The entire crew huddled in the engine room for warmth. It had been one year, five months and ten days since they had last been at the Avid Horizon, and it was even colder than Davids remembered it.
Jones blew into her hands. "What's taking her? Dropping a confession should be a five minute affair. Less! We've been here for half a fucking hour!"
"I told her that she should write the confession in advance, so that we could avoid this." Wood pulled her jacket tighter.
"I'm pretty sure she did. She was writing something in the galley anyway," White said.
Davids rearranged her scarf once more, tucking the ends under her jumper. "Well, I'm going out to check." Someone had to. And the relief on her friends' faces that someone other than them would be the volunteer almost made up for the fact that she'd have to step out into the cold.
"You'll find her frozen corpse by now, likely as not," Douglas said as she closed the engine room door behind her. Cheerful.
She walked up the steps leading to the deck. Steeling herself for another drop of temperature, she opened the door and stepped out. The fierce wind slammed the door shut behind her.
Davids looked around, the wind stinging her eyes, trying to spot their passenger. By the standards of the Neath, the Avid Horizon was a bright place. The icy surfaces seemed to glow with a frosty radiance, although she was certain that it was actually reflections of the ship's lights. The two colossal statues were not to her liking. The thought of workers, clay men probably, having to carve them in this blizzard was beyond horrible. Otherwise, the place was beautiful. Just not suitable for humans.
The gate in particular was hard to look away from. It seemed that the very air was frozen there, creating a barrier between the world and what seemed to be the abyss beyond the stars. But she was here to find the passenger, not to gaze out at what lay beyond. It was freezing and she was starting to sound mystical.
Then she spotted her. Passenger Pilgrim was standing some distance away from the ship, where the icy harbour gave way to the open sea. Davids yelled, "Could you hurry? We're all freezing here!" But the winds tore her words to shreds. Pilgrim gave no sign of having heard, or even noticed, Davids. Well, she'd have to go and shout into her ear then. Davids walked the distance warily. Her hobnail boots gave her a good grip, but the ground was slippery and the wind came in frigid blasts from all conceivable directions.
Finally she found herself next to Pilgrim. "Hurry up unless you want to freeze to death!"
Pilgrim said something, but it was far too quiet to pick up over the winds. She was still clutching an envelope, presumably containing her confession. Perhaps she didn't know where to put it. And she wasn't wearing gloves! Her fingers already looked frostbitten.
"There are some ice spires over there that look like they might have nooks safe from the wind! Just dump it there! And go back inside!" She laid her hand on Pilgrim's shoulder.
Pilgrim spoke again, no louder than before, but there was a brief lull in the wind. "It's not forgiveness, is it?"
The wind picked up again, forcing Davids to shout. "Don't be daft, of course not!" How anyone could think the crown could grant forgiveness was beyond her. "It's a formality for the admiralty! Just do it so we can go!" And what a pointless formality it was too! At least the pay was good.
Pilgrim let go of the envelope. The bitter wind seized it and carried it upwards, like an overgrown snowflake.
Davids instinctively reached to grab it, her stiff fingers crumpling the paper. "If you've changed your mind, that's fine!" But before she could get to the part about there being no rebates just because she decided not to deliver the confession, she realised that Pilgrim had vanished. Bewildered, she looked around. This was just not funny.
Someone was standing on the deck, a silhouette against the lights. But surely Pilgrim couldn't have crossed the distance so quickly? When the figure moved, it had Douglas' gait. He picked up the boathook and started walking towards her in a cautious, but urgent manner.
Davids realised what had happened. "She jumped?" Her throat felt hoarse. She'd been distracted by the envelope and the battering gale, but he'd have seen it.
"Yes!"
Stuffing the envelope into her coat pocket, she looked down at the waters below. They seemed far too still for the howling winds. Only small waves lapping at the icy shores distorted the reflections of the false stars. Pilgrim was nowhere to be seen.
Douglas lowered the hook into the water. "Got to try!"
Indeed, one had to try. She knew many who had gone beneath the dark water and there had been no one willing and able to help them. Pilgrim probably wouldn't be alive if they managed to drag her out, but death was less than permanent in the Neath. Andy had recovered from having his guts spilled on the London cobblestones, that was why she was here rather than in France or back in Scotland. And now he was truly dead all the same. Death did tend to be more final out at sea.
"Caught something!" Douglas yelled. Davids grabbed the pole and together they heaved. The water on the wood froze as they pulled it out of the sea. Their prize was a skull, exactly what they needed. It seemed deformed, but perhaps it was just that her eyes were watering in the icy wind. The winds tore it off the pole and tossed it back into the ocean, sparing them the bother.
Then Davids took her turn at combing the dark waters. Every time they dredged up and cast back more junk, they changed places, allowing the other to give their hands some respite in their pockets.
