Deadhouse Landing

Chapter 11

A ghostly predawn light revealed the waters south of Cawn empty of any approaching vessels and Tattersail found herself cursing the Napans for their tardiness, just as she’d fumed at Mock for his belated arrival yesterday.

Where were the blue-skinned bastards? Why weren’t they here? Now she wondered whether she’d properly understood the arrangements. Perhaps they, or Tarel, had got the wrong night. But the equinox – who could misunderstand that? She went to find Mock.

Since they’d been anchored for a few hours close to shore in a sheltered cove just outside the Bight of Cawn, the admiral had regained his sea-legs. She found him walking the Insufferable’s deck, trading stories and greetings among the crew, reminiscing about one of the last engagements he’d participated in. It might have just been her mood, but it seemed to her that the freebooters were only half paying attention – the way one might endure a grandparent’s favourite story or lecture.

When she motioned for his attention the men and women quickly melted away. The admiral stroked his long moustache, eyeing her, looking pleased with himself.

‘Where are they?’ she hissed, trying to keep her voice low. ‘We can’t delay much longer if we wish to arrive with the dawn.’

Mock shrugged expansively, quite unconcerned. He raised his voice, speaking to all within earshot. ‘If the Napans renege because they have no stomach for a fight then that’s all the better, hey boys? More loot for us!’

Cheers answered this, but to Tattersail they did not sound as enthusiastic as they might have. Keeping her voice low, she answered, ‘I don’t like it. We should withdraw.’

Mock almost laughed. ‘Withdraw? We’re in position. Cawn is ours!’

She refused to give up her misgivings. ‘But why—’

He came close, and in the way that so infuriated her motioned for her silence by pressing a finger to her lips. When he invited her to accompany him to their cabin, she bit down on her outrage and followed, fuming silently.

Within, she drew breath to damn him for treating her like a child, but before she could speak he turned on her, saying, ‘Do not unnerve the crew before battle, please.’

She blinked, quite taken aback. ‘Well…’

‘It could cost us lives – perhaps even the victory.’

‘Well, yes, but I’m worried—’

‘We’re all anxious, my love.’

‘Let me finish, damn you!’

Mock pulled away, his brows rising, then he stroked his moustache, nodding. ‘Very well. My apologies.’

Still angry, Tattersail struggled to order her thoughts. ‘The Napans aren’t here. Why? What is Tarel planning? What is his strategy here?’

The admiral’s nodding gathered strength and conviction as he took her shoulders, smiling. ‘Ah, my Tattersail. Cunning lass. Doing your job. But do not worry. You think this is deliberate?’ He pinched her chin between his thumb and fingers. ‘There are a thousand reasons to explain why they have been delayed – or withdrawn. Poor sea conditions. Strong headwinds.’ He pulled away to pace the cabin. ‘Perhaps Tarel was embarrassed by the small number of vessels he could muster; perhaps he didn’t wish to reveal that to me; perhaps—’

‘Perhaps he is burning Malaz City even as we speak.’

Mock froze in his pacing, then spun on his heels to face her. ‘Ah. I … hadn’t thought of that.’ He returned to stroking his moustache, pacing again. ‘Yet, I think not. Our fleet remains. Upon discovering this we would naturally retaliate. Why invite that so soon after the burning of half of Dariyal? And his fleet is weaker than ours.’

‘Exactly. There is something in this throw of the bones. I feel it.’

But Mock was shaking his head. ‘You see treachery where mere incompetence or back luck would suffice. I am sorry – but I am not convinced.’

‘But—’

He was shaking his head. ‘Thank you, Sail. Thank you for your thoughts … but we are committed. Stay wary and observant, I value that. But now is the time to act.’ He kissed her brow then pulled open the cabin door.

Tattersail could only raise her fisted hands in the air in mute fury, then follow. Mock signalled Earnolth, his steersman, who hailed from some benighted land called Perish. The huge fellow gave an eager nod. ‘Raise canvas!’ he bellowed, and heaved over the tiller-arm.

The Insufferable yawed as the mains caught the wind and bellied. Quickly, the surrounding vessels followed suit. They carved wakes as they swung round, gaining headway. A sick feeling clawed at Tattersail’s stomach as she watched these preparations. Within hours they’d sight the harbour and Cawn; then she would know whether she was wrong to let her fears get the better of her, or whether she would face her strongest challenge to date.

