Chapter Text
The crew of the Mourning’s End cast off and left the Iron Republic behind. The captain did not dare speak until Hell’s colony faded from their sight. It was not fear of what lay behind them that kept them silent. No, they had conquered that, left it sniveling it its wretched cell, never to be seen again. It was what lay ahead that sat heavy on their chest and left them shaking. They should be braver than this, they thought. They were the one who had danced with Drownies, dueled the Black Ribbon, and had been branded by devils for the brazen audacity they had to rob the Brass Embassy. Who were they to fear this? Captain Idris Aperture knew, but that would not stop them. The crew was gathered and stood at attention, waiting for them to speak. It was time to begin.
“We'll stop at London briefly, then turn back towards The Cumaean Canal. We're heading for the Surface.”
There was an uproar amongst the crew.
“The Surface? Are you mad?!”
“I have a promise to keep,” said the captain simply.
“The Sun can kill a zailor within a day,” said the Tough Tracklayer. “Please, it's not safe.”
“I have only been in the Neath for the greater half of a year. This… This may be my last chance.”
There was a brief moment of confused silence at that. The captain was a well-respected man in the Neath, if one used the term “man” as loosely as possible. It seemed obvious that there was nothing left for them on the Surface: no elegant townhouse, no throngs of admirers, no favors in high places, and no unquestioningly neutral terms of reference. But there was one onboard who was skilled in solving puzzles, and to the boatswain Idris’ purpose was as clear as day.
The Midnighter's Daughter groaned. “Ey vây, you're going to see her.”
“I DO NOT KNOW WHO YOU SPEAK OF,” rumbled the Clay Motorman.
The crew turned to the Clay Man as eager for gossip as high society women. “Arabella!” they cried in chorus.
“They never cease to speak of Arabella.”
“Even in their sleep there's talk of Arabella.”
“The Lady Aperture, the captain's wife.”
“Whose ring they wear on a chain around their neck.”
“Whose portrait rests in their locket!”
The captain put a hand to their chest, indignant. “I do not!” Beneath their shirtwaist, the rumored treasures chimed softly, metal against metal.
The zailors only laughed, jostling one another and exchanging whispered words of jest. It was not out of malice that they teased, but their captain was young and an easy target being new to the Neath and even newer to the Zee. When the jokes ran out and Idris’ face was red enough to satisfy the bloodlust of Smiles himself, they unburied their concerns and presented them one by one.
“It’s sweet and all you want to go home, but what about the Sun? What about us?”
“We’re stopping at London to let off the Clay Men,” answered the captain. “We can’t take them that far from Polythreme without consequence.”
The boatswain shook her head. “Even if we are to stay near Naples, we do not wish to risk death for your dalliances. You pay well, five times the rate of any other captain, and we appreciate that. But if you value your crew, we stop at London and go no further.”
“You’re right,” said Idris. “You’ve all been in the Neath longer than I, some of you for your entire lives. You can’t be as careless as I, and I cannot be careless with you.”
One of the men shrugged. “If you paid double I’d go.”
He got a slap on the shoulder from his crewmate. “Oi, we’re getting good terms as it is.”
“You can get new work at Wolfstack. I’ll put in a good word for you. When I return, I’ll send notice ahead so that if you’d like you can come on the Mourning’s next voyage. Does that sound fair to you all?”
There was a unanimous assent. They shook on it and the crewmen dispersed, save for two. They were the captain’s companions, two ex-tracklayers which they never managed to shake: The Donahue twins.
Idris sighed. “What do you lot want?”
“Are we not coming with you?” asked Bryan.
“’Cause you can’t go alone,” said Doyle.
“Well, I can’t take you with me,” answered Idris. “You’d die if you saw the Sun again after ten years down here.”
Doyle didn’t seem impressed. “But how are we to know you haven’t gotten killed up there? You know Scathewick is on the Surface. You sent him there just hours ago!”
“Fine,” the captain snapped. “I’ll bring the Sedulous Cryptanalyst along. We all know that liar has seen the Sun for months at a time.”
For a moment, they seemed to be in agreement. But a ship is not an easy place to hold a private conversation, not on the waveless, echoing Zee. If anyone had a second opinion, it would be heard.
“Ey!” called the boatswain. “You’re not bringing him. He’s bad news.”
“Eavesdropping again?” No one was surprised.
“For good reason. You don’t bring that man aboard for the same reason you don’t bring rats along. He’d talk.”
“Well, I have something on him. It’s a gamble, but that’s the Game.”
The boatswain nodded, understanding. She was a Midnighter’s daughter, after all.