FIVE

HENRY NEVER LEARNED to speak Latin, the language of the courts. English was difficult enough for him, accustomed as he was to a simpler mother tongue. But he listened to his keepers’ voices, even when they were not addressing him. These people spoke to each other, they spoke and spoke, about things that had nothing to do with the circumstances at hand. Most of the words in his own language had been warnings or commands: Dangerous tide; Move on; Give me that, or else they had been lessons, navigation chants and hunting methods that everyone recited together. Discussion was far more limited. But Allard and his nurse—Jane Markeley, a name it took him weeks to understand fell into two parts, not a single one, Janemarkeley or Mistressmarkeley—spoke to each other endlessly. They spoke about him. Even when he was doing as he was told they talked and talked, and Henry strained his ears to understand them, though he kept his back averted and rocked to cover his eavesdropping. Jane Markeley and her king—no, her man, her husband, Thomas Markeley—spoke to each other of all sorts of things, people Henry didn’t know, ideas he didn’t understand, places he couldn’t picture. At first he attended mostly to the rhythm of their speech, trying to get the measure of it. Only after growing used to it did he begin to pick up the tone of anxiety in their voices.

He listened to their chatter, even when they were not addressing him. But Latin, he hated. Allard spoke English, Jane Markeley and Thomas Markeley did, even the missing woman, Allard’s wife, who never came to look at him after those early days—could follow those words fine. With Latin came the repetition over and over of a new word, spoken by Allard: “Understand?” It was this word that irritated him beyond endurance. It was hard to say, to begin with: Henry wrestled with the syllables, but they clattered uncomfortably in his mouth. But it was the meaning that bothered him the most, though his grasp of English was still not good enough to explain this to Allard, even had he wished to. It was too hard to separate the two words out. Such a combination, under and stand, could bode nothing but ill. “Stand” was what Jane Markeley said over and over again as she forced the sticks into his reluctant hands, what Allard said as he hauled him to his feet and forced him to practise, risking so many tumbles against the hard floor. “Under” was bad, too; in the sea, hiding beneath a rock might have brought him some privacy to eat without being robbed, but the intractable ceiling of his room had soured his taste for such things. Understand, in Henry’s mind, was a word of imprisonment. To Allard, perhaps, it was a natural thing, accustomed as he was to these dark ceilings, and easy as he was on his straight, quick legs. But to Henry, “understand” meant to take up the posture of a landsman: impossible, and unwelcome. He could see the meanings of words Allard said to him, at least in English, but he didn’t want to understand.

As a result, he made a recalcitrant pupil. Latin was a language Allard insisted he learn, but he could not tell him who it was spoken by; Henry did not know what a court was, and if it was associated with no living tribe, not even a country, Henry refused to abandon English for it. To understand was to submit, and Henry, though dependent on Allard for food, was coming to think that he had less reason to fear than he had thought. Allard might look strange, but the twisted ear or tugged hair he would have expected from a stern deepsman adult never happened. The others obeyed Allard, but with his odd liking for books and his endless repetition of single words, he was, to Henry, eccentric, possibly even stupid. Henry listened when Allard addressed the others, listened to the tension in his voice, and ignored his attempts to teach Henry anything he did not choose to know.

One day Allard sat down with him once again to teach him Latin. Henry sat hunched on a chair, legs tucked under, angry and restless at being expected once again to struggle with the wretched, useless syllables. There was no need to have two words for everything, and Allard’s repeated, “Understand, Henry? Understand?” was almost as maddening as his tight clothes.

Determined to escape, he remembered a well-tried trick from his time in the sea, a quick way of driving off deepsmen when they bothered him too much to bear, when their attacks and harassments threatened to drag him under. Henry looked suddenly at the window, pointed, and shouted a word he had heard spoken with fear: “Soldiers! Soldiers!”

Allard did not flinch. He rose slowly, walked to the window and looked out over the green lawns. Then he turned back to Henry.

“I will not have you lie to me,” he said.

Henry looked at him in terror, understanding something new: his tricks for survival would not work, for these dry people were not stupid like his family. He was smaller than all of them. If they wanted to drag him down, they could do it.

Allard beat slowly, and picked up one of Henry’s sticks, lying abandoned on the floor. Sitting back down, he grabbed Henry by the collar and hauled him over his knee. The stick whistled impossibly fast through the thin air, and Henry shrieked and thrashed. The chair rocked, and Henry twisted under Allard’s hand, flailing his legs. He heard a grunt, and felt the strain in the arm holding him down. With a desperate effort, he pulled himself free and buried his pointed teeth in Allard’s hand.

