Bren turned, and gasped. The sea glowed sickly green, and out of it rose the prows of long-sunken ships, crewed by the legions of the dead. The hulks lifted gently through the stormy sea as if they were sailing up from the bottom before a gentle breeze; and in feet, their tattered rags of sails streamed in front of them, blown by no earthly wind. Their rotted hulls glowed with phosphor-weed, and barnacles clung to the broken planking. Water poured out of the holed hulls as the ships lifted—poured back into the sea, while the ships arched up to the surface like dolphins.…Or, Bren thought, perhaps the animate corpses of long-dead dolphins. While the storm raged around them, and the wind screamed and the waves battered the Sea Mare and threatened to drown her, the derelicts sailed without regard to gale winds or killer seas—sailed as if for them the water was smooth as glass and gentle breezes blew steadily from whichever direction they wished.
This was no illusion conjured by the wizard-priests and their acolytes to strike terror in the hearts of fighting soldiers, Bren realized. This was real.
The crew that hung on those rotted riggings and strode along those worm-eaten decks were Kevo-Deaths own vanguard. Some who watched from the far ships were skeletons with their bones washed clean by the hungry sea. Some still wore scraps of flesh and hair and tattered rags tangled with seaweed and holed by worms. Worst though, were the men and women who could have been still among the living, were it not for their ghastly pale faces and flat dead eyes—and the wounds they bore that marked them as that days fresh dead.
Tykissians stood on those decks shoulder to shoulder with Tseldenes, Nyokese, Krevaulti, Shillraki.
"Death knows no loyalties," he whispered.
Bren knotted his hands together and pressed them tight against his gut He saw none of his own people numbered among the corpse crew, but that was small comfort. He knew if he looked closer or longer, he would find them.
The small fleet of corpse-crewed sailing ships and galleys came around to face in the Sea Mare's direction, running with the wind, and two of them brought themselves even with the Sea Mare. They began to close, one on either side, and Bren saw the corpses readying the rotted remains of boarding planks.
This was too much for many of the Sea Mare's crew. Sailors screamed and threw themselves into the raging sea, rather than face the armies of the dead.
The ship's captain, Bren thought, looked ready to join them. "That's it then!" he shouted. The captain braced himself with his back to the wheel, and drew his saber. "Hell of a way to die!" he added.
Bren couldn't help but agree. If the war doesn't get you, he thought, the gods will. He had no doubt but that the hands of the gods had sealed his fate. But he would not go quietly, gods or no.
The boarding planks dropped onto the Sea Mare's deck.
The remaining seamen dragged the Sea Mare's priest up from nursing the wounded and forced him to begin chanting and praying.
The storm grew worse, but the second the boarding planks hit the deck of the Sea Mare, she bobbed over the waves as if she sat becalmed. The wind continued to scream and the waves raised high at the mizzenmast, but the corpse crew boarded the little ship as if they were parading over a walkway on dry land.
Bren gripped his saber in one hand and his long dagger in the other. He crouched on the unmoving deck, side by side with the ship's captain, and watched them coming.
The first of the uncanny crew dropped onto the Sea Mare's deck, and Bren's mind finally registered something it had not seen before. "Look!" he shouted to the captain. "They have no weapons!"
The man's sidelong glance held no hope. "Maybe they don't need them!"
But the dead made no move to attack the living as they boarded the ship. Instead, as if they were the Sea Mares rightful crew, they shambled to the ratlines, and then climbed laboriously up them.
Then, to Bren's astonishment, they began to mime the raising of the ship's sails, though the sails had been cut away earlier.
One long-dead corpse approached the ship's wheel, stood stiffly in front of the captain, and saluted.
"What do you want to do, Captain?" Bren asked.
"Back away, an' let Kevo's damned sail us where they will!" he shouted. "We can discuss later whether it's better t' live in Hell or die in the sea!"
