When the Sea is Rising Red (20 page)

I dare a glance at the sea, and sure enough, it’s a strange dull color, coppery as blood spilled in a water bowl. The beaches are black with dead fish, and despite my revulsion, I hop down over the wall and onto the flats.

Oh Gris. Already this bad?
The air stinks, and the huge sand flies are thick on the fish corpses.

More than a few people are standing about staring at the carnage. The Red Death seems to have caught a shoal of the little spiny puffer fish; they lie on the mud in ranks, like a deflated army.

The mass of the Red Death is coming along the warm Beren current, and it hasn’t reached Lambs’ Island yet. Maybe it’ll break up before it hits the really good fishing grounds out past the island. It’s not moving fast, after all.

And perhaps instead the Red Death will poison the city and my family will fall and I will return to them like a portent of change, of good fortune.

And perhaps scriven dust will fall like rain, and we will no longer be at the heel of MallenIve and its mines. I snort and shake my head at my own foolishness.

A group of Hobs are huddled together, whispering. A snatch of their conversation blows to me on the wind that whips about us.

“—sea-witch.”

Of course they’d blame all this on a sea-witch.

“—found another body, caught it in one of the nets—”

Oh.
I pick my way past the puffers and the occasional rubbery splat of a dead jellyfish and try to hear more.

“Was clear as glass,” says the tallest Hob, her hair ripped out of its bun by the rising wind. Dark curls hide her face. “Some Hobling what got lost in the marshes. Poor mite.”

“It’s a bad business,” says another. He’s old, world-weary.

“Damn those stupid Lammer bitches and their fucking Leap.” This one’s young and fiery, snappy as Dash, as Jaxon, as Charl. “Bringing all their bad luck down on us like a storm.”

“True enough,” the woman says.

“They’ll get as they deserve, you’ll see,” the young man says, with a harsh fervor that makes the others laugh.

“Oh, what, you’ve had yourself a Vision have you?” the woman says. “Leave that mucking guesswork to the House Lammers.”

The Hob shakes his head. “No guesses,” he says. “
I know
.”

I take a deep breath, turn away from the mass of dead fish, and head back home.

*   *   *

T
HREE DAYS HAVE PASSED
since I spent the night at Jannik’s house. There’s been no sign of Dash, although I passed Charl’s message on to Lils, who took it with a grim-faced nod.

I pass my time working. The shop is quiet as the city holds its breath, watching the Red Death crawl up Pelimburg’s beaches.

Whispers are everywhere, passing among the Hobs and low-Lammers and spreading a net of rumors. Sea-witches and sacrifices. The skip-rope chants around the city grow more menacing, more superstitious. If I see Hoblings at play, jumping in time to their songs, I detour to not hear what fresh insult they’ve added to their list against my House.

I’ve heard nothing from Jannik, and he and Dash war in my mind, their faces overlapping. Which of them can I trust? Both? Neither? As I dawdle home from the Crake I think of the bat feeding on the Hob, of her legs splayed, and of my late-night conversation with Jannik.

It’s hard to picture him doing that. He seems so … controlled, studious. I have an easier time imagining him filling in account ledgers than giving in to any kind of passion. Maybe he was just trying to shock me. Testing our boundaries. I shake my head. No, Jannik doesn’t … do that with his food. He can’t. I will it not to be.

A wind comes off the ocean, heavy with the smell of decay. The heat is rising, and it isn’t long before the beached fish and dolphins go off. Some ill-dressed Hobs are trying to scavenge what’s washed up—they’re desperate.

I walk faster and keep my eyes down, not wanting to look at the miasma of sand flies cloaking the carcasses down on the flats.

Quickly, I turn onto Whelk Street, and relief sweeps through me as I enter the familiar front door. From the bottom of the steps, I can hear raised voices and a strange, repetitive thumping. Frowning, I put one hand to the rickety banister and make my way up.

My heart skips. It’s his voice. A flush of terrified excitement fills me, even though I try to tamp it down with my anger. I can’t.
What about the letter-writer, Felicita? Stop this, stop acting like a lovesick nilly.
I want to see him, and only now do I realize just how worried I’ve been. I bound up the last few steps, trying to stop the stupid smile that I’m certain must be plastered all over my face.

Dash is lying on the floor of the common room, giving orders to the rest of the Whelk Street crew, Kirren curled against his chest and licking his face.

