The Sea Mare would never be fast, but it began to make way toward the harbor mouth, past the cliff-like walls of the seaforts that guarded Derkin. The mouths of the great bombards were clearly visible, with cheering soldiers of the garrison waving as ship after ship passed out The ship pitched as she butted into the larger waves where harbor met sea; Bren gripped a line and held up his other hand in salute as the fortress high priest poured incense on coals held in a tripod, sacrificing for the fleet Father Solmin did the same from the quarterdeck, his face solemn and his movements precise—he might be fond of a tavern and a stein and a good joke, but he took his profession seriously.
A galley went by just outside, boiling along with tall gullwing lateen sails set on all three masts and oars threshing like the legs of a centipede, foam tossing up from her ram. Ships stretched as far as the eye could see, sails white and brown and blue and striped Fresh salt air blew away the harbor stink of bilges and garbage.
"Underway," the captain said quietly. "Three have mercy."
Admiral Willek Tornsaarin stood on the foredeck of the Fathers Falcon, the flagship of the fleet. Sunset was near, but all three moons were up tonight—the Three, looking down on the fleet of Their chosen people. There was a comforting familiarity to the rise and pitch of the deck, the long surge as the sharp bow bit into the swells, the muted creak and groan as water, wood and cordage held their eternal conversation.
The Falcon was less than two years old, new-built of swamp oak, teak and bogrin; her masts were each a single blanchpine from the Imperial reserves in the mountains above Derkin, nearly two hundred feet high. She was square-rigged forward, with a towering lateen sail over her head on the poopdeck. The planking shone with holystoning, the cordage was neatly coiled, the crew moved crisply to the whistles and shouted orders of the officers and bosuns—if you were going to war at sea, there was no better way to do it And the Falcon was not only fast and seaworthy, she also mounted forty guns. Ten twelve-pounder bronze pieces on each side below on her main gundeck, as many short eight-pounder carronades on deck, a pair of long eighteens forward and aft for chasers.
Willek nodded to herself and brought up her telescope. The stern-lanterns of the fleet spread out before her, ships heading south and west for the eastern coast of Meltroon—the wind was from the northeast this time of year in the central Imperial Sea. The island of Meltroon was held by the New Empire since the last war with Tarin Tseld, in her fathers time; it would be safe enough to hold station off its main port. She knew Darkist was sending his fleet in a straight push for the island.
That was why most of her frigates were heading for Saldana Point, northernmost cape on Meltroon; to come round southerly, get between the Tseldene fleet and its home port, and give the monstrous old bastard a very unpleasant surprise. He could have the old-style ramming-and-boarding battle he expected—expected her to deliberately lose—and even if he won it, his fleet would be battered and far from home, while hers could fall back to the island's ports and fortifications. Galleys couldn't keep station for long at sea; their huge rowing crews ate too much food and drank too much water, and no amount of whip would make a dead man row. Then her frigates would come in with the wind abaft their beams, to pound Darkist's galleys into matchwood if they stayed, and chase them back to An Tiram if they didn't.
She nodded again. It was an excellent plan—as long as nothing serious went wrong. A breakthrough by Darkist's magicians, for example; the priests of the Three were chanting, drumming, praying and spellcasting right now fit to brew storms. Battlemagic usually cancelled out, but you never knew… undoubtedly there would be heavy losses.
There were a few losses she even looked forward to. This engagement should see the end of the last of the Morkaarins. The old stain on the Tornsaarin name would fade with his demise, and eventually be forgotten. She'd never met the Morkaarin offspring, nor did she feel any inclination to. She would be satisfied to receive notice of his death.
She felt very good. Chevays had managed to get a brief message to her even in the midst of mobilizing early. He thought he'd located two of her targets, and was closing in on them. Willek was certain, too, that Darkist and his plans were foiled—the buzzard could not expect her to launch early after he'd moved up the schedule by three weeks. She would catch him off guard and annihilate him.
