The Voyage of the Unquiet Ice by Andrew McGahan Page A

told. And there was something curious – undefinable, but not quite right – about the proportion of the limbs.
    The attendant positioned the chair just behind the Sea Lord’s throne, and Ibanez, glancing back, gave a slow nod. In that instant Dow understood. The Twelfth Kingdom was a ship, was it not? And every ship must have its scapegoat to protect it. So this must be yet another unfortunate soul, maimed or malformed in some way. True, no other scapegoat in the hall was concealed thus – but the Twelfth Kingdom was the capital ship and the greatest vessel the world had ever seen, would it not therefore demand as its scapegoat the most hideously afflicted of all?
    But now Ibanez lowered himself into his cushioned chair, and with a suppressed sigh the crowd did likewise. A courtier now strode forward on the dais and – in the same voice which had announced the Sea Lord – declared himself to be High Chamberlain to Ibanez, and Chair of the council. He then embarked on a long speech of formal welcome to the kings and other dignitaries.
    Dow quickly grew restless. His gaze roamed the hall and then drifted up the gilded walls until it reached the ceiling, a smoothly vaulted arch high above, decorated with painted images set in bordered panels – epic scenes taken, no doubt, from Ship Kings history. Brave vessels battled giant seas, monsters of tentacles and teeth rose from the deeps to assail hapless mariners, battleships thundered broadsides at other battleships.
    But then Dow looked closer, for one of the central panels showed a man bowed on his knees upon a ship’s deck before an upright regal figure – the latter a Sea Lord, to judge by the wreath upon his head. In the background was a battered ship upon the sea, its sails all torn, its flanks bloodstained and smouldering; a beaten enemy, surrounded by triumphant Ship Kings vessels, a white flag of surrender flying at its mainmast.
    But it was the colour of the beaten ship’s sails that had caught Dow’s eye, for they were not white, nor tan, nor cream – they were grey, a grey so deep as to be almost black. Dow had never seen such a sail on any ship of his limited experience, but he had heard of such sails. They had been raised by his ancestor, Admiral Honous Tombs, and had given the Admiral’s flagship its famous name—the Grey Sail , nemesis of the Ship Kings fleets.
    History seemed to yaw open about Dow as he stared up. To think, eighty years after the final defeat of the New Island fleet, and the capture of the Grey Sail and its famous captain – an event the Ships Kings themselves considered so momentous they had recorded it in their Great Hall – that captain’s sole and secret heir was now guest at their highest council!
    Then Dow was brought abruptly back to the present. The high chamberlain had finished his welcome and was now summoning Captain Vincente. ‘For though other grave matters demand our attention,’ the chamberlain concluded, ‘the captain has requested permission to first make urgent report of events at New Island.’
    A lump of nervousness returned to Dow’s throat as he watched Vincente move forward to stand sturdily in the centre of the great floor, immediately before the Sea Lord’s dais.
    â€˜Most High Sea Lord,’ said Vincente, voice raised but level. ‘Allied Kings and Lords and fellow captains and officers. Hear me. For we now face a threat quite unprecedented in our history.’
    And with that he embarked upon his account of the happenings at Stone Port, from the detonation of the first mine, through the burning of the eight ships and the Stone Port wharves, to the escape of the Chloe out into the channel, and the sighting of the glow in the sky that meant the city of Lonsmouth was also in flames. Murmurs arose around the hall – not of surprise, for much of the tale had already been spread about the fleet that morning or the previous night