Ships from the West

Eight

A procession of dreams, all brightly lit and perfectly coherent, travelled along the trackways of Hawkwood's mind. Like paper lanterns set free to soar, they finally burned themselves up and came drifting sadly back down in ash and smoke.

He saw the old Osprey blazing in the night, sails of flame twisting and billowing from her decks. At her rail stood King Abeleyn, and beside him, Murad. Murad was laughing.

He watched as, like a succession of brilliantly wrought jewels, a hundred ports and cities of the world winked past. And with them were faces. Billerand, Julius Albak, Haukal, his long-forgotten wife Estrella. Murad. Bardolin. These last two were linked, somehow, in his mind. There was something they shared which he could not fathom. Murad was dead now – even in the dream Hawkwood knew this, and was glad.

At the last there came a red-haired woman with a scar on her cheek who pillowed him on her breast. He knew her. As he studied her face the dreams faded, and the fear. He felt as though he had made landfall after the longest of voyages, and he smiled.

'You're awake!'

'And alive. How in the world-' and he saw her face clearly now, the line of ridged tissue down one side, like the trail of a sculptor's fingers in damp clay.

Her own fingers flew to it at once, covering it. Then she dropped her hand deliberately, stern as the Queen she was. She had been weeping.

The room was gloomy and cold in the pre-dawn greyness. A fire in the hearth had sunk to smoking embers. How long had he been here? What had been happening? There was no pain. His life's slate had been wiped clean.

'Golophin saved you, with the Dweomer. But there was a price. He is far worse than I. It is not important. You are alive. He will be here soon.'

Isolla rose from the bedside, his eyes following her every move with a baffled, helpless pain. He ran a hand over his own features and was astounded.

'My beard!'

'It'll grow back. You look younger without it. There are clothes by the side of the bed. They should fit. Come into the antechamber when you are ready. Golophin wants to talk to us.' She left, walking stiffly in a simple and unadorned court gown.

Hawkwood threw aside the covers and studied his body. Not a mark. Even his old scars of twenty years had dis shy;appeared. He was as hairless as a babe.

Feeling absurdly embarrassed, he pulled on the clothing which had been left out for him. He was parched, and drained at a gulp the silver jug of springwater sitting beside them. He felt as though he must crack every joint in his body to bend it back into shape, and spent minutes stretching and bending, getting the blood flowing again. He was alive. He was whole. It was not a miracle, but it seemed more than miraculous to him. Despite all that he had seen of the workings of magic through the years, certain aspects of it never failed to stun him. It was one thing to call up a storm – it was the kind of thing he expected a wizard to do. But to mould his own flesh like this, to smooth out the burns and heal his cracked, smoke-choked lungs – that was truly awe-inspiring.

What price had been paid for the gift of this life? That lady on the other side of the door. She had paid for his scars with her own. She, Hebrion's Queen.

When he stepped through the doorway his face was as sombre as that of a mourner. In his life he had not made a habit of frequenting the bedchambers of royalty and he was at a loss as to whether he should bow, sit down or remain standing. Isolla was watching him, drinking a glass of wine. The antechamber was small, octagonal, but high-ceilinged. A fire of blue-spitting sea coal burned in the hearth and there was a pretty tumble of women's things here and there on the chairs, a full decanter on the table, ruby and shining in the firelight, beeswax candles burning in sconces in the walls, their fine scent mingling with Isolla's perfume. Heavy curtains were drawn across the single window, so that it might have been the middle of the night, but Hawkwood's internal clock knew that dawn had come and gone, and the sun was rising up the sky now.

'There is no formality here, Captain. Help yourself to some wine. You look as though you had seen a – a ghost.'

He did as he was bidden, unable to relax. He wanted to twitch aside the curtains and peer out to see what was in the morning sky.

'I have met you before, have I not?' she said stiffly.

'I have been at a levee or two over the years, lady. But a long time ago I met you on the North Road. Your horse had thrown a shoe.'

She coloured. 'I remember. I served you wine in Golophin's tower. Forgive me Captain, my wits are astray.'

