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“The plot thickens,” Kirilli says, trying to sound lighthearted, but failing to hide the squeak in his voice. “Any idea what the odds are? I’m a gambling man, so I knew where Beranabus was coming from when I heard him talking about the need to take risks. But I like to have an idea of the odds before I place a bet.”
“We honestly don’t know,” I tell him.
He makes a humming noise. “Let’s say two-to-one. Those are fair odds. I’ve bet on a lot worse in my time.”
He’s trembling. This is a new level for him. The wholesale slaughter on the deck shook him up and now he’s being asked to disregard Disciple protocol—run when the odds are against you—and fight to a very probable death.
“You don’t need to come with us,” I murmur. “We left someone up top to keep our escape route open. You could wait with him.”
Kirilli smiles nervously. “I’d love to, but I’ve always dreamt of standing beside the legendary Beranabus in battle. I was never this scared in my dreams, but if I back out now I won’t be able to forgive myself.”
We start down a long corridor. There are bodies lying in tattered, bloodied bundles at regular intervals. I wonder how many people a ship this size holds. Three thousand? Four? I’ve never heard the death screams of thousands of people. The noise must have been horrible.
“Have you fought before?” I ask Kirilli, to distract myself.
“Not really,” he says. “As Sharmila said, I’m a spy. Excellent at sniffing out intrigue and foiling the well-laid plans of villainous rogues like Zsolt and Balint. But when it comes to the dirty business of killing, I’m more a stabber in the back than a face-to-face man. Never saw anything wrong with striking an opponent from behind if they’re a nasty piece of work.”
“I doubt if Juni will turn her back on you. The best thing is to trust in your magic and try not to think too much. If you’re attacked, use your instincts. You’ll find yourself doing things you never thought possible.”
“And if my instincts come up short?” Kirilli asks.
Dervish snorts behind us. “That’ll be a good time to panic.”
Kirilli frowns over his shoulder at Dervish. “It’s rude to eavesdrop.”
“I’m a rude kind of guy,” Dervish retorts. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Hang back when we get there, fire off the occasional bolt of energy—at our opponents, not us—and try not to get in anyone’s way.”
“I can tell you’re a true leader of men,” Kirilli says sarcastically.
“Quiet,” Beranabus snarls. “I’m trying to concentrate.”
“Sorry, boss,” Dervish says, then sticks his right hand under his left armpit and makes a farting noise. We all giggle, even Beranabus. It’s not unnatural to laugh in the face of death. It’s not an act of bravery either. You do it because you might never have the chance to laugh again.
We descend slowly, exploring each level, wary of booby traps. But there are no secret windows, no army of demons, no humans packing weapons.
We pass a mound of bodies, mostly uniformed crew. They armed themselves with axes, knives, flares—whatever they could find—and tried to block off the corridor with bulky pieces of furniture. The demons ripped through them. They never stood a chance.
The lights suddenly snap off. Kirilli gasps and grabs my hand. I get images of his previous, limited encounters with demons, his stage act, the tricks he performs. He wanted to be a famous magician when he was young. Practised hard, but didn’t have the style. Good enough for clubs and cruisers, but he never had a real crack at the big time. He was pleased when he joined the Disciples, proud of his talent. But he’d have much rather succeeded in showbiz, where the worst he’d have ever had to face was being booed off stage.
Emergency lights flicker on. There’s a harsh metallic ripping sound somewhere far below. It echoes through the ship. The floor shudders, then steadies.
“Turbulence?” Beranabus asks.
“You only get that on planes,” Dervish says. “It could be the roll of the sea but I doubt it. Have you noticed the lack of movement? We haven’t tilted since we came aboard. The ship’s been steady, held in place by magic.”
“I knew there was something strange,” Kirilli growls. “I get terrible seasickness. I have to take pills to keep my food down. But I’ve been feeling fine for the last few hours. I thought I’d found my sea legs at last.”
The ripping noise comes again, louder than before. It reminds me of a noise Bill-E heard in a film about the Titanic, when the iceberg sliced through the hull and split it open.
“Any idea what’s going on down there?” Dervish asks.
Beranabus shrugs. “We’ll soon find out.”
We press on.
Eventually we hit the bottom of the ship. Except there isn’t much left of it. When we step into the cavernous hold, we instantly see what the noises were. The lowest layer has been peeled away. A huge hole has been gouged out of the hull, twenty-five or thirty metres wide, stretching far ahead of us, through the middle of the hold and up the walls at the sides. Water surrounds the gap, held back by a field of magic. If that field was to suddenly collapse, the sea would flood through and the ship would sink swiftly.
There are bodies all over the place, but a huge pile is stacked in the centre of the floorless hold, resting in a heap on the invisible barrier. It looks like they’re floating on air.
