The Scar Read Online Free PDF

looked the man full on and grinned
yes
, he knew that story, and the sudden change in him was so marked and extraordinary it was as if he were briefly given a new body. For a moment he looked strong and cocky, and when the smile went and he returned to the slop of food and pottery, some of that sudden swagger remained.
    “All right then,” the prisoner continued. “So Darioch calls Crawfoot to him and shows him the Batskins on their way, and he says to him, ‘This is your fuck-up, Crawfoot. You took their stuff. And it happens that Salter’s away at the edge of the world, so you’re going to have to do the fighting.’ And Crawfoot’s bitching and moaning and giving it all this . . .” The man opened and shut his fingers like a talkative mouth.
    He started to continue, but the cabin boy cut him off. “I know it,” he said with sudden recognition. “I heard it before.”
    There was a silence.
    “Ah well,” the man said, surprised by his own disappointment. “Ah well, I tell you what, son, I’ve not heard it for a while myself, so I think I’ll just carry on and tell it.”
    The boy looked at him quizzically, as if trying to decide whether the man was mocking him. “I don’t mind,” he said. “Do what you want. I don’t care.”
    The prisoner told the story, quietly, interrupted by coughing and sighs for breath. The cabin boy came and went in the darkness beyond the bars, cleaning the mess, spooning out more food. He was there at the story’s end, when Crawfoot’s chimney-pot-and-china-plate armor shattered, cutting him worse than if he’d worn none at all.
    The boy looked at the tired man, the story finished, and grinned again.
    “Ain’t you going to tell me the lesson?” he said.
    The man smiled weakly. “I reckon you already know it.”
    The boy nodded and looked up for a moment, concentrating. “ ‘If it’s nearly right, but it isn’t quite, better to have none, than make do with one,’ ” he recited. “I always preferred them stories without the morals,” he added. He squatted down by the bars.
    “Fuck but I’m with you there, lad,” said the man. He paused and held out his hand through the bars. “I’m Tanner Sack.”
    The cabin boy hesitated a moment: not nervous, just weighing up possibilities and advantages. He took Tanner’s hand.
    “Ta for the story. I’m Shekel.”
    They continued.

Chapter Three
    Bellis came out of sleep when they set sail again, though the bay was still dark. The
Terpsichoria
juddered and shivered like a cold animal, and she rolled to the porthole and watched the few lights of Qé Banssa move away.
    That morning, she was not allowed onto the main deck.
    “Sorry ma’am,” said a sailor. He was young, and desperately uncomfortable at blocking her way. “Captain’s orders: passengers not allowed onto main deck till ten.”
    “Why?”
    He shied as if she had hit him. “Prisoners,” he said, “taking a constitutional.” Bellis’ eyes widened fractionally. “Captain’s giving them a shot of air, and then we’ve to clean the deck—they’re awful dirty. Why’n’t you have some breakfast, ma’am? This’ll be done in a trice.”
    Out of the young man’s sight she stopped and considered. She did not like the coincidence of this, so soon after her discussion with Johannes.
    Bellis wanted to see the men and women they carried below. She could not tell if she was driven by prurience, or a more noble instinct.
    Instead of heading abaft for the mess, she wound down side passages through dim space, past poky doors. Bass sounds traveled through the walls: human voices sounded like dogs barking. Where the corridor ended she opened the last door, onto a walk-in cupboard lined with shelves. Bellis looked behind her, but she was alone. She finished her cigarillo and entered.
    Pushing aside dried-up, empty bottles, Bellis saw that an ancient window had been blocked by shelves. She cleared them of detritus and wiped ineffectually at the glass.
    She started