Allard yelled in pain and Henry turned again, shoving them both onto the floor. He pounded his fist twice into Allard’s face, then spread his webbed hands and covered the mouth and nose, stanching the flow of shouts and commands. Allard struggled up, but Henry’s nails were in his face. Henry gripped.

It was only a few moments before Allard started to weaken. Henry stared, astonished. Hands flapped helplessly around him, losing strength with every second. Henry, who hadn’t paused to breathe in the whole struggle, watched as Allard turned scarlet and stopped fighting, letting the stick lie harmless at his side.

Henry released his grip. He sat astride Allard and spoke into his face. “No Latin,” he said. “Show me a soldier.”

It was this fight, the first of Henry’s life, that changed his world. Allard did not answer his question right away. But the next day he came to Henry’s room and announced some astonishing news: they were going outside. His words were clipped and he stood in the doorway of Henry’s room, not seating himself on the chair, lowering himself to Henry’s eye level. Instead, he loomed above the boy, forcing him to crane his neck to see him. Henry considered rocking and ignoring him to protest this inconvenient stance, or else speaking to Allard’s knees, but when Allard said the word “outside,” he found himself staring at Allard’s face before he thought about it, interest crowding out every other feeling.

“Outside,” Henry agreed, nodding his head in a gesture he had learned from Jane Markeley.

“Listen to me now, Henry,” Allard said. “You will be good when you go outside. You will not shout. You will be very quiet. You will stay by my side.”

“Bad place?” Henry said. These were precautions for places where sharks gathered.

“No, Henry. But you will be quiet.”

A few days ago Henry might have agreed without further question rather than risk provoking Allard, but he had lost his fear of this breathless man. “Why quiet?” he said.

“You will be quiet, or you will not go outside.”

“Will go outside. Why quiet?” Henry refused to lower his eyes. He craned his neck and gave Allard back stare for stare.

Allard looked at him for a long moment. “I do not want anyone to see you.”

“Why?”

“Because, Henry, you are not a king yet.”

“Sub-jets see king man before he be king,” Henry said. The concept would have been very difficult to express in his own language, and his vocabulary was still inadequate to handle such shifts of time, but it was an important point. “King not come from not-know-what-place today, king tomorrow. See king.”

Allard, who had turned away, turned back. He studied his charge again, then sat down. “You are right,” he said. “But you cannot fight a king now. You are too small. And the—” He stopped, frowned, gave Henry a careful look. “Henry. If you were a king, who would you want to be king after you?”

“No man,” Henry said. “Stay king.”

“After you died, Henry. If you had to choose another king.”

“Stay king, not die.” Deepsmen seldom died of old age. Sharks took them, dolphins; they lost fights.

Allard shook his head. “When the king is old, he wants to know who the next king will be.” He said it firmly. “Who would you want to be the king after you?”

Henry gave up on death, which he had no intention of succumbing to, and thought about it. “Deepsman,” he said. “Deepsman king talk to deepsmen, talk to landsman.”

“Yes,” Allard said. “The kings on the land want their sons to be kings after them.”

Henry said nothing. He had never had a father in the sea. He had seen other children’s mothers with the men, taking food from them that they brought to their children, but no man had ever shown much interest in him beyond twisting his ear if he got in the way.

“You are not a king’s son. What would the king do if he knew you were here?”

“King not here.”

“He must not find out,” Allard said. “Or he will send his soldiers.” Henry reached for his staffs and raised himself as tall as he could. His head reached just above Allard’s waist. “Show me outside.”

“You will listen to me first,” Allard said.

“Outside!” Henry raised his voice; landsmen seemed unable to shout as loud as he could, and he’d noticed before that they tended to flinch when he yelled.

Allard did flinch, but he didn’t step away. “You will have another lesson, and then we will go outside,” he said. “You need to understand something.”

Henry bared his teeth: the prospect of more unreasonable demands, when outside had been so close within his grasp, was infuriating. “Outside,” he said.

“You will listen now, or you will not go outside for a month,” Allard said.

Henry snarled again, but behind the snarl, he was dismayed. Allard had kept him inside for so long already; months and months, as far as he could understand the term. Exactly how long a month lasted was still unclear—Allard had told him to watch the moon, but his eyesight still hadn’t cleared well enough to see much beyond a white blob in the sky—but it sounded much too long, and the prospect of another one trapped inside was sickening. He dropped his sticks and sat on the ground with a thump; his head remained defiantly turned away, but he didn’t argue any further.