She clenched the railing amidships, waiting and watching.

Later, as dawn touched the coastline to the north, her first view of the harbour made her wince for her foolish words. All appeared normal. No warships patrolled the waters in readiness. The harbour walls did not bristle with defenders and cocked catapults or onagers. The Malazan fleet appeared to have found their prey unprepared.

Marsh, the first mate, ordered the attack flags raised and the surrounding vessels answered the signal. He then bellowed, ‘Ready landing parties!’ The raiders – all those sailors who could be spared from manning the Insufferable – now crowded the deck. They strapped on extra armour and weapons. Tattersail, for her part, would remain with the vessel. Mock, she noted, was nowhere to be seen and she thought that negligent.

She was about to search for him when a shout went up from aloft that froze her in place: ‘Sails to the south!’ was the call, and she turned, her heart sinking with dread. Oh, please, Oponn no …

‘What colour?’ she yelled.

‘Blue! Napans!”

Shit! She stormed for the cabin. Within, she found Mock with two hands on the cut-crystal decanter of wine at his mouth. ‘Put that down!’ she yelled.

The admiral spluttered, coughing and dribbling wine down his front. He wiped his mouth with a satin sleeve. ‘What is it … dearest?’

‘The Napans – they’re behind us!’

Mock nodded, satisfied. ‘Well, here at last. As they promised.’

‘No. You don’t understand. They’re behind us.’ He smoothed his moustaches and the gesture infuriated Tattersail more than ever. ‘Behind!’

He headed for the door, inviting her to accompany him. ‘They’re late. Wherever else would they be?’

‘But…’

‘Do not worry yourself, darling.’ He pushed open the cabin door and stood blinking in the harsh light of the dawn, as if stunned. Tattersail pointed south, insistent, and the admiral nodded, shading his gaze. ‘Yes, dearest.’ He squinted. ‘You see, there’s nothing…’ His voice trailed off with a note of confusion.

Tattersail peered as well; the brightening saffron light now painted a long broad line of sails that crossed the mouth of the bay from side to side. She stared, and her heart sank in disbelief. By the gods – they’re blockading the bay!

She clenched Mock’s arm in a furious grip. ‘They have us in their jaws!’

A distant crash sounded then, as of the release of some titanic mechanism, and a fiery projectile flew from the harbour defences – a burning tarred bomb. Tattersail watched, helpless, while it climbed skyward in a parabolic arc that brought it down to strike the prow of a galley, shearing it off cleanly by the force of its impact alone.

‘Tarel’s betrayed us,’ she grated.

The admiral appeared to have mastered himself as he drew a hand down his moustaches, scowling. ‘Quite obviously, dearest.’ He gestured to Marsh. ‘Strike the attack! Raise the retreat!’ Marsh ran to convey the orders. Mock strode to the great blond giant that was Earnolth. ‘Bring us round tight. We’ll break through and hold the opening.’

The hulking fellow picked up a line and began lashing himself to the tiller-arm, rumbling a laugh as he did so.

Tattersail clenched the railing and called upon her Thyr Warren. She felt it igniting the air about her. Betraying bastards. She’ll send them all to the Abyss.

* * *

Cartheron was halfway into the job of rearranging the rigging on the foremast mains’l when Hawl came to his side. ‘Be entering the bay soon,’ she called, and he nodded in a distracted way. Whoever had set up this north-shore-style rigging had done them no favours. He preferred a tighter cinch. Less prone to slippage.

He spared a glance north to the distant shoreline – gods, they were far behind! And the sun was rising. They were hours from Cawn. What was the point now?

Choss came past carrying fresh line for repairs. He dropped the coil to stare at Cartheron’s work.

‘What have you done?’ the man said, outraged.

Cartheron gestured to the rigging. ‘Fixed it proper.’

‘Proper?’ The burly fellow set to redoing Cartheron’s work. ‘I had it all arranged just the way I like.’

‘North-shore style is too loose.’ He raised a hand to intervene but Choss knocked it aside.

‘You mind your own station, Crust. I’m in charge here.’