The floor is covered with planks of wood, smelling of sawdust and sweet sap. It’s a fortune in building supplies, and Lils, Esta, and Verrel are building partitions across the rooms to replace the makeshift curtains. Verrel is working with a speedy assurance, hammering joins together with hardened wooden pegs. The other two are holding what they’re told to hold and generally just being the dogsbodies.

“What’s going on?” I hiss at Lils as I dump my shoulder bag in a mostly clear corner.

“Dash wants the building fixed before it falls down on our heads,” she says with a shrug. “Wants to protect us or some rubbish like that.”

“Protect us from what?”

“That I’d love to know. But the daft wanker seems to think that if he’s not here every moment of the day, then the whole lot of us will just wither up and die without his flash presence. Thinks we don’t know how to take care of ourselves.” She glares in his direction and then passes a handful of sharpened pegs to Verrel, who pounds them into a nearby beam. “I’ll show him someone who can’t tell his arse from his elbow, I will,” she mutters.

Dash seems oblivious to our conversation, his face slack. He looks dreadful. I kneel down next to him and cock my head until he focuses on my face. There are dried stains on his collar and vest, and he stinks of sweat and must. Blood and ’ink.

“Dash?” It’s been so long since I’ve said his name aloud, it feels awkward on my tongue. “What—are you all right?”

“Hello, love,” Dash says when he finally sees me. I twist my hands. He’s never called me that. It’s always “darling,” or my false name said with an ironic grin.

His eyes are glitter bright. “You can start on the tea so our hard workers here can have a bite of summat soon as they’re done, yeah.” He lifts his hand and tries to stroke Kirren’s ears but his coordination is nonexistent, and he misses the dog and hits himself in the face instead. “There’s a good lass,” he mumbles as I shake my head in exasperation and go to fill the tea urn.

He’s either very drunk or very high. Or possibly both. Whatever it is, I decide that there’s no way I’m putting any poisonink in the tea, and instead I brew up a mix of dried chamomile flowers, redbush, and honeybush.

“That’s as much as we can get done today,” Dash says, still lying on the floor. “The light’s failing.” Lils helps me sit him up against the wall and we hold his teabowl for him until we’re certain he’s actually going to get the tea in his mouth. Then I pull her into the washroom.

“What’s going on?”

Lils twists her fingers. “Came home like this ’bout an hour ago. Wasted.” She lowers her voice. “Crying too. Got him cleaned up a bit before Charl and his lads came through with all their wood and whatnot. Can’t have them seeing him that mucked.” She looks furious for a moment. “Don’t know what His Flashness is thinking, wasting brass like that.”

By now, of course, I have an inkling of an idea concerning where Dash goes to get his seemingly limitless funding. I have a vision of him lying naked under a bat while it feeds, and I shake my head. I can’t be totally sure of that.

The getting drunk part isn’t
completely
unheard of.

“Crying?” I ask. “Is—is that normal for him?”

She shakes her head and chews at her bottom lip. “I don’t like this none,” she says in her dark growl. “Never ever seen him this bad. If I din’t know better…”

“What?”

Lils shakes her head again. “He’s acting like a girl what’s been thrown over by her boy,” she says. “And that’s not like him. Not at all.”

We go back into the main room. If he really was crying earlier, there’s no sign of it now. Kirren is curled on his lap, tail thumping against his thigh, and Dash is drinking the tea with a steady concentration.

Nala has returned from work, and she’s sitting next to him, playing with the dog’s ears. She looks up as Lils and I enter the room. “Dash says we’re none of us to go into work tomorrow.”

“Does he now?” Lils walks over to the tea urn and pours Nala a bowl. “Why’s that?”

“Because,” he slurs, “I have plans.”

“What kind of plans?”

“Surprise ones.” He shoves the dog off his lap and tries to stand, clutching at the wall. “Another body went and washed up on Harriers Beach, just past the point.”

I clench my fists. That makes three now: Rin, the marsh Hobling, and this latest one. And the Red Death has brought fishing to a standstill. Anything that can get out of the water is moving onto the land. There’s a glut of crayfish on the fish markets, and the selkies have disappeared, headed out for clean water, distant beaches. House Pelim, with its—
our
—reliance on fleets and fishing, is one of the hardest hit.

“Another body?” Esta drops her bowl. “Like Rin?”

