The Voyage of the Unquiet Ice (37 page)

‘Back to your ropes then. But stand by; I don't doubt you'll be summoned to the high deck before too long. Not even officers can just go about thumping folk – not on any ship I know of, anyway.'

The sail-master was quite correct. An hour after midday a summons came for Dow; the captain required his presence – though not in fact on the high deck, but rather in Vincente's own cabin. Dow put down his handful of rope, tidied himself up as best he could, rubbed at his swollen lip once more, then set off for the stern castle.

The day was still blue and fair, the
Chloe
tacking in great legs into a warm southerly wind, the ocean cobalt and white-capped and slipping away sweetly under the bow. It was as fine an afternoon for sailing as Dow had seen in all his time aboard, but he felt no freedom to enjoy it. All he felt was depressed – partly because of the fight, partly from a greater malaise that had gripped him. More than ever, he was aware that the
Chloe
was not his ship, and that sailing was a life he had only borrowed.

He climbed the stairs to the Captain's Walk and then, granted access by the marines on guard, passed inwards to the same short passageway he had visited once before. At the far end stood the double doors that opened to the Great Cabin, but on the right was a single door; the captain's. Dow knocked on it.

‘Enter,' came Vincente's voice.

The room within turned out to be as plain as the captain himself. It was spacious, and everything in it was finely made and polished, but there were no luxuries visible, merely a desk, two armchairs, some shelves of books on the wall, and two sea chests secured in a corner. A curtained doorway led off to what presumably was a bedroom, and on a hook hung the captain's black coat, and his hat. Windows looked forward towards the bow, but for now they were darkened by wooden louvers.

Vincente was seated in one of the armchairs, leaning forward over a collection of documents that were spread on a low table before him, his white shirt bulging tightly about his pot stomach. ‘Mr Amber,' he said, gesturing. ‘At ease. And sit, please.'

Somewhat surprised, Dow lowered himself into the other chair.

Vincente, still hunched forward over the papers, studied him briefly from under raised brows. ‘Lieutenant Diego has done you little enough damage, by the look. There's barely a bruise.'

Dow nodded silently.

‘For the record, he claims that you were insubordinate and that he was merely disciplining you. Is that a version of events you'd agree with? I hasten to add, it won't matter if you disagree. I won't be taking any action against him, deserved or not. Anyway, as I recall, you laid hands upon him yourself once, and blackened an eye. So perhaps the two of you are about even.'

Dow was more puzzled than ever; he'd expected to find the captain angry, at either himself or Diego, but Vincente merely sounded tired. From overhead – the high deck lay directly above – came the rap of feet pacing on the timbers, and the creak of the steering cables, which ran from the great wheel down through the stern castle to the rudder mechanism.

‘Show me your hands,' said the captain at last.

Dow had been holding them clasped in his lap. He raised them now, to display the blackened tips and red-raw palms. The frown faded from Vincente's lips, replaced by a distant, almost fond smile.

‘I was set to picking oakum once, when I was just a midshipman. I can't remember what it was punishment for, but I remember the oakum. It was months before my fingers felt right again.' The smile faded. Vincente sat up more formally. ‘Your sentence ends today. It was justified, by all creatures of the deep, there's no doubt about that. A flogging would've been justified too. But you knew that when you stole the boat. As did my scapegoat. And it didn't stop either of you. Still, it's necessary that punishments are enforced, even when they're risked deliberately. Especially then, otherwise the risk is meaningless – and worse, a man's
death
would be meaningless ...'

He paused, and so dispirited and inward-looking seemed his mood, he might have been talking to himself. But then he leant forward again and tapped the papers on the table. ‘These documents are orders and undertakings to sign you on as a permanent enlisted member of the
Chloe's
crew.' And before the stunned Dow could respond, he added, ‘Lieutenant Diego, by the way, will be no such member after this voyage.'

All Dow could say was, ‘Excellency?'

Vincente smiled thinly. ‘Don't think I'm dispensing with Diego for your sake. No, his period of service with me is complete anyway. He'll be returning to the fleet of his native kingdom, and no doubt to high rank there – for with his uncle as king, how could he not? I mention it to you only in passing.'

‘But … but I thought …'

‘You thought I would be putting you off at voyage's end? That I'd return you to the Sea Lord's custody upon the
Twelfth Kingdom
? Well, rightly, I should do just that. In normal times I wouldn't hesitate. But these are not normal times – and the Sea Lord will not be Sea Lord much longer, and so won't be at liberty to accept you as his guest anyway.' He considered Dow grimly. ‘Do you have any idea, Mr Amber, of what will result from the news we now bear? The Lord Designate is indisputably lost. There is no heir to the throne.'

In truth, Dow had given little thought to such things in the last weeks. ‘There's no chance he's still alive?'

‘In the Doldrums? After five years? Some will cling to vain hopes, maybe – but no. Nadal has led his men to naught but a terrible death.'

Dow pondered this, and a mirage rose in his mind of the whole southern half of the globe, unvisited and unexplored, and the pull it must have had on the Lord Designate, to lure him to such a fate.

But that wasn't the point, of course. ‘Will there really be civil war?' he asked.

‘I believe so. I
know
so in my bones. Castille and Valdez will not be refused. They will demand that Ibanez announce a new successor, and Ibanez will resist, and there will be war, which Castille and Valdez will win. And even if there isn't a war – if Ibanez does give in – the throne still passes to Castille and Valdez. Either way, it's an end to things as we have known them, and a dangerous progression. I know kings Carrasco and Ferdinand too well to hope that they, or their puppet children, will govern well.