Cartheron backed away, his hands raised. ‘Okay, okay!’ He shook his head. The problem with the Twisted right now was far too many captains and not enough crew.

‘Smoke to the north!’ Hawl called from the bows. Cartheron squinted that way. He raised a hand against the oblique rays of the dawn. He couldn’t see any hint of smoke, but he trusted her Warren-enhanced senses.

‘You see!’ he called to everyone in general. ‘The attack’s started already! There’ll be nothing left for us!’

‘Get on it then,’ Hawl answered, and Cartheron shook his head again. Too many damned captains. He hurried to the stern, to old Brendan at the tiller. Crossing the deck, he took in the sails, their deep bellies, the angle of the vessel, and the surge of the waves, and nodded to himself. ‘A touch easy…’ he murmured to the sailing master.

Brendan offered a wink. ‘Nothing’s chasing us yet.’

Cartheron quirked a smile. ‘True enough, old-timer. True enough.’

The Twisted held north. Again Cartheron wondered what was happening back in Malaz; how Lady Sureth – Surly – was doing practically unguarded.

When she announced she wouldn’t be accompanying them on board the Twisted, there’d been a near mutiny. They all shouted at once that they simply wouldn’t go without her. Finally, after much mutual silent glaring, she allowed that perhaps Urko could remain to guard her. But that hadn’t been enough for Cartheron. He’d also left Shrift, Amiss and Tocaras. Grinner wanted to stay as well, declaring that he’d dedicated his sword to Lady Sureth’s service and his place was by her side.

He couldn’t understand why Surly had refused to come. Yet that wasn’t entirely true; he knew she was up to something. Some scheme. Geffen would no doubt try something in their absence – perhaps she planned to pick off some of his hired toughs. He wouldn’t put anything like that past her. After all, she’d come within a hair’s breadth of the throne of Nap. She certainly wasn’t going to let some second-rate criminal stand in her way.

Now he could make out the smoke to the north drifting across the waters – and quite a lot if it too. He hoped the Malazans weren’t burning down the entire city.

They rounded a rocky headland that guarded the mouth of the bay and he simply stared, completely dumbfounded by what confronted them. A full-blown naval engagement completely clogged the waters. Ships danced about each other. Some foundered, locked together in combat. Some lay half over, men clinging to their hulls; a few coasted helplessly, engulfed in raging flames.

Even as he watched, a salvo of flaming projectiles came arching from the Cawn harbour defences to slam into the jammed bay. Shattered wood flew skyward where a few hit targets, both Malazan and Napan, the Cawnese not being too particular at this point.

In the instant it took Cartheron to take in the engagement he grasped how Tarel’s fleet was seeking to drive the Malazans into the Cawnese defences, while the Malazans had turned upon their ambushers and were trying to outfight them ship to ship.

Without pausing in his scanning of the battle he yelled to Brendan, though the man stood right next to him, ‘Break off!’ The sailing master threw over the tiller and the Twisted yawed mightily. Even as they turned, another of the clashing vessels burst into flames.

‘Blue sails!’ Torbal yelled from high on the mains, unnecessarily, for more than half the vessels choking the bay carried them – the full Napan fleet must be present.

As an ex-flank admiral in that very fleet, Cartheron stared, utterly fascinated, yet appalled by the carnage – the two largest privateer navies of the southern seas locked in a death-embrace. Who would emerge the victor? Part of him cheered his old command, yet he also could not help but damn the bastard Tarel’s efforts to abject failure.

And standing there at the stern in full view for that unthinking moment was his undoing. It happened even as realization dawned; the Twisted’s arc brought it sweeping past the rearmost of the Napan fleet – an aged galleass he knew as the Just Cause. He also knew its captain quite well, Regen Leath the Fat.

And standing there at the railing of the Just Cause, staring back at Cartheron, stood Regen in his generous flesh. Across the waters mutual recognition lit both their eyes, and the man’s mouth opened in a great exaggerated O, followed by the bellow, too distant to be heard: ‘YOU!’

Only now – too late, by far too late – did Cartheron duck down from sight. Shit! Shit, shit! Dammit to Hood! He turned to Brendan. ‘We have to turn back.’

