The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [62]
"We're going in that?" Orphan said.
"She was built in Birmingham," Verne said, not a little proudly. "Served her time in the India trade. She's got some scars–" he pointed like a tour guide– "there, there, and there, where she was hit in a pirate attack a few years ago. But she's sturdy, and fast."
"It's huge. How many people have to be in on this?"
Verne smiled. "Only the captain. A funny old bird. The crew know nothing. As far as they are concerned they're taking cargo to King's Town – that's in Xaymaco, what you may see on some maps as Jamaica – and we're coming on board simply as additional cargo."
"I thought…" Orphan stopped. It hadn't really occurred to him just how he was meant to reach the island. "Maybe a steamer…"
"A steamer!" Verne said, and he pulled hard at his beard. "Those monstrosities pollute and destroy the ocean. They have no soul!"
"I thought you wrote stories about such vessels," Orphan said.
"Some things," Verne said, "are better left in books."
Orphan fell silent. They climbed on board, trying to get out of the way of the sailors. Robur hurried ahead with Verne's luggage. Orphan had a small pack, and was carrying it himself.
The wind blew at his hair, stirring it, and he realised it was growing long. He had shaved, earlier, standing before an enormous mirror with book cover paintings covering the walls, usually depicting some sort of futuristic vehicle or brooding menace. He had almost cut himself, but now on deck, leaning over the railings, the wind felt soft against his naked cheeks, and he raised his head high and breathed in the sea air. Adventure, he thought. Pirates and secret maps and treasure islands. He felt good, then, fresh and alive, and his determination returned like a full-blown wind. He would do this and return.
He followed Verne, who followed Robur, who followed a boy no more than sixteen who moved over the deck with the gait of someone who had spent his life on water. Orphan and Verne had neighbouring cabins on the middle deck, near the prow.
Orphan remained for only a few moments. Once he had settled his meagre belongings he left and returned to the deck and a comfortable position out of the way but with a good all-around view.
Sailors were hauling up cargo, whose nature Orphan couldn't discern (it came in large wooden boxes, and seemed heavy), while others were moving all about the ship, performing tasks of which he knew nothing. It reminded him, with a sudden intensity, of the docks in London, the ships coming and going, the bustling porters and sailors and merchants and officials and, in the distance, the song of the whales.
"Welcome," a deep voice said, close behind him, "to the Nautilus."
Orphan turned. A dark-skinned man with sharp, austere features, wearing a stiffly ironed uniform, stood there.
"A beautiful ship," Orphan said.
"A good ship," the man said. "I wouldn't give her up easily."
Orphan knew without being told that the captain of the Nautilus was speaking.
"I am Captain Dakkar," the man said, nodding. "And you must be our passenger, sir."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, captain," Orphan said. Dakkar had a lean, intense feel about him – the feel of a hunter, Orphan thought. On an impulse, he said, "My name is Orphan," and saw the captain's eyes narrow in thought.
"Orphan, then," Captain Dakkar said. "Welcome on board. You have every possibility of enjoying your journey, as long as you stay out of the way of my crew." He smiled, though his eyes didn't. Orphan nodded. "Of course."
"Then I shall speak with you and Mr. Verne later," Dakkar said. "Please join me at my table tonight." His eyes, bright and curious, examined Orphan for a long moment. What did he see, Orphan wondered? And more importantly, how much did he know? "Later," Dakkar said, touched two fingers to his forehead