Chase the Morning полностью

Mall kicked back the pawl and hopped neatly out of our way, onto the capstan’s scarred top. ‘Heave, my sweet roarers! Heave, my ruddy rufflers! Heave your ways to the booze-ken! Bend your backs to the wapping-shop! What, sweat so o’er a feather? Man-milliners all, the best of you! Scarce fit to poke a shag-ruff!’ She unslung the violin from her shoulder and scraped a swinging tune that was obviously a local favourite.

As the shantymen – and women – worked their way down some national characteristics I’d never have suspected, the crippled Defiance was drawn in alongside the wharf. I bent my back with the rest, but once the fenders boomed against the side, the ropes were made fast and the gangplanks crashed into place, that was the end of my usefulness. The flurry of activity redoubled; everyone was either shouting orders or obeying them, or both. Nobody actually told me to get lost; but somehow I couldn’t seem to find a spot of the deck where somebody didn’t have a really good urgent reason for apologetically but firmly elbowing me out of the way.

I couldn’t resent it, either. I knew I was lucky the crew were still so intent on the chase, after the bloody rebuff we’d suffered – whether it was revenge, or general hatred for Wolves, or the money I’d offered that drove them. It occurred to me then that these half-immortals must have a strange attitude to money. They could never be sure they had enough. They’d know it was almost inevitable they’d run out of it, sooner or later – and equally, that there was no point in lingering too long in one place to earn a lot, because that would shorten their lives, drag them back towards the Core or whatever they called it. No wonder they were so keen on trade! And so eager to earn large amounts quickly, even in ways as dangerous as this.

But I hadn’t any of those drives. There was nothing I could do, and I was stiff, sticky, dirty and depressed. If I wanted some privacy and peace of mind I’d either to retreat to what was left of my cabin, or escape down the gangplank to the wharfside. I chose the latter, but my foot had no sooner touched terra firma than the mate and a party of seamen came clattering after me, barged me – very apologetically – aside, scrambled up on a long flatbed wagon drawn by a team of four immense horses, and trundled off into the shadows of the wharfside buildings. These were nothing like the grim walls of stone and brick I’d left behind. Just as decrepit, though – clapboard mostly, painted in what the lanterns told me were faded pastel colours, plastered with illegible shreds of posters. The windows were mostly boarded or broken, and grass grew around their stone steps. I was just about to sit down on one when a party of sailors came struggling ashore with huge sausages of canvas, evidently what sails had been salvaged, and began to spread them out across the cobbles, right to the foot of my step. Where they elbowed me – very apologetically, of course – aside. Never mind peace of mind; I wasn’t even getting to rest the other end.

Leaving the sailmakers to whistle and swear over the shot-damage, I wandered away down the wharf and peered around the first corner I came to. It was a street, like any other dockside street I’d seen, but less well lit. God alone knew what the two lamps visible were burning; it wasn’t gas or electricity – with that dim little flame it could be anything from colza oil to blubber. It told me nothing at all about where we were, or what kind of town it was; I was wondering if I dared look a little further when I noticed the figure standing hunched and abject under one of the lamps. Indistinct in the warm hazy air, and yet oddly familiar; somebody I’d seen before, somebody I recognized by their stance alone – and there couldn’t be many of those.

I took a step forward. It gave a great start, as if it had seen me, and ran a few steps out into the road, towards me. Then it hesitated, half turned as if called away, and stood irresolute in the middle of the dim road. I hesitated too, not sure who or what I was seeing; but I was still within earshot of the dock. One good shout would bring folk running; and the bare sword that tapped my calf at every step was a strange primitive comfort. Also, as I came nearer I could see that whoever it was wasn’t very big; not a Wolf. A woman, more likely, from the flowing outline of the clothes; and the impression of familiarity was getting very strong. Maybe I was just following some dockside tart – though after Katjka I’d be slow to take even one of them for granted. This one was shorter than her, though; more of a height with …