Steven Erikson - The lees of Laughter's End

A bucket of food was being hoisted up to the crow’s nest atop the mainmast, and Emancipor looked up, squinting in the glare. They all said she was pretty, the daughter, that is. But maybe mute-hence the eerie cries wafting down every now and then. And as for Bena Elder, why, a squall witch, she was, and had not come down, not even showed her prune face since before Moll-and life was better for it, aye. Well, strain as he might, he couldn’t see anyone up there.

Still, a nice thought to think the young one was pretty.

Smiling, he made his way aft. It was good to smile these days, wasn’t it. Belly pleasantly full and mostly quiescent. Fair sky overhead and a decent wind caressing easy swells on the sea. Subly far away and the imps with worms crawling out of every orifice just as far away, as, well, as Subly herself. Murdered employers and crazed killers and-oh, right, some of that, alas, was not so far away as any sane man might prefer.

Worthy reminder, aye. He found himself standing braced to the roll and pitch near the aft rail, pushing rustleaf in his pipe bowl, his blurry vision struggling to focus on the black-shrouded figure hunched against the stern rail. On the fat, pale fingers working with precision on the hook and the weighted line. On the round, pallid face, a sharp red tongue tip visible jutting up over the flabby upper lip, and those lank, low-lidded eyes, the lids and lashes fluttering in the breeze.

Focusing, aye.

As Korbal Broach worked the severed ear onto the barbed iron hook.

Then flung it over the side and began letting out loops of line.

The nails creaked with the coming of night, and those creaks were the language of the dead. There had been much to discuss, plans to foment, ambitions to explore, but now, at last, the voices grew in urgency and excitement. Trapped in the nails for so long now, but release was coming.

The red road that was Laughter’s End beckoned, and wave by wave, the thunder of cloven swells rumbling along the timbers of the hull, wave by wave, they drew yet closer to the grim vein, the currents of Mael’s very own blood.

The Elder God of the Sea bled, as was the way of all things Elder. And where there was blood, there was power.

As night opened its mouth and darkness yawned, the iron nails bound to the ship Suncurl, nails that had once resided in the wood of sarcophagi in the barrows of Lamentable Moll, began a most eager, a most hungry chorus.

Even the dead, it is said, can sing songs of freedom.

“If you would, Emancipor Reese, extract my chain armour. Scour, stain and oil. If I recall, no repairs are necessary beyond these simple ablutions, and given your present condition, this is fortuitous indeed.”

Emancipor stood just inside the cabin door, blinking at his master.

Bauchelain’s regard remained steady. “You may now heave yourself into motion, Mister Reese.”

“Uh, of course, Master. Armour, you said. Why, I can do that.”

“Very good.”

Emancipor rubbed at the back of his neck. “Korbal Broach is fishing.”

“Is he now? Well, as I understand, he has acquired a sudden need for shark cartilage.”

“Why, do his knees hurt?”

“Excuse me?”

“Squall witches swear by it, sir.”

“Ah. I believe, in Korbal Broach’s case, he has in mind some experimental applications.”

“Oh.”

“Mister Reese.”

“Master?”

“My armour-no, wait a moment.” Bauchelain rose from where he sat on the edge of his bed. “I believe we have arrived at something of a crisis in our relationship, Mister Reese.”

“Sir? You’re firing me?”

“I trust it need not come to that,” the tall, pale-skinned man said, adjusting his brocaded cloak, then reaching up to stroke his pointy beard. “This voyage has, alas, seen a marked degradation in your skills, Mister Reese. It is common knowledge that excessive use of durhang has the effect of diminished capacities, of chronic ennui, and the obliteration of all ambition in the user. Your brain, in short, has begun to atrophy. You proceed in your waking period through an unmitigated state of numb stupidity; whilst your sleeping periods are occasioned by an inability to achieve the deeper levels of sleep necessary for rest and rejuvenation. This has, alas, made you both useless and boring.”

“Yes sir.”

“Accordingly, for your own good and-more importantly-mine, I am forced to confiscate your supply of durhang for the duration of this voyage and, if necessary, from now on.”

“Oh, sir, that would be bad.”

A single eyebrow arched. “Bad, Mister Reese?”

“Yes, Master. Bad. It’s my nerves, you see. My nerves. They aren’t what they used to be.”

“And what is it, Mister Reese, that so assails your nerves?”

Well now, that was the question, wasn’t it. The one all the durhang was letting Emancipor avoid, and now here was his master demanding a most sordid level of sobriety, in which all escape was denied him. Suddenly mute, Emancipor pointed at a massive wooden trunk set against one wall.

Bauchelain frowned. “Korbal Broach’s child? Why, Mister Reese, this is silly. Has it ever escaped? Indeed, have you not seen it but once, and that at the very beginning of this voyage? Furthermore, have you no faith in the bindings and wards I have set upon that modest homunculus? Paranoia, I should add here, is a common affliction among durhang abusers.”

“Master, every night, I can hear it. Burbling, moaning, gurgling.”

“Proper mouths and vocal tracts do not rate much importance in Korbal’s estimation. Such noises are entirely natural given the creature’s physical constraints. Besides,” and all at once Bauchelain’s tone hardened, “we will ever have guests in our company, many of them far less pleasant that my companion’s quaint assemblage of organs and body parts as now resides in that chest. I was under the assumption, Mister Reese, that you accepted this commission in fullest understanding of such matters. After all, my principal hobby is the conjuring of demons. While my companion, Korbal Broach, explores the mysteries of life and death and all that lies in between. Is it not a given that we will all experience a plethora of peculiarities during the course of our adventures? Indeed, would you have it any other way?”

To that, Emancipor Reese found no possible reply. He stared, gaping, his eyes locked with Bauchelain’s.

Until the sorcerer turned away, with the faintest of sighs. “In any case, Mister Reese, the child should not be the source of your disquiet. I believe I spoke of this matter with you before-shortly upon our standing down for the open seas, in fact. This ship was in Moll Harbour for both resupply and repairs, in addition to taking on new crew. Of these purposes, it is the repairs that are relevant to our impending situation.”

Pausing, Bauchelain walked to the stern port and leaned both hands on the frame as he bent to peer through the lead glass. “Ah, dusk approaches, Mister Reese. And in moments we shall be in the throes of Laughter’s End. Iron nails, Mister Reese. Purchased in Lamentable Moll.”

Emancipor frowned. Now, mention of that stirred something in his head. The voices of two friends in a bar. Kreege and Dully, aye, the scroungers. Nails. Iron nails…

Bauchelain glanced back at Emancipor. “Tell me, Mister Reese. Since you are a native of Lamentable Moll. What, precisely, is a Jhorligg?”

Heck Urse knew he should be sleeping, right up until the bell sounded the night watch, but his mind was a maelstrom of anxieties, terrors and niggling worries. It was understandable, wasn’t it, that the shift over of duties from day to night would require some awkward adjustments, a stuttering transition, aye. And while Birds Mottle seemed able to plunge into deep slumber at a moment’s beckoning, well, she’d been in the auxiliary of the Chanter garrison at Toll’s City, hadn’t she? Close to a real soldier as any of them. As for Gust Hubb, truly the man’s luck was impressive. Imagine, losing an ear just like that and there was the ship’s cutter pushing into his hands a bottle of d’bayang nectar and a mouthful of that you could sleep through Burn’s own bowel movement no matter how many mountains fell over.