‘Thanks for that. So what am I looking for?’
‘A ship that large will have a number of watchlights on deck: fore, aft and amidships, maybe even a few aloft. Downwind, you might even smell her galley, what they’re serving for breakfast. So basically, if you see anything that looks like glowing orbs of fire floating just above the water, that’s our whore.’ He yawned, stretching his shoulders and back. He had been standing over the binnacle, keeping them on course with the changing tide, but finally he gave up and sat in his captain’s chair.
‘One luxury, I see,’ Markus teased him.
‘I’m getting older,’ Sharr smiled. ‘Can’t be standing here all day and night.’
‘So where’s our bowsprit?’
‘I reefed it last aven.’
‘Over the water? In the dark? Alone? That was brave of you!’
‘Nonsense,’ Sharr said, ‘there are horses all the way out to the end – that’s the lines you stand on. When I was a whelp, I worked on a cutter with a naked bowsprit, not a footrope to be seen. Rutting Pragans, but that tested your courage, especially in the rain and ice. You learned balance in a hurry, no mistake, with one hand on the standing rigging, not to mention how to tie a half-hitch with one hand and the occasional toe.’
‘Ever lose anyone?’
‘We had a few that got dunked, but after a while we worked out we ought to be wearing safety lines.’ He sighed. ‘Took some of the adventure out of it.’
‘You want some tecan?’
‘No, let’s wait for first light. You’d have to climb over Brand to get in there, anyway.’
Markus sat down gingerly on a coil of rope near the helm started sniffing the wind, hoping for the scent of Malakasian breakfast: boiled greenroot and cabbage or something similarly disagreeable. From time to time he hauled himself to his feet and peered over the gunwale, but he found nothing.
After a quarter-aven, he rested his forehead on his knees, then gradually gave in to sleep.
Markus woke to Sharr shouting, ‘Get up, gods rut you raw, get up!’
He was on his feet in an instant, gripping the rail to keep from falling. ‘What? What’s the matter?’ he asked, still a little disoriented. ‘Is it the carrack?’
‘Stalwick’s gone!’ Sharr cried, looking about him wildly.
‘Gone? What? How can he be—?’ He peered into the little cabin. The cot was empty. ‘But where—?’
Brand pushed past him and took the helm. ‘Go ahead,’ he said to Sharr, who rolled and lashed the tarp, opening the cabin to the elements. Dawn whitened the horizon. ‘Right, listen,’ he ordered, ‘when we jibe, we’ve got to let the main out. We’ve been on this broad reach, so we don’t have to let it far, and for rut’s sake, wait until I tell you!’
Markus rubbed his eyes, muttering, ‘I don’t— What’s happening? Where—?’
‘Markus!’ Sharr cried, making him jump, ‘watch me, man. When I shout to Brand, you bring that spanker over. Keep it parallel with the main boom. Understand?’
‘But I don’t—’
‘That rope there, the pin’s aft on the port side. Come on, Markus, it’s not that big a sheet.’ Sharr moved out towards the bowsprit.
Markus hurried over to Brand, saying, ‘What are we rutting doing?’
‘I think we’re turning around,’ he said. ‘I think that’s what jibing is, or coming about or whatever he calls it.’ Sharr was halfway out the bowsprit now, already over open water. Rather than being chased by towering swells as they had been the previous day, now the Missing Daughter faced ranks of rolling waves, splashing over the bow, threatening to wash Sharr all the way to the Northern Forest.
‘But why? How do we know Stalwick is back there?’
Brand pointed at the deck: the dory was gone.
‘Unholy rutting mothers!’ Markus untied the spanker, keeping the line tight as ordered and watching Sharr for the sign to bring it over the transom. ‘Demonshit, what did he do? Where is he, Brand? He can’t be out alone in that thing – we’ve got to find him!’
‘He’s there.’ Brand pointed over the transom.
‘Great gods of the Northern Forest.’ Markus stood in mute amazement, looking at the carrack in the distance, running north, perhaps a thousand paces off their stern. She was impossibly tall, and massive, and with her sails filled and billowing, looked more like an unchained sea monster than a ship. Between the two vessels, rolling dangerously in the swells, Stalwick Rees rowed furiously, careening from trough to trough. He was dressed as a Malakasian soldier.
