The Orpheus Machine

Chapter 3

Ruiz steered until dusk shadowed the waves. The wind had held steady from the west all day, and the boat had made surprisingly good progress, cutting a sizzling white furrow through the sea.

When Gunderd relieved him, he took Nisa’s hand and led her forward. Dolmaero sat on a thwart, gazing out at the crimson and gold sunset. The Guildmaster seemed much recovered — perhaps the easier motion of the boat under sail had helped. Ruiz was relieved; he wouldn’t want to lose Dolmaero’s comforting presence.

“So,” said Dolmaero, when they had settled themselves, “how are we doing?”

“Well enough,” said Ruiz.

“In what way will our situation next deteriorate?” Dolmaero asked. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, but I’d like to know what new torments await us.” Ruiz saw that the Guildmaster had yet to recover his equilibrium. Ordinarily Dolmaero would never have spoken so bitterly.

“Actually, I hope for improvement soon,” said Ruiz. “At least we’re alive, which is more than can be said for the rest of Loracca’s company.”

“Yes,” said Molnekh. “Let’s be thankful for that.”

Ruiz nodded. He was very tired; if he did not rest soon, his judgment would begin to deteriorate dangerously. “Listen,” he said. “I need to sleep for a bit. You’ll have to take turns watching the crew. Especially Jeric. The others may be harmless. Dolmaero, you take charge of setting the watches. When Gunderd needs me at the helm again, he’ll tell you. You wake me; don’t let him or one of the other crew near me.”

He settled himself in the curve of the bows and shut his eyes. Almost instantly he slept.

When he woke, it was to a feeling of intense danger and a tumble of unidentifiable bodies, rolling over him in the darkness. He rose up, striking at the nearest — but at the last instant he diverted the blow so that his fist clanged uselessly into the lifeboat’s alloy. He couldn’t tell who his attacker was, or even if he was being attacked. Maybe he was being defended.

Before he could sort out the situation, something cracked against the back of his head and he fell bonelessly into the boat’s bilge, his last emotion an unfocused astonishment that he had been so easily bested.

When he regained consciousness, he was still astonished — though now the source of his amazement was that he was still alive. He still lay in the bilge, but his head rested in Nisa’s lap. She looked down at him with a mixture of relief and apprehension.

Dolmaero leaned over him. “You’re awake. Good. We wondered if we might lose you.”

Ruiz struggled to raise his head, then looked aft. Gunderd steered; he made a jaunty gesture of greeting. The cabin boy Svin huddled beside the mate, his face white and strained. Einduix looked down at his flute; he wore a somewhat pensive expression.

Ruiz looked forward. Molnekh sat in the bows, grinning with his usual aplomb.

Jeric was nowhere to be seen. Nor was the catatonic purser.

“What’s happened?” he croaked.

Dolmaero shrugged. “None of us is sure. But Gunderd has your little gun, and he took away our knives.”

“The crew attacked us? Who was on watch?”

“I was,” said Dolmaero. He looked down, clearly ashamed. “But I was looking up at the stars when it happened. Someone threw a canvas over me and knocked me down. By the time I got untangled and stood up, it was over.”

“What was over?” Ruiz struggled to a sitting position and touched the back of his head gingerly. It was crusty with dried blood, but his probing fingers found nothing more alarming than split skin. His head ached horribly, so that he found thought difficult.

“The killing,” said Gunderd. “Your crew fared better than mine, Ruiz. Yours are still alive, but two of mine are gone.”

“Gone where?” asked Ruiz.

“Fed to the fishes,” said Gunderd. “They were thoroughly dead. The purser’s guts were lying in her lap. She probably never noticed, but I’d guess Jeric noticed when someone cut his throat. Neat job, too; whoever did it left him on the gunwale so he bled out overboard. Considerate.”

Ruiz rubbed his pounding head, trying to massage some clarity back into his thoughts. “Did you see what happened?”