The corpse took the wheel and spun it slowly, as if it still guided a rudder—and slowly, the Sea Mare came around into the wind. Those living seamen who'd stayed with the ship fled back to the quarterdeck, and stood gaping at the ghastly cadaverous crew that worked in utter silence while the world went mad.
"Any idea where they're taking us?" Bren asked.
"None. I've nothing to reckon by." The captain shook his head, bewildered. "But I'll be here, watching."
Bren nodded, then turned away from the horrors onboard, and headed for the forecastle, where the living and the dead among the XIXth awaited him.
And he thought darkly that the XIXth—at least the part of the unit under his command—would have no burials at sea. He would not permit the dead who'd served under him to fall into the waiting embrace of the sea, to be made to dance at Kevo's whim.
* * *
The ship stopped rocking. Zeemos crouched in darkness among the barrels of wine and hardtack and held perfectly still, listening. The screams of the storm continued unabated, but the horrible pitching was gone—and so was the sound of the ship trying to tear herself apart. So they'd made harbor.
He was surprised. He hadn't really imagined the ship would last long enough to find a safe port.
Since it had, he found himself suddenly to be a man with options. Zeemos carefully considered his situation. He was a dead man now if the First Captain found him. He had to get off the ship—and with it docked or anchored, he had probably arrived at a good time to effect an escape.
He stretched and stroked the ruby. With it, he was a very rich man. However, he still needed some guarantee of an income. Riches did not last forever, and he wanted to live well.
He thought of Eowlie. The ungrateful whore owed him her life; she would have died on the beach if he hadn't found her. As far as he was concerned, that meant she belonged to him, no matter what Tykissian law might say. He'd seen her potential and he'd made good use of it, and he resented having her taken away from him because of some idiotic legal technicality.
The other whores did not matter, Zeemos thought. They were instantly replaceable at any of five or six good slave markets he could think of. But not Eowlie. She was unique. Irreplaceable. And she'd made him piles of money. There were men everywhere he'd traveled who had found her irresistible.
He had a price on his head already. Stealing back his own property couldn't make it any higher, or his situation any worse. He had nothing to lose, everything to gain, and he'd be damned if he ever crossed the Tykissian borders again anyway.
Of course, getting Eowlie back would be no simple matter. He'd only captured her the first time because she was near death. She could—and would—kill him without a second thought if he didn't take her unawares.
His fingers poked around for anything among the supplies that might make a good weapon. He found axes and swords, but he didn't want to kill the bitch. She was useless to him dead. He arched an eyebrow and considered that; he might make a few coppers off her for a day or two after she was dead, he decided at last, but only for a day or two—and the clientele who would pay for that simply didn't appeal to him.
So he didn't want to kill her. He just wanted to capture her. He felt around further, and at last found a nice solid wooden club. It would be just the thing.
Zeemos didn't worry about hurting the whore. In truth, he rather fancied the idea. That would be just payment for all the trouble she'd brought him. As long as he didn't kill her, he could pay a mediciner to bring her back to health. Probably find one who wasn't adverse to docking slaves' tongues, so she couldn't go telling tales—though for that sort of mediciner, he'd have to get to Tarin Tseld.
She cared for the horses, he thought. He could catch he
r out when she was feeding or watering them. Unfortunately, the other girl, Karah, was always with her—and Karah was good with a sword. Zeemos considered his odds and decided he didn't like them very much.
A rat brushed by his ankle, squeaking, and the pimp jumped and yelped. Then, slowly, he smiled into the darkness.
I don't need to go anywhere, he thought. Not anywhere a'tall. Sooner or later, she will come here, looking for rats—and then I'll have her, and no one will know.
He felt around until he found a place by the ladder, but well hidden from any who might come looking for him, and settled himself against the bulkhead.
Then he waited.
Time passed slowly, and Zeemos drifted between sleep and waking, starring each time thunder cracked nearby or rats used him as a walkway. She would come sooner or later, hungry for fresh, live meat, and fastidious about having anyone see her eat. She hated being watched, and only ate in front of people when she had no other choice.