Dash nods, still leaning against the wall. He looks like he’s about to fall over. That or be violently ill. “And the look-fars have seen sea-drakes,” he says. “Ill current is bringing them to the city.”

Not a good sign. Not at all. They can’t be too close to shore, otherwise the alarm horns would have been blown, but it’s still worrying.

“How many?” I ask.

He shrugs and almost topples to the floor.

“Come, you.” Lils grabs his arm. “Nala, give me a hand here, will you, love?” She turns her attention back to Dash. “You’re going to go sleep this off,” she says. “And that’s a Gris-damned order.”

He doesn’t argue, just lets the two girls walk him to his room. From behind the new wooden wall I hear him say, “I mean it, girls. Every one of yer is coming with me tomorrer.”

I glance across at Verrel, who merely shrugs in his unhurried way. “We do what he says.”

“Do we?”

“Some of us owe him a little more loyalty than you do.” He leans back with a sigh, and I wonder what exactly it is that Dash is up to.

Should I have offered to help him to his room? I don’t truly know my place in this world, and sometimes when it seems I’m standing on solid ground, I sink into marsh mud and have no idea what I’m supposed to do.

I step toward the makeshift door, meaning to go after them, but then Nala and Lils are already out of Dash’s room.

“Here,” says Lils, grabbing my wrist and stopping me from going in. “Let’s make a bite to eat. You must be starving.”

“She’s not the only one,” Verrel says.

They close around me, dragging me to the little stove and its boiling water.

“Tea eggs,” says Lils. “That’s all I’ve got the energy for after dealing with that mucker.”

I glance back at Dash’s door. “Is he going to be all right?”

Lils pauses and gives me a strange, soft look, full of pity. “Don’t you worry about him,” she says, then looks at the floor. She shakes her head. “You poor daft girl.” The words are whispered, exasperated.

My cheeks burn, and I bite the tip of my tongue. That look—her eyes are too full of knowledge that I don’t have—and the weight of her pity smothers me. I go help with the eggs and say nothing more.

*   *   *

I
’M AWOKEN BY A FAMILIAR HAND
on my shoulder and the smell of fresh tea and toast. “Rise and shine, darling,” Dash says. I’m still grumbling into my thin pillow when the rough blanket lifts and cold air blows across me. A moment later, the cold is replaced by the warmth of a body pressing against mine. Dash kisses up my neck, pulling my hair back and coiling it loosely in his fist. Sleepily, I turn and kiss him back. He’s clean, smelling of the hard green soap we all share. His hair is still wet, fine drops dripping from his curls. I let him push up my night dress, and I cup my hands around his face.

Dash tastes like tea and tooth powder, and his tongue is soft against mine, making me moan in sleepy happiness. His body shifts and I feel his full weight on me. As I run my hands down his face and neck so that I can unbutton his shirt, he catches my fingers in his.

Bite marks.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

He tries for nonchalance, but it’s too late. I’ve already felt the scabbed-over gashes at his throat where some vampire has bitten into him. So now I know for certain. Like me, Dash has gone to one of Jannik’s parties. Unlike me, he’s let one of them feed off him for a handful of brass. These are new, the scabs still pink and soft.

“Who?” I manage to ask. The heat in my belly slips away, replaced by a cold liquid knowledge. I know the why of it—it’s about coin, as Jannik so clearly pointed out to me that night.

He pushes himself up on his palms and squints at me. “Does it matter?” he asks me softly, after a long pause filled only with the distant soughing of the waves.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

He settles back down, burying his face against my neck. I wait, still holding him lightly. Eventually he says, “No one you know,” and I make a choking noise, half sob, half laugh.

I picture Jannik. “When?”

He shrugs. “What does it matter?”

I turn my head, pull away from him, and press one fingernail against the fresh scabs so that they break and a trickle of blood runs down his neck. He doesn’t flinch when I do this. Instead he laughs.

“It was a goodbye present,” he says, but he’s not talking to me.

I watch the blood run thinly across his skin and try not to think.

“I have to go wake the others,” he says, and the warmth leaves me. After he’s gone, I lie in bed watching the spiders on the ceiling while my tea cools. It’s before dawn, and the room is shadowed with blue and gray. Outside my little nook, I hear the grumbling of the others as they wake, the clink of teabowls, and the ever-present screaming of the sea mews.