The storm threatened to raise the ocean into the skies and swallow the ship. With each wave soaring higher, it seemed as if there was no shore left to land on. The storm could have been the undoing of the world.
Lieman sat at the bar, fixated on the small ice cubes swirling in his glass of whiskey. The cubes tilted to the left and then to the right until they were just little marbles.
He was the only guest there until a man came in and dropped his newspaper on the counter, not caring about the swaying. Before he could sit down, the newspaper slid over to the bartender at the other end, who promptly returned it to the newcomer.
"You must be new here?" the man asked the bartender.
"I started last month sir, it's my first time on a ship." He replied, polishing a tall glass. "Still not used to the sea though."
"Some never do," said the man and ordered a glass of the old Forgle. Lieman gave him a quick glance, but that was as far as he had the energy to indulge his curiosity. If it had been a better day, he would have loved to know why people were still keen on drinking that awful brandy. But alas, he had other things on his mind.
"You look familiar," the man continued, turning his attention to Lieman, "I could swear I have seen you before. Are you from Eotern by any chance?"
"No," Lieman replied shortly. "I am from Unaris."
The guest shook his head slightly. "Could be a common face. You never know these days. We all like a certain fashion to follow."
"I did not catch your name, sir," Lieman asked, concluding that the conversation might as well be a good way to pass the time. He had never been seasick, not a day in his life, and yet an illness shook him to the bone. It was in his head as well as in his stomach, knot upon a knot of resentment and pain. He dared not think about it, for the very thought of the sea made him uneasy.
He could not say exactly what was the cause of this prevailing anxiety. But he knew it well, and to fight it he had to keep his thoughts on the surface of the infinite, the bottomless, the deep. There he was safe, with a glass of cheap whiskey and a solid metal chair beneath him.
"It's Hoverfort. Olen Hoverfort." the man said softly.
Lieman felt a shiver down his spine, strong enough to be felt, too weak to mean much. He knew that name, he had heard it before. Somewhere between the story of a genius child left for dead and a titan of industry. He picked up his glass and nodded at the guest. "It's an honor."
"It better be. I earned the respect of the people with hard work. And I would gladly do it all over again," Olen said with a broad smile. "And you are?"
"Lieman Edell."
"Ah, now I remember. You’re that reporter. Am I right?" Olen slapped his knee. "The story about the factory workers. I must say, I admire your work. It's a shame so few consider it justifiable."
"I knew what I was getting into," Lieman muttered, taking a big gulp from his glass.
"But still, you did your job. That's what truly matters. Is not it?"
"I’d like to think so. But the world likes the pretty lies, the things that let them sleep at night. Not the truth, not the bone, just the soft flesh, if you know what I mean." He felt the blood gather in his face and his throat tighten. He took a breath and hid his eyes. It still burned with the same flame, and it wavered between his worst fear and his deepest regret.
"Be that as it may, the truth always finds a way out. That’s the one thing I’ve learned in all my years. Tell me, if you could go back, would there be a better choice for you?"
"No. I do not think so."
"And that is the reason, my friend, why we must not stray from the path we are meant to walk."
He might be one of the richest people on the continent, but he was true to himself, Lieman thought. That was a rare thing.
"I do not want to believe that," Lieman growled. "If I do, I’m doomed."
"We're all doomed in one way or another. Like this storm. If it suddenly decided to sink this ship, I don't think anyone could do anything about it," his polite smile had disappeared and was replaced by a terrible sadness. It came suddenly, and looking into Olen's eyes at that moment, one could see into the abyss. He cleared his throat and continued a moment later. "Some would even say the curse of the ocean awoke to drag us down with it. All to make their demise sound less trivial."
"The curse?"
"Oh, yes. A superstitious thing from ancient times. I suppose you've heard it before."
"No, I'm afraid I haven’t. Myths have never been my domain," Lieman had no desire to search his mind for things that reminded him of the water.
"Well, as the story goes, there was a goddess that loved the sea more than she loved anyone or anything else. She would spend days and nights singing at its shores and all the gods would listen to her songs and fall to envy and jealousy, for she sang so gracefully and purely, none could match her.
