Tales from the Grey Void

Though Amsterdam’s transformation had begun several years after the completion of the sky-docks at Canning Town, Dutch industry and a deep-seated love of trade—dyed in the wool of their culture like so much pus in the face-flannel of a leper—had ensured the docks at Amsterdam were, if not equal to their London counterparts, then at least a close rival. It is one of life’s strange coincidences that both were built upon the silty ground of a region that was technically below sea-level, as if both places were attempting to make up for some geographical shortcoming—a kind of short-man syndrome, infecting the psychic tissue of these rarefied loci with a need to build big and build high.

“A good haul for a first leg,” said Pitt, waving on the last of the crates as they were lifted from the Cat’s deck by crane. “I expect the captain’s in a rare mood?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I haven’t seen him since we docked.”

“So I shouldn’t risk asking him for a better share?”

“You should only risk what you’re willing to lose, Pitt,” I said. “And personally, I don’t think destitution would suit you.”

“I’ve been destitute, Bart,” he said. “And I believe you have as well.”

“And it didn’t suit me,” I replied.

Taking a catch to market is one of the profession’s great pleasures—and for a man of my temperament, preferring in the main the logistical gymnastics and organisational hurdles of its mercantile aspects, it is possibly its greatest. Not for nothing was I often referred to as the “quartermaster”—an appellation doubtless intended as a slight on my character, but one which I wore with pride and did nothing to dissuade.

The auction house of the Amsterdam sky-docks was modelled after the Vleeshal of Haarlem in the Dutch baroque style, though its footprint was substantially larger. Stood atop its arched pillars of red brick and white limestone, the Kuiphal had a singular majesty that made the market of Canning Town, and even that of Helsinki—Art Nouveau Mecca of sink-fishers—look parochial by comparison. As a temple of commerce in these strange times it had no equal—and, ironically, it was this that would be its undoing. As I have touched upon previously, the days of which I speak with such wistful nostalgia were short-lived—relative to the counting of our species—and when the skies were at last swept clear by the trawlers and our industry brought to an end, it was Amsterdam that suffered most, for the Dutch had spared no expense in their attempt to become merchant kings of the sink and tub trade. In the end, the dismantling of the sky-docks at Amsterdam bankrupted the Netherlands and that once great city has since fallen into ruin and squalor—a sprawling ghetto of cut-throats, blackguards and prostitutes, more dangerous than any Bahian favela, more deadly even than the Orangi of Karachi and fouler smelling than Sheik’s nightclub, Bognor Regis, in the days before the opening of the Grey Void—though, to hear tell, Fishnarok has done nothing to improve its odour.

Here and now, however, there was no such dereliction, for this was the Kuiphal’s heyday and the sky-docks of Amsterdam were alive with a thousand tramping feet. Inside the market the air was heavy with the scent of bleach and other cleaning products, for it was the practice of all good hunters, big and small, to scour their wares before bringing them to auction. Our own journey from the hunting grounds had concluded in the same way, with each hand burnishing taps and pipework, and scrubbing out watermarks with soft sponges and brushes until our catch gleamed in the milky morning light of the Low Countries like a cluster of semi-precious stones.

“What are the captain’s instructions?” said Stirling, for he was to accompany me to the market and assist in the auction—a ceremonial role, to be sure, as my authority as first mate was unimpeachable and Cruikshank’s trust in me, unwavering.

“Take whatever price we can,” I said.

Stirling looked at me sidelong.

“And the reserve prices?” he said.

“He hasn’t provided any.”

Stirling frowned.

“You’re taking the piss, surely?”

I shook my head.

“The captain doesn’t anticipate a long stay-over,” I said. “He wants to be up and flying again as soon as possible.”

“Wanting to get back to the fray is one thing, but what’s the point if we give away our catch for next to nothing?”

“Those are his instructions,” I said.

“What about our profits?” said Stirling, growing irritable. “What about the crew’s share?”

I shrugged.

“I’m not sure Cruikshank is overly concerned by profits and shares,” I replied.

We were walking along the access wharf that ran perpendicular to the Kuiphal—a heavily reinforced section of boardwalk, designed to bear the weight of the cargo haulers that supplied the market—when Stirling grabbed me by the arm and forced me round to face him.

“Just what the hell is he playing at?” he said.

Stirling was, by and large, a calm, mild-mannered man, but like all in our profession, he was given to sudden fits of anger. In truth, I do not know why sink-fishing and tub-hunting attracted such mercurial individuals—whether it was the nature of the profession that chose us, or whether it was our natures that drew us to the profession; the gravities at work eluded me then and still do now—but there resided in each of our hearts a restless beast; a fragmentary vestige of the people we had been before the opening of the Grey Void.

Behind us, the hauler came to a halt and the ceaseless clacking of its hundred or so whipcord legs fell silent—the entire assembly, like the hairs on a brush, froze, mid-locomotion.

“You should ask him yourself,” I said. “And it should go without saying that I have no intention of ‘giving away’ our catch.”

With that, I tore my arm from Stirling’s grasp and waved the hauler forwards.

Stirling hesitated a moment and then fell in beside me once more.

“I don’t like this, Bart,” he said, lowering his voice as we approached the trade entrance of the Kuiphal, where the hands congregated while their superiors handled sales—though it was still early in the day, twenty or so individuals were already gathered beneath the vaulted ceiling of the loading bay, smoking and swapping scrimshaw and stories. “You know something, don’t you?”

“Only a little more than you.”

“A little more than nothing is a lot.”