“No.” In the cold dawn light, Gunderd seemed much older and more vulnerable, despite the splinter gun tucked into his waistband and his air of nonchalance. “I was asleep. But I can theorize, up to a point. I think Jeric lashed the helm when your man’s attention wandered, and went forward to revenge himself on you. Apparently he was surprised by someone. I heard a scuffle — and a classic gurgle — as I was waking. And then you started to get up and I heard the sound of wood on skull. I made a light and went forward cautiously, to find you unconscious and Jeric dead.”

“I see,” said Ruiz. What had happened? “You found no other indications?”

“No… the cutter was very clean. No one had bloody hands, except for Jeric. His own, I suppose.”

“Who hit me?”

Gunderd shrugged. “No one will admit to the deed. But whoever did the cutting, the whack was delivered by one of yours. Svin and Einduix were aft when you went down.”

Ruiz looked at the others. Nisa wore an expression of frustrated concern. Dolmaero looked embarrassed… but Ruiz saw no trace of guilt. Molnekh seemed his usual cheerful self. “Did any of you see anything?” he asked.

No one answered.

“Svin?”

The cabin boy shook his head vigorously. Gunderd laughed. “As well to blame it on sea wights as to suspect Svin. Remember, the deed was performed with elan and skill.”

“Einduix?”

The cook looked up from his seat in the waist, smiling without a trace of comprehension.

Gunderd snorted in disbelief. “Einduix. A remote possibility. He’s a butcher, I’ll grant you that, but an entirely incompetent one. That he could have made two such neat cuts… it seems a foolish speculation.”

A silence ensued, during which it gradually came to Ruiz that Gunderd probably suspected Ruiz of somehow engineering the deaths of the two crew members. “Me? Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “How do you suppose I managed to cut up your people… and then arranged to get my head broken?”

“I haven’t figured that out — though perhaps one of your confederates assisted you into slumber. But no. Despite the dire reputation your woman gives you, I can’t figure out why you’d bother with subterfuge. You had the gun.”

Ruiz shook his head and winced. “True. A mystery.”

Gunderd nodded. “As you say, a mystery. We’ll talk later, when you’ve recovered your wits.”

The morning passed in a dull misery. With stinging salt water, Nisa bathed away the blood that caked his head. He sipped cool water from the boat’s recycler and nibbled on a nutrient bar. He slowly began to feel a bit better. He couldn’t think of anything to say to anyone.

The wind held and the boat made good progress to the northeast and the Dayerak Archipelago. Gunderd steered with the casual intensity of the experienced helmsman, but by afternoon he began to show signs of fatigue. “Come,” he said. “Take a turn, Ruiz Aw. I must get my rest before nightfall, I think.”

Ruiz made his way aft and took the tiller. Gunderd moved warily away, his hand on the splinter gun. Ruiz could hardly blame him for being cautious, and smiled ruefully.

Gunderd settled himself on the far side of the helmsman’s thwart. He watched Ruiz for a while, apparently to judge the quality of Ruiz’s helmsmanship. Abruptly he tapped Svin on the shoulder and said, “Go forward with the others, boy. The slayer and I must talk of things which don’t concern you.”

Svin went slowly, as if reluctant to lose contact with the mate. Gunderd laughed and prodded him with his boot. “Hurry up! Remember, they may kill you, but they probably won’t eat you.”

Gunderd cast a speculative glance at Einduix. “Hmm…” he said. “I would swear the little snake doesn’t know a word of pangalac, but why take a chance?… Go forward, Einduix.” He made shooing gestures at the cook until Einduix got the idea and went.

“Now,” said Gunderd in a low voice. “We must speak as frankly as our hearts permit us to. I don’t believe you killed my people; but someone did. If it was one of yours… that person is a threat to you as well as me. Someone isn’t telling all they know.”

“So it seems,” said Ruiz. He had been avoiding examining the implications of the past night’s murders. His head still hurt; he felt weak and unready for any confrontation.

Gunderd looked away, across the sunlit sea. “I must tell you, Ruiz Aw… I think we have a monster among us. I can understand the killing of Jeric, who craved your blood. Whoever cut him was protecting you. But whoever killed Marlena — he was ridding himself of a minor annoyance. True, she stank, and she took up a little room, but she wasn’t dangerous to anyone. A cold deed.”