One night a fisherman got stranded on the open waters and fell asleep under the stars. Sometime in the night, he heard her sing the most beautiful melody ever conceived.
He looked around but he could not find its source, so he stared at the dark water underneath him until he saw a face appear.
The goddess had never before met a human that could hear her songs. It fascinated her and so she was bound by divine law to grant him a single wish.
At first, he resisted, afraid that he’d encountered a sea witch or a creature from the depths that would take his soul. But as the poor fisherman had nothing in the world, he took it as a blessing and he asked to be king.
And so it was. By morning the currents carried him to another shore and there he became a powerful master of the land. There was a condition, however, that if he ever returned to the sea, the spell would be broken and all the world would be undone."
"Tragic," returned Lieman.
"In its own way, yes. In fact, the first time I heard it I couldn’t get over the idea of injustice. If we created the gods, why did we make them so cruel?"
"Because we made them in our image."
Without saying a word, Lieman nodded politely and finished his drink. He intended to leave and try to spend as much time as possible in his bed, oblivious to the sea or its curse. But before he could put his thoughts into action, Olen slid off his chair, approached Lie and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "See you around, Mr Lie," he said, ordering another drink for the reporter and walking away.
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He rarely dreamed, and even when he did, he did not remember
those dreams. This was neither a bad thing nor a great one. He often considered it a blessing, for he feared what terrible things his mind might bring to life in the night. But like anything with a stale aftertaste, he was haunted by the absence of these dreams or the absence of the possibility that they were somehow not as dark and threatening as he had assumed.
He had slept only a few hours and yet had dreamed several dreams, each more terrifying than the last. He dreamed of beasts rising from the sea and dragging the ship to the bottom of the abyss. No matter how many times he tried to shake them off, they kept pulling him back. They repeated themselves again and again into infinity.
Finally, he was awakened by a scream. He put his ear to the cabin door, but by then all was silent. He peered through the cracked door, unsure if he wanted to be part of what was happening. The empty corridor and his dazed state made him wonder if he had heard anything at all. It could have been a dream as well.
Although night had long since fallen and the waves had settled, he was far from being calm. He scribbled a few lines in his small notebook and looked at an old photograph he kept inside. Years ago, it was all he ever had and needed. Before time and ambition had taken it away from him.
"Stop!" a voice called out. It came from very close by. And then someone stormed down the corridor like a fury, past his cabin.
"That's none of my business," Lie thought to himself. And it wasn't until a knock on his door changed that.
Standing before him was a pale woman in a blue dress who didn't blink. Her eyes were riddled with bleeding capillaries and her breathing was short and rapid.
"Help me," she said, "It's coming for me."
Lieman pushed open the door and let her into his cabin, scanning the hallway for trouble. Only then he noticed the trail of blood she left behind. She stumbled and tried to grab onto something. The handle of a knife protruded from her back.
Before Lieman could react, she slumped to the floor and took her last breath, her eyes wide open.
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The ship's journey continued for three more days. No stopping, no rest, only the open water before them. The captain ordered the body to be placed in cold storage until they reached the coast. He put the crew on high alert and took all necessary measures to prevent the passengers from ever knowing that there was a murderer on the ship.
"It seems trouble follows you wherever you go," Hoverfort said when he saw Lieman on the deck staring out at the open sea. Lieman did not move, permanently locked onto the thin line that divided the two shades of blue.
"Mr Lieman?" Olen repeated.
"It's not my problem," he replied. "I just happened to be in the wrong place."
"I was actually hoping we could borrow your sharp eyes for this. I’m under no illusions that the effort was not in vain, but something has to be done before the trail goes cold."
"You mean before everyone finds out about the murder on your ship?"
"See, that's what I need. That edge. Does that not intrigue you? Think about it, Mr Lie."
"She died in my cabin. I’m not intrigued. I am..." he paused, trying desperately to find the right word for it. He did not think it even existed.
