Drowned Wednesday. Гарт Никс

doubt that, young mortal. That is where I keep the Captain’s clothes. It is not a thoroughfare of any kind.”

      “Sorry,” said Arthur. “I was only…”

      His voice trailed off as Ichabod’s eyebrows did not return to a more friendly position. There was a frosty silence for a few seconds, then the Denizen twitched his nose as if something had irritated his nostrils, and bent down to open the blanket box.

      “Here is a blanket,” he said unnecessarily, handing it to Arthur. “I suggest you wrap yourself in it. It may stop that shivering. Unless of course it is merely an affectation.”

      “Oh, thanks,” said Arthur. He hadn’t realised he was shivering, but now that Ichabod mentioned it, he realised he was very cold, and little tremors were running up and down his arms and legs. The heavy blanket was very welcome. “I am cold. I might even have a cold.”

      “Really?” asked Ichabod, suddenly interested. “We must tell Dr Scamandros. But first I suppose I should wake the Captain.”

      “I’m already awake,” said a voice behind the curtain. A quiet, calm voice. “We have a visitor, I see. Anything else to report, Ichabod?”

      “Mister Sunscorch is of the opinion that we are being pursued by the awful pirate Feverfew, on account of stealing one of his treasure chests.”

      “Ah,” said the voice. “Is Mister Sunscorch doing … um … things with the sails and so on? So we can, ah, flee?”

      “Yes, sir,” said Ichabod. “May I present the potential passenger Mister Sunscorch took aboard from Feverfew’s buoy? He is a boy and, I believe I am correct in assuming, a true mortal. Not one of the Piper’s children.”

      “Yes,” said Arthur.

      “First things first, Ichabod,” came the reply. “Second-best boots, third-best coat and my, ah, sword. The proper one with the, err, sharpened blade.”

      “The sharpened blade? Is that wise, sir?”

      “Yes, yes. If, ah, Feverfew catches us … now, mortal boy, what is your name?”

      “My name is—look ou—!” said Arthur as Ichabod walked straight into the wardrobe mirror. But the Denizen didn’t hit it. He went right through, like a diver into a pool of still water, the silvered glass rippling as he passed.

      “Lookow?” asked the Captain.

      “Sorry, I got distracted,” said Arthur. “My name is Arth.”

      “Lookow sounds better than Arth,” said the Captain. “Pity. Names can be a terrible burden. Take mine, for example. It’s Catapillow. Captain Catapillow, at your service.”

      “Caterpillar?” asked Arthur, not sure he’d heard it right through the bed’s curtains.

      “No! Cat-ah-pillow. See what I mean? Suitable name for the manager of a counting house, but hardly the stuff of nautical legend.”

      “Why don’t you change it?”

      “Officers not allowed to,” came the muffled reply. “Name was issued by the Architect. Inscribed in the Register of Precedence. That’s why I’m Captain. Most senior aboard, 38,598th in precedence within the House. Prefer not to be, but no choice in the matter. Mister Sunscorch is, um, the only professional sailor aboard. Boots?”

      “Here they are, sir,” said Ichabod, inserting boots, coat and sword between the curtains. Arthur hadn’t seen him come back through the mirrored door of the wardrobe, but there he was.

      There was a muffled curse from the bed and the curtains billowed out. Then the boots thrust out under them, half on Captain Catapillow’s feet. Ichabod helped him ease them on all the way, and Catapillow slid out of the bed and stood up and bowed to Arthur.

      He was tall, but not as tall as Dame Primus or Monday’s Noon. He was also not particularly handsome, though not exactly ugly either. He didn’t have any tattoos, or at least none visible. He just looked very plain and ordinary, with a rather vacant face under a short white wig with a kind of ponytail at the back tied with a blue ribbon. His blue coat was quite faded and he only had one gold epaulette, on his left shoulder.

      “Now, young Arth,” Catapillow said as he tried to buckle on his sword-belt and failed. He stood still while Ichabod fixed it up. “You want to be a passenger aboard a ship that will shortly be sunk and everyone on it put to, umm, the sword or made slaves by the pirate Feverfew?”

      “No,” said Arthur. “I mean I want to be a passenger, but surely we can escape? I saw that ship, the pirate one, but it was a long way away. We must have a good lead.”

      “A stern chase is a long chase,” muttered Catapillow. “But they’ll, you know, probably catch us in the end. I suppose we should go and, er, have a look. Mister Sunscorch might have some—what-do-you-call-’em—ideas. Or Dr Scamandros. Just when I was going to examine some new additions to my collection. I suppose it will be Feverfew’s collection soon and he won’t appreciate it.”

      Arthur started to ask about the Captain’s collection. He could tell from Catapillow’s fond gaze that it was housed in the display cabinets along the wall. But before he could get the words out, Ichabod trod on his foot and coughed meaningfully.

      “What’s that?” asked Catapillow, looking back at the boy.

      “The Captain’s needed on deck!” said Ichabod in a loud, firm voice.

      “Yes! Yes!” said Catapillow. “Let’s see where that vile, um, vile ship of Feverfew’s has got to. We can talk about your passage fee later, Arth. Follow me!”

      He led the way back to the door. As soon as it opened, Arthur heard the deep roar of the sea, the groan of the ship’s timbers, and the continuing shouts of the crew and Sunscorch.

      He had to shut his eyes as he left the room and stepped into the corridor because the floor of the ship was rocking but the room’s wasn’t, creating a very sick-making feeling at the back of his eyes. But it passed as soon as he was in the ship proper again, though the ship was pitching up and down so much he had to use a hand to steady himself every few paces.

      It was bright out on the main deck. The moon was high above them, its light cool and strong. Arthur could even have read by it, he thought, and he noticed that it was strong enough to cast shadows.

      He hugged his blanket tighter around his shoulders as he felt the wind. It had grown colder still, and stronger. Looking up at the masts, all the sails were full. The Moth was heeled over quite steeply to starboard and was plunging ahead at quite a rate.

      Unfortunately, when he looked over his shoulder, Arthur saw that the pirate ship was sailing even faster. It was much smaller than the Moth, and narrower too, with only two masts and triangular sails rather than the square ones on the merchant vessel.

      “The ship looks white in the moonlight,” said Arthur. “And are those sails brown?”

      “They’re the colour of dried blood,” said Ichabod. “A shade called ‘vintage sanguinolent’ by tailors. The hull is supposedly made from a single piece of bone, that of a legendary monster from the Secondary Realms. Feverfew himself is said to be a pirate from the Realms, once mortal, who mastered the darker depths of House Sorcery and is now half-Nithling, half—”

      “That will … that will do, thank you, Ichabod,” said Catapillow nervously. “Come with me.”

      He led the way up to the quarterdeck, where two Denizens wrestled with the wheel, and Sunscorch shouted orders at the Denizens aloft and on the deck, trimming sails and yards. There were two other Denizens there as well. One stood next to Sunscorch, nodding sagely at every order but saying nothing. He looked rather like Captain Catapillow, with a bland face and similar clothes, so was clearly an officer. Probably the First Mate, Arthur thought. The one who used to be the Chief Clerk in the counting house.