Sailing to Sar-Chona is the only story set in the world which is not set in the city itself. There is another version which is longer, and has an opening scene set further back than this one and it may well appear in the book. This version works better as a short story. Enjoy Sailing to Sar-Chona
I sat at the helm as Mieville hissed through the heart of the sand-sea. Two weeks to Sar-Chona, and I’d get to see my home city for the first time in over a year.
“Chanda, what animals are those?” Lmarr, our passenger, pointed to a dune on the left.
“Probably desert-weasels, or sand-otters. There must be a patch of upthrust nearby. They don’t live in the open desert. They need something firmer than sand to live in.” The maps didn’t show anything other than deep sand for many leagues in either direction. Crashing into a recently upthrust outcrop was a fear of everyone who sailed the deep desert. If these animals were there, firmer ground also had to be around. “I’d better speak to the captain about changing course.”
“There are people who will pay a captain to take them where the desert animals are,” said Lmarr. “Of course people also pay good money for a captain who is knowledgable, and decisive.”
The weather machine pinged, allowing me to sidestep another discussion of my plans to become a captain. The valves glowed gently, and the ticker machine unspooled. I ripped it off and read along the lines. The change of weather would not be pleasant.
“Well, Lmarr. If the coming storm blows the right way, we may get you to Sar-Chona a day or two earlier.”
“What if it blows the wrong way?”
He peered at me from beneath thick lashes. The eyes direct and intense, bored into me like our lights shone into the dark depths of the night desert.
“Then we may not get to Sar-Chona at all.” Concern clouded his face and I carried on, “Don’t worry, we’re well provisioned. A day or two delay is the more likely outcome.”
He placed a hand on my arm.
“Chanda, I must be there before the end of Solstice. It is essential. You will get me there, wont you?”
I wondered about the urgency, but was not crass enough to seek an answer. It was not my place to pry. None of us knew exactly what he did, that required swift transport to the disparate points of the sand-sea we had taken him; we had our suspicions. Spy was my guess. If the captain knew, she never said. I placed my hand on his. “Of course, Lmarr, of course.”
He smiled, the snaggly teeth white and clean. “I’m sure you will. You’ll make a good captain, one day, soon. Now, I should leave you to make your course adjustments.”
His departure left a space the faint smell of his pomade didn’t fill. I slipped off my stool and looked at the large map weighted down on the table. Plotting the change of route wasn’t complicated. I let the captain sleep, set the new course, and thought about Lmarr.
He was the only regular traveller we had.
His visits to the bridge became a regular part of my watch from the first time he travelled with us. I looked forward to them. That first trip I thought he was flirting, cautiously judging my receptiveness to his masculine allure. Yet when I responded, he backed away, even avoided me for a couple of days. When he returned, I let the distance remain. We’d had a comfortable relationship ever since.
Whatever storm the machine warned of must have passed by many leagues away, we saw nothing of it. The wind continued to swing round erratically. But strong enough to be useful. Over the rustle of the sand, rigging and spars creaked, and our speed increased.
We got a few more days gentle sailing, four more to be exact. The change in weather coincided with the ‘end of fresh food’ feast. From this day until we next made landfall all food would be from tins, jars or otherwise preserved.
Matthias - our deck-hand, cook and general purpose jobber - always kept back something to cook up a treat. This time it was a haunch of marhog. Just after sunrise, the smell of it cooking rose through the ship.
I went to the bridge and the Captain’s grin was wide. It appeared my independent course change had finally been forgiven.
“Matthias has done us proud again, Captain.”
“Smell’s like it, Chanda. My saliva glands have been running full tilt since I woke up.”
The weather machine pinged, valves throbbing faintly in the bright daylight. The ticker tape spat out it’s warning. Shammy went across.
“Machine says we can expect storms in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Again. Damn thing has been worse than useless this trip.” She said.
“That’s every day this week it’s forecast storms. I wonder what’s wrong with it.”
