Strange Noises Fiction by Rachel Greenham

A quick heliograph conversation with the deck supervisor on Master Gerat’s xebec tells me Lotan hasn’t gone ashore, so I go below to change into something more formal and pick up my bow and quiver and my never-go-ashore-without pack, because I know I’ll want to see Sam afterwards, and wander down to the jetty deck to take one of the two remaining little dinghies.

The small inshore dinghies are usually carried semi-disassembled in the hold, but as we’re spending a few days on rest, shore-leave and inter-vessel business, they were all brought out and reassembled and spend what time they’re not in use tied around the stern and the temporary ‘jetty deck’ that’s been extended for the duration of our stay in this natural harbour.

This dinghy is similar to the one Ateis and I took around the reefs the day before. That one was the smallest we have, barely large enough for the two of us and clearly designed with children in mind. Its hull was carved and painted in the style of a pink blossom petal floating on the water, with the lateen sail, when unfurled, revealed to be its pair. It was tiny and nippy and could turn like a coracle and it was almost stupidly good fun.

This one is a bit larger, with maybe room for three adults. The hull is styled like a leaf and the lateen sail like a moth’s wing. All the Satthei’s boats are like this; conventional craft of wood and canvas, but styled after things found in nature, in contrast to the generally utilitarian-looking human craft.

I don’t want to talk to Lotan. It’s still tempting to just say sod it and go and explore the reefs, as Fareis said. Be the child, unready for responsibility, and wait for problems like this to die of old age. I’d like to say it’s an elvish way of doing things, but if it was I don’t suppose Fareis would be making me do this.

So I cross the distance to the xebec. I have to do it on the bad tack, which about suits my mood. The little boat has a lateen rig, which is to say it has a long yardarm mounted off-centre and at an angle on the mast, one end pointing down towards the bow, the other lifting high above the top of the mast itself. The triangular sail hangs from this yardarm with the third corner above my head and controlled by a line. There’s no boom, which makes it easier to move about on deck or in the cockpit underneath. One downside is that it has a good tack and a bad tack; the bad tack, as now, being when the wind is blowing the sail against the mast rather than away from it. It just means the sail area forward of the mast is basically wasted.

I reach the xebec and climb aboard, and the deck super sends me belowdecks to where I’m most likely to find Lotan: On his bunk, in the cabin he shares with three other guys. There is only one other cabin on board like it, and what I suppose would be called officers’ quarters. It’s a small ship, and I can immediately see that even one person on board with a bad attitude could turn into a problem.

I find the cabin and stop in the doorway, momentarily forgetting what I’d planned to say at the sight of Lotan, lying on a bunk either asleep or just staring at the ceiling. The room smells of maleness. It’s a changing-room kind of smell, and it makes me want to turn around and run. It’s a smell that reminds me of bad things.

“What do you want?” he asks, without moving. Then he does move his head fractionally and sees me. “Oh, it’s you,” he says in English.

“You’ve grown a beard,” I say. Those were so not going to be my first words to him after all this time.

“I’m so glad you’re here to tell me these things,” he continues, insisting on English. “What do you want?” he asks again, returning to lying flat on his back.

“I don’t want anything. The Satthei sent me.”

“Ah. She wants her new toy to decide what to do with me.”

I ignore the gibe. “Not decide. Just report back.” He doesn’t say anything. “Lotan—”

“That’s not my name, Paul.”

I can’t prevent a twitch in the corner of my mouth, but he’s not looking at me anyway. “Oh I’m sorry,” I say, feeling a little catty, “you’re still listed as Lotan on the ship’s register. If you feel strongly about it, you can get that changed.”

He doesn’t answer.

“It’s stifling down here,” I comment. “I’m going on deck. I’ll see you there in five minutes.”

“I don’t have a watch,” he says.

“One Mississippi, two Mississippi,” I reply sarcastically. I turn and leave him there, still counting, “three Mississippi…”