A Daughter of No Nation (45 page)

Something above yanked it then, whisking the fin away. At the same time the thread through Beal's hip tightened, the loops of stitching cinching his wound, clamping the coat around him, and the coil of rope. His midsection rose off the deck and Sophie half-threw herself over him so he couldn't be yanked right off the ship.

He groaned.

“Sorry,” Sophie said.

Tonio produced his glass stiletto. It wasn't meant for sawing, but he tried to get a grip on the sinew, to slice it free of Beal's punctured hip.

Sophie wound a hand in what slack she could gather, amid the rope and coat, making a loop he could thread his blade through. She felt the tug from above. There was something aloft, well above the ship, tethered by the greasy sinew and jerking upward, like a big kite.

She squinted at it, but rain blew into her eyes.

Tonio got the strand cut and the sailor fell back to the deck.

“Help Beal—I have to clear this.” With that, Tonio began chopping into the slack bits of thread that had bunched up the rope, then pulled it clear and began, painstakingly, to re-coil it.

For an instant, Sophie felt a flash of anger at his priorities. But everything on a ship depended on its lines: if they had to loose a sail now, with its rope stapled together, they'd be dead.

“Speed check,” Parrish called.

“Holding six, Captain, breeze is fair,” Krezzo replied.

“Sweet, what do you see?”

The bosun's voice came from well above them. “Frigate's well to the stern, Captain.”

“Within cannon range?”

“No, and not currently gaining.”

“Of which nation?”

“Haversham.”

Sophie returned her attention to Beal, pulling the thread of sinew. It was rubbery, with a greasy texture that made it hard to grip. The blood helped a little—it made it sticky.

“Sorry about this,” she said, thinking, suddenly, of the transfusion specialist on Sylvanna.
Wish we had one of those.

“I'm inscribed to heal fast, Kir,” Beal assured her. “Just get this witch stitchery out of me.”

The ship turned close round another islet and a bell began to toll.

“Losing speed,” the canonneer bellowed. “Get that sail up.”

Another burr. A third bone needle tatted across the deck, seeking whatever it could puncture. Sophie saw it flash past, bouncing up a spar and striking a sail, then frenzying as it lashed big, looping random-looking stitches into the fabric.

There was a yank and the whole ship shuddered. The sail puckered, bunched, and she heard a ripping sound.

Cursing in Erinthian, Tonio darted after the thread.

“One of those things hits the captain, we're on the rocks for sure,” Beal muttered. Pouring rain had diffused his blood across the deck.

And the more of those strings we end up dragging, the harder it is to maintain speed.
Could Parrish recalculate his time intervals on the fly if they decelerated?

All they could do was put up more sail, giving the needles ever more cloth to sabotage.

Watts came spidering across the deck just then, trying to keep his long body low. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Hatch got jammed by one of those things.”

Sophie showed him Beal's wound, which had indeed stopped bleeding, then took a moment to scan the deck.

Her thoughts had slowed, as they tended to in emergencies. The cold air, whipping over her wet face, clarified things further. Tonio almost had the fouled sail straightened. An ugly triangular rip hung loose, but it was mostly intact. She wasn't needed there.

The source of the needles was above them.

“Turning port!”

Parrish brought the ship around in another sharp correction. He looked terribly exposed up at the wheel.

Sophie was barely able to make out the shadow of the islet he was using as a marker, a spire of rubble, human-made. But then the rock lit up, spearing them with incandescence, revealing them to their hunters … and also revealing two more sinewy threads, bound to
Nightjar
like bloody kite strings.

Above them, maybe a hundred feet above the water …

It was big, maybe fifteen or eighteen feet from toe to crown. It had the face of a porcelain doll and was clad in a billowing dress whose shape reminded Sophie of christening gowns. Black in color, ornately pleated, it was tattered at the hem. Measuring cords dangled around its neck, and its mouth held bone needles and sharp stickpins.

The thing held a live pincushion, a wriggling lamb with bloodied wool.

The floating figure tugged on the two lines it already had in
Nightjar,
then pulled a bone needle from between its lips and stitched it through the bleating, struggling lamb. The needle went into the lamb attached to nothing and came out drawing one of the sinewy threads. The monster then tossed the needle at the ship, at Sophie, with a motion reminiscent of a dart player.

