Chapter 20 Bilgetown
The sea had grown decreasingly fierce, and I knew we were nearing the edge of the Sheets, where Bilgetown was rumored to roam.
A collection of thousands of ships, lashed together and built upon, too hulking to maneuver cleanly in open water.
They clung to the edge of the Sheets instead, slipping into her storms when they needed cover.
At least that’s what Worley had told the swabs one night over grog.
I’d swung in my hammock and listened to him speak.
The crew hung on his every word, but truthfully, so did I, though I’d never tell.
Chasing in the Sheets was taking its toll.
I was exhausted, weariness etched into my very bones, and runes now stretched up to my shoulders and down my ribs.
I was in the surgeon’s pit, working by candlelight on the shading of Echo’s sketch.
I was using an ink wash, and I needed to study the curve of his horns to get them right.
He indulged me, and so we sat, me drawing, him reading a small pocket novel, when he lifted his head, eyes glazed.
“We’re here,” he said.
“Here?”
Sister, said the Touchstone. Graveyard of ships, playground of crabs and carrion and men.
And the drums beat to quarters. I glanced at Echo.
“I have to go.” And without waiting for an answer, I snatched my oilskin and made my way to the deck.
The wind was hot, but the rain was cold, and clouds rolled, black and heavy, across the sea.
Even in the pelting rain, the sky was orange because of the suns.
It reminded me of the morning at Hodgetown, when the docks were ablaze with cannon fire and chimeric.
But there was no such booming now, no roar or screams from the wharf, just the wind and the rain and a distant rumble like nothing I’d ever heard.
Gong-gong-chunk-chunk, gong-gong-chunk.
On the horizon, a massive cloud bank rolled like a tidal wave, black and gray and green like ink. It was a good distance away, but still, it was ominous and strange. As it rolled closer, tiny shapes emerged, but it was impossible to make them out in the haze and fog.
Kill it. Sink it. Pick her bones.
The captain appeared at the hatch and hit the steps to the quarterdeck, then to the pup. Fahr was already there, oilskin cloak flapping, spyglass in hand.
“Twelve, sir,” he said, passing the glass to Thanavar. “Sloops and brigs for the most part.”
I turned back to the sea.
Yes, I saw them. Twelve sailing ships spread out from the cloud and from one another, approaching us like a fleet. There was something strange about them, but I couldn’t see well enough to tell.
“Shall we change course?” asked Smoke from the helm. He had no oilskin and was soaked from his head to his toes.
“Hold course, Mr. Oakum,” said Thanavar.
“Holding course toward the filthiest pisspool of turkey-faced jades,” muttered the quartermaster, but he held fast the grips, and we bucked through the waves toward the cloud.
Kill it. Sink it, she said, and I swore she leaned into the wind. Carrion and men.
Suns, she could be ferocious, and I loved that part of her.
“You have this, Mr. Fahr?” asked the captain.
“Aye, sir, and good luck,” said Fahr. “See you on the other side.”
Thanavar turned and left the deck, swiftly disappearing into the hold.
Wherever he was going, there was bound to be deep magik.
We were looking for a map that would lead us to the Cloudgate, to the very heart of the Dreadwall.
What could possibly be more extraordinary than that?
I turned back to the horizon. I could see them now, twelve small warships in formation, and behind them, the great cloud of fog that billowed like a wave.
One of the ships flared.
“Hold fast, Mr. Oakum,” said the mate.
The cannonball whipped past our bow, splashing into the waters portside.
“So foggin’ predictable,” muttered Smoke.
“And that’s all it will be unless we’re sloppy,” said Fahr. “They aim to take us a prize.”
I glanced around. Broom and his gunners were on deck, standing by one cannon. Lucky Lass was her name, scratched into her iron casing.
Surely, we would need all the cannons and long guns if we were to take on twelve ships of war.
“Run the colors, if you will, Mr. Buck,” said Fahr.
Colors?
I had never seen the Touchstone run under flag, any flag, so when Buck began to haul, I was dumbfounded to see two bolts of cloth running up the mizzen. One I recognized as the blue-and-gold pennant of Oversea, but the other…
Black with a single white tree under three moons. It was beautiful, it was elegant, and it was not ours.
We were running under two flags, one Oversea, the other Rhi’Ahr, and the Touchstone’s sails thundered with pride.
I am coming, Sister.
The winter hawk swept above us all, arcing his wing toward the first of the armada heading our way. He was a speck in a heartbeat.
…the only way to survive Thanavar’s game…
But Forge, what if I was thriving in Thanavar’s game?
Gong-gong-chunk-chunk, gong-gong-chunk.
