Sticking a harpoon into it would not be easy. Only himself and elder crew would be able to accomplish that, as it would be equivalent to ramming a knitting needle into a tree, and about as effective. So what to do? As far as he knew, only large heirodonts were capable of killing a giant whelk, and they were massive creatures with mandibles capable of crushing rocks. Be nice to have one of them on his side, but they spent as much time as possible down deep where the leeches were not so thick, only ever coming up for air. And when one did that, and any Captain spotted it, he would quickly take his ship out of the vicinity. There were no stories of heirodonts sinking ships, but maybe that was only because no one had survived to tell such a story. No, that was a fancy, and he still had to find a way.

The function of the ship’s harpoons, of course, was not to kill but to harpoon. Ambel stared into the darkness and reflected on an old old story about another kind of giant.

A kilometre behind the Treader, the giant whelk experienced a bowel-loosening moment which clouded the water sufficiently for her to jet out of the attacking heirodont’s path. The great creature cruised on with leisurely insouciance, utterly aware that the whelk had no convenient rocks to which it could cling. In panic the whelk released gas from her shell and began to sink, but the bottom was a long way down and there was no guarantee there would be stone there to which she could cling. She spread her harder tentacles out towards the heirodont and tried to draw as much of the rest of herself as possible into her shell. It was hopeless. By extending her tentacles she was only offering the predator a starter to munch on. Then she saw a wisp of something cutting starlit lines across her vision. The line from the ship, its hook still jammed into one of her tentacles. It was strong in a way that nothing else in the sea was, she realized, since it had managed to cut into her flesh. Perhaps it could equally cut into the flesh of a heirodont? She caught the end of the line and wrapped it about another tentacle, stretching ten metres of the stuff horizontally before her.

The heirodont circled twice, lazily flicking its tail to change course. It sighed contentedly as, deeper now, leeches began to detach from its body. Rolling its head from side to side, as if to ease a crick in its short and powerful neck, it began grating its mandibles together—a sound sure to strike terror into the heart of any sea creature large enough to be lunch. Then it turned and headed directly towards the whelk.

The whelk kept the line on target, just below the predator’s eyes. The heirodont opened its mandibles wide, the black bony plates in its mouth clashing together like a row of sliding doors. It hit the line and suddenly the whelk was hurtling backwards through the sea, mandibles clashing only twenty metres away from her. Then she was rising.

The heirodont shook its massive head, a trail of juices oozing from where the line cut in. The whelk rode up over its head and then bounced down the length of its back, getting cracked once by the huge tail on its way past. She spun, spread her skirt to stabilize herself. The heirodont turned hard and circled round again. The whelk eyed her tentacle where the line had bitten in but not cut through, unwrapped that length of line and shifted it to undamaged flesh, and held the rest of the line out again. The heirodont drew close once more, then abruptly turned away. The whelk felt new terror; it had spotted the line. Now began a long and horrible duel: feint upon feint, attacks defeated, the heirodont increasingly maddened by the deep cuts to its head. But the whelk was learning, and soon began to see a way.

The fifth attack, from above, went much the same as before. The line cut in below the heirodont’s mandibles. As it shook its head, the whelk swung round to fall past the side of the head, only this time she reached out with her other tentacles to grasp the heirodont’s hard armoured breast. This was something utterly new to the predator: whelks normally wanted to get away as fast as possible, not cling on. It accelerated, flicking its tail hard from side to side, and rolling to try to shake off the unwanted passenger. Using all the strength in her tentacles the whelk began hauling herself up and round. Behind the heirodont’s head, she gripped hard and sucked down. Now the heirodont was panicking. The whelk uncoiled one end of the line, flung it around her attacker’s neck, finally managed to snag it on the other side. Again coiling the line around her tentacle, she drew it taut around the beast’s throat, then began to pull.

The heirodont suddenly stopped shaking itself and headed for the surface. Hundreds of tonnes of heirodont, plus many tonnes of whelk, rose high into the night. The enormous tail thrashed the waves for a second, then the two crashed down again. But the whelk did not lose her grip.

Aboard the ship, only a few hundred metres away, Captain Ambel gripped the Trader’s rail as the wave hit. He was the oldest of Old Captains, and thought he’d seen all this ocean had to offer.

‘Fuck me sideways,’ he muttered.

A low boom reverberated through the ship and Janer stumbled aside as the floor tilted, and caught himself against a rack of dowelling rods. Other items here in the maintenance section, where Ron had brought them in search of further weapons, crashed to the floor.

‘The rudder,’ said Captain Ron. He took a comlink from his belt and spoke into it: ‘Garl, what happened?’

A voice replied, ‘Just lost the helm—no response. The rudder’s right round and I’m getting all sorts of red lights up here.’

‘Tell Zephyr to take off sail. I’ll get back to you.’ He put the comlink back on his belt and nodded ahead to where armed reifications were scrambling up one ladder from the bilge. By the sound, others were also scrambling up a ladder further along. ‘Looks like the battle ain’t going too well.’ Rapping a knuckle against the floating drone, he added, ‘Go take a look, Thirteen. Let me know what’s going on.’

The drone shot forward, then down through the opening out of which the ladder looped. Kladites, now in the maintenance section, were crowding past to head for the mast stairwells. Janer eased along a partition wall, grabbed the ladder rail and pulled himself round so he could peer down. Bloc’s people were ascending one behind the other, from all the way down. He stepped back out of their way.

‘What’s happening?’ Ron asked, snagging a shrivelled man bare of a helmet.

The man stared at him, eyes flat black photo-receptors, mouth opening and closing. ‘It’s hunting us now,’ he said, the movements of his mouth bearing no relation to his words.

‘What did you expect?’ the Captain asked, puzzled.

‘Aesop,’ said Janer, pointing to the ladder.

Ron released the black-eyed reif, waded through the crowd, then caught hold of Aesop by the scruff and hauled him from the ladder.

‘What happened down there?’ Ron asked.

Aesop continued to struggle, saying nothing. Then abruptly he froze. ‘It is, it is…’ His voice changed and he went on almost calmly, ‘The hooder somehow managed to get aboard. We only just discovered it. I… Bloc sent us down to see what we could do.’

‘Did someone use explosives down there? The rudder’s damaged.’

‘We… do not know.’

Hooded and masked, Bones now appeared, standing just behind Aesop.

‘Well, we can’t just leave it down there,’ said Ron. He released Aesop, and the reif sped away, Bones scuttling after him.

As the ladder cleared, Janer asked Ron, ‘What do you suggest?’

Ron scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘Seems we got little choice. We gotta fry that bugger before it sends us to the bottom.’ He turned to Forlam. ‘You, take five of the boys and find Bloc. We want Batian weapons—I’m sure he recovered some. Get them and meet us back here soon as you can.’