Verena stepped into view just then, stomping the needle's trailing, sinewy thread. Her boot slowed the needle just enough for Sophie to grab up Beal's mallet and bring it down, with a slam, onto the thing. The bone shattered.

“If they get Garland,” Verena said. She was carrying her practice dummy under one arm.

“Yeah.”

Parrish was haloed in the beam from the receding rock pillar. They'd be shooting for him, wouldn't they? He was standing confidently at the wheel, hand resting lightly on
Nightjar,
head cocked as if he were listening for the rocks rather than looking for them.

“Go protect him,” Sophie said.

Verena handed her a serrated knife made, like Tonio's, of Erinthian glass. “Keep 'em from fouling the rigs.”

“Kir, we're down to five and a half,” Krezzo shouted.

Krezzo's the cannoneer. He should be firing at that thing. But someone's gotta watch our speed, too—doesn't anyone else know how to read the speed horn?

Sophie kept her eye on the sewing monster, up above. It flung another needle, then another. She pressed herself against the deck as one bounced past, then sliced the sinew of another that had punched its way into another coil of rope.

A cry.

Tonio.

She looked up. He was halfway to the top of the mainmast, ill balanced and caught on a sinew.

Sticking the cold, heavy weight of the glass knife in her mouth—very piratical of me, she thought absently, Sophie began to climb.

“Hard to port,” Parrish warned, and as the ship tilted she was suddenly skimming over the water. Tonio was no longer above her so much as he was out in front, higher on the sail as the masts dipped toward the sea.

The ship came out of the turn; the mast rose skyward again.

Hang on, she thought. She couldn't say it with the knife in her mouth.

Good advice for them both. The ropes were wet, rough to the touch, and her hands were cold. She could make out that shape in the sky, bound to them, hitching a ride even as it crippled the ship. And was that another ship, sailing to their rear?

Tonio had gotten stitched, just near his collar, to one of the mast's rings. On its return trip, the needle had pierced the web of flesh between his finger and thumb. He'd caught it with his fingertips and was holding it off with the punctured, blood-slicked hand—the grip was precarious—while clinging to the rigging with one arm, hugging the rope as the sewing monster yanked, yanked. The vibrations, as she pulled, could be felt through the whole of the mast.

Sophie mirrored Tonio's position, climbing as close as she could, winding her own arms into the rigging so that she was holding on to the ropes with her elbows and thereby freeing her hands so she could get the knife out of her mouth.

“It feels alive,” Tonio said, disgusted. The needle was flexing in his uncertain, blood-soaked grip. Its point was all but scratching at his throat.

“Sophie,” he said. “That burden I mentioned.”

“Don't,” she said. “I've got this.” The trouble was that if he let go of the needle so she could cut the sinew, the point would pierce his throat.

“Garland's middle name was hidden before he was born—hidden from everyone, on Issle Morta. It's why he can't be enchanted. A number of years ago, I found out—”

“Don't go all drama queen on me, you're gonna be fine.”

The needle jerked hard, fighting the awkward grip of Tonio's fingers and scoring a shallow cut into his neck.

Commit, commit.
Sophie pushed her own hand between the point of the needle and his neck, scraping her palm and protecting his jugular, then folded her fingers over his, pressing the needle back against the mast. She slid the obsidian knife point into the needle's eye, pinning it to the mast. She'd hoped that would cut the sinew, but no. The needle wiggled, fighting imprisonment—now it was Sophie who couldn't move.

“You should be able to let go now,” she said.

Tonio sighed, flexed his hand, then drew it backward, letting the gory thread pull through the puncture in his hand but taking time to shake out the cramp. Moving carefully, he found his stiletto, sawed off the thread, then cut it free of the mast ring.

The needle went limp, as if it had died.

There was an enraged shriek from above … and behind. The sewing monster was falling behind them.

“Someone must have cut her other strings.” Sophie shifted, taking a better grip on the wet ropes. She could feel the ship accelerating.

Tonio surprised her by pulling her close.