Ruiz nodded reluctant agreement.

“Let me tell you what I’ve thought. The cutter was fairly strong — strong enough at least to pick up Jeric and put him across the gunwale. Probably any of your people could have done it, even the woman. She looks strong for her size. And the fat one might easily have struck from beneath the canvas he claimed was thrown over him. So,” said Gunderd, “let me ask you. What do you know about your people that might shed light on the matter?”

Ruiz took a deep breath. Almost against his will, a memory rose up in his mind’s eye: the monster maker Publius dying. Raving. Telling Ruiz that one of the Pharaohans had been processed by the Gencha.

Should he tell Gunderd? In all likelihood, Publius had simply taken one last opportunity to hurt Ruiz.

His mind refused to work properly; he could not foresee the implications of revealing this suspicion to Gunderd. On the other hand, it was very possible that one of the Pharaohans was no longer his friend, since none of them would admit to striking the blow that had put him down. And none of them had contradicted Gunderd’s version of the night’s events.

Gunderd seemed as trustworthy as anyone he was likely to meet on Sook; he appeared to have no agenda beyond simple survival.

“All right,” Ruiz said finally. “There’s a small chance that one of my people — I don’t know which one — has recently undergone deconstruction at the hands of the Sea-Stack Gencha.”

Gunderd’s eyebrows rose to the top of his forehead. “Really? And who is the primary?”

“Probably a slaver named Corean Heiclaro. Have you heard the name?”

Gunderd went slightly pale. “Does she own a big Moc and a famous face? Yes? Then I know her.” He drew the splinter gun from his waistband and pointed it forward. “Duck, Svin,” he barked.

It almost happened too fast for Ruiz to react. He slammed the tiller across just before Gunderd fired, catching the second mate in the ribs with enough force to catapult him overboard. The gun flew in a bright arc and plopped into the sea.

Ruiz sighed regretfully.

Gunderd’s head popped up in the white wake. The mate was floundering ineffectively, apparently losing the struggle against the weight of his gold chains.

After an instant’s hesitation, Ruiz came about and heaved to. “Toss him a line,” he told Svin, and the cabin boy threw the mate a rescue buoy.

When Gunderd was back aboard, shivering and clutching his ribs, Ruiz let the sails draw, and the boat returned to her course.

Minutes passed in silence, except for the crunch and whisper of the boat, making her way over the waves.

Finally Gunderd raised his eyes and attempted a wry smile. “I begin to believe in your effectiveness, Ruiz Aw. It seems your woman doesn’t exaggerate. But I was only acting sensibly. Kill them all and we’re sure to get the Genched one. It was a sensible plan.”

“Perhaps so,” said Ruiz.

“Well, I see that considerations beyond naked pragmatism move you, Ruiz Aw. I should find this reassuring, shouldn’t I? At any rate, thank you for fishing me out.” He took a handful of clasp knives from his sodden pocket and offered them to Ruiz. “Here. I don’t think they give me a significant advantage.” His smile grew crooked. “I may as well try to curry favor while I can.”

Ruiz took one of the knives and pocketed it. He returned one to Gunderd and pitched the others overboard.

Gunderd qurked up his eyebrows. “Well, then,” he said. “Let’s be allies. I promise to make no more precipitous decisions, if you’ll try to do likewise.”

“I’ll try,” said Ruiz, somewhat ambiguously.

Gunderd shot him a sharp glance, but then he smiled and pocketed the knife. “That’s as fair as I could ask,” he said. “Given the circumstances. I was attempting the direct solution to the problem.”

“I understand that,” said Ruiz. “But it may not be true, and I value these people.”

“Ah,” said Gunderd. He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “The value of the woman is obvious, even to me… though for a fact she seems not too friendly. A lover’s quarrel?”

Ruiz scowled.

Gunderd held up his hands. “None of my business, of course. But after all, even if one of them is Genched, it’s not the decay of the universe. I once had a good friend who was Genched.”

It was Ruiz’s turn to look surprised.