After a while, their absence warranted investigation in itself. "What the hell are you doing? Where's the passenger?" Jones yelled as she stomped towards them.
"Guess who we're fishing for?" Davids shouted back.
"Fuck!" Jones grabbed the pole from Douglas' hands. She swept it through the water like a weapon. The cold hadn't robbed the her of her energy yet.
Davids crossed her arms across her chest, hoping to get a bit warmer. She quickly thought better of it and stuck her hands back into her pockets. The woollen gloves were not nearly thick enough.
Jones had no interest in yielding the pole to anyone else as she stabbed at the dark water. But even this aggressive approach didn't seem to be achieving anything beyond fishing out more sea-wrack. All the debris of the North seemed to wash up here. This was a place where things came to an end.
And Davids reached a decision. Not a nice one, but it was a rational one. "She jumped? Didn't fall or slip?" she yelled at Douglas, just to make sure. Not that it would necessarily make any difference. It was too cold out here. They had made an effort.
"Definitely jumped!" That was good, it lessened their obligations. They had charged her for safe passage, but it had been her own choice that had doomed her.
"Then let's leave!" Davids had no desire to join her in death.
Douglas posture sagged slightly. He seemed relieved that he hadn't had to suggest it. Jones swore, not loud enough to be heard over the winds, but in situations like this, profanities were her favoured way of expressing herself.
The three of them marched back to the relative warmth of the ship. The rest of the crew got a brief explanation that their passenger wasn't coming back, then they lifted anchor. As they steamed away from the Avid Horizon, Davids was uncomfortably aware that Pilgrim's corpse lay beneath them.
oOo
Davids retired to the galley, draping her coat over the back of her chair. The tea Mayweather had made was most welcome. It was rather weak, but it was properly boiling and she was mostly grateful for the warmth. She'd have been too exhausted to make some herself. Clutching the mug with both hands, she took small sips. The heat burned her fingers, but she didn't care, at least they still had sensation. The cold had yet to leave her bones.
She just wanted to put it behind her, but she still had Pilgrim's confession in her coat's pocket. Davids pulled it out and placed the crumpled envelope on the table in front of her. What to do with it? The most proper course of action would be to return to the Avid Horizon and bury it in the snow, but the prospect was utterly unappealing. Throw it overboard so that it might reunite with its author in the depths? That sounded better, but she wanted to read it first, like one wanted to pick at a scab.
She pulled out her penknife and hesitated. She had no real right to its contents. But having frozen for Pilgrim, surely she deserved to know what had driven her to jump into the icy water? If the answer lay anywhere, it was inside this envelope.
That was all very well and good, but it was not really sufficient. She held the letter against the light, but quickly put it down again. Whether she read it by opening the envelope or by illuminating the paper was ethically identical, the latter was merely more likely to give her eye strain. She pulled a biscuit out of the box and nibbled it while she thought.
It would probably be best just to forget about the envelope. She could read something of their own instead or do a tangram. Both of those would likely be more enjoyable. But she'd have to fetch those things and she couldn't be bothered to get up.
Then she found an argument to sooth her conscience. The confession was meant for the admiralty, so it was not actually private correspondence. As a citizen, that surely gave her a right to see what was inside. She could open it without qualms.
"Confession of Frances Green"
Assumed names were common enough, particularly the Adjective Noun type that everyone and their Quirky Pet seemed to be adopting down here, so bloody keen to copy the tyrant Victoria. Besides, the Scarlet Pilgrim had been too portentous to be true. It was the second line where the trouble really began.
"I was the first mate on the Caligo-class merchant cruiser The Midnight under the authority of Captain Wendy Nichols."
After reading those names, nothing the confession contained would surprise her. The average captain was self-centred, greedy and vainglorious, Nichols was worse. She had once cut off a docker's nose and ears just to watch her bleed. Rumours spoke of even worse deeds. If you had to lay anchor in the same port as The Midnight, you wanted to dock as far away as possible, which always turned out to be a much sought location. Things had been very quiet around that ship recently though. Hopefully it was resting on the sea floor with Nichols' corpse aboard.
"Nichols is a seeker of forbidden knowledge on a subject that is beyond my understanding. She thought that the priest with the red smile at the Chapel of Lights could aid her on her quest. Of course, the priest was more interested in talking over dinner. As the petitioners, it was only polite that we provided the meal – or at least the ingredients.
"The first time it was Abigail Blackmore, then Estelle Young, Edward Jarvis, Irene North, Ceila Scrivener, Curtis Lawford, and a few more zailors whose names I can't remember. Not people of any importance. Most were taken aboard so we would have meat to offer, although they didn't know that when they signed on.
"When the time came, some begged and cried, some fought, some were stoic, some simply were glad to no longer have to deal with Wendy Nichols. The outcome was the same. I helped drag them off the ship and butcher them.