“They break down eventually. There’ll be someone in Sar-Chona who can fix it. Or I’ll have to buy another one. Either way, we need to keep a close eye on the weather.”
“Maybe we’ll be lucky, and it’ll blow fair the whole way.”
“Maybe,” she shrugged, “anyway, it’s near time to eat. You go first. I’ll stay on watch. Just be back before it’s all gone.”
The marhog was succulent. We ate on the foredeck, sitting round a large communal platter. Meat, vegetable, fruits - all the perishable goods nearing the end of their usefulness. Plus two or three bottles of ke’har, fermented brine-wine.
The storm struck while we were eating. There was no gradual increase in the wind strength, no accumulation of cirro-cumulus clouds to warn us.
From a gentle breeze which ruffled the edges of our clothing, to a gale that was difficult to stand against, took moments. We pulled our goggles down and rushed for the hatch, leaving the remains of the meal to blow away.
Clinging to each other for support we made the small protection afforded by the lee of the deckhouse. As the door was opened a gust veered round the side. Matthias was torn loose and barely grabbed hold of rope stay. He lay full along the deck.
I looked at Lmarr, “Hold me tight!” I screamed to be heard above the wind, my mouth immediately dry and gritty from sand in the air.
He nodded, and took a firm hold of my wrist, gripping the edge of the doorway with his other hand. I edged into the wind and was knocked sideways by the force. Crouched as low as possible I crabbed towards Matthias. The pole he clung to was short with a smooth coating that allowed rope to slide friction free.
I couldn’t see through his goggles, but he faced me, fighting to maintain his hold. Overcoming the urge to grab for him at the furthest extent of our reach, I made my way as close as possible. Lmarr’s hold on my wrist remained firm. His strength was welcoming.
Matthias clasped my arm, allowing us to grip each others wrist. Only then did he release his hold on the stay to grasp me with his other hand. I realized he hadn’t chosen to stay lying down. He could hardly stand. Trying to push up on his leg he screamed as it turned at an unnatural angle. The sound cut through the storm. He barely managed to stay on his feet.
Another blast of wind struck us. I gripped firmer. My shoulder and forearm burned with the effort of holding him, trying to drag him forward. Sand blasted our unprotected hands and faces. We still gripped each other wrist to wrist. He slipped a little and his leg collapsed, dropping him back to the deck. His grip slipped, he grabbed, screaming at me in the storm, sand blowing into his mouth causing him to choke. Then he was gone. The wind rolled him across the deck and into the desert. His mouth was open wide, the wind whipped any sound away from me.
Lmarr pulled me back. A few moments later I was in the wheelhouse with door slammed shut. The roar of the wind dropped, leaving only the blood pounding in my ears.
I sat on the floor head down, recovering my breath and composure. I have witnessed death before. I have shipped with crew-mates swept overboard; some recovered, others not.
I’ve never had someone’s life in my hands before.
“By the Maker, and Sons of the Prophet.”
Gurron was the only one who used that imprecation, I looked up. He stared at our passenger, everyone did. Lmarr’s thawb was torn and hung down, revealing the skin beneath. His back was tattooed, the distinctive color and markings of the Monahag Assassin Guild.
He finished securing the door and turned. “Captain Shammy, you assured me there would be no problem.”
“There will be no problem,” she said.
He stalked from the room.
Gurron pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped the brass rail with jerky strokes. “An assassin, Captain. I cannot have him on board. They are defilers, non-believers, stealers of the sacred gift, they—.”
“I know what they are, and what they do.” Shammy said, and wheeled to face him. “You know whose ship this is. You know the rules. Feel free to get off at Sar-Chona. That goes for all of you; I can get hold of a god-bothering drunk, a half-wit and a dreamer as easily as a new cook. Until then, do the jobs I pay you for.” She turned to look at each of us in turn, fire in her eyes. “Does anyone have an issue?”
Salaman, and I both shook our heads. Captain Shammy often raged. It was the worst thing about crewing with her. Privacy and regular income were her guarantee. When she was happy with you, it was an easy berth.