And then she had Shemro. Willek smiled, looking at her Emperor, who sat in a high-backed gilt chair on the poopdeck, wrapped in a blanket and staring out to the dark and restless sea. Shemro IV, the mighty and hereditary ruler of all the Tykissian Empire, was so totally enthralled in Willek's power she couldn't eat or sleep or speak without Willek's leave—and without Willek's suggestion, she forgot she wanted to. Magic courtesy of Darkist, originally, but never mind that.
Willek strode to the back of the ship and knelt on the wooden deck before her sovereign. This was playacting, for the benefit of anyone who might be watching. In private, Willek did not kneel. But here, in public, at the moment when Tykis went to war, she had the age-old ritual to fulfill.
"All is as you have commanded, Lady liege. The last of the ships have now embarked. I remain at your service."
Her eyes locked with Shemro's, and she made the magical link. Shemro, dull-witted and helpless, spoke in soft flat tones, "Very good, Grand Admiral. Carry on." And then, as Willek silently commanded her to do, she stood, and gave Willek her arm. "Take me to my quarters," she commanded.
"As you will, my liege," Willek said. Inside, she smiled. Shemro was frail and weak, and failing before Willek's eyes. She left no heirs—in place of heirs, she'd already made Willek her successor when the time of her death should come. There were none left of the royal lines, no siblings or cousins or relatives by marriage with a better claim than Willek's to the throne. And any advisors and nobles foolish enough to fight her would die, after she had a victorious war against the ancient enemy to her credit. The mighty line of Strekkhylfa was about to come to an unfortunate end. With only a little outside help.
Willek grinned, thinking about it. She would be Emperor in name as well as feet. She would conquer Tarin Tseld, and eventually Shillrakin and Shborin. She would reclaim Tobor and that lunatic breakaway Nyokese province, and put down the mutterings of rebellion in Old Tykis. And the whole of the known world would bow to her.
And when it did, then she would seek out her sister, who hid in her pinnacle tower, playing little games. When Willek held all the world in her hands, Szoae would be under her power as well. She would make Szoae grovel and beg for her life. As pleasant as killing Shemro would be, destroying Szoae would be even better.
With the helpless Shemro safely stored in her quarters, the Grand Admiral returned to the deck. The sea spray blew in her face, the sails caught the wind, the ships leapt forward, and Willek's heart sang. Everything proceeded in the manner she had decreed. She had reason to rejoice.
* * *
"Keep your bloody station, can't you, you bathtub of a hull?"
The escort galleys captain had a strong nasal Old Tykis accent. The scorn in it was clear even through the bullhorn she used to hail the Sea Mare.
The transports commander pulled the knit cap off his head and shook his fist at the warship twenty feet away, keeping level with slow effortless movements of its sweeps.
"No, I can't, you seal-fornicating pirate!" he screamed "This Shillrakibum boat won't point a quarter into the wind and she's got a skirt of weed longer than the list of your sins!"
Chevays Coado looked around, swallowing uneasily. The low waist of the ship didn't give much of a view, but he could see that the transports were straggling badly. Hundreds of them dotted the sea, from the horizon where the dark blue of the ocean merged into the lighter color of the sky, to a few hundred yards from his own vessel. The wind was just strong enough to give the ex-fishing craft a nasty twisting, dipping sway; scores of soldiers lined the rail, mostly hanging over it, even three days out from Derkin. Sailors moved around them just as they avoided the piles of crates and
tarpaulin-covered baggage that crowded the shabby, stained planking of the deck. Many of them were still working on the rigging, splicing sound rope into weak links, sewing sails, coiling and stowing.
The warship was one of dozens darting around the edges of the swarm, like sheepdogs around a flock. More stood off to either side in ordered squadrons.
"Put on more sail," the naval captain called.
"With this rigging? With these bumwad sails begging for a chance to rip?"
"More sail or we'll leave you for the Tseldenes," the escort's commander said, and the galley turned—almost in its own length, one side's oars sinking deep and the other flashing up free of the water.
Everything Chevays touched left a coating of fish slime or a sheen offish scales on his hands; he was a fastidious man, in his way, and the sheer misery of it was beginning to fray his temper. The horses were vocally unhappy too; the drumming of their hooves occasionally shook the deck from the pens below.