“There is a word for boys like you,” Allard said. “Bastard. Can you say it?”

The idea of there being a word for him, not just a random name but a useful description caught Henry’s attention. “Bastard.” It wasn’t too difficult to say.

“Good,” Allard said. He looked into the distance for a moment, seeming to gather himself.

“Bastard,” Henry said again, trying to get his attention. He wanted his explanation, and he wanted to go outside.

Allard inhaled, a whistling gulp of air. “Angelica’s children became the royal houses of Europe,” he said. “She had many children. And she found landsmen she wished to favour, and found them deepsmen brides, to have more children, to marry her own.”

“Brides?” That wasn’t a word Henry had heard before; it certainly didn’t sound like anything the deepswomen did.

“Wives.” Two words for one thing was an annoyance Henry was already used to, but he wasn’t pleased to find it applied to his own people. “There have to be children, but brothers and sisters—children with the same mother and father—cannot marry. Their children get ill, come out wrong.”

Henry thought about that. The complexities of adult courtship had been beyond him while he lived in the sea; he’d seen the dances, the woman and man spiralling each other, crooning and trying to impress, but how they’d chosen each other in the first place was not something he’d considered. Now Allard mentioned it, he was right: brothers and sisters did not mate. Deepsmen with too many sisters would sometimes leave the tribe, go and join another.

“Angelica’s children could not marry each other,” Allard said. “She lived a long time. The Venetians did not want her children to be princes in other countries: they did not want princes in other nations who could challenge them. But Angelica made it happen. When Venice would not agree, she went into the sea for two months and would not come back. She said that nations could have her children and grandchildren, that she would see to the breeding of deepsmen kings, if they would submit themselves to the Venetian Empire. That the Empire would be ruled by brothers, and would be strong. But that this was her will, and if her people would not submit to it, she would not protect them. She went away, and when she came back, the Venetians agreed. And she was right. She built a great empire, and while she was alive, it held together. Angelica was an extraordinary queen, there has never been a queen like her. But after she was dead, there were wars.”

“No.” Henry did not know how to express the feeling, but the idea of Angelica being dead rather upset him. She had sounded strong, victorious. Death, as Henry had witnessed it, was a matter of defeat; strong deepsmen stayed alive.

“There were wars, Henry. Angelica had favoured her most loyal men, chosen them to go out into the canals and—and marry with deepswomen. Their children married her children, those children were kings. But when she was gone, there was no one to choose who would have deepsmen brides and who would not. Men fought for the right, tried to take brides in secret, would not accept children born to the wrong men. There was no order without Angelica, and men killed each other, sent assassins and held battles. Nobles fought for the right to decide who would have deepsmen children and who would not, and they sent soldiers, battles on land, where the deepsmen could not help. The world grew dark, it was a terrible time.”

This was harder to follow: landsmen tended to care about strange things, so following why they’d be angry was an uncertain business. It sounded like a power struggle, but back home such fights only happened with children that already existed. A mother might lash out at another tribeswoman who threatened her baby; fighting over children not yet born was bewildering. Possibly Allard was talking about mating fights, but the idea seemed strange: what was the point of landsmen having mating fights over deepswomen, fighting on land where the deepswomen couldn’t see them? Such a man was likely to find himself with an unconvinced mate, Henry considered, and would have endangered himself for nothing.

“What bastard?” he said, returning to the important point.

“I am coming to that, Henry,” Allard said. “After too many wars, the Venetian Empire started to fall. China went its own way, the Arab princes made treaties with their own tribes of deepsmen to protect their traders and would not have to do with Europe any more. We could not stay allied with pagans, not stay at peace with them. Christendom and the heathens—could not treat together. There were wars, wars between the faiths. We have been apart from them for centuries, we are only enemies now. But they—they do not have as many seas between them and their rivals as we do. We needed deepsmen kings. Christendom did. Europe was alone again. Europe made a law that no landsman could—marry a deepswoman. The kings we have now, they are all the children of that first century, all from Angelica’s time. A landsman is not allowed to marry a deepswoman. But those children—they were born hundreds of years ago. They—they married each other. They are too close to all being brothers and sisters now. Their children are not always strong.”

“So, Henry fight them, be king.” The news seemed good; it was hard to see why Allard appeared so uncomfortable saying it.

“That is the point, Henry. Sometimes—your father must have been a landsman. Nowadays, nobles do not try to take deepswomen brides. The women swim away, take their babies with them. But we have sailors, Henry, men who are on ships, on the sea for many months. Sometimes, they go into the water with the deepswomen. It is not allowed, but sometimes it happens. Then there is a child like you. A bastard. Understand, Henry, you have the body of a king, but not a king’s parents.”