Stunned, Markus let go the spanker line, slashing a bloody gash across his palm as the little sheet ripped free, its miniature yard swinging wide to port.
‘Markus!’ Sharr screamed from the bowsprit. He plunged beneath another wave, but came up, still loosening the forward sheet and shouting, ‘Get that rutting line, Markus! Gods cook your mother’s arse, don’t let it run out of the tackle; you’ll never get it back through. Grab it!’
Markus dived for the spanker yard, caught it and pulled back over the transom, then fell on slippery deck and hit his head. He cursed Stalwick’s entire family as he crawled on hands and knees to the transom and tugged the rigging line tight with bloody fingers.
Once it was secure, he called to Brand, ‘How did he get away?’
‘We were sleeping, you and I were, anyway. I’m not sure what he did to Sharr, used some kind of spell, I guess. I don’t know; I thought he was dead.’
Markus watched impotently as Stalwick rowed further and further away.
Sharr unfurled the bowsprit, then hauled on its rig and belayed it. The sail fluttered uselessly as he shouted, ‘Get ready!’ and made his way to the junction of his spinnaker rig and the spar, where he steadied himself while wrestling with the knots. At last he cried, ‘All right, Brand, bring us about! Crank her over!’
At first, nothing happened. But as the Missing Daughter turned, Markus felt a light tugging on the rig line in his hand: they were catching the wind.
He watched Stalwick stand precariously astride the bench, waving frantically for the carrack’s forward watch. The great ship loomed over the rowboat and it seemed certain that Stalwick would be crushed beneath her hull, no one on board any the wiser to his one-man assault.
‘Get out of there, you bloody fool!’ he cried.
The carrack furled her topsails, then her mains.
The spanker pulled taut. Markus hauled it parallel with the main beam, watching Brand who was watching Sharr, still aloft, but shouting orders.
Stalwick waved at a sailor, who waved back.
‘No,’ Markus whispered, ‘wait, we’re coming.’
A rope ladder was lowered off the port bow. Stalwick reached for it, slipped and fell into his little boat, then took the ladder again with both hands. As he clung there, the rowboat thudded along the carrack’s hull, then floated away.
The Missing Daughter found the wind and her bow came around slowly. A massive swell rolled over the port beam, knocking Markus to the deck, and the bowsprit filled with a noise like a muffled thunderclap. The old trawler made way, staring down a Malakasian carrack twenty times her size.
Stalwick Rees reached the top of the rope ladder and disappeared over the rail, into Malakasian custody.
Aloft, Sharr was still shouting, ‘You’ve got to feel for it, Brand. Back and forth a bit, feel for the wind and watch the swells, they’ll show you!’ As the bowsprit caught the wind he screamed, ‘That’s it! Well done, old man, well done! ‘ And with both hands clasped around a length of hemp, Sharr jumped.
The spinnaker rig spun with a humming sound like the drone on a bellamir as Sharr dropped to the foredeck, landing lightly as his secret sail, a vast billowing sheet, unfurled. It was attached with a clever array of looped lines, so all Sharr needed to do was unlash the uppermost and then leap into the morning. The massive sail was a magnificently stained and patched quilt, but it caught the wind, filled with a noisy snap and dragged the Missing Daughter towards the carrack
.
‘Woo hoo!’ Sharr jigged like a madman, ‘now we’re running, boys! Did you see that?’
‘Grand.’ Markus frowned. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘Ram her?’ Brand suggested.
‘Good gods, no,’ Sharr said, ‘that tub wouldn’t even feel us. We have to get on board, maybe get below. The holding cells will be down several levels. If we can break out, one of us might be able to get to her rudder, maybe disable the fat bitch from the inside.’
‘Why do you think he did it?’ Brand asked, giving up the helm.
‘I think he saw it yesterday,’ Sharr said, his cheery mood dissolving.
‘Saw it?’
‘The future. I think he saw himself doing whatever it is he’s doing over there right now.’
‘He’s in manacles right now,’ Brand said, ‘or bent over the rail taking a beating.’
‘Let’s hope not,’ Markus said. ‘He’s no threat.’
‘They don’t care. They’ll see through that uniform he’s wearing – where’d he get that, anyway?’
‘Guilty,’ Sharr said. ‘I brought one for each of us, figured we might need them.’
‘Should we put them on now?’ Markus checked out beyond the spinnaker. They were closing fast on the carrack.