"Once the table was set, the priest talked with Nichols about seeking, but the talk was just words. The food was what was important. It was always a most delicious meal. My writing cannot hope to describe the sensation, but Shakespeare himself would falter.
"Ever since I first ate from the Chapel's bounty, I have never felt sated except when I sat at that table. Nichols has left to fulfil her greatest ambition, abandoning me at Kingeater Castle for a laugh, leaving me to be haunted by my hunger.
"Maybe seeking forgiveness will allow me to put this redness behind me and be full once again.
"Frances Green" A spiky signature marked the end of that tale.
Davids shivered, but it was probably just the cold. She could just imagine respectable voices telling her that this was exactly what was to be expected when ferrying people to confess at the Avid Horizon, but she was sure that wasn't true. She'd been hoping that they'd been escorting someone whose "crime" was more along the lines of mooning Victoria. After all, legality and morality were separate things. Fleeing an unjust law was why she and Andy came down here in the first place.
No matter what, she was glad to have Green off the ship, even if it was in a rather distressing manner. There was no compassion for the victims in that letter at all, it was only about her dietary unhappiness. It was lucky that she hadn't tried to sate her hunger on one of them.
As for any desperate hunger... Davids looked at the box of biscuits. No, she hadn't experienced any such thing, surely... Perhaps she sometimes felt a little peckish for no good reason, but that was hardly something to remark upon. While she had been gaining weight, that was simply because she now had enough to eat, a luxury she'd not had in Edinburgh's factories, as a Wolfstack docker or during her stints on various ships. They had not as a whole taken to consuming more compared to when she first wrote up the Red Herring's charter, she kept the records and would have noticed such a thing. Green's experience must have been caused by superstition and repressed guilt, nothing more.
Polite society held cannibalism as a transgression of a sacred taboo, but the evil lay in the murder, not the meat. Any reasonable person could see that.
And yet, Davids knew that she too was guilty. Her knowledge about what was happening at the chapel made her complicit in the further murders there. She should have pretended to agree with the priest's suggestion, but set an ambush instead. But that chance had passed.
Davids folded the letter and placed it back inside the envelope. Now what? Take it to the admiralty and try again? It was strong evidence against the Chapel and Nichols as a bonus. She looked at the writing on the outside of the slit envelope. It would be easy enough to forge and Green had used their stationary. No one would know that she had already read it.
But would a second try help? They had already told her that they would take no action against the priest. Why would that change just because she brought the confession of a dead woman? And it was deeply unlikely that she would be the first person who brought evidence against Nichols.
No faith could be placed in gods, kings or masters. If she wanted the priest stopped, her own actions were required. The princes of industry had more blood on their hands, but unlike them, he was not beyond her reach and no other would immediately take his place.
They were in these waters now, so cost could no longer excuse hesitation. She couldn't sooth her consciousness by saying it was too expensive, that she'd do more good by giving away her personal profits to aid London's downtrodden. Perhaps it was just a coincidence that it was the first time they were here since that ghoulish discovery. Although this place was so very out of the way and they now lacked a proper navigator, she doubted it. Besides Green's contract being lucrative, having a passenger on board meant that confronting the priest was out of the question. But now their passenger was gone, consumed by the icy waves...
Only the crew were aboard now and they were her trusted comrades. It was almost the same people as the last time they docked at the chapel. Knowing the sorry story from the beginning, they would aid her.
Sigil was gone of course. Shepard had found the depths she sought, amazingly even the ones she had been hoping to find rather than the ones Davids had feared she would. She had joined London's legion of struggling artists. Which was more than could be said for Carey. The later replacements had been luckier. Mayweather and Bruckner would need the situation explained, but they would agree that something needed to be done.
Davids left the galley to call the council. The vote would surely be hers.
oOo
There was a reason why they usually did this while in a harbour. Organising a council at sea was tricky. Everyone had the right to hear all the arguments, but someone had to pilot the ship and someone had to tend the engine.
However, Jones was not interested in leaving the engine room. "I don't give a damn what you do. I froze my arse off out there because someone decided to take a fucking bath. Now God himself can't budge me till we reach warmer parts!" That simplified matters.
The rest of them crowded into the wheelhouse to hold council. Davids explained the situation for the new crew members.
"I'm on a ship with cannibals?" Mayweather asked. Perhaps she shouldn't have told the girl, but if she wanted to leave after this, she could do so at the next safe port.
"Technically, yes," Wood said with a shrug.
Davids didn't want to debate exactly how cannibalistic they had been. Their own eating wasn't actually the problem. "But like I said, it's not our fault. How could we have known? Anyway, we want to rid the world of that cannibal priest! This is the moment to do so! It's only a slight detour!" It wasn't precisely a stirring speech.