Hawkwood bowed slightly. There was nothing more to be said. But Isolla was trying to say something. She stared into her wine and asked at last: 'How did he die? The King.'

Hawkwood swore silently. What could he possibly tell this woman that would make her sleep any easier at night? That her husband had been burned, ripped apart, drowned? She raised her head and saw what he would not say in his eyes.

'So it was bad, then.'

'It was bad,' he said heavily. 'But truly, lady, it did not last long, for any of them.' 'And my brother?'

Of course, she was Mark's sister. This woman was now one of the last survivors of two Royal lines – perhaps the last indeed.

'For him also it was quick,' he lied, staring her down, will shy;ing her to believe him. 'He died scant feet away from Abeleyn, the two on the same quarterdeck.' On my ship, he thought. Two kings and an admiral died there, but not I. And the shame seared his soul.

'I'm glad they died together,' she said thickly. 'They were like brothers in life, save that Mark always hated the sea. How was it that he was not on his own flagship?'

Hawkwood smiled, remembering the green-faced and puk shy;ing Astaran King being hauled over the side of the Pontifidad in a bosun's chair. 'He came for a conference and – and kept putting off the return journey.'

That made her smile also. The room warmed a little.

A discreet knock at the door, and Golophin came in without further ado. Hawkwood had to collect himself for a moment at the sight of the old man's face. God in heaven, why had they done it?

The wizard was a gaunt manikin with white parchment skin that rendered his purple and pink scars all the more startling. But he grinned at Hawkwood as the mariner stood with his untasted wine in his fist.

'Good, good. A perfect job. You had us worried there for a while, Captain.' Isolla took his heavy outer robe like a girl helping her father, and gave him her own glass. He drained it in one swallow, then stepped across to the window and swept back the curtains.

The window faced west, and looked out into a vast, boiling darkness. Hawkwood joined the wizard to stare at it. 'Blood of God,' he murmured.

Tour storm is almost upon us, Captain. It made good time during the night.'

The cloud was twisted and stretched into a great bastion of shadow which filled the entire western horizon. It was shot through with the flicker of lightning at its base and writhed in tormented billows with a motion that seemed almost sentient.

'The city has been swarming like a wasps' nest all night, and the sight of that this morning has been enough to tip things over the edge. Already there is a throng of soldiers, sailors and minor nobles in the abbey, all talking without listening. The garrison, such as it is, is out on the streets, but the panic has already begun. They're streaming out of North Gate in their thousands, and ships in the harbour have dumped their cargoes and are offering passage out of Hebrion instead, to anyone who has a king's ransom in his purse.'

'No one said a word’ Isolla said wonderingly. 'One cast shy;away is brought ashore, and the whole country expects the worst. Storm or no storm, have they no faith? It's madness.'

'The fishermen found me floating on the broken maintop of a Great Ship. Some of them recognised me as the captain of the flagship. And I would answer none of their questions’ Hawk shy;wood told her gently. 'Victory is not so close-mouthed. They know that the fleet has met with some disaster.'

'Plus, I believe that a few of the palace maids have been more ingenious in their curiosity than I gave them credit for’ Golophin went on. 'At any rate, the secret is out. The fleet, and our King are no more – this much is now common knowledge. Aruan's terms have not yet been bruited abroad though, which is a blessing. We must have no more maids or valets in this wing of the palace, if it is to stay that way. I have posted sentries further down the passage.'

'What do we do now?' Isolla asked slowly, her eyes fixed on the preternatural tempest which was rolling towards them on the west wind. She was no ingenue, but nothing in her life had prepared her for this sudden, crushing weight of respon shy;sibility. She did not even know the name of the officer who now commanded the army.

Golophin looked at Hawkwood, and found that the mariner was watching the Queen with a strange intentness. He nodded to himself. He had been right there, all those years ago, and he was still right. That could be for the good.

He pursed his lips. 'Abrusio has a garrison of some six thousand men left to her. The marines went with the fleet, as did all the Great Ships. All we have left are dispatch-runners and a few gunboats. There are small garrisons in Imerdon and up on the border with Fulk, but they are weeks away.'