"Her name was Ethil," Olen continued. "She was married to one of the biggest antique dealers in Fiaret. Business was good for them. Until last year, when they were investigated for tax evasion and financial fraud. It takes little deduction to understand that Ethil and Forne Galneer wanted to relocate for good. In fact, a large portion of the ship's cargo belongs to them.
"And you suspect that someone killed Ethil because of this?"
"You’re the journalist. If this was your story, how would you tell it?"
Lieman took a step back and put his hands in his pockets. "I’d look into who they really were. Their cabin, for example. What they carried, how they lived. Things like that."
Olen smiled and tapped him on the shoulder. "Come."
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"Are we even allowed to touch these things?" asked Lie trying to open an ornamented box. "This has to be worth a lot of money."
"Yes, it is worth a lot by the looks of it. But it's not our money. Remember why you're here."
"I know why I'm here. And I also remember what she was stabbed with," the box squealed and revealed a dagger. It had a shape of a snake on one end, and the rest was a blade of dark metal.
"Twin blades? Old, by the looks of them," Olen said, holding the dagger to the light.
"Actually, they are older than what you might call old," said a woman walking in. "The blades are Jaoran."
"This is my lovely daughter," said Olen, smiling at the sight of a young woman who seemed to care very little for pleasantries and etiquette.
"It's Tara. Can I have the blade please?" She wasted no time and placed the blade on the dining table. Beside it she put another one just like it, removed from the body of Ethil. It was wrapped in white cloth with dried blood still on its edges.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
"You are not supposed to do that," Lie scowled. "That is a piece of evidence. You can't just take it."
"All right. Calm down. I am not destroying evidence. Why don't you have a look? Maybe now you might understand."
Lie leaned over the two blades. The black metal was the same on both of them and so were the decorations and the placement of the jewels on the golden hilt. But as Tara brought the light closer to them, something revealed itself on the surface of the blades.
"A mask?" he whispered, carefully observing the complex symbol.
"That right there is why this whole thing is so interesting," Tara said. She was smiling, even though they stood next to a puddle of blood. "Those are the blades of Efemandorie. If they are authentic, well, anything is possible."
"And what do they have to do with Ethil's death, apart from being the murder weapon close at hand?" Lieman asked.
"Perhaps nothing at all. The killer, most likely being her husband, could have just found them handy to stab her with. But take into consideration that these people traded in antiques. Chances are they knew more about them than your average person. Chances are he used these daggers on purpose."
"I don't follow," returned Lie, remembering the story he'd heard from Olen the previous day. It seemed to run in the family for them, the obsession with the mythological.
"Humor us, Mr Lie, just this once," said Olen and took a seat in an armchair away from the stains. "You might like this story."
"According to legend, in ancient times, the daggers belonged to a king," Tara began. "Exactly how long ago that is hard to say. The king had them made for each of his two children as a sign of power and loyalty.
Then a time came when a terrible plague struck the land. It was believed that it was a punishment sent to make them repent and as people died in the streets the nobles considered themselves untouchable.
Not long after king's children themselves got sick and died. The queen went mad with grief and threw herself from the highest tower. The king cursed the gods and tried to quench his grief in an endless war.
It was bloody and aimless and killed a third of his own people, that wasn’t already dead from the plague. To put an end to the slaughter, the king's soldiers turned on him and stabbed him while he slept over and over again. He bled from a hundred wounds, but he would not die.
They tried stabbing him, setting him on fire and throwing him to the snakes, but nothing seemed to kill him.
When they got desperate, they sought out a shaman that lived in the mountains. They asked him for his help and his wisdom, hoping to put the king to rest once and for all.
The shaman carved a mask from a rare type of wood that could withstand both time and fire. He used the two daggers to remove the king’s own face and replace it with the mask. He made the soldiers swear on their lives never to let the king wake again.
If he was ever to see the light of day, a nightmare would come with him, drawing everything into itself."
When it was over, they buried him and hid the daggers as far as the merchants went. Until Ethil and Forne Galneer found them. And they found him."
Lie blinked and leaned against a shelf. He did not believe a word of it, but he understood very well what people who did were capable of doing for their beliefs. Tara seemed to enjoy what these myths had to say. Olen did, too. Perhaps they were no better than those that used to stay in that cabin.
