Rose summoned his officers to his day-cabin. Taliktrum, uninvited, joined the conference. The sailors paced, beside themselves, devouring the shore with their eyes. But they did not have long to wait. Ten minutes later the door flew open and the captain strode out among the waiting men. There was a bottle in his hand: fine Quezan rum.
“We will launch the short pinnace,” he said. Then, shouting above their cheers: “Not for apples-they are secondary, and we may even forgo them, should danger arise. What we seek above all is tactical information. We need a glance at this country before we sail into an unknown harbor on the word of a stowaway, and-”
“We must be very fast,” Taliktrum broke in. “Who knows how many eyes are watching us from the clifftops, even now?”
The sailors were gasping: no one interrupted the Red Beast. Rose himself looked tempted to smack Taliktrum into the sea. But breathing hard, he continued:
“I need someone who can take those stairs at a run. The apple-pickers will follow at our signal, if that man finds no danger. His will be the first foot to touch the Southern mainland, and there is great honor in such a deed. Tell me now: who is strong, who is bold? Who wants to make history today?”
Many hands went up, including Thasha’s and Hercol’s, but the captain chose a tall Emledrian sailor named Hastan. Thasha smiled at the choice. She liked Hastan, a quiet topman who was usually too abashed to speak in her presence, but who had danced with her on the topdeck when Mr. Druffle played his fiddle.
Rose passed him the bottle of rum. “Drink deep!” he said. “That’ll give you strength and courage both.”
Hastan took a giddy swallow, smacked his lips. “You’re a gentleman, Captain.”
Rose took the bottle back, glaring at him: “Chew the apples thoroughly. Don’t let me see you gulping food like a hog.”
Minutes later the boat was in the water, with six rowers, two ixchel observers (“I trust our eyes more than theirs,” said Taliktrum) and baskets large as the sailors’ hopes. Every eye followed her progress, her glide into the sheltered cove, Hastan’s leap into the surf and wallow up the shingle, his running assault on the stairs. Rose had chosen well: Hastan was as nimble as a mountain goat. He had climbed a hundred feet before the others had the pinnace out of the waves.
The five basket-carriers huddled near the ruins, awaiting Chathrand’s signal that it was safe to climb. The men with telescopes watched Hastan, still running as he neared the top. Only on the last flight did he pause for breath. Then he marched up the last steps and moved in among the trees.
There he stood, leaning against a trunk, gazing at an unknown world. He was motionless for a surprising time. When at last he turned to look at the Chathrand his face was full of wonder. Slowly he waved his raised palm to the sky: the all-clear signal. Then he picked an apple, sniffed it and took a bite.
Breathless anticipation: Hastan chewed, considered, swallowed. Then he tossed the apple in the air, caught it and set about devouring it with a will. The men on the topdeck roared.
“Quiet, you silly apes!” hissed Fiffengurt, though he was as happy as the rest. The signalman waved his flag, and the basket carriers started to climb.
Hastan finished the apple and tossed away the core. “Glutton,” said Rose.
The men reached the summit and set about stripping the trees. They worked quickly, and soon had taken all the fruit in easy reach. But there were eight hundred men awaiting apples, so one by one they moved away from the cliff’s edge, seeking more. Thasha watched them go through her telescope, thinking, Perhaps it is an orchard, at that.
But the men did not return. Five minutes passed, then ten. “Damn the fools!” cried Taliktrum. “They’re gorging themselves like brats in a sweet shop! You giants can’t be trusted with the simplest task!”
Twenty minutes. Not a branch stirred on the clifftop. The men looked at one another with growing alarm. Then Thasha saw Hercol do a startling thing: he touched Rose’s elbow, drew the captain back from the rail and whispered in his ear.
At first Rose showed no reaction to Hercol’s words. Then he shook the warrior off, walked to the quarterdeck rail and leaned over his crew. “No shouts, no cheering,” he said in a low and scathing rumble. “Haddismal, ready your Turachs. Alyash, I want a hundred sailors backing them up. Blades, helmets, shields-empty the armory if need be. Fiffengurt, clear the eighty-footers for immediate launch. We are going to get our men.”