'There are the mole forts,' Isolla said. 'In the Civil War they held up Abeleyn's fleet for days.'

'These things’ Hawkwood said slowly, 'can fly.'

'What were they, Captain?' Golophin asked. Even at a time like this, he seemed more curious than appalled.

'I saw one once before, in the jungle of the Western Con shy;tinent. I believe they were men at one time, but they have been warped beyond humanity. They are like great bats with tails, and the talons of a raptor. And they number many thousands. There is a fleet out there also, mostly composed of lesser ships, and on board it are black-armoured warriors with pincers for hands and a carapace like that of a beetle. They swarm like veritable cockroaches in any case. Abrusio cannot stand against that. Her best men died off North Cape and her citizens, from what you tell me, are in no mood to stand and fight.'

'She is doomed then,' Isolla murmured.

Golophin's face was a demonic mask. 'I believe so. Hebrion, at least, must accept Aruan's terms, or see bloodshed that will make the Civil War pale into insignificance.'

'He wants the nobles handed over too,' Hawkwood re shy;minded him. 'He intends to extinguish the aristocracy of the whole kingdom.'

Both men looked at Isolla. She smiled bitterly. 'I care not. My husband and my brother are both dead. I may as well join them.'

Golophin took her hand. 'My Queen, you have been like a daughter to me, one of the few folk I have trusted in this long, absurd life of mine. This man here is another such, though he has not always known it. Abeleyn your husband was the third, and Bardolin of Carreirida was the fourth. Now only you and Hawkwood remain.' As she hung her head he grip shy;ped her fingers more tightly. 'I speak to you now as a Royal advisor, but also as a friend. You must leave Hebrion. You must take ship with a few of the household whom you in your turn can trust, and sail from these shores. And you must go soon, within the day.'

Isolla looked shaken. 'Where shall I go?'

It was Hawkwood who answered. 'King Corfe still rules in Torunna, and his army is the greatest in the world. You should go to Torunn, lady. You will be safe there.'

'No. My place is here.'

'Hawkwood is right,' Golophin said fiercely. 'If Aruan captures you then all hope for the future is lost. The people must have some continuity in the times to come. And you must go by sea; the land route to the east is closed.' He raised a hand. 'Let us hear no more on this matter. I have already spoken to the Master of Ships down in Admiral's Tower. A state xebec awaits you as we speak. Hawkwood here will captain it. You ought to leave, I am told, with a certain combination of tides, the – the-'

'The ebb tide,' Hawkwood told him. 'It happens at the sixth hour after noon. The xebec is a good choice. She's lateen-rigged, and with this westerly she'll have a beam wind to work with to get out of the harbour – precious little leeway, mind. But you'll find some other skipper. I'm staying here.'

Isolla and Golophin both glared at him.

‘I survived my King, my admiral and my ship – despite being her captain,' Hawkwood said simply. 'I'm not running away again.'

'Bloody fool,' Golophin said. 'And what service will you render here in Hebrion, apart from having that stiff neck of yours chopped through?'

‘I might make the same point to you. You're staying, it seems – and for what?'

‘I can be in Torunn in the blink of an eye if I so choose.'

'You look as though a child could knock you over with a willow wand.'

'He's right, Golophin,' Isolla said quickly. 'Are your powers in need of recuperation? You do not look well.' She appeared momentarily exasperated by her own timidity. Hawkwood saw her jaw harden. But then Golophin, ignoring her, was poking him in the chest with a bony forefinger.

'Aruan told you his forbearance is at an end. Twice now he's let you live, to suit his own ends. He will not do so again. Plus, this ship needs an experienced navigator. You will be travelling the entire length of three seas to reach Torunn. You are going, Captain. And you, lady – even if I were not your friend, I would insist that, as Hebrion's reigning Queen, you must go. And you will, if I have to have you bundled up in a sack. Hawkwood, I charge you with her protection. Now let us hear no more about it. As it happens, I have a reason for staying, and you have given me reason to believe Aruan will not have me slain out of hand. Nor am I defenceless, so rest your minds from that selfless worry and start preparing for your voyage. There are tunnels under the palace that lead almost to the waterfront; Abeleyn had them dug ten years ago, so you will be able to leave without creating even more of a panic than already exists. Isolla knows where they are. You will leave by them as soon as you possibly can.'