“Oh yes. It was an odd situation, no doubt of that. He was a soldier in the Triatic Wars, outbound for Jacquet’s World. He was an assassin, aimed at the High Poet of Bist, and Genched for the part of a talented minstrel, so as to gain the confidence of the Poet. The war ended before he was given his final instructions, and then the lander crashed during his recall to Soufriere. They thought he was dead, so no one attempted to retrieve him and he lived out his life there on Soufriere’s Midsea. A fine fellow — a voice like sea foam and moonlight. He was a better man than most men, because he acted as he believed he should act, and not as he wanted to.”

Ruiz found this an odd story — he thought of Genching as an end to humanity, and of the Genched as organic machines, unalterable and dead. “Interesting,” he said. “So you’re from Soufriere?”

Gunderd nodded. “Yes. Can you believe it? I was a fisherboy on the warm Midsea; all I knew was nets and longlines and fishergirls. How I ever came to this terrible world… well, we all have our stories, don’t we? But to return to Genching, do you know of Aluriant the Ambitious, who had himself Genched into a saint? The Gencha will take anyone’s money.”

“I suppose so. It occurs to me that even if one of mine is Genched, then it’s very likely that they’ve never been in contact with their primary.”

Gunderd’s eyes brightened. “Really? Then we may have no great problem. The person will have to act as he supposes Corean would wish him to act. Were any of your people close enough to the slaver to have a good idea of what she would wish?”

“Possibly not,” said Ruiz. “They were her slaves, kept in the Blacktear Pens with others of their culture.”

“Better and better!” But then Gunderd looked perplexed. “Something doesn’t fit here. If one of your people is Corean’s creature, why did they protect you from Jeric?”

Ruiz shivered involuntarily. “I suppose it seems clear to him that Corean wants me alive, so that she can redress the wrongs I’ve committed against her.”

“Makes sense,” said Gunderd. “What, if I may ask, did you do to earn Corean’s enmity?”

Ruiz answered distractedly. “I stole her slaves and her airboat, killed several of her people, ruined her business, stranded her in SeaStack… maybe got her killed, though that’s probably too much to hope for. This and that.”

Gunderd’s eyes grew large. “Oh. Well, if she’s in Sea-Stack, we won’t have to worry about her coming after you any time soon. The city’s in a terrible ferment.” He still looked puzzled. “All right. Jeric died because he was about to steal Corean’s fun. But why Marlena? She was harmless.”

Ruiz didn’t answer. He was thinking about that long-ago day in the pens, when Corean had come into the paddock and casually destroyed an incapacitated slave.

Suddenly he found himself believing Publius’s dying words. One of the Pharaohans was no longer human.

A terrible pressure squeezed his heart. He looked forward at the three of them huddled in the bows. Molnekh seemed his usual bland cheerful self, which meant nothing. Dolmaero stared at his feet, a dour empty expression on his broad face. Nisa watched Ruiz with an unnatural intensity, her lips trembling between a frown and a smile.

Which one?

Ruiz turned back to Gunderd. “Say nothing that might alert the creature to our suspicions. We may as well try to keep it off its guard.”

For Ruiz, the afternoon passed in a haze of sad speculation. He kept his eyes fixed on the tiny grid of the steering compass, shutting out the sounds and smells and sights of the sea through which they passed, though it was a beautiful day, with a soft steady breeze, the sky a lustrous peacock green, the sea a deep silvery azure.

Who was it?

Now Nisa’s withdrawal, the absence of that warmth that had always glowed between them, took on a different aspect. True, she had gone through unhappy events in Sea-Stack, but others had suffered as much, or worse. Did it mean anything, beyond the possibility that she was a weaker and less faithful person than he had supposed her to be?

And Dolmaero, who had always before seemed so steady, so unflappable, and who was now so darkly pessimistic — did his illness account for all of the changes in his manner?

Even Molnekh’s unchanged persona took on a sinister quality. Was he less affected by their trials than the others, because he was no longer driven by human considerations?

Ruiz’s thoughts scurried in circles, like dancing mice, reaching no useful conclusions.

By the time Gunderd took the tiller again, Ruiz had exhausted his capacity for speculation. He found that his hands had clamped the tiller so tightly that they had become stiff and painful.