‘Too late,’ Sharr said, ‘they’ve seen us.’
Brand went below, returning with another brace of throwing knives. ‘We’ll never get on board with bows, rapiers or swords, but if there’s going to be a fight, we might be able to keep one or two of these hidden, at least until we’re all on deck together.’
‘There’re two hundred soldiers and sailors on the ship, Brand.’ Sharr looked sceptically at the double-edged blades.
‘So what?’ Brand shoved two more knives into his own belt, then handed two to Markus. ‘So we don’t fight at all? We let them—’
‘Wait,’ Markus cut him off, ‘look there. What’s that?’
‘Pissing demons!’ Sharr balanced on the transom and squinted. ‘One of her sails is on fire.’
‘And there goes another!’ Brand pointed high in the carrack’s rigging.
‘Stalwick,’ Markus whispered. The North Sea had been a dirge of muted greys for two days. The unexpected smear of orange, brightening the horizon, had Markus transfixed. ‘He glimpsed the future, an image of himself…’ His voice trailed off.
‘Setting that thing on fire?’ Brand said, ‘killing himself out here?’
‘That’s why he fell apart on us yesterday, why he—’ Markus pointed numbly at the empty cot, still a dishevelled jumble of blankets.
‘Well, he’s not dead yet,’ Sharr said. ‘You two, look sharp. I’ll get us in close. See if he comes over the side.’
‘He looks like them,’ Markus said. ‘How will we know it’s him?’
‘If only one gets tossed overboard,’ Brand said, ‘that’ll be our boy.’
With a following sea and southerly wind, the Missing Daughter was nearly beneath the carrack’s jib boom before Markus smelled the flames. A massive plume of smoke rose from the burning rigging and crested in fire; the great ship was a floating torch now, rising over Sharr’s trawler like a second sun. While the rigging blazed out of control, the crew fought to save the masts, spars and yards, anything from which they might hang a spare sheet once the fire was out, but all the cutting, dragging, shouting, running and climbing were for naught as a burning spar broke free and crashed through the main deck into the hold.
Markus hoped the fiery missile had come to rest atop the milled bark and roots being shipped to Pellia.
The mizzenmast toppled backwards with the wind, shattering the helm and clearing the quarterdeck of her officers. The sails, ablaze, lay across the bridge like a burning blanket.
‘See that?’ Sharr said, ‘she’s just lost her helm. It’s over.’
Markus shook his head. ‘Not yet it isn’t – look!’
Along the rail, the Malakasians who had been scurrying about like madmen regained a measure of discipline as the order was given to abandon the ship. Working together, teams lowered longboats and cast rope ladders over the side. Those with level heads climbed down; others, overcome with panic, leapt into the frigid seawater. Some never resurfaced; others thrashed about for a moment or two before bobbing passively south with the tide. The screams of those still alive were an unnerving counterpoint to the orders and warnings shouted from above.
‘We should pick them up,’ Markus said.
‘Forget them,’ Brand muttered, ‘we’re watching for Stalwick.’
‘We can’t just leave them to die.’
‘Of course we can – and anyway, it’s too dangerous for us to be sculling about beneath that thing. If one of those masts falls on us, we’ll be on tonight’s menu as well.’
With her masts razed to the decks, the carrack was dead in the water and drifting south. Her hull turned lazily, pushing several longboats out of reach. Sailors still clinging to ratlines jumped for it, hoping to come up within arm’s length of someone they knew, someone with a hint of compassion. Markus watched as two officers, their absurd black and gold plumage setting them apart from the others, deliberately kept two seamen from climbing aboard their launch. It wasn’t difficult: a few slaps, cold fingers prised away, and the sailors sank silently into the deeps.
‘Rutting motherhumpers!’ Sharr rooted around in the cabin until he found his longbow. ‘Drown the commoners, will you?’ He nocked an arrow. ‘Bloody cowards, the both of them – Brand! Keep us steady; this won’t take but a moment.’
Grinning, Brand said, ‘Certainly, Captain. Send them to the Northern Forest early. They can keep a seat warm for the rest of us.’
With two quick shots, Sharr dispatched both officers. ‘There,’ he said as their bodies slumped into the longboat.
‘Feel better?’ Markus found the murders a bit ironic given the devastation.
