The Blacktongue Thief

37 The Fourth Woman

The fireship bore down on us, her sails full and the foam white at her waterline. The dragons on her sails were white, too, faint against the sun-bleached blue of her sailcloth, like the ghosts of dragons. This ship, a fine old fireship that had doubtless seen action in the Hot Sea, had one ballista capable of firing head-on, and they used it. That first dart arced up and plunged down wide, leaving a thrilling spiral of smoke behind it. It would have been beautiful, with its little pot of oil jelly, its wick of burning fast-punk and its gull-feather fletching, were it not so lethal. It plished harmlessly into the sea.

They readied another, these misguided allies of ours, and prepared to try for our lives again. I could see them working on the deck in their white Middlesea tunics and foxfur caps. I waved at them madly, but they ignored me—we could be Molrovans serving as larder-boys for the biters, and Malk’s ship-clothes did have a hint of Molrova about them. I shouted, but we were still just too far out.

The second dart missed as well, but the third launched true, coming square at us, set to stick deep in the wood; its clay pot would crunch, splashing oil jelly through burning fast-punk to spit unquenchable fire pools on our deck. This was how our fleets narrowly won the battle of Hammerhead Bay, which opened the shores of the Hordelands to us. It was said we burned so many goblin ships in that rocky bay the sun set red for three nights because of all the smoke. I had always wondered what naval combat really looked like, and here was my curiosity good and settled.

I was unenthusiastic about dying, however historically, so I was glad to see Norrigal loose her staff at this new, true dart. Bless that staff, and bless Deadlegs for making it, if she did. Norrigal cast it like a spear, and it flew straight, whirling at the last instant to bat the dart off starboard, hanging and waiting for its next challenge. It wasn’t easy for her keeping that staff in the air with the boat tossing on the waves and the friendly enemy boat coming straight at us. She had an adorable sweat-mustache even in the cold spray as the staff swatted the next dart.

It struck this dart in the worst possible place, crunching its jelly-pot and igniting the Axaene firejelly all over itself. The staff must have had half a mind of its own, for it seemed to go mad when struck ablaze. It whirled furiously, trying to get the awful stuff off of it, but it was no use. It dunked itself in the sea, but I knew enough to know that wouldn’t help—Axaene jelly burned under the waves as hotly as above them. I almost felt bad for the thing until it shook a spray of burning fuel at us, catching Malk on the arm and setting a few candle-sized fires on the deck that, thankfully, had not enough fuel to burn long.

The blazing staff flew up in the air and separated into several pieces, making quite an end of itself. And making an end of us, like as not. The Middlesea ship turned now, preparing to show us its side, where most of its ballistas waited.

“Get down!” Malk yelled, and he did, and Norrigal and Galva, too. I stayed standing now, driven by some intuition that told me ducking wouldn’t be enough. As the fireship turned, I saw the battery of six ballistas, all stoked and smoking. I saw the boat’s first mate with her baton raised, ready to lower it and torch us as bright as a low sun. I yelled, not sure what words I would say. I would like to report that I said something like, “We sons of Holt send our compliments to the three kings of Middlesea, long may they live, and long may our nations trample the goblin Horde! See what prize we bring for the honor of our good and noble king, Conmarr!”

What I actually said was:

“Shyte, don’t! I’m a Holter! Hold your fire, for the love of fuck, friend! Friend! May the gods save Middlesea, we’re your friends! Fuck! Don’t!”

As it turns out, it worked. Mostly. I watched the first mate’s arm, the one holding the baton, start to fall but catch itself, like a standing sentry starting to sleep but catching himself straight again. One eager ballisteer pulled the trigger-bolt. I watched the dart come, watched it get larger almost slowly in that queer way missiles have when they’re aimed exactly at you and your heart’s beating so fast time slows down. While my mind began to work on the problem of whether to duck or jump, my body acted on its own and I leapt hard and high. I felt my hands reaching for the spar well above my head, grabbing oddly twisted wood and hemp; I felt my legs parting as my feet kicked up on opposite sides of me. The dart, six feet long if an inch, sizzled by beneath me, so slowly, it seemed, I could see it wobble as it went, though in truth it flew as fast as every arrow did.

I heard Norrigal gasp and Malk say Ah and Galva say Ay! And then my legs were closing again where I hung from the spar. Last was the smoke-trail, which wafted up to make my eyes sting, and would have brought tears if I had so much moisture in me as that.

A stunned moment passed, and then a cheer went up from the Middlesea fireship. Before I knew it, they’d boarded us and lifted me up over their heads and spun me round like I was their pet now, and I was happy not to have been drowned or burned or eaten, so I bore it laughing, and they laughed, too, but then my laughs turned into coughs and they put me down and gave me water and I said, “How many darts do I have to leap to get a whiskey?” and they laughed piss-hard, and I had to declare it a good day after all.