Steven Erikson - The lees of Laughter's End

But we are safe, darling, ’ere above the squalid fates. Like queens we are. Goddesses!

As yet another scream railed from the darkness below, Bena Younger realized that she did not feel like a queen, or a goddess, and this reach of mast and the nets of cordage creaking almost within reach did not seem nearly high enough for whatever horrors were unveiling themselves beneath the deck of the Suncurl.

While beside her, Bena Elder crooned and moaned on, with hair standing on end and fluttering about, brushing her daughter’s face like the wings of moths.

“Who was doing that screaming?” Heck Urse demanded, reaching his lantern as far ahead as he could, the shadows dancing about the hull of the creaking ship, the rough, damp timbers of the ceiling brushing the top of his head. He peered into the gloom of the hold, sweat beading cold on his skin.

Others were awake now, but few had ventured beyond crowding the hatch leading from the crew’s berths, and Urse recalled-with a sneer diffident in its bravado-seeing all those white rolling eyes, mouths open, round and dark like the tiny pocks in cliff walls where swifts nested. Cowards!

Well, they hadn’t been soldiers, had they? Not a one of them, aye, so it was natural they’d look to Heck and Gust and Birds Mottle, not that any of them was quite free with their professions. No, such things came by obvious, in this hard confidence and the like when things were fast swirling down into some dark ugly pit. So here he stood, crowded by Birds and Gust both, with lantern in one hand and short-swords at the belts of the two soldiers at his back, Hood bless ’em.

“Briv’s gone missing,” Gust Hubb said, interrupting his endless praying to deliver this detail in a strained, squeaking voice. “Said he was coming down ’ere for a cask a something.”

“Briv. Cook’s helper?” asked Birds Mottle.

“No, Carpenter’s helper.”

“Was he named Briv too then?”

“He was, and so’s the rope braider, named Briv.”

Heck cut into this stupid conversation. “So Briv’s gone missing, right.”

“Carpenter’s helper, Briv, aye.”

“And he went down ’ere, right?”

“Don’t know,” Gust Hubb said. “I suppose he did if that was his screaming, but we don’t know for sure now, do we? Could be one of the other Brivs doing the screaming, for all we know.”

Heck turned round to glare at his one-eared companion. “Why would one of the other Brivs be screaming, Gust?”

“I wasn’t saying one was, Heck. I was saying we don’t know where Briv did the screaming, if any of ’em.”

“Why does it have to be one of the Brivs doing the screaming?” Heck demanded, his voice rising in frustration.

Gust and Birds exchanged a glance, then Birds shrugged. “No reason, love.”

“Unless,” said Gust, “all three was going for the same cask!”

“That’s not the question at all!” Birds retorted. “What’s a carpenter’s helper doing getting a cask of any kind? That’s the question! Cook’s helper, sure, makes sense. Even the rope braider, if’n he was looking-”

“She,” cut in Gust.

“The Briv who braids ropes is a ‘she’?”

“Aye.”

“Well, my point was, you get wax in casks, right? And pitch, too, so there’s no problem Briv the braider coming down here-”

“Listen to you two!” Heck Urse snapped. “It doesn’t matter which Briv-”

There were shouts from the hatch above.

Gust snorted. “They found Briv!”

“But which Briv?” Birds demanded.

“It doesn’t matter!” Heck shrieked. Then took a deep breath of the fetid air and calmed down. “The point is, nobody’s missing, right? So who did that screaming we heard down ’ere?”

Gust rolled his eyes, then said, “Well, that’s what we’re down here trying to find out, Heck. So stop wasting time and let’s get on with it!”

Heck Urse edged forward, pushing the lantern still further ahead.

“Besides,” Gust resumed in a lower tone, “I heard a rumour that Briv the braider isn’t Briv at all. It’s Gorbo, who likes to dress up like a girl.”

Heck turned again and glared at Gust.

Who shrugged. “Not too surprising, there’s one of those on every ship-”

“And where did you hear that?” Heck demanded.

“Well, it’s just a guess, mind. But a damned good one, I’d wager.”

“You know what I wish?” Heck said. “I wish whoever cut off your ear hadn’t cut off your ear at all.”

“Me too-”

“I wish it’d been your tongue, Gust Hubb.”

“That’s not a nice thing to say, Heck. I wasn’t wishing no one cut off any part of you, you know. It still hurts, too. Stings fierce, especially now I’m sweating so much. Stings, Heck, how’d you like that? And then there’s the swishing sounds. Swishing and swishing-”

“I’m going to go to the head,” Heck said.

“What, now? Couldn’t you have done that-”

“It’s up there, fool! I’m going to check it, all right?”

Gust shrugged. “Fine by me, I suppose. Just make sure you wash your hands.”

“That scream wasn’t no jhorligg,” Emancipor Reese asserted, licking suddenly dry lips.

Bauchelain, still adjusting the sleeves of his chain armour, glanced over and raised one brow. “Mister Reese, that was a death cry.”

“Don’t tell me Korbal Broach has-”

“Assuredly not. We are too far from land for Mister Broach to predate on this crew. That would, obviously, be most unwise, for who would sail the ship?” Bauchelain drew on his black chain gauntlets and held both hands out for Emancipor to tighten the leather straps on the wrists. “A most piteous cry,” the necromancer murmured. “All foreseen, of course.”

“Them nails, Master?”

A sharp nod. “It is never advisable to loose the spirits of the dead, to wrest them from their places of rest.”

“It’s kind of comforting to think that there are such things as places of rest, Master.”

“Oh, I apologize, Mister Reese. Such places do not exist, not even for the dead. I was being lazy in my use of cliche. Rather, to be correct, their places of eternal imprisonment.”

“Oh.”

“Naturally, spirits delight in unexpected freedom, and are quick to imagine outrageous possibilities and opportunities, most of which are sadly false, little more than delusions.” He walked over to his sword and slid the dark-bladed weapon from its scabbard. “This is what makes certain mortals so… useful. Korbal Broach well comprehends such rogue spirits.”

“Then why are you all get up for a fight, Master?”

Bauchelain paused, eyed Emancipor for a long moment, then he turned to the door. “We have guests.”

Emancipor jumped.

“No need for panic, Mister Reese. To the door please, invite them in.”

“Yes sir.”

He lifted the latch then stumbled back as Captain Sater, followed by the first mate, walked in. The woman was pale but otherwise expressionless, whilst Ably Druther looked like he’d been chewing spiny urchins. He stabbed a bent finger at Emancipor and hissed, “It’s all your fault, Luckless!”

“Quiet!” snapped Captain Sater, her grey eyes fixing on Bauchelain. “Enough dissembling. You are a sorcerer.”

“More a conjuror,” Bauchelain replied, “and I was not aware of dissembling, Captain.”

“He’s a stinking mage,” Ably Druther said in a half-snarl. “Probably his fault, too! Feed ’em to the dhenrabi, Captain, and we’ll make the Cape of No Hope with no trouble in between-By the Stormriders!” he suddenly gasped, only now seeing Bauchelain’s martial fittings. Ably backed up to the cabin door, one hand closing on the short-sword at his belt.

Captain Sater swung round to glare at her first mate. “Get down below, Druther. See what our lads have found in the hold-Hood’s breath, see if they’re even still alive. Go! Out!”