Previous: Margaret Enderby – Listen to the lightning
A larger family – A snipe hunt – Go to jail do not pass “Go” – Interpretations – Treacherous traitors – The fate of Boreas – One prisoner to another
NO MORSE, NO LESS
Linda Davenport reporting
The Ipswich Maritime Institute have been kind enough to lend us one of their teachers, Able Seaman Norbert Phillips. In person, Norbert looks very able indeed, tall, dark-bearded, the very image of the old tar of the right kind. One of his many abilities as a seaman is to send and receive messages in Morse Code, using an Aldis light. The Clarion can report that at the time of issue, there are still some spaces left in Norbert’s elective class on Morse code signalling. This reporter, for one, will be paying all due attention.
"Norbert?" -- RP
Yes, that is his name. -- LD
"Very Able Indeed." Miss Davenport, I question your motives. -- RP
I resemble your asparagus. I'll have you know that ship-to-ship communications are a fascinating subject. -- LD
So we are not drooling over the tall dark handsome sailor? -- RP
You are most certainly not. I saw him first. -- LD
It was my turn that morning to visit Alex and bring her food. Fatin was packing Alex’ rations in a bag. She put in the fresh meat, then took it out again and put in the flat bread first. She noticed me watching her.
“She has to eat the meat first, before it goes bad.”
“It’s good of you to think of that, my love. My sister never would.”
“Hmph.” Fatin closed the bag and gave it to me. “Go. If Alex goes hungry, she will shoot people for food. And it will be all your fault.”
I slung the bag over my shoulder and kissed her. “I love you.”
She gave me that smile. “When you come back, I will tell all the other men to go away.”
“Into the rain?”
“Not my problem.”
Marcel, who had been bouncing Raage on his knee with much giggling, now stood up and handed him back to Fatin. Together, we trotted into the tunnel. We came to the other end and I carefully stuck my head out. There was some sort of commotion. Lots of people walking about, and some of them were building some kind of structure out of wood. I dropped back down.
“Too many people. What are they doing?”
Marcel looked. “I don’t know, but they aren’t looking towards us. Let’s go.”
We climbed out of the tunnel and hid behind a rock. People were moving back and forth between the wooden structure and the Temple, carrying goodness only knows what. They were crossing the exact path that we used to visit Alex. There was no way we could get past without being seen.
“Are they going to go away any time soon?” Marcel said. “Do we wait?”
“I don’t believe so.” I looked round and pointed. “Over there are old houses. There has to be a corridor between them. I don’t think anyone lives there anymore. think we can get to that?”
“Not a problem.”
Marcel set himself in motion and I followed. He moved with a deceptive slowness that I hadn’t seen since I had been on a hunt with Odawaa and Geedi of the Ajuru. I had tried to move like they did, but they had been stalking prey all their lives. I had not. I followed Marcel as best I could, and we reached the abandoned houses without being seen. Marcel raised his hands and grinned widely.
“Facile, non?“
“As you say.” I looked back at the proceedings below. “What are they doing?”
People came and covered the wooden structure with brightly painted straw mats. The image painted on it was a human skull inside a semi-circle.
“It’s a… a funeral pyre. A bûcher funéraire.”
“Oh. Who’s dead?”
“Someone important. Lower-class people get buried.”
“The Magister?”
“Too much to hope for. Maybe Alex will know.”
“Allons la trouver.“
We found ourselves in a hallway, perfectly smooth, perfectly square, slowly curving round the wall of the volcano. To the left and the right there were rooms, where in olden days people had lived, hiding away from the Conquistadores, biding their time until they could once more rise and reclaim their lands. So far, that hadn’t happened and the population had dwindled until now only half, maybe a third of the dwellings was inhabited. Nobody had told these people that there were no more Conquistadores, that they had been absorbed into the general population like the Vikings into the English. Nobody had told these people that it was now safe to come out, and that the fight was over and forgotten.
Marcel’s hand was on my shoulder and I stopped. He put his finger on his lips.
“That smell.” He raised his fists. “I know that smell.”