The twelve ships were spreading out, clearly aiming to surround us, and out of the fog far behind them, a shape emerged. I could make out contours and structure, and the realization froze my blood cold. It was Bilgetown, scourge of the Sheets and thorn of the open seas.
Tales of Bilgetown were stock in the taverns of Oversea, and I’d even heard a story or two in Berryburn Yard.
According to lore, Bilgetown roamed the seas without sail, oar, or even spinners, yet she was as large as any city on the continents.
She traded with vessels foolish enough to play the odds and scavenged from those that inevitably lost. Rumor had it that she harnessed whales as her engines, that wyrmaids were her crew, and that even the Rhi’Ahr feared meeting her in the Sheets.
As I peered toward the approaching bank of smoke, I rubbed my eyes, not sure if I could believe what I was seeing.
There were no whales. There were no wyrmaids. No, Bilgetown was much, much stranger.
Neither city nor ship, she was a city of ships, a Dreadtown, formed from the hulls and decks of hundreds, if not thousands, of sea-faring craft.
Brigs and schooners, caravals and clippers.
Keels assembled on top of hulls, cabins piled atop transoms, rudders affixed to decks.
I saw no canvas. I saw no whales. How the suns did she sail?
Within the quarter hour, the twelve were upon us, and I could see what originally had made this advanced armada so strange.
Each ship was linked together by a long chain, and they moved to encircle us like a noose, so that, even if we had the wind in our favor, they would cut off all way of escape.
And we were sailing straight into it, perfectly aware.
Bilgetown chugged toward us, far behind but not far enough for me.
“Mr. Kit, Mr. Buck,” called Fahr. “The last raft, if you please.”
The minotaur heaved it over the bow. It almost disappeared beneath the roiling waves before pitching upward, buoyant and free.
The harpy sprang from the nest and swept to the craft’s deck, catching a rope in her clawed feet.
She launched into the sky, struggling to make headway in the wind, but soon, she had pulled the raft away several lengths from us.
She released it and winged back to the Touchstone.
I could see the faces of the men on their decks as the twelve ships tightened their noose around us.
“Surrender your vessel,” came a bull-horned voice all the way from Bilgetown. “Or we will sink you hard.”
I flinched as, one after the other, the twelve fired their cannons, their shots splashing in the waters around us. Warning shots all.
“Loose, Mr. Broom!” barked Fahr.
“Loose!” barked Broom. Immediately, the hands scrambled and the cannon, Lucky Lass, boomed from the deck.
As the ball struck the raft, chimeric arced and runes danced, lighting up the water like a carnival. Then, it shattered, a thousand flying shards of wood, chimeric sparking patterns in the sky before they dissipated on the wind.
Fahr pulled the bullhorn to his lips.
“Attention, Tarry Forks, magistrate of Bilgetown!” His voice carried over the rain and echoed across the waters. “This is the privateer Touchstone, and we have enough chimeric to sink your entire city.”
There was silence from the city.
Fahr glanced my way and grinned. I shook my head but grinned right back. A great game, indeed. Life on the edge of a blade, tossed about by the lee of the wind and the swells of the sea. I understood why he had shirked his crown. There was no throne on erthe that could match this.
He lifted the bullhorn once again.
“We wish to parley, Bilgetown,” he called. “In exchange for information, we will share the secret of Nethersea chimeric.”
We rocked and floated for several long minutes, waiting as the Dreadtown grew larger and larger. Echo peered out from the hatch below, blinking into the rain.
“Mr. Fahr,” he called. “The captain says two will suffice, three is better, but four will leave us with consequences on our souls.”
“Three it is, then,” Fahr said. “Have you got that, Mr. Broom? It may be several hours, but you must be sharp and quick on my mark.”
“Aye, sir,” said Broom. Echo nodded and disappeared back into the hatch.
Soon, the voice from Bilgetown came again.
“Touchstone, is Thanavar still your captain?”
“He is indeed, Bilgetown,” said Fahr through the horn. “Is Forks still your magistrate?”
“Permission to enter the city, Touchstone. One longboat only. Bring the chimeric but not the kelpier.”
Kelpier. Hmm. I’d never thought of him like that, but hels, it made sense. The Rhi’Ahr were elven lords of the sea. Water spirits. Ocean fae. Not wyrmen. Kelpier.
“No mention of Forks,” muttered Fahr.
“Mutiny?” asked Smoke over his shoulder.
“Or heart,” said Fahr. “The man was a glutton.”
A claxon rang out from Bilgetown, and a sea-level gate began to swing.
“You have the deck, Mr. Oakum,” said Fahr. “Wait for my signal.”