“Kerlin,” he breathed into her ear, before she could object. “If it's ever life or death—no other reason. Garland Kerlin Parrish. Don't tell anyone you know. Don't tell him. Now let's get down, before we both get sewn to the mast.”

“Hard to starboard now, now!”

They stayed where they were through the turn, waiting out the tilt of the mast. The sewing monster tossed away its lamb in a gesture reminiscent of a tantruming child and finally began flinging threadless pins, little missiles that rattled across the deck randomly. One punched through the mainsail, leaving a pinhole a foot from Sophie's head. Another, she thought, struck Sweet—at least, she heard a curse from that direction.

There was a loud cracking sound, as of rock on rock. The ship turned sharply. Below them, on the deck, Watts and Beal slid in a slick of blood and water. Sophie and Tonio hung together up top, clinging.

She turned to look down at the wheel. Parrish was safe. Verena stood on his port side, brandishing the practice dummy. Bram was starboard, with a cooking pot. Parrish's bicorne hat had been stitched to the jib.

“Climb down now!” Tonio hissed. “Slow and careful.”

She obeyed, matching his pace in case his injured hand cramped or his grip slipped.

“What's our speed?” Parrish said. “Our speed, Krezzo!”

“Kir, I don't—I'm not sure. Five, last count. We lost the horn to that thing up there.”

Parrish straightened, narrowed his eyes, and ran a hand through his curls, spraying water everywhere. He took a deep breath and raised his nose into the wind, as if he could smell the rate at which they were barreling through the dark and rain.

He looked at the stopwatch.

“More sail,” he said. “More sail now.”

“Oh, crap,” Sophie said. “He's guessing.”

Tonio gave her a pat, attempting to be reassuring.

“Rise, rise, rise!” Krezzo bellowed. At home they'd say “heave.” The mainsail was jerking upward, past them, fast and messy. Broken remnants of sinewy stitching were pulling through the fabric here and there. The fabric caught the wind and the ship shuddered.

Now Sophie was down, her feet on the deck, holding a hand up to steady Tonio.

“Keep your eyes open,” Parrish said, with all the confidence of a man who was certain of success. “They'll have ships coming round to intercept as we break the Baste.”

“Yes, Cap'n.”

“Sweet, you still with us?”

“Yes, Kir.” Her voice was a little strained.

“Come on down,” Parrish said.

“I may need an assist.”

“Hold, then. Hard to port, one last time.” Parrish said it as calmly as if he were speaking to himself, but his voice carried—everyone braced.

He turned the wheel and just then Sophie saw the islet they'd been aimed at, a long knife of rock rising from the sea like a mammoth shark's fin. Had they turned soon enough?

She heard a hiss and felt a shudder run through the deck. The ship had kissed bottom.

Nightjar
slowed a little, dragging.

As they passed the tip of the islet, a lighthouse on its peak flared to life, illuminating them from bow to stern in something akin to daylight. Sophie was momentarily blinded.

They raced out of the beam, which held them as long as it could, and out to open water.

“Two,” Sweet called. “Frigates, very fast, lots of cannon, I'm guessing.”

“Can we outrun them?” Tonio asked.

“We've got a decent lead.”

“Should we make for a Sylvanner port?” Bram set his stewpot on the deck. The slaloming between rocks had left him a little green, but he gave Sophie a game thumbs-up.

Parrish shook his head. “There could be Havers between us and the Winter capital, Hoarfrost—they might even persuade the Sylvanners to hand us over.”

“Why flee west?”

“The Fleet is on its eastward procession right now,” Parrish said. “We'll meet them.”

Verena searched his face. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Parrish said. “There's nothing we can do now but treat the wounded, repair the sails, and prepare your case for presentation.”

 

CHAPTER    
29

They shot out of the Baste moving as fast as
Nightjar
could move. Once they were out in open water, Sweet had each of the torn sails hauled down in turn, laying the tears flat and hastily patching them. She painted a white substance with the texture of melted marshmallow over the rips, then lay a thin sheet of fabric overtop. Linen, cut to fit, went over this, and the whole area then had to be gently ironed dry before they could flip the sail and do the other side.