Arthur blinked, stood up, and hurriedly put the mirror and shell in the pockets of his dressing gown. That reminded him briefly that he really needed to change into something more sensible, the thought only lasting for a second before it was gone.
‘What’s coming in from the sea?’
‘Dunno,’ replied Sunscorch. ‘Lizard saw a light far off. I’ve seen it too. It’s getting closer. Could be the Shiver, though why they’d show a light I don’t know. Here, take this knife.’
Sunscorch had a cutlass at his belt, Arthur saw. He took the long knife the Denizen offered him, still in its sheath, and tried to fasten it to his dressing-gown belt. Sunscorch shook his head.
‘That won’t serve. Come on, back to the Captain’s tent. Ichabod can find you some decent slops.’
‘Slops? I’m not hungry, particularly for something called —’ ‘Slops is clothes. Come on. We haven’t much time.’
The camp was quite different now, Arthur saw as he followed Sunscorch over to Catapillow’s tent. The Denizens were all up and getting ready for a fight. They appeared more confident and better organised than they’d been at sea.
‘Landlubbers,’ whispered Sunscorch as they passed a group of Denizens checking over their crossbows. ‘They’ll put up a better fight here than on any deck. Ichabod! Help Lord Arthur into some shipshape clothes!’
‘Aye, aye!’ called Ichabod. He came over and gave Arthur a very low bow. ‘Is there anything in particular milord requires?’
‘Don’t waste time!’ instructed Sunscorch. ‘Give him whatever fits and be quick about it. I’m off to the guns. Arthur, join me there when you’re ready.’
Ichabod sniffed.
‘Really, he has no idea the difficulties one has maintaining a proper standard of dress.’
He looked Arthur up and down, walked around him, and wrote some figures down in a small notebook. Then he indicated the standing screen with the nautical pictures in the corner of the tent. Arthur had last seen it in Catapillow’s impossible room aboard the Moth.
‘If you would care to stand behind this screen, milord, I shall endeavour to present a number of articles of attire that may approach some level of suitability for one of your most eminent position.’
Arthur went behind the screen. Almost immediately, Ichabod handed him a huge pile of clothes.
‘Undergarments. Choice of three shirts. Collars, choice of four. Neckties, choice of six. Waistcoat, choice of three. Breeches, choice of three. Stockings, choice of five. Shoes or boots?’
‘Uh, I don’t need any. My slippers are Immaterial Boots.’
‘Sea-duty belt or ceremonial?’
‘Sea duty, I think . . .’
Ichabod continued to ask questions, handing Arthur an item of clothing or equipment every few seconds. Finally he fell silent, and Arthur quickly got undressed and put on his new clothes. Surprisingly, everything fit him perfectly. Arthur hadn’t deliberately chosen any particular combination, but when he was mostly dressed he found that he had on pretty much the same uniform as Catapillow. A blue coat over a white shirt and blue waistcoat with white breeches.
As Arthur had half-expected, as soon as he changed clothes his Immaterial Boots transformed from hospital slippers into knee-high boots, the left one wider in the leg to accommodate his crab-armour cast. Arthur thought for a moment, then slipped the Atlas and Wednesday’s invitation down inside his right boot and the shell and mirror down the left boot. Immaterial Boots were proof against water, as they were to almost everything, and they would keep these articles safe and dry.
‘I don’t know what to do with this collar,’ Arthur said a few minutes later. The collar was separate from the shirt and he couldn’t figure it out.
‘Allow me,’ said Ichabod. He quickly stepped in and fastened Arthur’s collar. Before the boy could protest, Ichabod had wrapped a red cloth around his neck and tied it as a necktie as well. ‘Arms up, sir, for the belt.’
A broad leather belt seemed to be the last thing to put on, but when it was buckled up and Arthur tried to take a step out, Ichabod held up his hand and gave a slight bow. ‘Your sword, sir. One mustn’t venture into a prospective battle without one’s sword.’
‘I suppose, er, one mustn’t,’ repeated Arthur.
I’m even starting to sound like Catapillow, he thought. I hope I don’t turn into someone like him. I’d rather be like Sunscorch. Someone who gets things done.
Ichabod picked up a scabbarded sword from the floor and fastened it to Arthur’s belt on his left hip. At the same time, Arthur tied the knife he’d been given by Sunscorch onto the other hip.