"So you think the murder was all about the daggers themselves?" Lie concluded. "Not the fact that these people were on the run, hauling riches across the ocean? That seems like a stretch."
Olen stood up, walked over to Lie, and tapped his foot on the ground. "Maybe we have gone too far out on a limb. I'll talk to the captain and see if the missing husband has shown up. Come on Tara, I have something to discuss with you."
"Wait," Lie replied, just before they left, "You said they found him. Who did you really mean?"
Tara knocked on the wooden frame of the cabin door as if to ward off the ghosts her words would conjure. "There's a box in the cargo hold with the same mask on it. Let’s just say I doubt it contains pottery. Let me know when you have something."
Lie was left alone, with the remnants of the stranger’s life hanging in the closet and on the nightstands. He did not want to admit it, but he felt the familiar excitement that came with the discovery. It was the same one that had taken him to many dangerous places and made him write down the truth as best he could. Perhaps redemption came in the most unexpected way.
He left the cabin and made his way to the lower levels of the ship.
----------------------------------------
At least a hundred wooden crates were stacked on top of each other and tied to the ground with chains and ropes. They were marked with
black and red brands indicating ownership and fragility.
Lie examined them one by one, but could find nothing unusual.
When he turned to look at them again, his eyes caught the glimmer of metal underneath the wood. One of the boxes had a crack in the middle, revealing an iron chest hidden inside. It looked old, with badly corroded edges and carved panels that had taken serious damage. It could have been at least three centuries old, Lieman thought. But he knew he was missing by a large margin.
On its surface was welded a mask resembling a face frozen in fear. To his great surprise, it was the same one the daggers showed.
He did not want to linger any longer than necessary, but his curiosity equally resisted the thought of leaving so soon. He could not help but wonder what could have been so important that a dozen chains had to hold it to the hull.
Lieman pulled out his camera and began documenting every detail that caught his eye. He touched the places where it was welded together and followed them around. It looked like it had been rebuilt several times, with parts added later in time. When he turned to see the other side, he found that the weld had been torn open. There was a hole at the bottom of the case. But that was not all, the bottom of the cargo bay underneath also had a hole in it.
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"There was something in the chest," Lie said, as Tara nodded politely at people passing them on the deck. "And someone broke it open to steal whatever was in it."
"And?" she returned, not nearly as intrigued as he would have assumed.
"And it seems to be the reason Ethil was killed. But," he paused, waiting for the crowd to clear, "why did you say him? You said they found him? Who were you referring to?"
"Were not you listening to me earlier? "
"I do not think a legend has anything to do with current events."
"You are wrong."
"Then explain it to me. Explain to me how a scare tale drills a hole in the floor of a ship and an iron chest. They were transporting something worth a lot of money and someone here took it from them. Or tried to at least."
"And would you try to put all rational thought aside for a moment and treat this as one of your stories? Would you do that for the truth?"
He could not think of any suitable words to answer that. He was travelling to a new country, to a new continent, to avoid the burden of the naked truth. He did not think of writing again, just leaving. It made him think that maybe there was no country far enough for him to hide.
"Maybe," Lieman finally said.
"They haven’t found the husband yet, and they never will, because he’s long gone. He probably killed Ethil when she confronted him about the cargo, and the poor woman paid with her life. That's something we both know. The rest you'll have to find out for yourselves if you’re as good as your reputation says."
"For one I know you know more than you’re telling me," Lie growled. He had no patience for games and withholding information. He was finding it harder and harder to find his footing in Tara's words.
"Remember, I’m trying to help you, not lead you astray. Look around you. Look at these people. Look at their faces."
"And what am I supposed to see?" he asked, slightly confused.
She smiled. "You'll know it when you see it."
She turned away, stepping into the wind and gliding through the small groups of people gathered in conversation. Lieman remained to wonder if there was also a place in the world where people did not constantly seek to kill each other.
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Lieman sat alone at the small table in the corner of the large dining room. Dinner was served and almost everyone was there. The food did not attract his attention and he ate it in small bites. He could not help but think of Tara's advice. Even though he tried hard not to, he could no longer help but observe the people around him.