Wood scowled. "And how precisely do you plan to get rid of him?" An awkward question. Davids wasn't quite there yet herself.
"I really don't want to kill anybody," White said.
"No matter how you vote, I propose that everyone should have it on their own conscience whether they step ashore at the chapel or not."
White nodded, not taking his hands off the steering wheel.
"I hope we can capture him alive actually. We just need to take him out of circulation."
Douglas gave a half laugh. "And we'll keep him in the hold indefinitely? A fine passenger he'll make!"
"We'll drop him off at Wisdom." It surprised her as the words passed her lips, but it all worked out. They didn't have any proper holding facilities, but the journey would last less than a week, they could keep the priest in check for that long. Wisdom would ask no questions about a new prisoner, perhaps they'd even receive payment. She'd seen as much while sailing on another ship. Even if they didn't, Green had paid enough that the voyage would be profitable anyway. Financing the removal of the cannibal priest was much closer to redemption than writing a letter to the admiralty. As for supplies, they would be able to restock in Khan's Shadow. She had contacts there who would help her get reasonably priced goods.
There was only one snag in the plan. Imprisonment at Wisdom was unlikely to be preferable to death. Not from her vantage point at any rate. But at least she wouldn't have to kill him. And as the saying went, there was always time to die later.
"I don't like the idea of having someone like that aboard," Mayweather said. "Being around people who are tainted unwittingly is bad enough, but..."
"It won't be long and we'll have him trussed up." Davids briefly considered suggesting that if Mayweather didn't want him aboard, she was welcome to kill him herself, but decided against it. The girl was sixteen, too young to be here really. If it weren't for her wanting to escape a betrothal, she wouldn't have let her aboard, although she'd liked the thought of one of the moneyed classes doing some honest work. Davids also owed Mayweather's aunt a debt, a punishment or both. But the girl was certainly too young for bloodshed. Besides, Davids didn't particularly want to bring up that she'd be fine with someone else killing the priest, just as long as it wasn't her who did the deed. That was not morality.
Instead, Davids asked if there were any questions. There was a general shaking of heads and mumbles of noes.
"Then let's vote." Briskness was in order. "It's an aye from me, of course."
"Yes, sure." Wood was dependable.
"Same from me." As was Douglas.
"Yeah, as long as I can stay aboard." White's vote made the majority and he turned the wheel slightly port, setting course for the Chapel of Lights.
"Yes, I'll come." Bruckner's English was pretty good by now. It was improving far faster than her Lingvo Internacia. Probably because he had people to practise with.
Mayweather looked at the floor. "I guess it doesn't matter what I say now. And cannibals ought to be dealt with. I'll stay aboard though."
Perfect. Jones had abstained by staying in the engine room and Mayweather's vote was really more a "Maybe" than a "Yes", but the result was practically unanimous. Douglas, Wood, Bruckner and herself would fetch the priest. The others would stay behind, guarding the ship.
Davids was about to thank everyone for agreeing when a false star flared. They all looked up. For a second, it was brilliantly bright. Then it failed, extinguishing totally, leaving them staring at a dead spot on the cavern roof. The engine stirring up the dark water was the only sound to be heard.
Eventually, White said what Davids feared most of them were thinking, "That's a bad sign."
She held fast. "A coincidence. It's not the first time we've seen something like this."
"I remember that. We were attacked no two hours later."
"Yes, but we were in the Corsair's Forest! And we got away!"
"After throwing supplies into the zee to distract the pirates," Douglas said. So he was still annoyed about that. He should have said that the crate they'd put on deck for that purpose contained his sweets.
"We were still attacked. And I saw this happen once before that too, when I was serving on the Bountiful. I'd rather not talk about what happened then." White swallowed. "I think it's a warning." There was a general murmur of agreement, although Wood wasn't saying anything.
"Oh, away with all your superstitions!" Davids threw up her hands. "If the 'gods of the sea' wanted to tell us something, they should do it more clearly!" Utter nonsense, figments of the imagination of scared humans trying to understand this sunless ocean.
"Seemed pretty clear to me." Of course, White worshipped Salt. People held beliefs down here that they would immediately recognise as ridiculous in the light of day. Imagination took over where the senses failed.
"I can't believe you've survived so long down here!" Douglas said.
"But look, I have!"
Douglas tried to smile. "A coincidence, I fear."
Davids swallowed hard. She probably already knew the answer. "Are you going to help me fetch the priest?"
He shifted his weight. "Look, I think you're just fine as a secretary, but... what you put off as superstition is real down here as often as not."
"So that's a no?"
"I'll be staying on board."
That hurt. He came from Glasgow, but he was a fellow Scot. But it was the terms of the vote. Then Bruckner and Wood would accompany her. But a quick glance at Bruckner made her suspect that he too was shaken by the failed star. Asking only confirmed it. That left Wood. "I can count on you though?"