The man gaped at him as if he were a lunatic. ‘Turn back, sir?’

‘We need to take that galleass!’

Dujek was within earshot and he slid along the railing to close with Cartheron. ‘What’s this, captain? Turn round?’

‘We have to take that galleass.’

The officer Jack, who was always alongside Dujek, saluted. ‘With respect, sir. If we engage that vessel its sister-ships will swing round and we’ll be overrun. We’d never escape. Also, that’s a troop carrier. There must be over two hundred soldiers on board.’

‘He’s got a tactical point,’ said Dujek.

Cartheron pressed a fist to his forehead. ‘Dammit! Fine! Full sails southerly.’

‘Prudent,’ Brendan put in, laconically. ‘’Cause it’s pursuing.’

‘What?’ Cartheron almost jumped up to look but caught himself in time. Still, did it really matter now? He stayed crouched anyway, bracing himself at the stern railing. ‘We can outrun a damned over-burdened galleass,’ he growled.

Brendan said nothing, while Choss, who also was crouched at the stern, blew out a breath. ‘Oh, come now!’ Cartheron chided them. ‘It’s not like we’re some damned Cawnese trader scow.’

‘Well,’ Choss allowed, ‘we’re not Cawnese…’

Cartheron waved him off impatiently. He turned to Brendan. ‘Get us out of here.’

The old sailing master grinned and bellowed, ‘Raise all jibs!’

Cartheron winced at this order, but didn’t countermand it; so far he’d avoided the jibs as he wasn’t completely confident of the ancient original bowsprit and booms. Hunched, he crossed to the starboard rail and peered over. The galleass was breaking off to give chase.

And he knew they simply could not allow themselves to be caught. That was certain. An old galleass, he thought to himself. At least they stood a chance. She couldn’t throw up any more canvas than they. But Mael’s breath, they were slow. So slow. And two old buntlines had snapped under the strain just getting here … He returned to Brendan, said, ‘Now someone’s chasing us.’

The old sailing master laughed, revealing half-empty gums. ‘Yes indeed. But it’s a stern chase and we got us a good lead.’ His smile fell away. ‘That is, if everything holds.’

Cartheron stroked his chin, almost wincing. ‘Bless Mael. Provided.’

Brendan pushed them far closer into the wind than Cartheron would have ever dared. He cleared his throat, almost ready to object, but swallowed the comment, reflecting, Dammit, the man’s the sailing master and I put him there – so I should just put up and shut up.

He glanced back to the galleass, its huge square mains straining; they were putting open sea between them. If everything on this bucket would just hold.

* * *

Black choking smoke of burning tar, wood and oil half-obscured the bay. Ships seemed to emerge right before Tattersail’s eyes and it was all she could do to deflect countless attempted rammings and grapplings. Another Napan galley coursed too close to the Insufferable and she seized the Ruse mage in her Thyr powers, gasping, ‘Strafe those oarsmen!’

The detachment of archers with her released as one in a sweep of the boards; the galley fell behind, chaos on her decks.

‘Port!’ came a yell from the lookout and she turned away to that side; sailors called amid the floating wreckage and pools of burning oil, but there was no time. The tall bronze-capped ram of an archaic trireme came darting like a loosed shaft out of the smoke and manoeuvring vessels of battle.

Reaching out with her Warren she threw all restraint aside and raked the entire deck with a storm of flames. The vessel lurched as every oarsman now writhed, oars forgotten, to leap howling into the waves.

She stood panting and saw the archers, who had been cheering her before, now eyeing her with something like dread. She pointed their gazes to the bay. Awful, yes, but this was battle – this was where she could exult in her powers, and tested them to their depths.

She raised her Warren as a gyring storm about her and whipped aside yet another effort to rake the Insufferable’s deck, sending the salvos of crossbow bolts wide into the littered waters of the bay. She then picked her way across the wreckage of a fallen mizzen lower yard, its rigging and canvas a tangled heap, to climb to the sterncastle where Mock and his flagmen were furiously sending orders ship to ship.

‘Have the Fancy and the Hound heave off,’ Mock was telling a flagger. ‘They’re bunching up.’ He stood with his legs wide, hands tucked into his belt at his back. Now that battle had been engaged he had somehow come back into his own. Gone was the unsteadiness and world-weariness – the man was now grinning behind his moustache, calm, almost eerily cheery.

