Chapter 29

Frost on everything. The cliffs are carved with giant troll faces, eyes closed, sleeping. On the stone slipway stands the MARKA, finished: a long hull of grey-gold Ferdinand bark glowing softly in the first sun, one tall mast, her name in Drekk's big crooked letters on the bow. Trolls the size of houses move around her with ropes and wedges. Smoke rises from the troll huts.

Drekk sits astride the bowsprit, breath steaming, polishing the Kettle's dented brass bell with his sleeve. He's humming, badly.

Trollmage lies flat on his back in the middle of the deck, coat over his legs, the crow asleep on his stomach. His hand-painted sign is propped against the mast:

WAITING. DAY 21.

Under it, in fresh paint: ALSO SUPERVISING.

On a string around his neck, rising and falling with his breathing, hangs a glass shard full of tiny sleeping lights: the index shard. His book lies open beside him, its pages fluttering toward the shard like a cat toward a fire.

Vigolas crouches over him, coat open, frowning at the shard.

Mingus plants both front paws on Trollmage's chest and licks his whole face, ear to ear. Trollmage does not wake up. The crow does, and glares.

Kompis is tying a rope to a cleat, badly, his cloth-wrapped rifle slung across his back. Mingus sits on his foot.

The deck seen through his eyes: fine golden threads run between every member of the crew, criss-crossing the ship like rigging. Vigolas is tied to all of them. A thick thread runs from Kompis to Mingus, bright as a rope of sunlight. And one brand-new thread, thin as a hair and very faint, runs from Drekk at the bow down the slipway to a rock on the shore.

smiling to himself.

On the rock at the end of that thin thread sits Smurjan, alone, grey and still, watching the ship. The low dawn sun throws his three shadows a long way up the slipway, almost to the hull.

A troll cook stirs a cauldron of porridge the size of a bathtub near the huts. Out of Smurjan's long shadow leans Kali, red braid swinging, black-glass sickle on her hip. She stretches along the shadow like it's a hallway, scoops four bowls from the troll's stack, fills them, and lines them up on Smurjan's rock.

looking at the four bowls.

staring at the fourth bowl. A beat too long.

Bakasura's enormous amber-lit maw rises out of the shadow behind the cook and swallows the cauldron, porridge, ladle and all.

holding the empty air where the cauldron was.

Grandmother Ulla climbs the gangplank. The whole ship creaks under her weight. She is ancient, her skin is grey stone, her face is a cliff with kindness carved into it, and she wears a shawl of woven roots. She raps Trollmage's sign with her staff.

looking down at him.

Ulla grunts. Then she pulls a blanket of troll wool off her shoulder and, very gently, tucks it over him up to the chin. The crow settles into it.

Vigolas has come down to Smurjan's rock. He steals one of the bowls and eats from it.

mouth full.

looking up at the bell on the bow, and at the wet crooked letters of the name.

The launch begins. Ulla stands on a rock with her staff raised. Two lines of trolls hold the great launching ropes. Troll children sit along the cliff edge with their legs dangling, cheering. Drekk is at the wheel now, white-knuckled and grinning so hard it looks painful.

Vigolas has one boot up on the bow rail, coat flaring, arms spread to the whole fjord.

cutting him off: a troll horn from the clifftop, long and low.

HRROOOOOOOOM

Around the far point, out of the morning mist, comes a ship: tall and white. A bleached bark hull sheathed at the bow in white iron. White sails ruled in black lines like the pages of a ledger. And at the masthead, a white flag with a crest: a closed gate.

cracked spyglass to his eye.

He's gone pale. He knows it.

The white ship drops longboats, six of them, packed with Bastion guards in slate-blue armour and plumed helms. They row hard and fast for the slipway. Each guard carries a ledger-hook: an iron hook on a chain of pale, glowing light.

RANK PLATE ×30: BASTION GUARD · K-II MARKED · Scalelist #70,000–#99,000

cracking his knuckles. Green lightning sparks between them.

at the wheel, through his teeth.

The lead longboat throws. Twelve ledger-hooks fly at the Marka's rail.

Rougeina is gone from the masthead. Blink. She's standing on the first hook in mid-air. Blink. On the second. Blink. On the oars. Behind her, a line of silver-rose phantom trails hangs in the air like footprints made of ghosts. Every chain she passes falls apart, cut clean by mirror-steel.

The panther lands in the second longboat and the guards go over the side like skittles.

at the bow, rifle up, one hand on Mingus's head.

Everything freezes grey: spray in the air, oars mid-stroke, a hook hanging an arm's length from Drekk's wheel. Only Kompis is in colour, with dozens upon dozens of translucent afterimages of himself fanning out behind him, each trying a different shot. Along the bottom of the panel runs the golden pulse line: Mingus's heartbeat, steady. Thump… thump…

One shot. The bullet hits the first chain, ricochets off a helm, cuts the second, the third, the fourth, and drops into the water. Four hooks fall short.

A longboat beaches by Smurjan's rock. Guards pour out. Smurjan doesn't stand up. A hook flies at his head; he catches the chain between two fingers, exactly, and gives it one small flick. The guard on the other end flies backwards into the fjord.

Kali spins out of his shadow, sickle singing, and cuts three chains at once.

Bakasura rises out of the water's shadow beneath the last longboat and swallows the whole front half of it. The guards in the back half stare at the bite mark.

Vigolas leaps from the bow rail clear across the water and lands in the lead longboat feet-first. The boat bucks. Green lightning on both fists. A guard captain raises his hook, sees who it is, and hesitates.

One punch, and the guard captain sails over the fjord in a long arc. Two trolls on the shore catch him between finger and thumb, look at each other, and throw him back toward the white ship.

flying at the Marka's bell. Mingus jumps from the deck, catches the chain in his teeth in mid-air, lands, and trots proudly back to Kompis with it, tail going like a flag.

The longboats are wrecked, sinking or rowing away full of soaked, furious guards. The trolls on the cliff are cheering. Trollmage has not woken up.

Rougeina is back, crouched, blades sheathed. She isn't celebrating. She's watching the white ship.

On the bowsprit, a lean figure crouches on all fours like a dog, nose to the wind, sniffing. Behind him, on a square iron plate set into the deck, stands a broad, hooded figure whose skin catches the light strangely, white and cracked. The broad one lifts a long iron rod and, slowly, lowers its glowing white tip over the bow toward the water.

For the first time in the chapter, his eyes are open. The crow is wide awake on his chest. The index shard glows violet against his throat.