"Sorry, but no."
"Why not? You're a practical person, surely you're not placing faith in signs?"
"No, I'm not concerned about what happened with that false star. It was weird, sure, but so what?"
"Then what's up?"
"Isn't it obvious? Your original plan was risky enough, but it being just the two of us moves it from foolhardy to suicidal. See some sense!"
"What if I get Jones to come?"
Wood hesitated for a moment. "If she comes, then yes."
Davids didn't reply and instead headed to the engine room. But she had barely begun to explain why she'd really appreciate her support when Jones snapped, "What part of 'not budging till it's warmer' did you fail to understand?"
She hadn't even mentioned that some strangeness concerning a false star was the reason the others were spooked. "I understood, I just hoped. But if that's your decision-"
"It is."
"Then that is your decision." Davids closed the engine room door behind her and wearily climbed the stairs back up to the wheelhouse. She shook her head in response to Wood's glance, then addressed White and Mayweather. "I don't suppose either of you would like to come ashore after all?" It was not very likely, but there was no harm in asking.
Mayweather said "no" immediately, White just shook his head.
Davids looked up at the cavern roof. There were still plenty of false stars up there, shining away unperturbed. A more irrational part of her felt angry at them. They didn't provide proper light, moved too much to be useful for navigation and were an ever popular source of superstition. But then, none of those things had any reason to concern whatever the false stars were. And she supposed that it would be an even more desolate place without them. "I guess it's just me then."
"Don't be daft!" Douglas said.
"So you'll accompany me?" Perhaps she'd get her support after all.
"No."
"Well, unless someone proposes a counter-motion, we are heading for the Chapel of Lights. So who wants to say that we should just leave the priest to it?" The prospect of setting foot on that candle haunted island alone... Hopefully, if they would not stand by her, someone would at least absolve her. She could not come so near and yet let the priest continue his cannibalistic rites, but she could abide by any decision reached. Let someone else shoulder the blame for passing the opportunity by. If one of them would just put in the proposition of changing course, she wouldn't vote for it, but she would welcome it.
But none of them did.
White cursed. "You are utterly mad, but have it your way then."
oOo
The journey to the chapel lasted another five hours.
They set aside a small place in the hold for their prospective captive, taking apart two empty supply crates to build a makeshift prison. Even after putting a blanket inside it looked like a miserable hole. Nothing to be done about it. Perhaps it would at least make Wisdom seem cheerful by comparison, but she knew that was a lie. There just wasn't the infrastructure for a good solution.
Bruckner helped Davids assemble the rifle. He was not terribly familiar with the model, but he'd deserted from the Imperial German Army, so he had some general knowledge. It was an ancient thing, single shot and muzzle loading. Weaponry was not one of their priorities. Too late to change that now. With some luck she wouldn't need to actually use it. For backup, she stuck a long knife into her belt. If only her comrades would back her up instead!
There was not much more preparing to do, although Davids wished there was. After doing a few calculations to confirm that at least the general logistics of her plan would work out, she was left to pace the deck, questioning her decision and trying to recall the details of the place as they came closer and closer to that candle lit island.
Finally the Red Herring drew up alongside the wooden pier and the gangplank was laid out. Bruckner took up his position as guard. Davids picked up her rifle. Her hands were so sweaty that she wasn't even going to bother with gloves. Compared to the Avid Horizon it was downright balmy anyway.
It was time, but she hesitated and looked up towards the chapel. It was a large building, the only one on the island. There were many rooms and candles burned behind all the windows, giving her no clue where the priest might be. If only he had again come out to greet them, things would be much simpler. The bells had not tolled as they approached though, so perhaps they hadn't even been seen yet.
Wood walked up to Davids and placed her hand on her shoulder. "You know, you don't have to do this."
"We've already come."
"We could just leave again. It wasn't the most pleasant detour, but I don't think anyone here would hold it against you if you reconsidered."
"I would though." Davids swallowed and set off down the gangplank before she could be talked out of it.
The path seemed very long despite the fact that it couldn't have been more than three-hundred metres for all its meandering. She wanted to run to reduce the time she had to spend on it, but remembered what had happened last time. She hadn't even been awkwardly carrying a long gun then.
Besides, she wanted to avoid drawing attention to herself. Singing was similarly out of the question. Needing something to keep herself together, she settled for mouthing the Internationale instead. It helped, but only a little. This was far from the final struggle, but her comrades were rallying on the boat, not with her.