‘We’re clear!’ she called to him. ‘We should disengage!’

She was certain he must have heard but he did not answer. Instead, he turned to the mid-decks, shouting, ‘Take another run at the Sapphire, would you, Marsh? She’s lining up rather obligingly ahead.’

‘Aye, aye,’ the mate answered.

The Sapphire, Tarel’s flagship. They’d been taking runs at each other all through the engagement, with no decisive blow landed as yet.

She was angry, yet couldn’t help reflecting that this was the man who two years ago had charmed her all through that first long raiding run eastward round the coast, when they’d sat down with greased Wickan traders to unload their massive takings.

‘We should disengage!’ she repeated, pressing.

He offered a wink. ‘One more run, dearest…’

She shook his arm. ‘No! We’ve lost the Intolerant, and the Intemperate is dead in the water. We’re all that’s left to guard the retreat.’ The admiral frowned. She wondered whether, fixated as he’d been upon destroying Napan vessels, he hadn’t been aware of these setbacks. She made a last appeal. ‘Think of what’s left of the fleet.’

He nodded then, smoothing a hand down his moustaches. ‘Good for you, Sail. Yes, very well.’ He turned to amidships, calling, ‘Marsh! Raise the retreat! We’re disengaging.’

Marsh halted in mid-step, blinking his confusion; then he shrugged, and, raising his chin to the highest tops’l, yelled, ‘Raise the retreat!’

‘Aye, aye,’ came a faint and distant answer.

Mock took Tattersail’s shoulders, facing her close. ‘Can you drag the Intemperate along behind us?’

She could not help but glance to the huge flaming conflagration that currently was the Intemperate. ‘But it’s afire…’

‘Exactly.’

‘Ah. Well … I’ll try.’

He squeezed her shoulders. ‘Very good.’ He turned to the mid-decks. ‘Marsh! Did I not order to disengage? Sails! Where’s our canvas?’

‘On it, cap’n.’

Mock turned back to Tattersail. ‘Sweep a hole open with the Intemperate, won’t you, dearest?’

‘They have the best Ruse mages on the seas,’ she warned.

‘Ah, but you’re not attacking their vessels, are you?’

She could not help but shake her head at that, almost smiling. ‘You canny bastard. Very well.’ She prepared herself mentally, blocking everything out; everyone now knew not to bother speaking to her. She reached out to the Intemperate, grasping hold as best she could, and held it as the Insufferable now pulled away beneath her. The mass of the great man-o-war fought her at first, but once it swung round and started moving it almost cooperated as she sent it veering towards the nearest Napan galleon now moving to intercept. The Sapphire, for its part, had decorously arced away, signal flags waving furiously as her captain sought to reorder the Napan lines.

Once it became clear that it was under threat from a blazing bonfire the size of a small town block, the captain of the pursuing galleon broke off the attack and swung clear. All Malazan vessels currently free to manoeuvre now turned away from the engagement and raised all the sail they possessed.

Straining, gasping for breath and almost fainting with the effort as her vision darkened, Tattersail sent the Intemperate wherever she could to discourage pursuit.

Thankfully, the Ruse sea-mages present among the Napan vessels declined to raise their Warrens against her directly; it seemed they were too busy deflecting the Intemperate whenever it veered too closely to any one of their ships.

Between the Insufferable’s massed barrages and the threat of the conflagration that was the Intemperate, the surviving Malazan vessels worked to free themselves of the closing jaws of the Cawnese defences and the Napan fleet.

* * *

League after league of empty sea passed beneath the Twisted’s freshly tarred hull. Their lead on the Just Cause widened. Choss now came to Cartheron’s side. A worried frown crimped the big man’s thick brows. He cleared his throat, hesitant, saying, ‘You realize you’re leading them straight to Malaz…’

Cartheron closed his eyes, nodding. Yes, yes. ‘I’d hoped to have lost them by now.’

The soldier – an ex-Napan colonel – raised his brows. ‘Well…?’

Cartheron sighed, turned to Brendan. ‘Sou’-east.’