I tried to smell it, but it was elusive, hovering at the edge of perception.
“I know that feeling,” he said. “We are in a bad place. A place of suffering. A place of fear, where men piss themselves and no longer care that they do. There is a prison ahead.”
He walked forward, without making a noise, and soon I too could smell it. I drew my parang. We came to two doors with light shining out of them, on opposite sides of the hallway. Noises came from the one on our left, and Marcel looked inside. Before I could say or do anything, he stepped inside and grabbed a man who was sitting at the table, arm round his neck. There was a crack, and Marcel dropped the body to the floor. It hadn’t taken more than three seconds.
Behind me, a heavy door slammed, and a dark figure came running at us, screaming and brandishing a macuahuitl. He swung the wooden weapon at me, but I leapt back, narrowly missing the vicious sharp pieces of obsidian. Before he could strike again, I leapt out, struck out with my parang. I caught him on the arm and he dropped his weapon. Blood sprayed and he fell to the floor. I stepped forward, over him, towards the room on the other side of the hallway. There was nobody there.
“Clear,” As I called over my shoulder, Marcel drove his palm full force into the face of my enemy. He stopped screaming abruptly.
“Open the cells,” Marcel said.
I walked into the other room, lifted the latch, and opened the door to the first cell. It was empty. The stench of ordure indicated that it was only recently empty. I reached out to open the other door when Marcel called.
“Found someone! Please help me get him out, he can’t walk.”
I turned round, but as I did, someone banged on the door inside the cell.
“Let me out!”
With a shock, I realised I knew that voice. I looked through the slot in the door.
“Tennant?“
“Riley? How did you get here?”
“Took a wrong turn looking for the crapper. Open the goddamn door, will you?”
I lifted the latch, pulled it open. Riley limped out, leaning heavily on his cane.
“Much obliged. Now will you tell me how you came here?”
“We flew in,” I said.
“Carl!” Marcel called from the other room. “Dépêche-toi! He is severely hurt.”
I hurried towards the other cell, to find Marcel bent over the thin emaciated figure of an Aztec man. There were festering cuts on his arms, one eye was solidly closed, and one of his arms hung limp.
“Pick up his legs,” Marcel said. “Carefully.”
The man groaned weakly as we lifted him up and put him on the table. I picked up my bag and pulled out my first aid kit. I cleaned his wounds as best I could, wrapped a bandage round his arms that didn’t do much more than keep the wounds out of sight. Riley came walking in.
“He’s dead,” he said. “They messed him up pretty bad.”
“Thank you Doctor,” I said. “What gives you that impression?”
Riley scowled. “I was in the next cell. I heard them do it, you idiot.”
I looked back at the man. “Who did this to you?”
He said nothing. I repeated the question in French, then in German. Strangled words came out: “Ahmo nitlacaqui. Ahmo nicmati.“
“That’s what he kept screaming,” said Riley. “I guess it means ‘I don’t know’ or something.”
I looked him over once or twice. “What do we do with him?”
Riley pointed at Marcel. “Same thing your pal did with the guards.”
“Quois?” said Marcel.
“What do we do with him?” I said, in French this time.
“Take him to my brothers,” said Marcel. “They will see to his needs. Whatever they may be.”
Riley made a gruff noise. “We need to get our asses out of here. Guard changes at sundown.”
I pointed at the man. “He can’t walk. We need to carry him.”
From the shirts of several people who didn’t need them anymore, and two long wooden poles, we fashioned a stretcher for the poor man. We dragged the bodies of the guards into one of the cells, and set off back to the cenote. It was hard going, especially since we needed to stay hidden. Far below us, the funeral preparations were still going on and nobody was interested in a few shadows passing by. We were nearly back at the tunnel entrance, when we needed to carry the prisoner down a steep slope. Being the tallest, I went first, hands raised. Marcel held the other end, and Riley came last. I had to move carefully, walking backwards, looking over my shoulder. There was a sharp noise, and the next moment, the stretcher was wrenched from my hands as Marcel came falling down. He slid down the slope, and fell on his face down below, moving feebly but unable to get up. Blood trickled down his head, falling onto the sandstone.