Andy would not have abandoned her like this. But he was dead. Eaten, just like she might end up. She supposed she should appreciate the symmetry while she was alive to do so. But even as she despised the priest, she couldn't hate Andy's killer. The bound shark was a tormented beast and her heart went out to all those who were in chains. Perhaps she could dislike Captain Mayweather who had chosen to fight the creature in the name of science. But she had not protested at the time, although it probably wouldn't have done any good. As the shark could not be freed, she had welcomed the idea of ending its misery. Besides, that captain was also no longer living.
With his death, Andy had saved her, in a sense. Having been granted leave to mourn and collect herself, she had not been on the Dreaming Rose when it sank. Everyone aboard that ship was dead. And she had profited handsomely from that coincidence.
Davids shivered. The dead were gone and yet they were everywhere. The candles gave her an army of shadows, but she was alone. She kicked a yellow candle over so that it fizzled out in the snow.
By the time she reached the first repetition of verse four, the path evened out and she was in front of the chapel. The heavy double doors stood ajar. Not quite sure what to make of it, Davids peered inside. Besides the blazing congregation of candles, the place seemed empty.
She stuck her foot between the doors and pushed the right one a bit outwards, then squeezed through. The rifle's barrel knocked against the other door. She hastily pulled it up. If it misfired, she didn't want it pointing at her feet. A harmless misfire wouldn't be unwelcome though. Reloading would take a minute or more and the alarm would have been raised, leaving her free to retreat to the Red Herring with the honest claim that she had tried. But as the seconds passed it became increasingly clear that that wasn't going to happen.
Nothing for it. She stepped fully into the chapel. At least the place truly was empty, there wasn't an ambush waiting just behind the door. As usual for churches, it seemed colder inside. The multitude of candles flickered in the draught. But she was not going to close the half open door behind her.
Davids walked down the aisle, past the wooden pews, trying to keep her breathing calm and controlled. There was another door behind the altar. It proved to be unlocked.
The door opened towards her. Behind it lay a two storey hall. While the chapel was austere, starkly cut stone and stained glass windows, this place was opulent. Numerous large mirrors multiplied the ever present candles. Dark polished wood and gleaming metal rounded out the impression of splendour. She'd been here before, but now the meaning of the red carpets and matching wallpaper was clear. Sadly, there didn't seem to be anything small, valuable and easy to sell lying about to be pinched.
Now as then, it all struck her as more than a bit of a fire hazard. Perhaps she should try burning the priest out instead. But no, starting an inferno was tricky business and things couldn't actually be as flammable as they looked. Otherwise, the whole place ought to have burned down a long time ago.
Again, there was no one to be seen. Might the priest have snuffed it on his own accord? But that could only be wishful thinking. Someone was keeping the candles alight.
She stepped through the doorway, again leaving the door open. The unobstructed path to the outside world had to be preserved.
The way onwards was less clear. There were five closed doors on the ground floor and four more on the upper level. Of those, the second from the stairs stood open, so she decided to start there. Being upstairs would make escape harder, but depending on what opposition she would meet, it might be impossible anyway.
Climbing up the stairs, Davids placed her left hand on the bannister to steady herself, but quickly decided it would be better to steady her gun. One of the steps was bound to creak horribly, but she reached the top without making a noise. The thick carpet muffled her footsteps as she edged towards the open door. Just before she reached it, she stopped to ready her rifle, bracing it against her shoulder, left hand holding the barrel, right hand so that she could pull the trigger, approximately like Bruckner had shown her. Hopefully it wouldn't be necessary.
Davids took one last step and looked through the doorway. The priest in the red cassock was there, at the far side of the room, his back turned to her. He was looking out of the window, although "out of" was perhaps the wrong term. It was dark outside and bright inside, so really he was gazing at his reflection – and at hers. "Ah, Davids. I have been awaiting you."
If he'd actually been, he'd have locked the door or something. She pointed the gun at him. "Then you'll know what to expect. Hands up."
He made no effort to comply. "Yes, I know what to expect. A dedicated servant died in an apt way so close to here, how could I not know?" He turned to face her. "But you seem to remain ignorant." If only he'd stop smiling!
"I said, 'Hands up.'" He might have wild words, but she had a weapon, pointed at him with shaking hands.
"Manners." His arms remained relaxed by his sides as he took a step forwards. There was about five metres between them, but that could be crossed in no time at all.
"Please put your hands up!"
"A little politeness goes a long way." He raised his arms for a moment, mocking her. But he didn't stop.
"And stop! Please!"
The priest did not deign to answer that. He kept walking towards her at a horribly slow pace.
Her finger twitched against the trigger, but she lacked the strength to pull it. Why did he have to be human? And why did she have to be? Why couldn't he look the monster and she be a machine? She tried closing her eyes for a moment, hoping that would allow her to fire, but it didn't.
If she couldn't shoot, she should run, but she couldn't lift her feet. Her boots might as well have been made of lead.
