Bloodrush (Scarlet Star Trilogy #1)

Chapter 3 - The Endless Land

"It's been three days now, since I left. Sift must be furious. There's no going back now. The soldiers keep on coming, spreading wider. Killed two yesterday but now the sewers are crawling with them, which means I'll have to go over, through the streets. Damn if this isn't heavy."

April 30th - 1867

It was a Tuesday morning when the ship's horn shook the walls of their tiny cabin, when their sanctuary came crumbling down. The Tamarassie had reached Boston safe and sound, but the harbour was busier than a brothel on payday. Or so Rhin had said, on looking out of the grimy porthole. Merion did not know enough to comment.

Now the faerie was crouching under the lip of the trusty rucksack, eying the towers and cranes of Boston's sprawling port. It yawned like the maw of some giant stag beetle, and between its jaws, a horde of ships and fractured islands jostled for space. A forest of masts and spars. If Rhin squinted, his keen Fae eyes could make out the clocktowers and balloon docks of the city proper, lurking in the thick sea-fog that clung to the shoreline.

Merion was squinting too, but not because he wanted to sightsee, but because the rain seemed to be pursuing a vendetta against his eyes. It was that horrid fine; the kind that soaks you to the bone in minutes. Merion had been standing on deck for the past hour, watching America crawl out of the fog to greet them, piece by jagged and sea-washed piece.

Boston looked like London from the water, but flatter, as though somebody had flattened the whole city with the back of a colossal frying pan. Its buildings, for what few of them he could see through the confounded, blinding drizzle and sea-fog were squat and wood-built. At least by the docks they were. When he blinked, he spied a few lonely towers here and there, in the far distance, but nothing so special as the spires of his home. He felt cold on the inside, and the rain had nought to do with it.

'Boston,' he muttered.

'Looks... delightful,' Rhin replied, in a whisper.

'An admiral once told me the only port worth taking the time to ogle at from the water was that of Venezia. Before the sea swallowed it, of course,' Merion said, not knowing where that little scrap of nonsense had bubbled up from. 'And I also remember my father saying something about the docks being the arse-hole of a city. Besides, we aren't staying.'

'Eloquent, that Prime Lord,' Rhin chuckled, then immediately winced. He could even feel Merion's body shift a little, through the straps of the pack. Strangely the boy didn't sag, as he'd expected, but somehow stiffened. Rhin bit his lip. 'Sorry. Too soon,' he said. 'You okay?'

Merion nodded. 'Just fine.'

Rhin knew that was a lie, but he didn't push the matter. Melancholy crumbles, and anger snaps. He knew that better than anyone. 'Well,' he said, 'that arse-hole better pucker up for our arrival.'

'If we ever get to the wharf, that is,' replied the boy.

Merion was right. There was a long, winding queue of ships between the bow of the Tamarassie and the wharfs of Boston's inner harbour. They jostled like rats in a barrel. Merion scowled and pouted, and stuffed his gloved hands deeper into his pockets, trying to dig out some warmth. 'What a foul welcome this is.'

It was then that a familiar voice rang out. 'Hey, son! There he is. C'mere!'

It was the old American woman, swaddled in an over-sized sealskin coat, with a hood big enough for her head and some extra luggage. She was marching towards him across the slimy deck, bending her hand to him repeatedly.

Merion prodded himself with his own finger. 'Madam?'

'Don't worry about ma'am-ing me, now. C'mon. We're getting off.'