‘Yes, actually,’ Sharr said. ‘There are worse things than war, Markus. Now, if you would, please, strike the bowsprit and the spinnaker. I want to make another pass, see if we can find him.’
Markus clung to the guide rope Sharr had affixed to the bulkhead. With only a toehold on either side of the cabin, moving forward on the Missing Daughter was a challenge for an untrained farmer from the Central Plains. With his heels dangling unnervingly over open water, Markus slithered into the bow and unlashed both sails.
As soon as the rig lines were free, Sharr shouted, ‘Coming about, boys, keep your heads down.’ The main boom swung overhead and the trawler slowed to a crawl. ‘Leave those sheets, Markus; just tie them off loose for now. We’ll need them when we turn tail and run.’
A dead sailor floated past. Markus could smell the smoke and burning bodies. He made a silent vow to abandon the Resistance, sneak home and focus on the spring planting.
‘There!’ Brand shouted, pointing up at the great ship’s stern rail, ‘is that him?’
‘Hard to tell.’ Sharr coughed on a lungful of smoke. ‘Markus, can you see him?’
It was Stalwick: he waved frantically with one arm. When he turned, Markus could see the hilt of a knife embedded in his back; it was difficult to see from this distance, but he thought the wound might still be bleeding. Stalwick clumsily cast one leg over the rail, looking as though he was about to jump.
‘No!’ Sharr screamed, ‘not yet! Stalwick, wait. We’re too far out!’
Markus jumped up and down, motioning for Stalwick to wait, but the injured sorcerer, his frail form wracked with sobs, ignored him and dived for the Missing Daughter, slamming into the water on his side.
‘Demonshit,’ Brand said, ‘we can’t get in that far. That tub’s turning on her heels. We might reach him, but we’ll lose the wind beneath that bloated arse of hers.’
‘Markus?’ Sharr said.
As if reading his mind, Markus was already stripped to the waist and kicking off his boots. He hugged the bowsprit with both arms as he crawled along the tapered beam. ‘A bit further, Sharr!’ he called, �
��I see him!’
Sharr poked the Missing Daughter’s extended bowsprit as close to the burning carrack as he dared. Overhead, the fiery beast rolled gently, her massive stern turning slowly to windward. ‘Now, Markus!’ he cried, ‘and be quick about it – we’ll be off the wind in two shakes of your sister’s backside!’
Markus dived in. They could hear him screaming before he surfaced as the freezing water bit with a thousand needle-sharp teeth. He saw one of the Malakasians sinking, feet first, about fifty paces down; the sailor’s face was frozen in a macabre cry. It wouldn’t take long to die out here.
Stalwick paddled gamely with one arm, still weeping like a child, but kicking hard nonetheless. When Markus reached him, he threw himself on his friend, grasping at anything to stay afloat.
‘Come on, you mad bastard.’ Markus ground his teeth together. ‘Calm down and let me get you home, otherwise you’ll drown us both.’
‘I’m too c-c-c-c-cold,’ Stalwick’s own teeth chattered, ‘and m-m-m-my leg won’t w-w-w-work any more and I can’t f-f-f-feel m-m-m-my arm!’
‘The bleeding arm?’ Markus tried to keep him talking as he towed him towards the trawler. ‘That’s probably good, you blazing fool; with that knife stuck in you, I bet it hurts like the blazes.’
‘I d-d-d-d-don’t know.’ Stalwick’s voice died to a whisper.
‘Brand! ‘ Markus shouted, surprised at how his own voice had begun to falter, ‘throw us a line. Throw—’
Stalwick was a dead weight now. Markus held him up with one hand and clawed at the icy water with the other. This is it, he thought, we’re going down.
The rope struck him in the face. ‘Grab it, Markus!’ Brand shouted, standing astride the transom. ‘Grab it and hold on!’
With weakening fingers, Markus found the line, wrapped it a few times around his wrist and waited for the North Sea to swallow them whole. Just as he imagined them sliding into the vast emptiness below, he heard the Missing Daughter’s sails snap with the wind: the carrack had drifted far enough east. Markus took a breath, held it, then sank, dragging Stalwick with him. They drifted for a few agonising moments in the clear northern seas. The silence was infinite, overwhelming … then Markus felt a tug on his wrist as Brand reeled them in with the trawler’s winch.
The Larion Senators Page 59