And I chose to be here, he thought. He began to regret the decision. His quarters, which he shared with a dozen other soldiers, were tiny and dark; at that, he was lucky not to be in the main hold, with the bilges sloshing at his feet—a detail of twenty worked the ship's pumps continuously, to keep up with her leaky seams. The men and women of the XIXth who shared the room with him watched him suspiciously and whispered in his presence. They didn't like him, he decided. They didn't trust him, he knew.
It bothered him a great deal that he had not told Willek precisely where he was going to be. He hadn't wanted her to know where the people she sought were—at least not until he'd decided what he wanted to do with them. Willek was entirely too efficient, and far too likely to decide she wanted them killed immediately.
He couldn't disobey orders he didn't have, he'd thought.
Now he was wishing he hadn't been so clever.
First Captain Morkaarin was in conference with his subordinates on the quarterdeck—no doubt attempting to plan a strategy that might let the XIXth survive, or at least the one-third of it crammed onto this ship. Chevays found himself suddenly sympathetic to the First Captain. He couldn't help but realize his survival depended on whatever clever gambits the man might devise. So any thought of killing him would have to wait until they were all safely ashore and well behind the front lines.
Bored, Chevays had searched out Eowlie, thinking he might find some entertainment with her—but she'd been catching rats and eating them when he found her, grumbling about the fact that she had had nothing live to eat in ages, and the ship was stocked only with salted meat, and she couldn't stand that. Chevays, disgusted, had left her to her own devices.
He didn't play cards, he didn't dice—and as for what he liked to do… well, there would be none of that for a while.
Chevays sulked up onto the deck. The Sea Mare was out of sight of land, limping well behind the rest of the ships sailing west and south. The Lieutenant leaned up against the wooden bulwark and watched the water flash past. He stared over the sea to the south, and noted the odd green haze which spread across the darkness like a glowing bruise. He didn't like the look of that.
The sailors glared at him, chased him out of the way, and Chevays wandered aft.
He heard voices and stopped, keeping himself out of sight.
"H'it won't make a bit of diffrence," someone snapped "The First Captain h'is in the pay of that southron fiend, Darkist. He's a traitor! He'll be hanged, an' when he is, who's going to bother wi' you for havin' a bit a fun?"
Chevays heard a second voice, crude and cunning. "Well—if you can get me those two little piebalds…"
A sly chuckle. "H'I can. And I'll get you a bargain, too. A mere twenty bronzes, and the sweets from your next two meals."
"That's cheap, all right. They ain't diseased, are they?" The voice was suddenly cautious. "Theys no mediciner on this tub—and it may be a long time t' shore."
"My girls h'are all clean!" Indignant, the voice was—and slightly angry. Chevays grinned. The man, whoever he was, was a fair liar.
"Then why so cheap?"
A pause. Then—"Because you're goin t' advertise fer me… and yer goin' f do it wit'out either of us gettin' caught."
"I see."
You don't see anything, you idiot, Chevays thought. He has no overhead now, so everything he makes is profit.
"H'I have that all figgered out. H'all y' have t' do is be there wi' my goodies and yer pecker."
Both men laughed. Chevays arched an eyebrow and smiled slowly. Enterprise would thrive in the damnedest places.
He moved away from their hiding place, head down, deep in thought. He settled himself on the edge of a capstan and played the conversation back—the comment about Morkaarin's ties to Darkist was especially fascinating. Chevays went through the First Captain's thin file before joining the XIXth. Morkaarin was appallingly pure and predictable—Chevays had found no vices, no indiscretions, and no evils in the record at all. In fact, the only thing he discovered of even mild interest was that Morkaarin's family record listed no father, or father's ancestors. His mother had dallied with someone unacceptable, the Lieutenant figured, and ended up with a permanent keepsake from the tryst.
While he found rumors about an alliance between Morkaarin and Darkist intriguing, he also thought them improbable to the point of disbelief. Of more real interest to him was the conviction in the panderer's voice, and the whorejohnnie's willingness to believe.
He wondered where the story came from. He wondered why.
He decided he would follow the rumor back to its source and find out He had the time.
