Sea of Ghosts - Alan Campbell [53]
She was a Valcinder sloop – a true canal boat, as sleek, quick and narrow as any in Ethugra. Her captain lay snoozing on the open deck, with his boots propped on the gunwale and a Losotan newspaper draped over his head. He woke with a start when Granger jumped down beside him.
‘What? Who the hell—’ He was young and dark, dressed up in one of those smart black uniforms they sold in the Losotan markets – all braid and buttons.
Granger took him for a hire captain or a smuggler. No one else bothered to look so neat. ‘Take me to Halcine Canal,’ he said. ‘I’ll pay.’ He began unravelling the bow line.
The Losotan blinked. ‘I’m waiting for a fare.’
‘You got a fare,’ Granger replied.
‘Not you! I’m supposed to take an Imperial administrator to Chandel.’
Granger threw the bow line at him and kicked off from the wharf. ‘I’m in a hurry,’ he said, ‘and I’m taking this boat to Hal-cine Canal, with or without you at the helm. You’d better choose quickly’ – he inclined his head towards the retreating dock – ‘because you’re running out of time to jump.’
‘You’re not stealing this boat!’
‘Then I’m a paying passenger. Less trouble for both of us.’
The Losotan glanced between Granger and rapidly increasing gulf between his boat and dry land. Then he shook his head and climbed back to the helm. ‘We’ve got to do this fast,’ he said, ‘or I’m going to lose a whole bunch of gilders.’
Granger grunted. ‘Fast suits me just fine.’
Even before they reached his jail, Granger knew he was too late. The flap giving access to his rooms had been torn off and now lay floating on the oily surface of the canal. He leaped onto his wharf, leaving the Losotan hire captain to tie up, and ran up the steps to his garret.
The place was a mess. His cot, furniture and clothes lay strewn across the floor. Even the kitchen cupboards had been torn off the walls and smashed.
But they didn’t have enough time.
They had been looking . . . for what? Trove? His savings? It didn’t matter. A quick glance was enough to tell him that this had been a rush job. They had started to search the place but had been interrupted. A few floorboards lay ripped up, but the rest were untouched. Piles of tools and junk remained undisturbed where they’d always lain.
Granger didn’t dare to let himself hope. He ran downstairs to the cells.
Their cell door had been forced open, torn partially off its hinges. A feeling of dread gripped him as he waded along the corridor towards it.
He expected their cell to be empty. Every bone in his body told him that he’d find his prisoners missing. And so he wasn’t prepared for what he did find when he heaved the broken door aside and staggered through.
They had taken Ianthe, of course.
But not Hana.
She was lying on her back in the shallow brine, wearing the fancy dress he’d bought for her, a faint wheezing sound coming from her mouth. Almost her entire body had been submerged. Grey blisters covered her arms and legs, and patches of sharkskin had already begun to creep across her face. Her eyes stared at the ceiling from underneath an inch of seawater. Evidently she had swallowed some of it, for her breathing sounded painfully thin and ragged. And yet even now she was still trying to stay alive, forcing her mouth above the waterline to suck in air that her ruined lungs could barely absorb.
Granger approached, careful not to make waves in the brine around her, and squatted down beside her. He was still wearing his whaleskin gloves, and he reached one hand underneath her head to support it and his other hand under