hard bread, and clam beer. The most stimulating of all alcoholic beverages, the Baymen’s clam beer changed color with age and temperature, and was perfect when it was purple. That meant that it was cold, thick, and dry—an indescribable ambrosia that made mead taste like horse piss. They sat in their long canoe, eating silently. Auriga Bootes, whose eyes always combed the horizon and shifted about from sea to sky, stood up straight, and pointed. “A ship in the lake,” he said, with great surprise, for the lake was far too shallow for ships. Humpstone John, an elder of the Baymen, looked up and saw nothing. Since he knew the dimensions of the estuary, he had adjusted his gaze for sighting a real ship and passed over the
City of Justice
by ten or twenty degrees.
“Where, Auriga Bootes?” he asked. Abysmillard glanced about, still chewing loudly, seeing nothing that might have passed for a ship.
“There, John, there, John,” answered Auriga Bootes, still pointing in the same direction. Then Humpstone John saw it, too.
“It seems very far away,” he said, “but it seems close as well. It isn’t moving. Perhaps it has been spit out from the cloud wall and left aground. There may be a good cargo on board—guns, tools, implements, molasses—” at this, Abysmillard perked up, because, for him, molasses was a magnificent delicacy—“and there may be confused souls.” They put down their food and began to paddle in the direction of the
City of Justice.
Faster than they thought, they glided up to the ship, and were looming over it.
Like an ape, Abysmillard touched his own body, feeling ribs, nose, and knees. He could not understand what was happening, and thought that he had grown to be a giant. The other two knew what it was, but the illusion remained because the ship had been skillfully crafted. The wood of spars and decks was browner than an oiled nut. The hull’s simulated black steel was as dull and dark as the side of a bull. And the brass fittings were as tarnished as if they had been years at sea, not in a glass case.
“You see that,” said Humpstone John, indicating the ship’s name in white. “That’s writing.”
“What’s writing?” asked Auriga Bootes, staring at the funnel, which he thought might be what Humpstone John called writing.
“That,” said Humpstone John, pointing directly at the bow. Auriga Bootes leaned over and jiggled an anchor in his fingers.
“This?” he asked.
“No! The white stuff, there.”
“Oh, that. That’s writing, huh. What does it do?”
“It’s like talking, but it makes no sound.”
“Its like talking, but it makes no sound,” Auriga Bootes repeated. Then he and Abysmillard laughed deep, fat, snorting laughs. Sometimes, they thought, Humpstone John, despite his wisdom, was truly a fool.
The miniature ship was not much of a prize, but they decided to take it home anyway, and attached a line to the bow so that they could tow it behind their canoe. Halfway across the lake the baby awoke and began to cry. The three Baymen halted in the middle of their strokes. Stock-still as their paddles dripped water, they tilted their heads to find the sound. Humpstone John rustled through a pile of burlap rags in front of him, thinking that one of the Baymen had left a baby in the rags by mistake, or put it there as a joke. He found no baby, but the baby’s cries continued. Still gliding, he pulled on the rope, and the
City of Justice
came near. The noise was from inside. Humpstone John pulled a broadsword from his belt and cracked open the ship the way one cracks an egg with a knife. A wizard with the sword, like all Baymen, he judged the thickness and strength of the wood in the stroke of the steel, and penetrated no farther than was necessary to split the shell. The sword was back in his belt before it had had a chance to gleam in the sun, and the baby hung in midair as the two halves of the now-dead replica parted and upended. Auriga Bootes snatched the
City of Justice
by ten or twenty degrees.
“Where, Auriga Bootes?” he asked. Abysmillard glanced about, still chewing loudly, seeing nothing that might have passed for a ship.
“There, John, there, John,” answered Auriga Bootes, still pointing in the same direction. Then Humpstone John saw it, too.
“It seems very far away,” he said, “but it seems close as well. It isn’t moving. Perhaps it has been spit out from the cloud wall and left aground. There may be a good cargo on board—guns, tools, implements, molasses—” at this, Abysmillard perked up, because, for him, molasses was a magnificent delicacy—“and there may be confused souls.” They put down their food and began to paddle in the direction of the
City of Justice.
Faster than they thought, they glided up to the ship, and were looming over it.
Like an ape, Abysmillard touched his own body, feeling ribs, nose, and knees. He could not understand what was happening, and thought that he had grown to be a giant. The other two knew what it was, but the illusion remained because the ship had been skillfully crafted. The wood of spars and decks was browner than an oiled nut. The hull’s simulated black steel was as dull and dark as the side of a bull. And the brass fittings were as tarnished as if they had been years at sea, not in a glass case.
“You see that,” said Humpstone John, indicating the ship’s name in white. “That’s writing.”
“What’s writing?” asked Auriga Bootes, staring at the funnel, which he thought might be what Humpstone John called writing.
“That,” said Humpstone John, pointing directly at the bow. Auriga Bootes leaned over and jiggled an anchor in his fingers.
“This?” he asked.
“No! The white stuff, there.”
“Oh, that. That’s writing, huh. What does it do?”
“It’s like talking, but it makes no sound.”
“Its like talking, but it makes no sound,” Auriga Bootes repeated. Then he and Abysmillard laughed deep, fat, snorting laughs. Sometimes, they thought, Humpstone John, despite his wisdom, was truly a fool.
The miniature ship was not much of a prize, but they decided to take it home anyway, and attached a line to the bow so that they could tow it behind their canoe. Halfway across the lake the baby awoke and began to cry. The three Baymen halted in the middle of their strokes. Stock-still as their paddles dripped water, they tilted their heads to find the sound. Humpstone John rustled through a pile of burlap rags in front of him, thinking that one of the Baymen had left a baby in the rags by mistake, or put it there as a joke. He found no baby, but the baby’s cries continued. Still gliding, he pulled on the rope, and the
City of Justice
came near. The noise was from inside. Humpstone John pulled a broadsword from his belt and cracked open the ship the way one cracks an egg with a knife. A wizard with the sword, like all Baymen, he judged the thickness and strength of the wood in the stroke of the steel, and penetrated no farther than was necessary to split the shell. The sword was back in his belt before it had had a chance to gleam in the sun, and the baby hung in midair as the two halves of the now-dead replica parted and upended. Auriga Bootes snatched the
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