. “We should go.”

  “I think you’re right.” He took my arm. “Likely we can find the winch by the gatehouse to open the portcullis.”

  “Yeah.” I followed along toward the arched doorway at the far end of the great room. When we opened the door and stepped out into the wide cobbled courtyard, I drank great lungfuls of the cold, sweet air.

  The sun sparkled on the frosty stones, and the sky was a cool, cloudless blue—the weather so incongruous with the tableau we’d just witnessed. Escape was close; by the time we reached the gatehouse, I was practically running, but I stopped just under the arch, staring at the open passage through the barbican. “Someone already raised the portcullis.”

  Blake stiffened. “Let’s get out while the front door is open.” He dropped my arm and stepped in front of me, into the dark tunnel. Just then, a figure strolled out of the shadows under the archway. “Who’s there?” Blake demanded, but I pulled him back.

  The man was silhouetted by the sunlight behind him; I couldn’t see his face but I knew his cocky stance. “Is that a gun in your pocket, amira, or are you just happy to see me?”

  A golden light appeared in his hand as Kashmir drew a small lamp from the breast pocket of his coat: one of the sky herring in a bottle. His white teeth gleamed as he grinned. Annoyed, I pushed him; he moved like water, twisting to the right and elbowing my tender shoulder. “Ow!”

  Shock registered on his face. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I . . . no.” I shrugged him off, still irritated; I wasn’t about to admit to my bumps and bruises, not now. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” We passed through the gatehouse and into the square. It was more crowded now, with people running errands, hurrying to and fro. In the bright sunlight, and surrounded by other living souls, I felt a weight lift; it made me light-headed. “Thanks for scaring me half to death.”

  “It wasn’t my intention, amira. I hate half measures.” His answer was glib, but I could see him eyeing me as he tucked the lamp back into his coat. “But I heard the shots. What were you two doing?”

  Where to start? I licked my lips. “It’s a long story. Where have you been?”

  “Here and there.” He patted his pocket; it jingled. Then he raised an eyebrow. “There’s dirt on your back.”

  “What? Oh. Oh! Jesus, Kashmir. I fell.” I put my hand on my temple; my head was starting to ache. “But we found a way into the castle and there’s a man . . . there was a man . . . a
nd now he’s dead—”

  “Likely murdered,” Blake added. Then he glanced down at Kashmir’s belt, where the long dagger hung. “With a knife.”

  I turned to Blake, incredulous. “You can’t honestly think Kash did that!”

  “I’m only asking questions,” Blake said mildly. “But tell us, Mr. Firas. Have you been out here all night long?”

  “Ah, Mr. Hart. Despite the rumors, even I can’t do anything all night long.” But Kash didn’t even smile at his joke. Instead, he took my arm. “Come, amira. Let’s get back to the ship. I think we’ve been here long enough.”

  “At the castle?”

  “In Ker-Ys.”

  I wanted to protest, but I thought back to the dead man, lying on the floor, and I shuddered. Who had killed him? Where was the key? And who was he, really? A king without a kingdom, or just a man who’d lost his mind?

  We wound our way toward the dock. When would Crowhurst return from New York? Perhaps he’d already come in with this morning’s tide—if so, I would be glad to get the captain’s map back, ask my questions, and leave. I counted forward. The gates would open next sometime around midnight. Plenty of time to pick a new destination. I rubbed my temple—my headache was worsening. Maybe I would rest a bit first.

  “Amira, is something wrong?”

  Blake frowned. “Rotgut mentioned she skipped breakfast,” he said. “And that was some hours ago.”

  At the thought of food, my stomach turned again. But the dizziness was making it hard to walk; part of me felt as though I would float away into the wide blue sky if Kashmir let go. My skin felt strangely cool, even clammy; likely the adrenaline finally leaving. “Maybe food would be a good idea.”

  “Come.” Kash steered us into a small shop near the bottom of the Grand Rue; baskets of pastry and bread lined the counters, and the smell of malt and sugar and butter warmed me far more than the bakery’s ovens. The blond woman behind the counter frowned at Kashmir and me. Her eyes slid to Blake until Kash pulled a handful of coins out of his pocket; then she pasted on a smile for him. But glancing down at the baskets, I was suddenly too hot. I plucked at the collar of my shirt, fumbling at the button. The proprietor arched a brow and said something to me, but I couldn’t hear her words.