I looked up. Some ten feet above me, Riley stood with his cane in his hand. He leapt down towards me with a nasty look in his eyes. I retreated to where the ground was level and drew my parang. Riley sprang forward and struck out. I tried to parry, but Riley’s cane was a great deal heavier than I thought, and my knife went flying. He came forward and I retreated.
“You don’t really need that cane, do you?” I said.
He struck out. I dodged.
“Not for walkin’,” he said, and raised it for another strike.
I was not going to let him. I sprang forward and performed a snap kick to the head that Brenda would have been proud of. Riley stumbled backwards. I followed him, chopped my hand down on his wrist. He dropped his cane and I grabbed his wrist, pulled him back towards me, and put one of Alexandra’s choke holds on him. He went limp in seconds, and I dropped him to the ground. A quick look round showed me that nobody had seen us dancing. I ran over to where Marcel was slowly getting back to his feet.
“Are you all right?”
He touched his head, looked at the blood on his fingers. “You need to choose your friends with more care, my friend.”
I looked over to where Riley lay still. “He’s not my friend, exactly.”
“Good.”
Marcel walked over to the prisoner. He was lying still on the ground, with his head in an unnatural position. Nobody needed to feel his pulse. Marcel bowed his head, picked up a handful of sand and sprinkled it over him. He spoke a few soft words in his own language, looked back at me.
“I am not carrying that white man.”
“He may have things to tell us,” I said. “I will carry him.”
Riley was not dead. I tied his wrists together with his belt and lifted him onto my shoulders. We reached the secret entrance without being seen, and made our way back to the cenote. I dropped Riley onto the altar. He was starting to make feeble noises.
Fatin frowned at me. “Is this the time to go hunting? Look. Guillaume has brought us a capybara. You bring me a Riley? We cannot eat him!”
“We ran into some trouble. There is a prison in the West wall. We emptied it. There was one prisoner inside, but he didn’t make it. Riley was in the other prison cell, but he attacked us on the way back.” I looked info Fatin’s eyes. “Don’t trust him. He is not our friend anymore.”
Fatin turned her eyes to Riley, back to me. “His waters run dark. Have you brought food to Alex?”
“We will do that now,” I said. Grey-haired Theodore was wrapping a bandage round Marcel’s head. “As soon as Marcel is up to it.”
We took the same route as before. The funeral preparations were still going on. The prison was still empty and we passed it quickly, running along the corridor double-time. This part of the City was completely empty and we reached Alex’ sniper nest without meeting anyone.
“Food!” Alex pounced on the bag, and started rummaging inside for the biscuits. She cracked one. “You’re late,” she said, scattering crumbs.
Marcel came walking in the door. Alex stared at him, but he gave her a broad smile.
“Ah. Alexandra? Meet Marcel. Marcel? This is my sister, Alexandra.”
“Enchantée,” said Alex. “May I ask?”
“He’s with the Per Nocta,” I said.
Alex stared blankly. “Per Nocta.”
“Do you remember the people in the Eagle’s nest in Sudan?”
Only the slightest tremor in her face betrayed the memories. She nodded.
“I remember you,” said Marcel. He reached out for Alex’ hand and gently held it between his own big hands. “You were in prison with Erik and with me. We sang together.”
Alex’ mouth fell open. “That was you?”
“You have healed well.”
“Thank you.”
“He’s not the only familiar face,” I said. “Riley is here as well.”
“Riley?” She sounded relieved to change the subject. “What’s he doing here?”
“I don’t know, but he’s up to no good. We found him locked up, but after we got him out, he attacked us.”
“Did he say why?”
“No. He was out cold. Rear naked choke, thank you for all the sparring. But rest assured, I will ask him. How is everybody doing here?”
“Brenda was here. Slate murdered one of the old priests. She is a bit annoyed with herself for letting that happen.”
“Why?”