Instantly the crowd splintered, every man racing to his job. Eager, approving looks passed among them: they were afraid, but waiting helplessly was worse. An assault! Whoever had seized their shipmates had no idea what they were in for.
“Rose is guilty of a million sins,” said Fiffengurt softly to Thasha, “but leaving crew behind ain’t among them.”
The hands swarmed around the longboat and the eighty-foot launch, freeing them to be hoisted into the gulf. Turachs were assembling, strapping on breastplates and chain collars, feeling their longbows for cracks. They worked in an eerie hush, as Rose had ordered-until the lookout’s cry shattered everything.
“Sail! Three ships from the armada, Captain! Breaking our way!”
Rose’s telescope snapped up to portside. Thasha raised her own and swept the coast. It was true: three frightful vessels had broken away from the warring mass. All three belched fire, and shimmered in that strange, unsettling way. And their bows were clearly aimed at the Chathrand.
“Captain,” she said, “how fast do you think-”
But the captain was already twenty feet up the mizzenmast. Thasha had seen before how Rose handled himself aloft. He moved like a younger man, confidence and fury making up for stiffness and girth. In minutes he had reached the topgallant lookout, snatched the man’s bigger telescope and raised it to his eye.
The whole ship was still. Even Taliktrum waited in silence, watching the captain. Rose moved the telescope from the approaching ships to the deserted clifftop and back again. Then he turned his face away and roared-a wordless howl of sheer frustration that echoed all along the coast. He looked down at the quarterdeck. “Abort!” he bellowed. “Hard about to starboard! Fiffengurt, get your men to the sheets!”
They were running away. Thasha closed her eyes, fighting the tears that came so suddenly. Tears for Hastan and the others, men who had sailed the ship for her, danced with her, men she hardly knew. And two ixchel. She hoped they’d all tasted the apples. She hoped the fruit was sweet.
Once more the Chathrand was fleeing for her life. Some of the men looked daggers at Rose behind his back-so much for loyalty to crew-but it was soon apparent that he had made the right, indeed the only, choice. The things pursuing them (ships, of course, but what kind, and why did the air quake above their decks?) were still distant, but already the gap was shortening. When the Chathrand put out topgallants and began her run, the three at once changed course. There could be no doubt: they meant to intercept the Great Ship.
And they were very fast. It was still impossible to say just how large they were, or what sort of weapons lay hidden in their dark, armored hulls. But one thing was perfectly clear: if nothing changed, they would catch the Chathrand in a matter of hours.
Rose tried to wake Prince Olik, but the dlomu only moaned and shivered.
“Toss him out in a lifeboat, Captain,” said Alyash. “You’ll soon learn if it’s him they’re after.”
“Don’t be an animal, Bosun!” said Fiffengurt. “He could capsize and drown in his sleep.”
“Or be picked up and tortured, or killed,” said Thasha. She gave Alyash a look of loathing. “How can you speak of such a thing?”
“Because it may have to be done,” said Rose. “Not yet, however. He’s a card up our sleeve-a royal card, for that matter. I’ll not toss him away until we’re dealt a better hand.”
How noble. Thasha glanced sidelong at Rose. Just when I was starting to think you might be human. But then with a flash of bitterness she reflected that she was no different: she kept who she needed, discarde
d the rest. Don’t think that way. You have a man now, and his name is Greysan Fulbreech.
When Thasha returned to the stateroom she caught Marila in her private cabin, going through the contents of her sea chest. Books, blouses, shirts, underthings lay about her in heaps. The Tholjassan girl was so flustered she let the lid of the chest fall on her thumb.
“Buchad!” she swore, jerking her hand away. Then, glaring at Thasha, she said, “Fine, I’m snooping. You’ve given me plenty of reason to, after all.”
“What are you looking for?” asked Thasha, her voice flat and cold.
“Some sign that you haven’t gone completely mad. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to him?”
“To Greysan?” Thasha asked, startled.
Marila looked as though she couldn’t believe her ears. “I was talking about Pazel. Remember Pazel, our friend? The one who’s got another twenty-four hours in the brig?”