And then he was right in front of her. He pressed his left palm against the barrel of her rifle and gently pushed it away from himself. "You may be too feeble to even attempt to kill me, but you shall be able to help me on my quest." He reached down into the folds of his robe and drew a knife with a skyglass blade. She was going to be eaten. What a dumb way to die.
The explosion rang in her ears. The butt of her rifle slammed into her shoulder like a piston. She staggered backwards, bumped into the bannister. She must have pulled the trigger.
The shot could only have hit the opposite wall, but the priest must have been startled by the sudden noise. He'd dropped his knife and was bending down to pick it up. Or was he just holding his leg? Had the knife cut it in the fall?
Regardless, this was her chance. She lunged. Davids collided with him on her second running step, the momentum carrying them a few more paces into the room.
He flailed as he fell. She desperately groped for a hold as she stumbled over him. Her left hand remained clenched around the barrel, but she found the edge of a desk with her right. Her hand closed around the wood and she regained her balance.
The priest sat in front of her. He'd saved himself from completely falling prone by grasping her jumper with both hands. The colour of his sleeves and the unravelling wool was pretty much identical. There was nothing friendly about his smile now. He would go for the knife again. She couldn't let that happen.
Davids brought the butt of her rifle down on his face. It was gripped in her off hand and the angle really wasn't ideal for striking, but she gave him a kick for good measure. He let go with a gasp, finishing his fall.
She adjusted her grip so that both hands were wrapped around the barrel, raised her rifle above her head and held it there for a terrible moment. He was lying at her feet, bleeding. But she wouldn't let him get up again.
She swung the rifle down with as much force as she could bring to bear. A scream, the crack of bone.
But it was not his head that lay broken, but his forearm, lifted in hopeless defence. She'd have none of this.
Raising her rifle for a second blow, she stamped on him. Hobnails against flesh. Another scream. His hands dropped away from his face.
The rifle swung downwards, shattering his smile. He spat up blood through broken teeth. Its bright red matched the colour of his cassock.
She struck again.
He lay quite still now, but the blows continued. Her presence barely seemed required. She was nothing but a conduit, but motion. This was what had to happen. The ocean of blood kept growing.
Davids stopped abruptly. The bent rifle slipped from her trembling hands and dropped onto the priest's corpse. Breathing heavily, she stared at what she had done. Even out at sea, death was not absolutely permanent in the Neath, but she didn't think the priest would be getting up again.
Dizziness gripped her. The scene in front of her swam in and out of focus. There was blood everywhere. Or was that just the red carpet? It didn't matter. The whole world was awash with it. Not just that of the priest, but of the workers, of all those sacrificed to further the ambitions of the capitalist elite, be it in the factory, the field or on this sunless sea, and of all those struck down trying to resist. That of the Paris Commune, the children at the machines, the Haymarket demonstrators, the Wolfstack strikers...
And it wouldn't even end when the revolution came. Those in power now were as unlikely as the priest to surrender peacefully, they would rather have a massacre than give up anything at all. And they would be massacred in turn.
She fell to her knees. On the ground, the smell of blood was even more overpowering. The carpet was wet and sticky with it.
And once the massacres began, where would they stop? The French Revolution devoured its own and dissolved into a reign of terror, only for a new emperor to come to the throne. Was this to be the fate of future revolutions?
Her stomach revolted. The first heave brought up nothing. For a moment it seemed like it had been a transient feeling. Then she vomited. The sensation blocked out other thoughts. Three to four more times she heaved until the last dribbled from her mouth.
There was less vomit than blood, but its reek was stronger and more pleasant.
Davids forced herself to calm down. Yes, the French Revolution had ended in disaster and others had been destroyed before there was a chance to see how things would have turned out. But things rarely went right at the first try and there had been serious advances in the theory.
The danger from the upper classes was obvious, but it was to be feared that the leadership of the revolution would be vicious people, leaders were to be distrusted anyway and the courage to defy the thugs of the elite had to come from somewhere and it might come from brutality. Then there were opportunists looking for mayhem, violence and power rather than the good of humanity. More insidiously, some might start with the best of intentions, and achieve a little, only to discover that they liked money and power and were quite willing to switch sides once they had it. She had been the only survivor of the Dreaming Rose's crew and as such the sole inheritor of Captain Mayweather's fortune due to a family feud, so she'd tasted that sweet poison. But only for the briefest moment.
If history had one defining characteristic, it was that it had a lot of time. It might take many bloody failed attempts, crushed from without and betrayed from within, but there would be a perfect revolution at some point. It could only be stopped by fulfilling its ambitions, making it unnecessary. The world that followed would be worth it.
Davids doubted that she would live to see it, but she would gladly fight to bring it about. She looked at the battered body of the priest again. He was unrecognisable now. Hopefully she could avoid killing for it.