The sailing master eased a wary breath between clenched lips. ‘We’ll lose headway.’

Cartheron shot Choss a told-you-so look; the man answered with a shrug that said they had no choice in the matter.

South to sou’-east, Cartheron reflected. This could suggest a curving retreat for distant Kartool. Let them chew on that – if they could shake them.

The Twisted groaned and creaked about them now in far heavier swells. A crossing to Kartool was no timid strike for Malaz; deep ocean lay before them where waves could build taller than their masts.

Cartheron cast a wary eye to their stern; the Just Cause pursued, her Napan-blue sails peeping just above the white-capped crests. If they could pull ahead far enough to lose sight of her, then they could strike a more southerly course …

The explosive crack of wood yanked his gaze to the bows in time to watch the jibs collapsing in a heap of canvas and shattered wood, shrouding the bow. A scream sounded. He ran to join the marines, who were already digging through the wreckage.

They pulled Clena clear. She lay cradling her arm, panting her pain. Hawl gently examined it. ‘Broken,’ she told Cartheron.

‘What was it?’ he asked. Hawl shook her head; she didn’t know.

‘Get those sails up!’ Brendan barked from the stern.

Cartheron shot a glance to the rear. They were losing priceless headway. There was only one thing for it … He turned to Hawl.

She sensed his regard and raised her eyes to him. Her jaws worked as she slid her dark gaze to the stern. ‘If they have a sea-mage…’ she warned him.

Cartheron shared her worry. The Just Cause might have a Napan sea-mage, in which case he or she might know Hawl, or recognize her Warren-aspect.

He gave her a curt nod. ‘Do it.’

She straightened from Clena. ‘Very well. Let no one interfere. This could get messy.’ She headed for the mid-deck, pushing up her sleeves as she went.

Cartheron glanced about; Dujek and Jack were organizing the marines into teams on tackle they’d thrown up to raise the two intact jib spars.

Torbal came to him. He held an old wooden cat-block in his hands. ‘Was it a boom?’ Cartheron asked. The sailor just handed over the block, which came apart in Cartheron’s hands – split.

‘Is it rotten?’ the sailor asked; his gaze was on the near-unconscious Clena.

Cartheron examined the split then shook his head. ‘No. Just old and worn. Should’ve been replaced before we set out. I’m so very sorry…’ The sailor just shrugged. ‘Get her below decks.’

He turned to Hawl; she’d positioned herself at the base of the main-mast, facing forward, her skirts arranged over her crossed legs. Cartheron would’ve nodded his encouragement, but the woman was already far into raising Ruse – her open-eyed stare held that unseeing thousand-yard gaze.

The vessel lurched beneath everyone’s feet; it was as if the hull had scraped over a sandbar, and Hawl cursed, biting her lip and drawing blood. ‘There’s some kind of powerful spirit on board,’ she gasped through clenched lips.

‘That nacht thing – the mage’s familiar.’

Hawl’s teeth were set. ‘Or the other way round. Damned strong bastard.’

‘Is it—’ Hawl snapped up a hand for silence and Cartheron swallowed all questions. The raised hand slowly clenched to a fist, whitening, then relaxed and fell, trembling.

Hawl eased out her breath. ‘There. It was resisting … but it has stood aside. Good thing too – I’d hate to think of what it could do.’

‘What’s the damned thing doing here?’ Cartheron asked.

‘Under orders to make sure we don’t just take off with the ship, is my guess.’

‘Oh, come now,’ Cartheron scoffed.

Hawl simply waved him off. ‘I’m busy.’

Cartheron offered a mock salute and backed away to join Brendan. He asked, ‘What’s the last sighting?’

‘Closing,’ the sailing master offered laconically.

‘The repairs?’

Brendan raised his chin to examine the bows, then shook his head in despair. ‘Looks like a damned fire in a cathouse.’

‘Too many marines and not enough sailors.’

‘They know their stuff,’ Brendan demurred, ‘they’re just not a crew yet.’

Cartheron understood. It took months and months of training to settle into an organized disciplined crew where everyone worked to the same rhythms.

The main jib creaked upwards on makeshift tackle. It caught the wind and tautened. The workers sought to tie it off.