“He put himself there,” said Thasha. “Greysan tried to make peace with him and got a black eye for his trouble.” She looked at a leather folder in Marila’s lap, from which trailed the edges of many crumpled papers. “That’s my blary letter satchel,” she said. “How dare you.”
The satchel contained the few letters she cherished-from her father, a few favorite aunts and uncles, and one particularly dear one from Hercol. It was still tied shut, but Marila’s intentions were plain. Controlling herself with effort, Thasha rounded her bed and held out her hand. “You had better leave,” she said.
Marila surrendered the letters. She trained her unreadable eyes on Thasha. “Listen to me,” she said. “I know Pazel’s been daft around Fulbreech, but you haven’t shown any sense at all. He could be anybody, Thasha. And he’s strange. I heard you talking last night.”
“Oh, you heard me, did you?” Thasha raised her voice.
“I couldn’t help it, you were ten feet away. Thasha, he was asking you about your Polylex, wasn’t he? How can you be sure the book is safe? Why would he ask that, if he’s just interested in you?”
“Because I told him how important it was to keep the book away from Arunis,” said Thasha.
Marila gave her a long, steady look. “You really love him?” she said at last.
“That’s my business,” said Thasha.
“What does Hercol say?”
Thasha’s hands were in fists. “He says he trusts me. He’s a friend.”
“So am I.”
“Oh, Marila, I know you are, it’s just-”
“Pazel hasn’t slept or eaten since he went in there. And Neeps is almost as bad. He’s worried himself into a blary stomachache. He won’t talk about anything but you.”
Thasha realized suddenly that she was looking at jealousy. I can’t do this anymore. The thought flashed unbidden through her mind; and then, rallying her courage: Yes, yes you can. She brought her memories of Fulbreech’s face, his soft kisses, to the front of her mind and held them there. “I thought,” she heard herself say, “that you of all people might understand.”
Marila began to shove Thasha’s clothes back into the chest. “Understand what?” she said. “That in the middle of fighting for our lives you suddenly decide you’d rather-”
“Marila,” said Thasha, almost pleading, “what if it’s not like that? What if this is part of fighting for our lives?”
“What in the Pits does that mean?”
Too far, Thasha told herself. She hid her face in her hands, stalling, thinking with furious speed. “For my life, then,” she said at last. “For my chance to live just a little before I die. Is that so unforgivable?”
“Thasha, once he gets what he wants, he’s going to-”
“Stop!” Thasha shouted. “Damn it, he’s not some animal, running me down. He hasn’t even tried.” She bent and hauled Marila to her feet. “But if he does, I’ll make my own choices. Tell that to Pazel and Neeps. They put you up to this, didn’t they?”
Marila shook her head. “They don’t even know I’m here.”
Thasha laughed in her face. Now that she’d started the words came easier. “Don’t you ever lecture me again. I was locked up in the Lorg School. They call it the Academy of Obedient Daughters, but it was just about turning us into wives-rich wives, powerful wives. The kind nobody ever loves, except for fifteen minutes at a time. Those she-devils they call Sisters, they made us dance like whores. They told us to fake pleasure when we didn’t feel it, ‘the first night, and every night.’ My own father sent me to that place, Marila, to make a suitable present out of me, a plaything for a forty-year-old Black Rag. And then I fell for a boy who’s in love with a fish.”
“Pazel’s in love with you. And Klyst isn’t a fish, she’s a sea-murth.”
“A fish,” Thasha repeated. “And don’t tell me about fighting for our lives. The Red Wolf didn’t mark you, did it? You’re not even one of us.” She jabbed a finger into Marila’s chest. “You think you can tell me who I should want, and why? You don’t know a Gods-damned thing. You’re a peasant.”
Marila stared at her in shock. Thasha wouldn’t have been surprised if she had spat in her face. But instead Marila just walked slowly from the cabin. In the doorway she stopped, and looked at Thasha with a frozen blankness.
“I used to feel sorry that you didn’t have a mother,” she said, “but you had one, all right. Her name was Syrarys.”
The winds were spiteful and weak. There was barely room to maneuver between the rip tide and the cliffs, and the hunger-weakened men had no rest at all between tacks. The loss of the landing party appalled and frightened them. And to top it all, a great dark vulture came and landed on the Goose-Girl, and defiled her-the worst luck imaginable. Just how their luck could sink lower, however, they did not dare to discuss.