A shaft of pale light and the thud of the hatch door as it fell open brought Zeemos awake yet again, and he realized he'd fallen into a sound sleep. He looked up. The light outlined Eowlie's profile. Zeemos grinned and hefted his rock. She hunted well in the darkness, but he would have a brief moment while her eyes adjusted—and she would not be expecting any attack, so he had, briefly, a solid advantage.
She clambered down into the hold with her back to him. She was no more than inches away from him, yet because of the darkness and the stink from the bilge below and the noise of screaming wind and crashing waves, she did not discover his presence.
He smiled, and thumped her once on the back of the skull with his club—hard.
She grunted and collapsed into a barrel.
It was over as quickly as that. Too simple, really, he thought. She didn't know what had happened to her, and did not know she was defeated. He would have time to enjoy her unhappiness later. For the moment, he needed to be certain she was securely bound and gagged when she awoke.
He hurried into the aft hold with the horses and dug around in the supplies until he found some rope and rags from the tack. He could actually see in the aft compartment, though he couldn't imagine why. He looked around quickly just to see if he could identify the source of light.
When he did, he wished he hadn't. He discovered a hole in the side of the ship where a length of carvel plank had ripped away—he couldn't tell whether from rot or enemy cannonfire. The upright frames were more or less intact, but he could see water rushing by the hole, glowing with a pale green light.
It should have been pouring into the ship. In fact, he could see some water on the deck to indicate that it had. There was nothing to keep it out. He crept over to the hole, horrified by what he saw, and yet not believing. He reached out, and touched the racing, glowing water—
—and nearly lost his hand as the force of the current caught his fingers and slammed them against the frame, and kept pulling on them. The water was icy. He jerked his hand out, and pressed one moist finger to his tongue. He tasted salt—so this strange water that did not pour into holes, that glowed with its own light, was still seawater.
He stared an instant longer at the enigmatic sight, then shook his head. All the more reason to get off the ship. There was no telling when whatever held the water out would give way, and then the ship would sink like a stone. He wanted to be well away when that happened.
He ran back to the fore hold and checked his whore. She still breathed, but showed no signs of waking. He bound her wrists and ankles together behind her back, so her back arched into a bow. He shoved one of the rags he'd found into her mouth, then carefully wrapped the other around her muzzle to hold it shut. He wanted her to be able to breathe, but not to bite. He'd seen firsthand what those teeth could do.
He had to climb the ladder onto the deck midships, which would bring him within plain sight of the crew on deck and anyone who looked out from either the forecastle or the aftcastle. He would have to creep aft to steal the ship's single dinghy, which was kept lashed to the Sea Mare just behind midships. The ship held three times as many people as it should have. Even in harbor, every inch of free space above was likely to be filled with wounded soldiers and people tending them, while the deck would be covered with sailors working on the rigging, repairing sails, scrubbing the deck.
He pressed his face against the bulkhead and considered He could drop the whore into the bilge—she'd drown there before anyone came looking for her. A man alone would not be so conspicuous as one carrying a bound and gagged monster on his back.
No, he thought, angry with the idea. She belongs to me! I just have to find a way to make her inconspicuous.
He pondered a moment, then grinned. I could stuff her in a barrel—or, better yet, a bag.
A bit of additional mischief occurred to him as well. He sauntered over to the barrels. He unlashed the first water barrel, popped out the bung, and tipped it on its side—it was terribly heavy, but he was not a little man. The water poured across the cambered deck and disappeared down both sides. He smiled as he thought of the ship's drinking water joining the bilge. He tipped the next barrel—then decided to ruin the pickled greefish and salt pork, too. He cut the pork down from overhead, popped the hoops on the barrels of greefish with an axe. He spilled as many of the water barrels as he could on top of those. He slashed the bottoms of the bags of tubers and onions overhead and watched them pour out in a lovely, thudding vegetable river. It was hard work; the ship's stores were stacked high from just back of midships all the way fore. He'd never be able to destroy all the supplies—after a few minutes, he focused exclusively on the water and the wine. He managed to dump all of that.