‘They are blind and greedy men, Dow, and our empire has grown blind and greedy likewise, as more and more men like them rise to power. This dispute over the succession will distract us for years to come – and meanwhile, what of the warning you and I took before the Lords of the Fleet? What of the threat that this new boat represents to us? Who are its makers? No one cares. The Lords think we're invulnerable to any challenge.'

Dow too had all but forgotten about the attack on Stone Port, and the strange boat that he and the captain had sighted. It hardly seemed real now …

‘We are
not
invulnerable,' Vincent continued. ‘I know it better than anyone. Indeed, of late, I've had … a premonition?' His stern face took on an uncharacteristically perplexed look. ‘I don't know what else to call it. But I feel it as readily as I feel the deck moving under my feet. Something very bad is coming, something that will shake our empire to its core. It's like a storm beyond the horizon that I can feel but cannot see.' He laughed humourlessly. ‘I'd consult my scapegoat to learn what she makes of it, had I not confined her to her cabin and forbidden her to speak to anyone.' He sobered again. ‘But the storm is coming, I don't doubt. A cataclysm that will engulf us.'

Dow actually looked to the louvered windows, as if to see a darkening there from clouds gathering above the ship, so dour was the captain's tone. But the strips of daylight shone as bright as ever, and the ship sailed blithely on. And anyway, what did all this have to do with
him
? He said, ‘Is that why you're letting me stay on board?'

Vincente nodded sombrely. ‘This fool of a civil war – I will not survive it unscathed. I'm too closely allied to the Sea Lord. Even should I see out the fighting, I will certainly not – afterwards – be left in command of a fleet. Perhaps not even of a ship. No, when Valignano and our allies lose, as we will, I shall be forced into obscurity. But as I go, I hope to leave
you
behind, Dow Amber, as a gift to my own people, little though they'll want you.'

‘A gift?' Dow asked, not understanding at all.

‘Maybe a seed would be a better word – a tiny seed of humanity and vitality in what will become a fleet full of self-satisfaction and idleness, once Castille and Valdez rule from the
Twelfth Kingdom.

‘You don't know what I mean, of course. But part of it, Dow, is that you haven't been raised in privilege and power, as all our own officers have been, even in my own humble kingdom. It has slowly ruined us as seafarers. Oh, we haven't lost our skills of shipbuilding and navigation – but we've lost our vigour. Our enterprise. We are hidebound now, trapped by our own monstrous wealth, and terrified of losing it. We do not take risks anymore. Nadal, at least, was trying to do something new, as foolhardy as his attempt was. But he will be the last – unless we can begin to look beyond ourselves. We need someone with new ideas, with no awe of the past, and no fear of the future. Someone with nothing to lose and everything to gain. Someone like you, Mr Amber.

‘These papers – they are not simply enlisting you to my crew. They are a commission. Once signed, they will endow you with the rank of sub-lieutenant, the lowest rank of officer that exists – yet an official position nonetheless, with accompanying rights and entitlements that cannot be summarily denied you. It is an extraordinary undertaking, the like of which no one has seen in generations – a New Islander with a commission! But there are provisions, little used maybe, but in the regulations still, that a serving captain like myself, while at sea, may commission anyone that he sees fit to into the officers' ranks, if the situation demands it. And I think the situation does.'

Dow listened to all this dumbfounded. ‘An
officer
?'

Vincente leaned further forward, his expression becoming urgent. ‘Listen, Dow – you and I both know you have nowhere near the education or training for such a rank. But that doesn't matter right now. All I'm trying to do is shield you with provisions that will prevent my enemies and yours simply throwing you in prison once we return home. They will not be able to do so as easily, if you are a legally commissioned officer. And who knows, if the war does not come as quickly as I dread, you may even have time to earn the position. I will certainly help you if I can. But in all reality I'll probably be shoved aside long before then. In which case you will be on your own.

‘Though not entirely. The rank will protect you legally, but of more protection still will be your own reputation. You will gain supporters, even among we Ship Kings, of that I am certain. I'm not the only one who thinks our fleets and officers have become stultified with privilege. Others too will see the worth of new minds and new thoughts, unencumbered by dead traditions. And, of course, you are famous. Not only are you the boy who rode the maelstrom, now you are the youth who, against all odds and even a captain's orders, found the route to the pole! Imagine the way folk will talk of you now!'

Dow was frowning. Found the route to the pole? It was Nell who had done that – or, in fact, Captain Altona of the
Bent Wing.
All Dow had done was convince Alfons and his men to crew the boat.

And now Alfons was—

Vincente was watching him. ‘You're thinking of the dead man, and blaming yourself for his death. So you should. The day that you lead men to their deaths and do not care is the day you become a monster. But command will always result in the deaths of others – the only alternative is to not command at all, which may well bring death in any case. Accept this, and if others choose to follow you, then lead them honestly and fairly, and with respect for their lives, but do not hesitate to do what you must.'

He stared at Dow a moment longer, then reached abruptly for a pen that lay on the table. He dipped it in ink and signed the papers in three different places. Then he extended the quill towards Dow.

‘To make this binding, you must sign your name. I know, of course, that you cannot. And never before has a commission gone to one who cannot read or write. Nevertheless, you must make some mark that can be identified as yours – if, that is, command is what you want.'

Dow stared at the pen. Command – was it what he wanted? He'd always thought so, from the moment he'd first laid eyes upon a ship. But he'd been a child then, and it had never occurred to him that command would mean not only control of a vessel, but also control over men's lives, even to the point of ordering them to their deaths, or of killing them by his own mistakes.