Read Online The Sea Watch by Adrian Tchaikovsky - Free Book Online
Authors: Adrian Tchaikovsky
Ads: Link
between him and the lookout. Yes, even through the fog, the great pale swathe of sail could be seen.
‘Hold our course,’ Aimark ordered. He knew that the pursuers would be listening for the sound of his engines, but at the same time the fog played tricks with sound, deadened and distorted it, and there was a fair chance that, by the time the pirate realized that the Pelter had taken an unexpected course, it would be too late.
For a moment the deck shifted strangely beneath Aimark’s feet, instantly bringing him out in a cold sweat. Reefs? But there could be none here, surely, nor unexpected rocks. The sea beneath them was deeper than any sounding had detected. They were past the Shelf, and there was nothing beneath them but the sea.
The Fly-kinden alighted down beside him. ‘Master, they’re turning landwards. Hiram saw them tack, before he lost them to the fog.’
A great wave of relief swept over Tolly Aimark. ‘Continue on a mile, then we’ll plot a course that’ll bring us to the coast far from where they’re likely to be. Bring my charts up, too, and we’ll see where we might end up.’
Even as he spoke the words, something scraped along the hull, but without the solid shock of an underwater rock. Aimark and his crewmen stared at one another, and glanced down the length of the ship, so much of which had become mere shapes in the fog.
A man screamed out there somewhere, and there followed a confused babble of voices. Aimark bellowed for a report, and one of his artificers rushed out of the mist, wide-eyed. ‘Dorwell’s gone, master! Just . . . vanished. He was there right behind me . . .’
Something grated along against the underside of the hull, and the planks beneath Aimark’s feet abruptly flexed and jumped, in time with a splintering sound from below. Incredibly, the ship was still moving, dragging somewhat but not stuck on anything, nor run aground, and yet . . .
There were men rushing up from belowdecks, and he heard calls to man the pumps. Aimark stood frozen, mouth open ready to issue he knew not what order.
Then he spotted the great lumpen shapes appear at the rails, hauling themselves on to deck in a clatter of claws and carapace, and the real terror began.
‘Master Sands, Filipo says your man’s coming.’
Sands glanced up from his book, noting his underling’s careful manner, the respectful style of address stolen from Collegium’s upper echelons. And yet have I not earned it? Sands believed he had, certainly. The niche for men of his stripe in law-abiding Collegium was a narrow one. The docks and the river district penned in a moderate infestation of unambitious, unprincipled men, but it took someone like Sands to make a healthy living out of doing wrong. He was a Collegiate criminal, and the College and the city had formed him just as surely as it formed the magnates and mechanics and scholars that the place was famed for.
The alley was dark, but his Spider father had contributed enough to Sands’s heritage that he could read quite comfortably by moonlight. The moon was waxing, three-quarters full and still bellying out from one night to the next. A murderer’s moon, they’d call it in Merro. The Fly-kinden had always been able to turn life’s little practicalities into poetry.
Despite his heritage he looked almost entirely Beetle, did Forman Sands. Only closer observation detected the telltale discontinuity of warring kinden in his face. It had been enough, though, between a disinherited birth and a persecuted youth, to set him on a darker path, yet he still considered himself a good citizen of Collegium. He always cast his stone in the Lots, and followed all the major speeches in the Assembly, buying a record of each as soon as the printers could turn it out. If he sired a child, then he would buy a place in the College, with money to spare. Sands had scraped his education together by his own hand, and he valued book learning above all else, not just because of the
‘Hold our course,’ Aimark ordered. He knew that the pursuers would be listening for the sound of his engines, but at the same time the fog played tricks with sound, deadened and distorted it, and there was a fair chance that, by the time the pirate realized that the Pelter had taken an unexpected course, it would be too late.
For a moment the deck shifted strangely beneath Aimark’s feet, instantly bringing him out in a cold sweat. Reefs? But there could be none here, surely, nor unexpected rocks. The sea beneath them was deeper than any sounding had detected. They were past the Shelf, and there was nothing beneath them but the sea.
The Fly-kinden alighted down beside him. ‘Master, they’re turning landwards. Hiram saw them tack, before he lost them to the fog.’
A great wave of relief swept over Tolly Aimark. ‘Continue on a mile, then we’ll plot a course that’ll bring us to the coast far from where they’re likely to be. Bring my charts up, too, and we’ll see where we might end up.’
Even as he spoke the words, something scraped along the hull, but without the solid shock of an underwater rock. Aimark and his crewmen stared at one another, and glanced down the length of the ship, so much of which had become mere shapes in the fog.
A man screamed out there somewhere, and there followed a confused babble of voices. Aimark bellowed for a report, and one of his artificers rushed out of the mist, wide-eyed. ‘Dorwell’s gone, master! Just . . . vanished. He was there right behind me . . .’
Something grated along against the underside of the hull, and the planks beneath Aimark’s feet abruptly flexed and jumped, in time with a splintering sound from below. Incredibly, the ship was still moving, dragging somewhat but not stuck on anything, nor run aground, and yet . . .
There were men rushing up from belowdecks, and he heard calls to man the pumps. Aimark stood frozen, mouth open ready to issue he knew not what order.
Then he spotted the great lumpen shapes appear at the rails, hauling themselves on to deck in a clatter of claws and carapace, and the real terror began.
‘Master Sands, Filipo says your man’s coming.’
Sands glanced up from his book, noting his underling’s careful manner, the respectful style of address stolen from Collegium’s upper echelons. And yet have I not earned it? Sands believed he had, certainly. The niche for men of his stripe in law-abiding Collegium was a narrow one. The docks and the river district penned in a moderate infestation of unambitious, unprincipled men, but it took someone like Sands to make a healthy living out of doing wrong. He was a Collegiate criminal, and the College and the city had formed him just as surely as it formed the magnates and mechanics and scholars that the place was famed for.
The alley was dark, but his Spider father had contributed enough to Sands’s heritage that he could read quite comfortably by moonlight. The moon was waxing, three-quarters full and still bellying out from one night to the next. A murderer’s moon, they’d call it in Merro. The Fly-kinden had always been able to turn life’s little practicalities into poetry.
Despite his heritage he looked almost entirely Beetle, did Forman Sands. Only closer observation detected the telltale discontinuity of warring kinden in his face. It had been enough, though, between a disinherited birth and a persecuted youth, to set him on a darker path, yet he still considered himself a good citizen of Collegium. He always cast his stone in the Lots, and followed all the major speeches in the Assembly, buying a record of each as soon as the printers could turn it out. If he sired a child, then he would buy a place in the College, with money to spare. Sands had scraped his education together by his own hand, and he valued book learning above all else, not just because of the
Similar Books