“Nothing, is it?” I said, and it was my turn to grow irritable. “You know our captain, you know his heart almost as well as I, you know our destination, even if you have not yet pieced together the purpose of our voyage—you know far more than you realise, Jacob, you have only to think and you will have your answer.”

Stirling thought—realisation dawned and his eyes widened.

“You can’t mean…?”

I put a finger to my lips and looked pointedly at a cluster of hands gathered around an empty crate nearby—though they seemed preoccupied with their card game, the eyes of those closest to us flitted from the cards in their hand to our group and back again. Though the market’s chief trade was in tubs and sinks, knowledge also commanded a fair price for those with the subtlety of mind to gather it—captains were forever trying to predict the movements of their quarry and any information about new hunting grounds was highly prized, not least of all those visited by such an auspicious individual as Captain Harvey Cruikshank.

“We will speak with the captain when we return,” I said.

***

“Got some rare good pieces,” said Pitt, laying out his newest acquisitions on the table of the officer’s mess aboard the Catuvellauni.

Stubs of copper pipe, lone taps and fragments of porcelain gleamed from the velvet wrap Pitt had carried them in, and all were carved with delicate lines in the likenesses of tubs or sinks or airships.

“This here’s for the captain,” Pitt continued, pointing to a length of pipe engraved with a detailed sketch of an airship. “Recognise it?”

I peered down at the engraving—despite the sober occasion, I found myself smiling.

“The Prometheus?” I said.

Pitt nodded enthusiastically.

“Got it off a French gent ‘sailed out of Strasbourg—good likeness, isn’t it?”

“Singular,” I said. “Jacob, did you ever sail on the Prometheus?”

“Once,” said Stirling. “In the spring of ‘27.”

“Not under Cruikshank, then,” I said.

“No, it was commissioned by Captain Daniel Marshall that year—a shit-awful captain if ever there was one.”

“Daniel ‘Make a Mess of It’ Marshall?” said Pitt.

“The very same,” Stirling replied. “I don’t think there was a single tub we brought in that voyage that hadn’t been beaten to hell and back—when we docked at the Barcelona market that autumn, there were more fragments in the hold than whole tubs. In fact, I’d bet anything that piece in your hand was made on the very same voyage—I think the hands made more slinging their scrimshaw than we ever did from the auctions.”

“If I were a dishonest man, I’d take that bet,” I said.

“Oh?” said Stirling.

“I know who made it,” I said. “And it wasn’t in the spring of ‘27. See the initials? A.W.? That’s Ant Wilson—I’d know that chicken-scratch anywhere. Great hand when it came to forms and figures, but my god, he made letters like a three year old with a crayon.”

“Ant Wilson, truly?” said Pitt.

“Who?” said Stirling.

“Best harpoon I’ve ever seen,” said Pitt. “Wouldn’t know it to look at him, mind—small bloke, scrawny even, if you were being unkind, but I saw that man thread the needle at a hundred yards. It must have been late in ‘26—I was cox’n for the first mate aboard the Valentino at the time. There was this gorgeous jacuzzi fleeing westward—with the wind—and we weren’t gaining an inch on it. Old Nico Astori was getting impatient—as was his way. He’s about to turn the Walthari around and go hunting for some easier game when up pops Ant with his harpoon. Ant steps up to the prow, without some much as a by-your-leave, takes aim and throws his stick as hard as he can. I thought Astori was going to kick Ant overboard, the look he gave him, but a moment later, the tow-line’s taught as a bow-string and we’re reeling in the best catch of the season. You would have needed a pair of binoculars to see that throw land—it was a thing of beauty. Astori seemed to think so too—once we’d reeled her in, he was all over poor Ant like a rash, hugging him and kissing the top of his head; ‘bravo ragazzo, fantastico’ he was saying, over and over again—I thought Ant was going to die of embarrassment, he was so red in the face.”

“It wasn’t embarrassment that killed Ant Wilson,” I said.

“No, well, the less said about that, the better,” said Pitt.

“What happened to him?” said Stirling.

“He was first harpoon to Cruikshank aboard the Uranus last year,” I replied.

That was all the explanation required—all who knew of Cruikshank and his exploits knew the story of that ill-fated voyage.

“Where are Claude and Hailey?” I said, breaking the frosty silence that had formed in the aftermath of my words. “They should be here for this.”

“Still ashore,” said Pitt. “Where exactly, I couldn’t tell you—Hal Brady says he saw them heading into one of the cafés together on the second level a few hours ago but they could be anywhere by now.”

“Damned fool,” I said.

“Which one?” said Stirling.

“Claude,” I said. “But both of them have their moments. That was rough work from Hailey on the way here—very rough. No subtlety.”

“You’re just sore she won the captain’s bottle,” said Stirling.

“Perhaps,” I conceded. “Truth be told, I thought Claude might… But no matter—our captain’s priorities are not as they once were, as we know.”

“You thought he might reward Claude for his discerning tastes, is that it?” said Stirling.

“His catch was the most valuable, as we saw today at market—fetched a higher price than my own, even,” I replied. “He has the eye for it—that used to mean something.”

“And that is why we’re here,” said Stirling. “That is why we must talk to Cruikshank.”

“You’re wrong if you think you’ll make him change his mind,” I said. “All I want is for him to tell you the truth—for you both to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

“And what truth would that be?”

We turned as one to find Captain Cruikshank stood in the doorway, his bionic leg caressing the timber door jamb like a thumb caressing the spine of a freshly honed knife.