'I can't do that. I must speak to the nobility before I go. I can't just sneak away,' Isolla protested.

Golophin finally let slip the leash on his temper. 'You can and you will!' A cold light blazed in his eyes. They burned like white flames and the fury in them made Isolla retreat a step. 'By Ramusio's beard, I thought you had better sense. Do you think you can give a cheery little speech to the nobles and then expect to trip lightly away? This kingdom is about to enter a dark age that none of us can imagine, and the storm of its wings is almost upon us. I have no more time to sit here and wrangle with stiff-necked fools and silly little girls. You will both do as I say.'

The light in his eyes faded. In a more human voice he said, 'Hawkwood, a word with you outside.'

The mage and the mariner left the shocked Queen behind and stood outside her door. Hawkwood watched Golophin warily, and the old wizard grinned.

'What do you think? Did I put the fear of God into her?'

'You old bastard! And into me too.'

'Good. The eyes were a nice touch, I think. Listen Richard, you must get her down to that damned ship by mid-afternoon at the latest. Your vessel is called the Seahare, and is berthed in the Royal yards at the very foot of Admiral's Tower. Do not ask how I purloined her; I would blush to tell you. But she is yours, and all the paperwork is . . .' He grinned again. 'Irrelevant. Everything is ready or almost so. They're lading her with extra stores but she's a flyer, not a fighter – so they tell me – and if I start sending marines aboard it'll arouse suspicion. The current captain is on shore leave, no doubt dipping his wick in some bawdy house. I have spoken to the harbour master, and you are expected, but your passengers are anonymous nobles, no more.'

'Nobles? So who are the others?' Hawkwood asked.

'I'm not yet sure there will be others. That is what I am going to find out now. Just get Isolla down to that ship. And -and look after her, Richard. Quite apart from being Queen, she's a fine woman.'

'I know. Listen Golophin, I haven't thanked you-'

'Don't bother. I need you as much as you needed me. Now I must be gone.' Golophin gripped his arm. 'I will see you again, Captain, of that you may be sure.'

Then he was off, striding down the passageway like a much younger man, albeit one who looked as though he had not eaten in a month.

A flurry of packing – and Hawkwood conscripted into the process by dark little Brienne, Isolla's Astaran maid, who had been with her since childhood. Isolla white-faced and silent, still believing Golophin's rage to be genuine. And then a sub shy;terranean journey, the little trio hurrying and stumbling by torchlight, weighed down with bags and even a small trunk. From the palace to Admiral's Tower was the better part of half a league, and the first third of the way was a steep-stepped descent of dripping stone, the Queen leading the way with a guttering torch, Hawkwood and Brienne following, unable to see their own feet for the burdens they carried. Hawkwood stepped once on the wriggling softness of a rat, and stumbled. At once, Isolla's strong hand was at his elbow, helping him to his feet. The Queen's face was invisible under a hooded cloak but she was as tall as a man, and up to the burden. Hawkwood found himself admiring her quick, sure gait, and the slender fingers which held aloft the torch. Her perfume drifted back to him as they laboured along, an essence of lavender, like the scent of the Hebros foothills in summer.

At last they came to a door which Isolla unlocked and left open behind them, and stepped out into the lower yards of the tower. All about them was the tumult of the wharves, the screaming gulls. Sea smells of rotting fish and tar and wood and salt. A forest of masts rose up into a clear sky before them, and the sunlight was dazzling, blinding after their under shy;ground journey. They stood blinking, momentarily bewil shy;dered by the spectacle. It was Hawkwood who collected his wits first, and led them to their vessel where it floated at its moorings in the midst of a crowd of others.