The wind continued to howl outside, we were rocked as the strongest gusts buffeted the ships. Shammy seated herself back at the helm. Gurron and Salaman looked at each other, and headed for the engine bay.
I pulled myself up, arms still burning from the exertion. My skin was raw where sand-filled wind had blasted it. Wiping the back of my hand across my forehead, it came away red. The adrenaline ebbed and pain was starting to become an issue.
“Chanda, get below and clean up.”
I hadn’t realized she was looking at me.
“You need to go speak with our passenger, assure him there will be no trouble. He seems happy to speak with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“He always comes up here when you are on watch. He doesn’t do it with anyone else. So, get cleaned up, and get a rest. You’re on watch in three hours. You’ll need to see the other two as well. Make sure Gurron isn’t going to give me any of his pious crap, and Salaman is ready for longer watches for the duration of the storm.”
I nodded and headed for my cabin.
After cleaning up and taking painkillers I made the requested visits.
Gurron and Salaman were both down in the engine room. It was quieter than standing out in the storm, despite the insistent hum of the engines. The pitch of it made me queasy, though no else seemed to be affected.
Gurron was jumpy. “It’s not right to have one of them on board. She promised me when I signed on we wouldn’t have passengers like that.” He said.
I looked at him. Half a hand shorter than me and filled with piety that kept him poor but not sober or, when we were in dock, chaste. His hair hung against the side of his head in lank strands of dark brown. The greasy appearance made him an unsympathetic looking character, and his proclamations on assassins, Devorians, and mek-mek’s could be wearying. But he knew the engines, and had a keen sense of irreverent humor when he wasn’t stressing about the eternal soul of strangers.
“So, she lied, or circumstances changed. I don’t care what you do when we get to Sar-Chona, but can you keep a lid on it until then?”
He looked away, wiping an already shiny piece of machinery with his rag. “She needs dealt with. Oath-breakers are—“
I cut in before he started delivering a sermon on what denizens of the nether-world would do to Shammy when they got hold of her. “We need this, Gurron.” I pressed him, “Will you do it?”
“Just keep me out of his way for the rest of the trip.”
I nodded and turned to Salaman. “What about you?”
He shrugged, “No odds to me. So long as we get paid.”
“Good. You need to be prepared for three-hour watches, if this storm lasts. I’ll be up next, then you.”
From the engine room I went to Lmarr’s cabin and knocked.
“Come in.”
He was sitting at the small desk, stitching his thawb. Pale blue sirwal clad his legs and sat high on his waist, but his torso was bare. The tattoo on his back clear to see. A map of the twin continent. Scattered around it were tattooed empty red circles, with a black line through them. Each one a successful assassination, if my understanding of guild markings was correct. One circle remained uncrossed, a disc of solid red.
I stared at the map.
“Yes. Each one is a completed assassination.”
“Sorry.”
“No need to apologise. Anyone who sees asks the same question. I’m not reading your mind,” He turned, “and I appreciate Captain Shammy sending you to reassure me about the rest of the journey.”
“Oh, that’s good. I bet you don’t know what I am thinking now, though?”
He shook his head.
I smiled at him, “Thank you for saving me.”
“You’re welcome. Now, before I replace my garment, you can ask about my tattoos.” My face must have displayed my confusion. “Anyone who sees the tattoos has questions.”
I nodded, it made sense. “Why do you have all circles, apart from one star?”
His face changed. The smile vanished.
“I’m sorry. I meant no offense—“
He interrupted me. His voice deep and quiet. “The star. Tell me, on the map, is it Sar-Chona?” He turned to display his back again.
I nodded, then stepped forward and put my finger on the spot. “It’s about where Sar-Chona is. The isthmus between the continents.”
His head bowed.
“What does this mean?”
“I need to speak with the Captain.”
“I’ll go get her.”
“No, I’ll come with you.”
In part two we learn why Lmarr is worried, and what it means for the crew of the Mieville
text by stuartcturnbull, art by Roses_Street via Pixabay