In Great Waters by Kit Whitfield Read Free Book Online Page A

tale over and over, passing the boy titbits, giving him unwelcome pats, seeing no sign in the child’s still expression of the idea that possessed him: a ravaged body, head cracked with a rock, falling through the air, not even with the slow inevitability of a slain deepsman, but with a swift crash to the shattering ground below. A vague notion occupied Henry that someone might take his crown away, though, and he was determined not to have that happen. He had lost too many things in his life to relinquish it.
    In the ninth century of our Lord, hundreds of years ago, Allardexplained, the great city of Venice was finding its strength. “Century” and “our Lord” were lost on Henry, but he gathered that the story happened a long time ago, before living memory, many generations back. “City” meant little either, but Allard described a place of land and sea both, of islands and waterways, where the solid ground was parted and split by the flowing ocean.
    “Go there,” Henry said at once. He could get around in such a place much better; he could break his sticks and swim.
    “Venice is far away, Henry.”
    “Go there.”
    “Venice is not in England. We cannot live there, we would not be welcome.”
    “Far?”
    “Many miles. Many weeks to travel.”
    This did not sound so bad to Henry; the entrapment in a single place worried him as much as the coming winter. How could they continue to eat if they did not move on? Existence in the sea had been an endless search, and weeks of swimming were part of life.
    “Go,” Henry said. He did not really expect Allard to take him to Venice—unless Henry was asking for food, Allard never granted a request—but he was tired to death of his room.
    “Some day, perhaps, Henry. When you are ready.”
    Henry felt ready; if he could only have had more to eat and knowledge of the way, he would have set out for Venice that moment. Allard was staring at him, though, not giving anything, not troubled by the cold or the confinement, so Henry gave up and asked for another piece of fish.
    People had come to Venice, Allard explained, because they were unhappy in other lands. They wanted to rule themselves. But they were still subject to Constantinople, a place Henry could not understand any descriptions of. Venice a strong city, living on fish, harvesting salt, selling it to people who came to buy it. The word “salt” Henry did not recognise, until Allard produced some for him, a little pile of sand, startlingly white in a bowl. Henry made nothing of it until he tasted it, but when he did, he stopped dead, rocking himself to avoidspeaking to Allard, his mouth filled with taste of home. The boy refused to listen to any more of Allard’s story until he had finished the bowl, licking out its curves with a dark, tough tongue before turning to Allard and saying, “Salt an fish.”
    “You want salt with your fish?”
    “Yes.” Henry spoke imperiously; salt was too important to be denied.
    “Very well, if you are a good boy, you shall have salt.” Allard had added another bribe to Henry’s attention, but a punishment too: on the days when Henry did not listen, when he rocked too much or tugged between his legs or showed his teeth to the nurse, fish would arrive without salt, dull grey and tasteless.
    The people of Venice were happy there, Allard said. They lived well, even though Constantinople ruled them. Then one day, the people of the sea came.
    Down the canals they swam, around the islands, turning and diving in the brown water. The Venetians had never seen such a sight. Some had seen deepsmen before, yes, riding the waves as the prows of ships cleft the water, but for most of the landsmen, the deepsmen were entirely unfamiliar.
    “Ship?” said Henry.
    “Yes,” Allard said, and produced a model. He waved it before the boy’s eyes, making it dance as if bobbing on a wave. Seeing the boy’s blank face, Allard stopped and handed him the toy. Henry sniffed at it, tasted the edges,