The Seahare was a lateen-rigged xebec of some three hundred tons, a fast dispatch-runner of the Hebrian navy with a crew of sixty. Three-masted, she could run up both lateen and square-rigged yards depending on the wind. She was a sharp-beaked ship with an overhanging counter and a narrow keel, but she was nonetheless wide in the beam to enhance her stability as a sail platform. Her decks were turtle-built so that any seas which came aboard might run off into the scuppers at once, and above the decks were gratings which ran from the centre line to the ship's rail so that her crew might work dry-shod whilst the water ran off below them. As Golophin had said, she was built for speed, not warfare, and though she had a pair of twelve-pound bow-chasers her broadside amounted to half a dozen light sakers, more to counter a last-minute boarding than to facilitate any real sea battle. Hawkwood's arrival was greeted with unfriendly stares, but as soon as the ladies were below he began shouting out a series of orders which showed that he knew his business. The first mate, a Merduk named Arhuz, was a small, compact man, dark as a seal. He had sailed with Julius Albak thirty years before, and like all of the other sailors he knew of Richard Hawkwood and his great voyage, as a man remembers the nursery rhymes learned as a child. Once the knowledge of the new captain's identity had spread about the ship the men set to work with a will. It was not every day they were to be skippered by a legend.

A great deal of stores had still to be taken on board, and the main hatch was gaping dark and wide as the men hauled on tackles from the yardarms to lower casks and sacks into the hold. Others were trundling more casks from the vast store shy;rooms under the tower, whilst yet more were coiling away spare cables and hauling aboard reluctant goats and cages of chickens. It looked like chaos, but it was a controlled chaos, and Hawkwood was satisfied that they would complete their victualling in time for the evening tide.

The Royal yards had not yet been engulfed by the panicked disorder that was enveloping the rest of the waterfront, but that disorder was audible beyond the massive walls which separated them from the Inner Roads. Fear was rank in the air, and all the while men looked over their shoulder at the approaching storm which was towering in the west, and swallowing up ever more of the sky as it thundered east shy;wards. Hawkwood needed no charts in this part of the world; he knew all the coasts around Abrusio as well as the features of his own face, and that face grew grave as he considered what it would be like to beat out of the Inner Roads under a strong westerly. Handy as the xebec might be at dealing with a beam wind, she would have to win some leeway once they made it into the gulf, or that wind might just push them headlong on to the unforgiving coast of Hebrion. But they would have the ebbing flow of the tide beneath the keel, to draw them out of the bay and into the wider gulf beyond. He hoped that would be enough.

Through the years, Hawkwood had taken ships uncounted out of this port into the green waters of the gulf, and then beyond, to Macassar of the Corsairs, to Gabrion which had spawned him and of which he remembered almost nothing now. To the coasts of hot Calmar and the jungles of savage Punt. But all those memories faded into a merry silence beside the one voyage which had made his name. The one that had broken him. No good had come of it that he could see, least of all to himself. But he knew that it would always be irrevocably linked to him – among mariners at least. He had earned a place in history; more importantly, perhaps, he had won a hard-bought right to stand tall in the ranks of the mariners of yore. But he took no pride in it. He knew that it counted for nothing. Men did things because they had to do them, or because they seemed the only thing to do at the time. And afterwards they were lauded as heroes. It was the way the world worked. He knew that now.

But this woman below, she mattered. She mattered to the world, of course – it was important that she survive. But most of all she mattered to him. And he dared not delve deeper into that knowledge, for fear his middle age might come laughing back at him. It was enough that she was here.

For a while Richard Hawkwood, standing there on the quarterdeck of another man's ship with doom approaching out of the west, watched the sailors ready his vessel for sea, and knew that she was below, and was inexplicably happy.

A commotion down on the wharves. Two riders had galloped through the gate and come to a rearing halt before the xebec, scattering mariners and panicking the gulls. A man and a woman dismounted, tawny with dust, and without ceremony or introduction they ran up the gangplank hand in hand, leaving their foam-streaked and blowing mounts stand shy;ing. Hawkwood, jolted out of his reverie, shouted for the master-at-arms and met them at the rail.

'What the hell is this? This is a king's ship. You can't-'

The woman threw back her richly embroidered hood and smiled at him. 'Hello, Richard. It has been a long time’

It was Jemilla.