Interlude - Keat's First Kill

Hemlock and Tigerlily run through smoky corridors.  Their uncle is dead, the manor-house is burning and men with long knives and covered faces stalk the corridors.  The assassin seems to step out of nowhere, an extrusion of shadow.  Tigerlily screams.

 

‘Keats, wake up.  Keats!’

Cortez punches Keats on the arm, not hard since he has to reach from his infirmary bed.
‘You were making weird noises.’

Keats looks around the room in a moment of panic.  He’s curled up in a metal chair in the ship’s infirmary.  He is thirteen, barefoot, and wearing a handed-down overall that hangs loose on him.  There was one that fitted better, but he insisted on black.

Cortez resettles himself, wincing, ‘What were you dreaming?’

Keats shrugs.

‘You are full of secrets.  One day, I will find out where you come from.  You are clever, I think: you know how to fascinate the ladies.  Maria and Lenore, they think you are mysterious, a hurt puzzle for them to unlock and heal.’

Keats scowls and looks up at his friend.  Cortez’s leg is in a brace, his ribs bound, his head bandaged and his skin mottled with bruises.  Keats feels he should say something, but seeing Cortez so hurt fills him with a fury he doesn’t understand, so fierce that he dare not speak for fear of tears.  Keats just shakes his head.

‘You know, you are very poor sick-bed company,’ but Cortez is grinning.

‘That’s real sweet,’ Louis looms in the doorway.  He’s two years older than Keats, broad-shouldered and already shaves, ‘Smiler and Skulk.  Skulk’s still hanging around you, eh, Smiler?  Is he your boyfriend?’ he pauses, cupping a hand to his ear, ‘What, no smart comeback?’

Cortez says nothing.  Keats, glancing back, sees he is afraid.  Cortez is never afraid!  Keats feels sick; his mouth tastes bitter.

‘Question my business practices again,’ Louis snarls, ‘and it’ll go a lot worse.’

Louis’ footsteps echo in the corridor, receding.  Cortez starts saying something, but Keats doesn’t hear it.  After count of twenty, Keats uncoils from the chair and pads out of the infirmary.

 

Keats dislikes changing ships: a loss of home, people he doesn’t know.  Cortez and Keats joined the Quinotaur six months ago: a bulk freighter, whose captain left his apprentices to manage cargo handling, loosely overseen and taught by the mates.  He let them self-organise, a microcosm of brutal market forces, a crucible to forge leaders and sort wheat from chaff.  Gang warfare.

Louis beat one gang into line; Cortez led the other.  Keats sometimes spied, hiding in the dark.  When seen he fled through cargo webbing and ducts, too fast to catch.  Keats spotted Louis stealing from the cargo.  Cortez bargained with Louis, using the crime as leverage.  Louis and his gang put Cortez in the infirmary; Keats wasn’t hurt so badly.

 

Keats creeps back into the infirmary.  Cortez is sleeping.  Keats washes his hands in the sink: they shake.  He has a black eye, and holds one arm awkwardly.  He dries his hands, unwraps the scarf from around his face, and curls up in the chair.  Eventually, he falls asleep at Cortez’s side.

 

‘Cortez.’

‘Yes, captain?’ propped up on pillows, Cortez tries to sit upright.  He sets down his book.  Keats doesn’t stir, still breathing gently, his black eye turned away from the door.

‘You seen Louis today?’ Captain Clovis leans in the doorway.
‘He stood where you stand now, sir, but he was much worse company.’
Clovis regards Cortez levelly, ‘We found him knifed-up and leaking.’
Cortez glances at the infirmary’s other bed, ‘You inspire me to heal faster, sir.  If we must be room-mates, it will be for as little time as possible.’
‘They cut his throat.’
‘Oh,’ shocked, Cortez is silent a moment, then, ‘Well, it was not me, sir.  I am not very mobile.’
‘What about your boy?’ Clovis nods to Keats.
‘He has been here, sir.  His conversation is poor, but he is good company.  A dispute with the crew, perhaps?’ Cortez shrugs, ‘There was a rumour that Louis stole from the cargo.  But it is just a rumour, and I should not speak ill of the dead.’

Captain Clovis stares at Cortez awhile, drumming fingers on one arm.  He grunts, nods, then walks away.  Once his footsteps have receded, Cortez stares down at Keats, but Keats is deep asleep.

 

Hemlock and Tigerlily run through smoky corridors.  Their uncle is dead, the manor-house is burning and men with long knives and covered faces stalk the corridors.  Keats watches his child-self approaching, loosely aware this must be a dream.  He steps out of the dark, an extrusion of shadow.  Tigerlily screams when he cuts Hemlock’s throat, but when Keats turns to her, she holds his gaze calmly.  Keats kills her.

 

When Keats wakes, the dream leaves him not so much disturbed as terribly sad.  But the feeling of loss fades, and Keats does not dream of the attack on the manor-house again, not for a very long time.