The Twisted charged forward then, rocking Cartheron backwards, and he knew it wasn’t the jib; his glance shot to Hawl. Their sea-witch was leaning forward as if pushing headlong into a storm. Her arms were out, her hands clawed as if pulling on something, heaving it towards her, and he knew just what that was.

The Twisted lurched again, surging up the slope of an oncoming swell. When the vessel took the white-capped crest Cartheron scanned the northern horizon and cursed – he’d caught a glimpse of blue sail.

‘As long as you can!’ he yelled to Hawl, hoping she could hear him through her concentration.

‘Due south,’ he told Brendan.

‘Aye, aye.’

Jack came to Cartheron’s side; the young man was rubbing a chin that to Cartheron looked new to stubble. ‘What is it?’ Cartheron asked.

‘That troop carrier is no deep-water vessel … and she’s low in the water…’

Cartheron nodded. ‘’S true.’

‘She may wallow in these high seas.’

Cartheron snorted. ‘So might we.’

‘Regardless, perhaps we should lead them onwards.’ He offered up a smile that was almost sly. ‘Perhaps it’s time for a run to Genabackis…’

Cartheron laughed and slapped him on the back. ‘Remind me not to try to match strategies with you, Jack.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll think about it. But let’s just try to lose them first.’

The youth touched his brow in a half-salute and ducked away. Cartheron watched him go. Jack – too bland a name for a smart fellow like that. Have to come up with something better.

He stood with Brendan, ready to lend a hand at the tiller as the Twisted clawed its way up monstrous swells, pitched forward, then slid down precipitous slopes as long as hillsides. The water took on an iron-grey darkness and the spray bit his face like daggers of ice.

‘Strait o’ Storms dead ahead,’ Brendan muttered in low warning.

‘I know,’ he answered, just as low. ‘I know.’

‘Would rather take on our Napan friend back there.’

Cartheron nodded his agreement. When they broached a crest he searched the waves behind again and this time saw no sign of the Just Cause against the vast expanse of angry foam-webbed waters. Had they given up the chase?

Glancing ahead, he felt a chill take him as he glimpsed a line of darkness against the southerly horizon. Lightning flashes lit it from below like the fitful fires of a siege army. The Strait of Storms – home of the daemon Riders who haunted its frigid waters.

‘Easterly, sailing master,’ he murmured to Brendan.

‘Aye, aye,’ the old sailor answered with undisguised relief.

He now looked to Hawl; he’d go to her, perhaps take her hand to offer any help he could, but he had no wish to distract her. She was still upright in any case, her arms still outstretched, hands clawing the air.

Choss, who had been overseeing the repairs at the bows, now came to Cartheron’s side. Leaning close he set his mouth to Cartheron’s ear and and whispered, ‘Ice glaze on the bowsprit.’

‘Easterly, please, Brendan,’ Cartheron warned.

‘She’s slow to come round, isn’t she?’ the man answered through clenched lips.

Cartheron studied the winds. Damn if they weren’t against them for an easterly course. They’d have to claw for every league.

He now wondered whether he’d just traded a leap into the Abyss for Hood’s bony hand.

‘Keep an eye on it,’ he told Choss. ‘Have the crew strike it off as it thickens.’

The burly officer nodded, his face grim. ‘Been a long time since we’ve dared tempt the Stormriders…’

‘Just sneaking past, old friend. Sneakin’ past quiet as mice.’

The fellow snorted a dour laugh and ran a hand over his brush-cut hair. ‘Hunh. Let’s hope they see it that way…’ He headed forward.

Cartheron repeated, ‘Quiet as mice.’ He eyed the thickening black cliff of thunderheads that loomed before them and shuddered as the chill wind buffeted his face. Years ago he’d been part of an expedition north, to Falari, transporting liberated goods too identifiable to be sold anywhere on the Quon mainland. That journey had taken him past the coastline of the Fenn Mountains. There they’d passed monstrous tongues of ice that descended the slopes and slipped down into the steep bays like serpents. Icy winds had buffeted them then, too. But now it is summer in this region! And a chill great enough to dominate this entire strait comes off these alien Stormriders alone.

He touched a hand to the railing, now glistening with delicate hoarfrost. Don’t pay us no mind, my frigid friends …