Some feared for their safety as rumors of murder made the rounds. Others were entertaining themselves with happier things and pretending that everything was fine. The more he listened, the less interesting their conversations became, bordering on the simple social expectation of saying something rather than actually meaning it.
The longer it went on, the less focused he became. The day had already worn him down. All the voices blended into a single, uninterrupted soundscape.
Only then did he really begin to hear.
In the midst of the noise, words were being spoken, one after another, far apart. Words that he could hear as clearly as if they were being spoken by a person at his side, even though there was no one there. Slowly they became a single word.
"Wake up!"
He winced and dropped his fork and handkerchief, attracting the attention of several guests. They looked at Lieman as he picked them up off the floor, and they kept looking as he finished his glass of wine. They would not leave him alone, as if he had permanently disturbed their peace.
Lieman no longer felt welcome there. What he had heard was warning enough, however impossible. Without waiting another minute, he made his way to the door, trying not to look back at them. Somehow he knew they were all watching him now.
As he climbed the stairs, he kept his head down and focused only on the steps in front of him. At the top, he bumped into a passenger, and for a brief moment, he lifted his head to see that the man was not human at all. He seemed to him like a deviant creature, a twisted idea of a living thing.
His head peeled away in layers to reveal his skull. His eyes were blackened and scarred, with small black dots that pulsed rapidly. There was a beeping sound that came from those dots as if they were getting ready to burst at any second.
Nausea overcame Lieman and he pushed the creature off him as he ran toward the deck. He hoped the sea wind would shake him awake.
When he finally reached the edge, he leaned over the railing and stared into the pitch-black water. "What’s happening to me?" he said to himself.
"Did you see them?" Tara said as she approached him from the side.
"What's happening to me? Was there something in the food? I feel sick."
"You are just waking up."
"I'm not asleep. I saw... I do not know what I saw."
"He does not want you to wake up."
"Who is he? " Lieman shouted at her, afraid to see her face.
"The fisherman who became king and a vessel to carry out the revenge of the gods themselves. He was put to sleep but, not even the shaman’s mask could keep him from whispering in the ear of the antique dealer who thought a corpse of a king was a thing to be sold.
For years he waited for his chance to return, for the moment when he’s returned to the sea, and the world itself is banished to a never-ending nightmare."
"Even you?" Lie finally looked up and caught a glimpse of a hideous face that did not belong to the woman he had met earlier. It had pieces missing from it, and where there should be flesh, all she had was sharp bones and small white beads that reminded him of faces.
"Your guilt has kept you asleep for a long time. Your own darkness has saved you. It has given you one last chance."
"To do what?" Lieman cried, slowly losing sense in his fingers.
"To sacrifice yourself."
"To what end?" he laughed.
She stepped closer to the edge and spread her arms in the endless darkness. "To end the nightmare."
"No. I... I must have gone crazy. This is not real," Lieman said.
"Did you go crazy before your words caused a riot in a factory? Was it the death of thirty people that drove you mad, or was it this twisted reality? Look at all this. Look at this rot, look at me. If this ship reaches the shore, nothing will stand in his way. He is here, Lie, he is watching."
Lieman clutched the wooden railing and looked back at the ship, which hardly seemed recognizable. The paint and polished floors were replaced by a ghostly image of decay. It looked as if someone had dragged it from the bottom of a filthy ocean and let it float once again.
"How long do we have?" he muttered, once again unable to think in straight lines.
If she had eyes they would have told him enough. But as he turned to the other side he caught a glimpse of a tall man, with a wooden mask instead of a face and a crown in his hand. He was watching.
Lieman jumped over the railing and held onto it as long as he could. He thought of the word that had come to him at dinner. It was something he should have done long before he was stranded in a nightmare of a king.
And then he let it go.
The water was cold and infinitely deep. He caught the glimpse of the ship as the current pulled him away. He saw the people pointing at him and grabbing onto their hats. They seemed strangely normal.
In the last moments, he had a thought, was it he or the world that was mad?