then sat down by the fire, feigning nonchalance. They gathered beneath the tarpaulin, out of the rain.
Grist was working on a fresh cigar. Hodd was wide-eyed with awe.
'That,' said Grist, 'is a big paw.'
'You . . .' Hodd gaped. 'You . . . That's tremendous!'
'I wouldn't go that far,' said Malvery, eyeing the paw. 'It would have been tremendous if he kiled the rest of it.'
'Ah, clam it, Malvery,' said Jez. beaming. 'The Cap'n just slaved his first monster!'
'It's probably not even dead!' Malvery protested, but nobody listened.
'How's your man?' Frey asked Grist.
'He'l live. Flesh wound. Bled a lot, but no real harm.'
'That's good news, at least,' he said. He got to his feet. 'Speaking of crew, I'd better go see to mine.'
'He's over here,' said Jez. She led him to the far side of the shelter; Malvery and Silo came trailing after. Hidden among the packs, trussed up in a sleeping bag, was Crake. Snoring. No one had seen him in the confusion.
Frey leaned close. The stink of rum was on his breath. He puled open the neck of the bag and saw that Crake was clutching an empty bottle.
'He slept through the whole thing,' said Jez.
Frey harumphed and scratched the back of his neck. It should have been a relief to see him unhurt, but somehow it wasn't. Not like this.
'Can you talk to him, Jez?' he said.
'I'l talk to him,' she promised.
'Me, too,' said Malvery. He thumbed at Jez. 'After al, what does she know about being an alcoholic?'
'Alright,' said Frey. 'I'l leave it to you two. Fix him, or something.' He waved a hand vaguely. 'You're al better at this stuff than I am.'
'Wil do, Cap'n,' said Jez. Frey saw her exchange a glance with Silo. The Murthian nodded gravely at her.
Something meaningful there? He didn't know. He didn't know what half his crew were thinking. Talking about feelings - real feelings - had never been something he was comfortable with.
His hand fel to the hilt of his cutlass. Even blind drunk, the daemonist had saved his life. He desperately wanted the old Crake back. He just didn't know what to do about it. But maybe Jez and Malvery did.
They're looking out for each other, Frey thought to himself. By damn, my crew are actually looking out for each other. Could you have ever imagined it, a year ago? I must be doing something right.
Wel, perhaps and perhaps not. He was just glad that no one had died. But there was stil a good distance to go before they could count themselves safe again.
Some things are worth riskin' everythin' for, Grist had said to him. After the close shave they'd just had, Frey was beginning to wonder if this expedition was realy one of them.
Eight
Harkins On The Hunt — A Funeral —
The Expedition Finds A Village — Jez's Correction
'Here, kitty. Nice kitty.'
The Ketty Jay's cargo hold was always gloomy. The electric lighting was pitiful and at least fifty per cent of the bulbs had burned out and never been replaced.
Harkins wasn't a fan of dark places at the best of times, but tonight he was particularly on edge. Tonight, he was hunting.
In one hand was a smal wooden packing crate, open at one end. In the other was a thick blanket. He stalked through the maze of boxes and junk machinery that had occupied the back of the hold for as long as anyone could remember.
This was the last time he'd be terrorised by a cat. By tomorrow morning, he'd be a man.
'Come on, Slag,' he murmured. 'Nice Slag. Harkins just wants to be friends.'
Bess was watching him curiously from the gloom. She moved back and forth to keep him in view, fascinated by his strange behaviour. Harkins did his best to ignore her, and concentrated on calming his hammering heart.
Slag was in here somewhere. He knew it. He'd spent the night lying in wait, down here in the hold, hoping for his chance. This was Slag's territory. He was bound to emerge sooner or later. To speed things along, he'd left a bowl of food out.
Finaly the cat had appeared, slipping out of an air vent, and eaten the food. Harkins had
Grist was working on a fresh cigar. Hodd was wide-eyed with awe.
'That,' said Grist, 'is a big paw.'
'You . . .' Hodd gaped. 'You . . . That's tremendous!'
'I wouldn't go that far,' said Malvery, eyeing the paw. 'It would have been tremendous if he kiled the rest of it.'
'Ah, clam it, Malvery,' said Jez. beaming. 'The Cap'n just slaved his first monster!'
'It's probably not even dead!' Malvery protested, but nobody listened.
'How's your man?' Frey asked Grist.
'He'l live. Flesh wound. Bled a lot, but no real harm.'
'That's good news, at least,' he said. He got to his feet. 'Speaking of crew, I'd better go see to mine.'
'He's over here,' said Jez. She led him to the far side of the shelter; Malvery and Silo came trailing after. Hidden among the packs, trussed up in a sleeping bag, was Crake. Snoring. No one had seen him in the confusion.
Frey leaned close. The stink of rum was on his breath. He puled open the neck of the bag and saw that Crake was clutching an empty bottle.
'He slept through the whole thing,' said Jez.
Frey harumphed and scratched the back of his neck. It should have been a relief to see him unhurt, but somehow it wasn't. Not like this.
'Can you talk to him, Jez?' he said.
'I'l talk to him,' she promised.
'Me, too,' said Malvery. He thumbed at Jez. 'After al, what does she know about being an alcoholic?'
'Alright,' said Frey. 'I'l leave it to you two. Fix him, or something.' He waved a hand vaguely. 'You're al better at this stuff than I am.'
'Wil do, Cap'n,' said Jez. Frey saw her exchange a glance with Silo. The Murthian nodded gravely at her.
Something meaningful there? He didn't know. He didn't know what half his crew were thinking. Talking about feelings - real feelings - had never been something he was comfortable with.
His hand fel to the hilt of his cutlass. Even blind drunk, the daemonist had saved his life. He desperately wanted the old Crake back. He just didn't know what to do about it. But maybe Jez and Malvery did.
They're looking out for each other, Frey thought to himself. By damn, my crew are actually looking out for each other. Could you have ever imagined it, a year ago? I must be doing something right.
Wel, perhaps and perhaps not. He was just glad that no one had died. But there was stil a good distance to go before they could count themselves safe again.
Some things are worth riskin' everythin' for, Grist had said to him. After the close shave they'd just had, Frey was beginning to wonder if this expedition was realy one of them.
Eight
Harkins On The Hunt — A Funeral —
The Expedition Finds A Village — Jez's Correction
'Here, kitty. Nice kitty.'
The Ketty Jay's cargo hold was always gloomy. The electric lighting was pitiful and at least fifty per cent of the bulbs had burned out and never been replaced.
Harkins wasn't a fan of dark places at the best of times, but tonight he was particularly on edge. Tonight, he was hunting.
In one hand was a smal wooden packing crate, open at one end. In the other was a thick blanket. He stalked through the maze of boxes and junk machinery that had occupied the back of the hold for as long as anyone could remember.
This was the last time he'd be terrorised by a cat. By tomorrow morning, he'd be a man.
'Come on, Slag,' he murmured. 'Nice Slag. Harkins just wants to be friends.'
Bess was watching him curiously from the gloom. She moved back and forth to keep him in view, fascinated by his strange behaviour. Harkins did his best to ignore her, and concentrated on calming his hammering heart.
Slag was in here somewhere. He knew it. He'd spent the night lying in wait, down here in the hold, hoping for his chance. This was Slag's territory. He was bound to emerge sooner or later. To speed things along, he'd left a bowl of food out.
Finaly the cat had appeared, slipping out of an air vent, and eaten the food. Harkins had
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