Then again, she would have to survive this first, or all that would be rather academic. And she thought she heard soft, unfamiliar voices over the echoes of the blast. They were speaking too quietly to make out what they were saying, but they seemed to be inside the building.
Where there was a priest, there was a congregation.
Back then, he had said that it would be quiet and painless, but this had been loud and painful. If they had been here any time at all, they must have heard her.
The rifle lay across the priest's corpse. She had a second bullet, but reloading was pointless. Her blows had bent the barrel and there would be further damage not immediately apparent to her. It would explode in her hands.
She reached for the hilt of her knife, but her bloodstained fingers slipped off it. The voices remained faint, but there seemed to be several people. Successfully fighting them off seemed unlikely, so if her death was inevitable she might as well leave it at one murder.
Perhaps she should just kill herself. It would then at least actually be her choice. More importantly, she'd be too dead to care what they did to her carcass. Particularly if they were not patient enough to see if she might come back to do her in again.
But no. Even if it was unlikely, even if she hated the Neath and capitalist society, if she had a chance, she wanted to live. Or not die here and now anyway. It might be a different matter if she could die as a martyr for the revolution or at least in the sunlight. But even in the latter case, she might still be of use to the revolution.
Davids scrambled to her feet. She turned to face the door. No one was there yet.
There was a key in the lock, so she went and closed the door quickly, although she was careful no to slam it. The voices were quieter, but they remained there.
Now what? Wait, locked in a room with the body of the man she had murdered for company, amid blood and vomit? If that was what it would take to survive, she would do it. But she couldn't wait forever and had no way of knowing when it would be a good moment to try slipping out.
Perhaps some of her comrades would come to her rescue. But that was a childish hope, she couldn't signal them from here. More likely, the Red Herring's crew would decide that she wasn't coming back and steam away without her, leaving her to die on this candle haunted isle. If they had any sense, Wood would replace her with the logistical duties.
There were some things she could not bear. Davids swallowed hard. It did little against the stinging taste of vomit. She had to escape, even if she died while trying. If she acted quickly, there might still be routes open. Perhaps she could make it out of the window. It was only the first floor. London anarchists faced worse falls every day.
She crossed the room. Was anyone standing outside? She peered at the glass, but could only make out her haggard reflection. But she could open it, she would be visible from the outside anyway. She struggled with the latch, then tore it open.
The air was cold and clean, shockingly different from the stench of blood, wax and vomit that dominated the room. Only candles stood vigil in the snow below. The coast was clear, except for the four and a half metre drop.
Davids drew her knife and threw it onto the carpet, her steel next to the priest's skyglass. She didn't want to land on it. As a last act, she knocked over a candle.
Then Davids clambered onto the windowsill. Just jumping would be quicker, but she'd rather lower herself as far as she could. She crouched on it, facing inwards and grasped the sill as firmly as possible. Inside, the fallen candle's flame licked at the blood-soaked carpet. Perhaps it would develop into a conflagration, perhaps it wouldn't. There was no time to aid the fire. It didn't really matter.
She stretched one leg out over the edge. For a moment, she felt like she couldn't get her second leg to do the same, her instincts yelling at her about the drop. Then, reminding herself not to scream, she pushed herself free.
She fell briefly, grazing her face against the wall. The abrupt halt sent a searing pain coursing up her arms. Dangling there was no more pleasant. Her fingers felt like they were on fire. She weighed too much. She kicked for a foothold, but found none. It still felt like a long way down, but there was nothing for it. She opened her left hand. The pain in her right fingers surged, her grip gave way.
Davids landed on her feet. She tried to stay upright, but bad footing and momentum had her tumbling backwards. Next thing she knew, she was lying on her back, staring at the cavern roof. It looked very much like the night sky.
All was quiet, save for her heavy breathing. Nobody else seemed to be around. Had she really just jumped out a window to escape faint voices she'd heard at edge of delirium, with the shot still reverberating in her ears? Yes, evidently. Merely being at the edge of madness therefore seemed an overly optimistic view of her mental state. She'd also savagely murdered the priest, so she'd better get going.
The snow was rather cold to lie in anyway. Davids got to her feet. Everything ached, but nothing seemed broken. She was lucky that the snow was there and that the wind had blown it up against the house, even if it had gotten down her boots and collar.
She looked around warily, but could make out no movement in the gloom between the candles. It seemed like she really was alone.
If the fire upstairs had taken hold, there was no sign of it yet. Looking down, a candle lay crushed in the depression left by her body. She almost laughed, then sobbed. She'd done what she'd set out to do. Now she'd have to live with it.
Davids trudged back to the ship. Perhaps another red-robed priest would hold murderous services on this island again all too soon, but it could be that she had achieved something. Either way, now she too could claim to have done evil in the Chapel of Lights.
THE END