“So, fight king.” Henry still didn’t see the problem.

“It is not allowed, Henry. A king wants his own children to be kings after him, not a bastard.”

Henry’s heart sank. Landsmen were already proving implacable; since he’d been on land, Henry had yet to gain a single thing, beyond salt, that he really wanted. If the king’s people were anything to go by, there was no hope. Perhaps he’d spend all his life stuck in this stupid room.

“There have been bastard kings, Henry,” Allard said.

Henry perked up.

“But not many. They must fight for the throne. Understand, no king wants a bastard trying to take the throne from his children. But if a bastard can get a throne and keep it, then in five years, everyone will want to marry him, marry his children. He will be healthy, you see.”

“Bastard king now?” Henry said. Perhaps if there was one already present, he might be inclined to help them.

“The last one was in France, a hundred years ago. Jean le Bâtard. He was very strong. There was a great war. But now the king of France is healthy, and has three sons. Jean’s children married many princes. The queen of England, even, is his great-granddaughter. That is why she is strong.”

A hundred years was too long to think about, but Henry gathered that this Jean le Bâtard had gone. The idea that you might vanish even if you were strong was new, and horrifying.

“Do you understand, Henry?”

Henry twitched. That word again. He didn’t want to understand. He saw well enough what Allard was talking about. This was a leadership battle. No one welcomed a stranger, but if the stranger proved strong enough to win, everyone would want his protection. It seemed simple enough. He didn’t see why Allard was so nervous talking about it. “Henry not fight king till big and strong. King not want bastard. Yes.”

Allard took a breath, and nodded. “That is it, Henry. So you must be quiet, and careful.”

“Outside.” Henry’s voice was peremptory. He had listened, and put up with Allard talking about the strong dying. Allard had talked so much that Henry felt sticky, covered in words. He wanted something new, something he could see and touch, to wash them away.

“You will be quiet,” Allard said again.

Henry braced himself on his sticks. “Henry heard you.”

Going outside required a journey Henry had never made before. His room was high up, and to get down, there were steps. Henry remembered the jolts as Allard had carried him up them, and now he stood at the top, facing straight-edged stone after straight-edged grey stone.

“Use your staffs,” Allard said.

Henry looked down. The distance would have been a few seconds’ worth of swimming, but he had learned to be wary of heights.

Allard reached out and took Henry’s hand, placing one of the sticks on the first step down. The movement tugged Henry out of balance; his legs could flex and adjust, but they were still ill-adapted to carrying him upright. Henry snatched his hand away, dropping the stick and leaving it to rattle down the stairs. He fixed Allard with an aggressive glare, then dropped the other stick, leaving it to follow its partner down and sat, slithering one leg after another over the sharp stone ledges. His skin scraped and bruised as he descended, but he did not fall.

The chambers he passed through to get to the door were large, but to Henry they still seemed confining: walls on all sides, ceilings, straight-sided furniture, and no better than the chamber he was used to. It was only when Allard opened the door and dazzling light flooded his eyes that the world changed.

Light was different under the sea: grey shafts wavering at the surface, or a blue haze above that shaded down to nothing beneath. In the few moments of surfacing to breathe, there was nothing more than a quick flash, half-blinding him while he filled his lungs. But here the light had heat, the sun shone from above, and where it fell on his pallid skin, it warmed. And the fields of green stretched on and on, further than he could have seen under water, into what Allard described as “forests,” a stiff, huge gathering of plants that grew straight up, hardly moving—but then a gust of wind passed, stroking cool air over his skin, and the forest swayed, a great rustling roar unlike anything he had ever heard filling the air. The wind continued, and Henry stood, marvelling at this new thing: a current that parted around you, caressed your flesh and gave way to your solidity, not pulling you along, but whispering by. The air was weak: it carried none of his weight, gave him no help in bearing himself up or transporting himself through it, but neither could it drag him with it. It gave way before him.

That first day, Allard stood by while Henry played in the grass. He made no attempt to stop the boy as he pulled off his clothes and rolled naked on the cool, damp ground, pressing his nose to the earth and inhaling the scent, unfamiliar but pleasant, free from the rank red undertone of so many things he encountered inside, unwashed clothes and cooked meat, the flesh of landsmen and the air of closed rooms. Henry said nothing, but tumbled on the earth, happily stretching out his limbs, while Allard stood over him and scanned the horizon with anxious, watchful eyes.