“Because she could give a mummy bear a run for her money? It’s Brenda.”
“No, I mean why did Slate have the priest killed?”
“Don’t know. Maybe he has it in for the whole of the priesthood. They are still the spiritual leaders after all. Cremation is this evening. When it gets dark.”
“I saw the pyre. Oh. Marcel and I cleared out the prison. Slate’s going to know he is not alone here. Meaning search parties. Stay on your toes.”
“Always do.”
We made good time back to the cenote, where we found Riley sitting on the ground with three of the Per Nocta watching him while Fatin was cooking lunch. Roast leg of capybara and mashed cassava. I stepped over to Riley with a bowl.
“Riley. I’m going to untie your hands now because I don’t want to spoon-feed you. Do I need to explain what is going to happen if you make any trouble?”
He held up his hands. I undid the belt round his wrists. I gave him the bowl and held the spoon up in his face.
“I don’t know how you got here. I don’t know what you are doing here. I don’t know why you attacked me. But you are going to tell me.”
“I thought you were gonna kill me, you bastard. You shot down Boreas.”
I sat down in front of Riley. Fatin gave me a bowl of mashed cassava and capybara. It tasted like chicken and mash.
“They shot at us first. Why?”
“Goddamn Paddies, that’s why.”
“The Irish? Did the brave Sons of Erin spot an English vessel in the skies and decide to right this insufferable wrong?”
“Did you ever walk round a big city mid March and see a humongous horde of goddamn Leprechauns running round wearing green and getting wasted on Guinness stout?”
“Saint Patrick’s day. What of it?”
“Seeing as how one of these Paddies had gone flying last year, they thought they’d celebrate in his honour. Irish Stew, roast beef and cabbage, soda bread, the works.”
“And then they had a mighty piss-up and thought what a good idea it would be to shoot us out of the sky? Come on, Riley. Captain Gaskin would have had something to say.”
“Oh they had a piss-up all right. But the kicker was the goddamn soda bread. Do you know what Prometheus’ best weapon is?”
“Mauser pistols? Get to the bloody point, Riley.”
“Poison! You were on that camping trip with Hammond weren’t you? They went mad. You’ve had your own Daddy go off his head. Why was that again? Do I need to spell it out for you? Ergot! Someone poisoned the soda bread with ergot, and everybody went crazy!”
“Everyone except you?”
“Yes. I don’t eat soda bread. Can’t stand the stuff, gives me the goddamn potato blight. So they turned hard to port, manned the guns, and started popping shots at you. If they hadn’t been away with the fairies, they’d have got you.”
I looked into Riley’s eyes. “Would you have any idea who put the ergot in the soda bread, Riley? Any guess at all? Who could have got their grubby American mitts on some Claviceps purpurea?”
“How the hell should I know? Anyone could have done it. Ergot don’t wear out over time. You can boil the stuff and it don’t matter. Anyone could have dropped some stuff in the baking soda.”
“And how did you get off Boreas before she burned down, Riley?”
“Grabbed a cargo parachute and jumped when the lights and noise started. Landed in the river. Nearly didn’t make it.”
“Oh I’m so sorry to hear that. And then you thought you’d wander over to Slate and ask for a sandwich?”
Riley glared at me. “Where else was I gonna go, you imbecile? The nearest hotel?”
“And Slate tossed you into the tank?”
“You found me there, didn’t you?”
“Quest-ce qu’il dit?” said Marcel.
“Le Magister l’a jeté en prison.“
“No.” Marcel pointed. “I know what someone looks like who has been in Slate’s prisons. He is too clean, and he is too fat.”
I looked at Marcel. “Even for a white man?”
“When the Magister does not like you, you will suffer, even with a white skin. Your sister knows this. I would believe that he was in prison for a day. Not for a month.”
“He was no prisoner.”
“No.”
“He was working there.”
“Yes.”
“He locked himself in, to fool us.”
Marcel gave a little chuckle. “To fool you.”
I sneered. “Well, if he likes being a prisoner so much, then he is in luck.”
The Algernon Expeditions 