Unfortunately.
"Put me down! Let me—!"
Bren heard scuffling from the aft deck. Then a yelp. Then a piercing scream.
He raced over the pitching deck, charged into the gutting house, and came face to face with Zeemos, three of the Sea Mare's crew, and two of his scouts, the piebalds who had once been Zeemos' whores. The ex-pimp held one of the women right against his chest. She fought like a fiend, but he was easily three times her size. He'd stuffed a rag in her mouth, but not fast enough to keep her from screaming. The other woman lay on the filthy floor, with a sailor holding her arms behind her head; he had a bleeding nose and knelt on her hands with vindictive force. One of the sailors had been pawing off her clothes when Bren burst in.
They all stopped what they were doing and stared at Bren.
"Let her go," the First Captain told Zeemos. His sword drew small circles in the air between them. "And I'll let you off with a hundred lashes."
Zeemos ignored him. "That's First Captain Morkaarin," he said softly to the sailors. "The traitor I told you about. If we threw him over the side now, Darkist wouldn't know every move we made."
Traitor? Bren wondered. What madness is this?
The sailors, all big men, eyed him speculatively. One by one, they began to smile. None of them looked Tykissian, or much of anything else; they were products of the Imperial Sea's waterfronts, cosmopolitan in origin and eclectic in loyalty.
"Throwing him over the side would be a service to the fleet, then, wouldn't it?" one of them said.
A chill ran down Bren's spine. The piebald girl Zeemos held had stopped struggling. Bren could see her looking from one man to the next, while her eyes grew huge and frightened. They'd have to kill any witnesses, too.
"Don't worry," he told her. "They won't try it" He didn't sound frightened at all, he thought. The sword moved, ready. Actually they had to try it, now that they'd spoken.
"Get him," Zeemos said.
The sailors dragged long knives out from under their bloused tunics and spread out. One of them sidled toward Bren; he stop-thrust and pinked the man in the arm, sending him backward with a yell.
"Don't let him shout for help," Zeemos warned.
"I only wanted t' futter the bitches," one of the sailors complained. "I wasn't fer throwing an officer offn the ship."
"If you let him go now," Zeemos said, his voice still calm and gentle, "h
e'll have you court-martialled and hanged."
"You set us up," the sailor Bren had wounded said. "You planned this all along."
"HI did not." Zeemos fondled the girl he held, and made his expression mournful. "H'it isn't my fault t' traitor ran in here on us. 'T stupid bitch screamed. But h'I don't want t' be keelhauled for tryin' t' help you lot out."
The sailors looked at each other, then back at Bren. A moment stretched, then things happened very quickly.
A sailor crouched and came in low, feinting with the long curved knife, his bare, gnarled toes gripping the planks like fingers. Bren's hobnailed boots skittered slightly on the smooth wood as he attacked, and the lunge spitted the sailor's shoulder instead of his neck. It also jammed tight in the bone; the wounded man shrieked and spun, jerking the weapon out of Bren's hand. The officer whirled sideways desperately, spinning out of the way of the gutting stroke of another knife, snatching his own dagger from his belt, horribly conscious that he wasn't wearing his armor. And a knife fight against odds, in this cramped space…
Thunk. A sailor folded, falling at the feet of Korgi, the Shillraki piebald; she held up her breeches with her other hand, and began pounding the hardwood stool into the man's face. Bren moved in on the other man, blade of his fighting knife out and his left hand stiffened into a chopping weapon as well. The sailor backed, screamed, threw his knife at Bren and fled. Bren pivoted again, moving with a smooth economy of motion. Zeemos had his hands full; Borte was slamming her head into his face and kicking to some purpose.
Just kill him, Bren decided. It would be tempting to have him flogged to death, but wasteful.
A cannon roared outside, loud enough to startle the combatants in the deckhouse. More echoed across the water from other ships. Zeemos dropped Borte, then screamed as she turned and slammed a fist into his groin.
"Battle stations!" Bren roared, picking Korgi up by the scruff of the neck and pitching her towards the door. "Move!"
The Rose Sea Page 17