He massaged blood back into them and looked around, oddly surprised by the change in the light. The sun drifted toward the western horizon behind them. The swells seemed shorter and steeper, as if they had come onto the shelf of the Dayerak Archipelago — and the sea was a different color, a murky green, wormy with floating brown weed. He looked at Gunderd questioningly.

“Yes,” said Gunderd. “We’ll make the shoals tonight. Ordinarily, I’d heave to and wait for daylight for our landfall, but in this case I’ll be grateful for darkness.”

Ruiz nodded. He found it difficult to concentrate. Perhaps, he thought, he should put the matter away and give thought to what might happen in the coming night. He resolved to do better, to go forward and act as if nothing were wrong, but he was still sitting in the stern when Gunderd shouted happily, stood up, and pointed into the water.

“Look! Neon demons,” said Gunderd. “Fine eating!”

Ruiz looked down and saw a trio of large fish, each a meter and a half long, swimming easily beside the boat, just under the surface. Two of the fish had brilliant blue and gold striations on their flanks, but the third had furrows of ugly scar tissue above and below its ventral line, sunk deep, as if the wounds had taken most of the muscle on that side of the fish.

Ruiz wondered how the fish had lived through such trauma. Gunderd saw the direction of his gaze. “Neon demons are the most vital fish that swim Sook’s oceans, Ruiz. But their flesh doesn’t keep, so when the margar hunters catch one, they just rip a filet off and throw the fish back. They like to swim with the boats, for some reason, and they can keep up until they’ve lost three of their four filets. Even when they’re just a sac of organs hung on a skeleton, they keep trying to follow…. It’s very strange.”

Ruiz felt a sudden rush of horror, an emotion wildly out of proportion to the ugly image Gunderd had summoned. The maimed fish rolled its golden eye up at the boat; it might have been looking at Ruiz. He had a sudden morbid fantasy — that its cold primitive brain held pity for Ruiz.

He shuddered and looked away.

“Take the helm,” said Gunderd. “I’ll get the fishing gear and we’ll eat well at least once before we get to the islands.”

“No,” said Ruiz, abruptly revolted by the idea of taking the last of the fish’s flesh. “We should rest, eat moderately. Be ready.”

Gunderd settled back, looking disappointed. “Perhaps you’re right. Yes, you’re probably right.” He looked wistfully over the side. “Yes.”

Ruiz got to his feet and went forward. Svin and the cook scurried aft. The cabin boy began whispering to Gunderd, throwing cautious glances over his narrow shoulder at Ruiz. Gunderd patted him and began speaking earnestly and reassuringly.

Ruiz settled himself beside Dolmaero — the Guildmaster was probably the least physically dangerous of the three, at the moment — though it occurred to Ruiz that if Dolmaero were Corean’s machine, he might be feigning his illness.

He shook his head, feeling a sour dry frustration. He looked across at Nisa, who returned his glance without expression. For the first time he wondered, would he still love her, if she were no longer human? Of course not, he thought, angry at his own foolishness.

But then he looked at her again and wasn’t so sure. If she turned out to be Corean’s creature, he might have to kill her, as much for the sake of the Nisa that had been as for their safety.

If it came to that, he would be killing his own heart, tearing away his own flesh.

“Why so grim?” asked Dolmaero. “Surely you don’t fear treachery; not on this civilized world.”

Dolmaero spoke with a terrible despairing contempt, and Ruiz couldn’t think of a response.

“No, Ruiz Aw is safe enough for a time,” said Nisa darkly. “We journey into more blood; true? Ruiz is our only weapon. Would you throw away your biggest gun and then go a-hunting dustbears? No.”

Dolmaero smiled a twisted smile. “A good point, Noble Person. Well, then, I am encouraged.”

“I, too,” said Molnekh, without a trace of irony.

Ruiz could think of nothing to say. His head still hurt, he was exhausted, his will was eroded. He decided to rest. He made himself as comfortable as he could and shut his eyes. He would rely on Nisa’s logic to keep the knife from his throat.

As he drifted into sleep, he felt a small trickle of amazement — that he now cared so little for his life.