"H'I said you'd pay fer takin' my silver," he muttered.
The sounds of his labor were hidden by storm sounds: crashing waves, the crack and roar of thunder overhead, the banshee shriek of wind. He dumped a final bag of tubers onto the planking and carried the bag back.
Eowlie was beginning to wake. Her eyes, half open, held a bewildered expression. She struggled feebly against her bonds, but not as if she understood that she was bound Zeemos found his club, knelt beside her, and thumped her on the back of the head again. He was careful not to hit too hard; things were going quite well, really, and he hated to think he might damage his merchandise unnecessarily. She went limp, and he stuffed her into the bag.
Then, with his whore slung across his shoulder, he climbed up the companionway and pushed up through the hatch to the deck midships.
He wondered where the Sea Mare had docked, then shrugged philosophically. He shifted Eowlie's limp form to rest more comfortably across his shoulder and plodded back toward the place where the work boat was tied. He wished the idiots in charge had left a few of the running lights burning. Probably best for him they hadn't, he decided. The darkness worked into his hands—even if it was a frightening sort of night.
No one challenged him. He wondered first if the crew and the XIXth had abandoned the ship when they reached port, but his eyes picked out the movements of seamen along the decks and rigging. Uneasiness gnawed at his nerves. He did not like the stillness of the air; its closeness and mustiness held an undefinable and frightening reek. He did not like the brief impressions of movement his eyes made out off to starboard. He could not make out shapes, could not determine what it was about that movement that frightened him, but he was sure it was not right. He did not understand why he could hear the wind, but could not feel it.
He thought how glad he would be to get away from the Sea Mare.
He dumped Eowlie on the deck, loosed one corner of the oiled canvas tarp that covered the dinghy, and shoved her in.
A tremendous bolt of lightning struck next to the ship, and for one eternal instant, night turned to day. Zeemos found himself staring into the empty eyesockets of a dead woman who was walking toward him, her torn jaw held to the rest of her face by one flap of shredded skin, her bare breasts bloated, her belly eaten away.
He screamed and tur
ned to flee as the lightning died. His eyes burned with the afterimages of the strike, with the clear picture of a wave as big as a hill towering over the Sea Mare and breaking on top of her—and of the water running off of clear air and back into the sea as if the ship were covered by a shield of glass. And he could not clear his mind of the face of the dead woman, and behind her a dead crew, skeletons on the crosspieces and a rotted corpse at the wheel.
He crawled along the deck on his hands and knees, back toward the hatch, praying none of the dead would find him. Another lightning strike in the distance gave him an instant of dim blue light. The hatch gaped open.
He couldn't think—almost couldn't breath. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out even the roar of the storm. All he could think was "down." Down, into the dark and lonely safety of the hold, away from the terrors above—
The ruby around his neck worked free from the inside of his tunic, where he'd kept it hidden. He noticed only when he realized a glowing red beacon hung round his neck.
Disbelieving, he lifted the stone in front of his face, and stared at the gem, which glittered with its own internal fire. It was impossibly beautiful—and it was witched. He could think of no other explanation for the glow.
He scrabbled at the chain around his neck and tried to pull the necklace over his head. It resisted. He pulled harder. He felt the chain constrict in his fingers. He tried to break the chain and it tightened around his neck until it cut off his wind and locked his thumbs against his throat. Pinpoints of light began to dance in front of his eyes, and he heard a wind rushing inside his ears.
He quit fighting, and the chain loosened, and he sucked in air like a man who'd never tasted it before, and who might never again. At that moment, a man carrying a lamp ran toward him, and an angry voice shouted, "First Captain! There's that bastard pimp!"
Zeemos saw—as if from a great distance—that the man was the law-speaker. Heat rushed across his face, and the air he breathed suddenly felt thick and muddy; he discovered the air was almost impossible to breathe. And then everything went dark for real.
The Rose Sea Page 20