Sea of Ghosts - Alan Campbell [16]
The ballroom itself was empty, but for a floating platform being used as a mooring for three blood-red dragon-hide skiffs. Upon this makeshift dock lay a man wrapped in a dirty blanket. He appeared to be asleep.
Creedy inclined his head toward the skiffs. Granger nodded. Those vessels were more suited to the open sea. He glanced back to see Tummel manoeuvring the other canoe quietly through the doorway. Banks and Swan had their own weapons out.
Without a sound, they paddled across the room to the dock.
Granger peered down at the ballroom floor two fathoms below. It was littered with rubble, opened cans, snarls of wire and broken nets. He couldn’t see any of the Drowned, but he spotted a pile of bones from at least three more human skeletons. A chain rose from a concrete anchor to the underside of the platform. Shoals of small silver fish glided through the murky water.
The sleeping trover did not stir as Granger slid his canoe alongside. His mouth was open. He was snoring softly. He wore soiled whaleskins, too large for his narrow shoulders, and sported an uneven beard that grew only from the few remaining patches of his jaw not burned by seawater. Sergeant Creedy disembarked silently, then walked over and jammed the barrel of his hand-cannon down over the trover’s mouth.
‘Wakey wakey, son,’ he said.
The man’s eyes flicked open. He would surely have screamed if Creedy’s gun hadn’t entirely obscured his lips. He managed a gasp and tried to get up, but the sergeant just shook his head. ‘Where do you hide your trove?’
Granger stepped onto the platform and dragged his kitbag after him. He inspected the skiffs. One was leaking from holes in the hide, but the remaining two looked sound enough. He helped Banks and Swan out of the other canoe, then reached an arm down to assist Tummel. The old soldier groaned and complained about stiffness in his legs.
‘More brine than blood in my veins,’ he muttered.
‘More whisky, you mean,’ Swan said. ‘Give me hand with that skiff.’
‘Your stash,’ Creedy said, holding the barrel of his weapon firmly over the trover’s mouth. ‘Where d’you keep it?’
The man began to choke.
‘Leave it,’ Granger said. ‘We’re only here for the boats.’
Creedy spat. ‘We’ll need money where we’re going, sir.’
‘We’re not thieves, Sergeant.’
Swan and Tummel had untied the soundest of the skiffs. It was also packed with nets, hooks and lines – larger versions of the equipment in the canoes – along with goggles and whaleskin cloaks to protect the treasure hunters from caustic sea spray. Granger unfastened the other boats and kicked them away from the dock. Then he shoved the two canoes out after them.
The four men clambered into the open-decked craft, leaving Creedy pinning the trover to the dock.
‘Sergeant,’ Granger said.
Creedy leaned his big ugly face closer to his captive. ‘Tell me where it is, you son of a bitch.’
‘Sergeant.’
Creedy gave a growl of frustration, then released the trover and stood up. He kicked the man hard in the ribs and swung back his boot to do it again.
‘We’re leaving, Sergeant,’ Granger said. ‘Right now.’
Creedy stomped over and got into the stern seat beside Tummel, while Swan and Banks slotted oars into the rowlocks midway along the hull. Granger stuffed his kitbag down by his feet and pushed off from the bow.
They crossed the ballroom, leaving the stranded trover gazing after them.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he shouted. ‘You’re not Imperial soldiers.’
Creedy raised his hand-cannon.
‘Lower you weapon, Sergeant,’ Granger said.
They rowed the skiff out through one of the windows.
The street outside was broader, and the sea noticeably rougher, here. Waves washed through the roof spaces of ruined houses. The land below must have