Chapter 95

The Marka sails a calm sea of moving starlight. Far behind them, the realms hang dark in the sky, every gate-light out. No more doors home. Only the ship and the sea.

The crew is quiet. Drekk is at the wheel in his bell-rope mask. Rougeina is on the rail with her list. Vigolas is lying on his back on the deck, staring up at the dark realms.

Something glints, very high up. Then it's falling, fast, end over end, a long shape of brass.

It hits the deck point-first between Vigolas's legs. THOOM. The planks split. A brass clock-hand, as tall as the mainmast, black-tipped and gleaming, stands quivering upright out of the Marka's deck.

very still, looking at where it landed.

Engraved down its length in elegant, slightly old-fashioned script:

AT THE NINTH HOUR OF THE NINTH DAY, THE MARKA SINKS.

— O.

peering at it.

a hand on the brass. His eyes film gold, Lust-sight, reading.

Smaller engraving, almost an afterthought, like a footnote:

At four and twelve seconds, a wave.

frowning.

Perfectly flat. Not a ripple.

The second hand ticks: 10… 11…

At 12, out of a perfectly flat sea, a wave rises: one wave, no wind, no reason, a wall of starlight water as tall as the mast, arriving at the exact second.

It hits. The Marka heels over, everything not tied down slides across the deck, and Mingus scrabbles at the planks. Kompis grabs him by the scruff, and Smurjan grabs Kompis.

The wave passes and the sea goes flat again, instantly, as if it had never moved. The Marka rights itself, streaming water.

Under the first footnote, a new line of engraving etches itself into the brass as they watch, letter by letter:

At six exactly, the mainmast cracks.

staring up at the mainmast.

third eye open, looking at the mainmast.

The crew fights the schedule:

They lash spare spars around the mainmast where Smurjan pointed. At six exactly, it cracks anyway, but the splints hold.

At six and twenty, a gust from the north. Drekk turns into it before it comes, by feel, and the gust slides off the sails.

At seven and four seconds, the water barrels split. Rougeina Swaps three barrels into the hold a second early, so only the empty ones split.

At seven and forty, the dog falls overboard. Kompis lies down on the deck holding Mingus in both arms, with Smurjan holding Kompis and Vigolas holding Smurjan. At seven forty, a wave slaps the deck and the dog's back legs go over the rail, and they haul him back in, soaking, wagging.

Night. The battered Marka, splinted and soaked, still afloat. The crew lies flat on the deck, exhausted. The clock-hand gleams, a new footnote already etching:

At midnight, the lazy one falls asleep.

at the wheel, mask dripping, and he's counting under his breath, the way old navigators count seconds between lighthouse flashes.

sitting beside the wheel.

The crew around the clock-hand in lantern light: a council of war.

a woodcut of a tall woman in brass plates, clock-faces for eyes, hair wound in springs. Beneath it a single printed line: APPOINTMENT: what she names, happens, when she names it.

counting on his fingers.