Thasha took a turn at the chain-pumps, battling the hidden leak. It felt good to throw herself into mindless work. But down the row of crankshafts she saw Neeps and Marila, pulling together, drenched in sweat. Their eyes passed over her like the eyes of strangers. Thasha made herself look away.
When she emerged midafternoon the land had grown even more rugged and steep, and the mountains that had looked so distant loomed nearer, towering grandly over the cliffs. Thasha could see the rocky point Bolutu had described: one corner of this vast Efaroc Peninsula. Beyond that headland lay the cove called the Jaws of Masalym.
But now their pursuers had closed half the distance. She looked up and saw the new flag the tailor had patched together: the leopard and the rising sun. It clearly made no difference to the ships in pursuit.
The work grew frantic. They tightened backstays and spread more sail. Rose called for topgallants on the spindly foremast, and even stood a team ready to jettison their precious water. The ixchel ran up and down the strained rigging, looking for any sign of failure.
The hunters were within ten miles of their prey when the Chathrand cleared the point. Rose saw Alyash and Fiffengurt exchange looks of relief. Once the ship turned the wind would be with her, helping instead of hindering. And there in the west, like a deep bite out of the towering cliffs, was the cove.
“You can hear the falls already,” said Bolutu. Thasha heard them, a far-off thundering. From the mouth of the cove a white mist rose gleaming in the sun.
“They won’t catch us now, will they, Mr. Fiffengurt?” asked Ibjen.
“No, lad, they won’t,” said Fiffengurt, “especially if the rip tide’s where we think it is. They’ve been sailing on the far side, but they’ll have to cross it if they want to get any closer. That should set ’em back another hour at least. We’ll make your city, all right.”
“Unless Masalym too has come to hate this Olik and his flag,” said Taliktrum. “If that’s the case, we are dead men.” He pointed: all along the cliffs ran dark windows, out of which the black iron fingers of cannon jabbed down at the gulf. Other guns sprouted from towers on the clifftops, and still more from steep-walled forts built on rocks to either side of the cove.
“Friend or foe, Olik spoke the
truth about Masalym’s defenses,” said Hercol.
“The guns?” said Ibjen. “They are not the city’s main defense. In fact you could say they’re unnecessary.”
The truth of his statement was soon evident to all. For as they swept west along the shore the Jaws of Masalym opened to their sight. The great cove was a river mouth, well over a mile wide. The cliffs, twice as high as those where the apple trees blossomed, towered over several miles of sand flats littered with driftwood and fallen rock-and then closed in a staggering array of waterfalls. There was a huge central cataract, where enough water to fill a hundred Chathrands poured each second, churning up the white they had seen from afar. On either side of this mighty curtain towered other falls, great in themselves though small beside the giant. Spray billowing from the deeper crevasses suggested still more falls, but into these places they could not yet see.
Atop the cliffs, great stone walls marched to the very edge of the cataract. Behind them, through the windblown spray, Thasha glimpsed towers and domes. Cliff, wall and water: the folk of Masalym lived behind mighty defenses indeed.
“No enemy has ever taken our city,” said Ibjen. “She is impregnable as the Mountain of the Sky Kings, and her people justly proud.”
“She can’t be much of a sea power, though, can she?” said Fiffengurt. “I don’t see a single boat, nor pier to tie it to.”
“There’s no port at all!” cried Alyash. “How in the devil’s belly are we supposed to fix the old ship here?”
“You will see,” said a voice behind them. Thasha turned: Prince Olik was emerging from the No. 4 hatch, assisted by Rose and Fulbreech. He blinked at the light, looking rather frail. He leaned heavily on Fulbreech’s arm.
“Display me to them, sirs,” he said. “They would be fools to attack a vessel under my flag, but we can never rule out the presence of a fool. And the sight of humans, after all, is bound to shock.”
Then he noticed that Ibjen was on his knees. The boy’s head was bowed, and his arms were crossed over his chest. “Oh, come, lad, that is very formal,” said the prince.
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