Before his eyes, Harg could almost see half a century of defeat and pessimism blowing away like mist. All the Adaina needed was a victory, and they were transformed.
*
Captain Slavens of the warship Industry stood on the slippery forecastle deck, peering into the chilly gloom before him. The air was blanketed with silence; a creak of rope and a tap of metal against wood sounded eerily close, yet distant in the grey limbo of mist. To larboard rose the slate cliffs of Thimish, topped with the ghostly shapes of pine trees. To starboard, lost somewhere beyond sight, lay the hills of Ekra.
All day the wind had been brisk as they had coasted down the north shore of Thimish. But as they had neared the strait that would take them to the south shore, a solid bank of fog had hung on the water as if placed there on purpose to form a barrier across Rockmeet Straits.
It was a frustrating turn of the weather. They had been behind schedule since leaving Tornabay, and today Captain Slavens had been trying to make up the time. His orders from the new man, Commodore Joffrey, had been to get to Harbourdown as soon as possible, and he could have been there two days ago, but for the Inning passengers. There were four of them, friends of Provost Minicleer, ostensibly bound for the South Chain to take up administrative posts. They were treating the journey as a sightseeing tour. For a whole day the ships had waited while the Innings had sampled the local wines at Larbot; and at Croom Light they had insisted on being put ashore so they could hunt birds with their fancy engraved shotguns. Captain Slavens was certain his new Commodore, who seemed to be a by-the-book young man, would not have approved of his giving in; but the Commodore was far away in Tornabay, and the Innings were here. Long experience in the Northern Squadron had taught Slavens that one catered to the Innings, no matter how absurd their demands. It was one reason he was a captain.
Beside him stood the navigator and the sullen Adaina guide they had taken aboard at Croom Light to see them through the straits. When Slavens turned, it was to the navigator he spoke, for the Croomman communicated only in surly monosyllables. “It’s damned strange,” he said. “The weather’s fine everywhere else.” His voice fell dead on the blank air.
The navigator was nervous. “We’d better wait.”
“We could tow her with the cutter.”
“Why? It’s sure to break before too long.”
Behind them, Captain Slavens heard the opening of the aftercastle door that led to the Innings’ suite of cabins. He had thought the pack of them were stowed for the day, playing cards, but now apparently they were getting restless.
Proctor Gamiel sauntered across the deck toward them. As he came up, Slavens could smell the expensive tobacco the man had been smoking.
“Where are we?” Gamiel said.
“North shore of Thimish,” Captain Slavens answered. “That’s Rockmeet Straits ahead.”
“How far to Harbourdown?”
“Five, six miles.” And it might as well be a hundred, with this fog, he wanted to say.
“Will we still get there this afternoon?”
Now he was in a hurry. “It all depends on the weather.”
The Inning seemed as if he resented not being able to order the weather to oblige him. “Could you put us ashore, and let us walk?”
“No,” said the captain. “There’s no road. You couldn’t get through.” He had no idea if it was true; he just wanted the Innings delivered safely, so he could wash his hands of them.
The proctor turned and paced fretfully aft. The Croomman had been oblivious to the exchange; he was facing westward into the mist, sniffing the air like a dog. Some of these Adaina had senses normal people lacked; they were closer to the elements, and had an affinity to them. “What is it?” Slavens said.
It took the guide a long time to respond. “It’s not natural,” he said at last. “The Ashwin are here.”
The captain rolled his eyes. If there were any demons about, he knew where they were: in the after-cabin, smoking and playing cards. He glanced up, and saw a hopeful sign: the pennant at the top of the mainmast was stirring, and torn fragments of mist were swirling uneasily around the topgallant yards.
“I think it’s breaking,” he said to the navigator.
Sure enough, as they watched, over the next fifteen minutes a breeze thinned the fog above them, though it still hung on close to the water. At last Captain Slavens passed the word for the boatswain. “We’ll proceed under topsails,” he said. “The Industry first, Pimpernel next, then Assurance.” He glanced at the guide. “Peel your eyes, now. If you let us run on a rock, you’ll pay for it.”
The boatswain’s whistle tore shrilly through the silence and the sailors gathered from below to man the sails. Soon the Industry’s ponderous bow swung round and the great ship edged forward through the entrance of Rockmeet Straits. Under the shadow of the cliffs, Captain Slavens felt the air grow chill. The fog hid the channel beyond twenty or thirty yards ahead. Astern, the Pimpernel followed, ghostlike. An occasional call from the navigator, conning, pierced the thick air.
They had proceeded almost a mile when the lookout high in the masthead called down, “Ship in the channel, dead ahead.”
Captain Slavens peered through the fog, but could see nothing. “What sort of ship?” he called.
“I can only see their masts—three of them. They must be aground; they’re crosswise in the channel.”
“Back the sails,” Captain Slavens ordered. “Ready the anchor. Pass the word to the Pimpernel.” This was just what he needed, some tomfool blocking the channel in a fog. It had to be a merchant ship, and now he’d have to give it aid. He called up, “Are they flying a flag?”
“No,” the lookout said.
The Industry was still edging forward. A gust of humid breeze stirred the fog, and the captain glimpsed the shape of a dark hull ahead. A current of alarm passed through him. It was the shape of a navy frigate, and all its gunports were raised.
It was impossible. There were no hostile warships here in the Forsakens; Rothur was hundreds of miles away, and the war was over. In the instant he hesitated to issue the call to arms, the fog ahead lit up a ghastly orange colour, and a thunderous broadside crashed straight into the Industry’s bow. Seconds later, an answering thunder came from behind them, where the Assurance and Pimpernel were under fire from the cliffs.
“Man the guns! Hard to starboard!” Captain Slavens roared, intending to bring his guns to bear on the enemy while his ship still had some way on her; but they had caught him in the narrowest part of the channel, and the Industry shuddered down her whole length as the bow ran onto a sand shoal, leaving her helplessly aground.
A gust of wind swept the wall of fog aside, and Captain Slavens saw clearly for the first time. It was a navy frigate, their own ship, firing on them. The second broadside raked the decks to kill as many defenders as possible without damaging the ship itself. Still the Industry had not gotten a single shot off. “Issue the hand arms and cutlasses,” Captain Slavens ordered. “Prepare for boarding.”
The enemy ship had raised its anchors and now was making for the Industry’s stern, its gunwales lined with fierce-looking ruffians, its yardarms thick with snipers even now levelling their guns to pick off the navy men gathering on the Industry’s deck to defend her. Captain Slavens looked back and saw that the Assurance and Pimpernel were beyond coming to his aid; they were surrounded by a swarm of small pirate boats that had followed them down the channel from the north, and were now attacking from behind. Pinned in the narrow channel, fired on from above, unable to manoeuvre in order to fire their guns, the warships were nothing but enormous targets.
When the grappling hooks bit into the Industry’s after-rail and the first volley of fire raked through his men, Captain Slavens knew it was hopeless. A chilling shriek went up from the attackers as they swarmed aboard, cutlasses flashing. His own men were driven
back; some turned to flee below.
“Surrender!” the captain ordered. “Lay down your arms!” For all he knew it was suicidal, since these savages might not know how to take prisoners, or anything but butchery and mayhem; but it was the only hope.
For the second time that day he was taken by surprise when a young Adaina warrior yelled out an order to desist, and the ruffians actually obeyed. With two henchmen at his side, the native leader strode across the deck to where the captain stood. He had an incongruously military bearing.
“Your sword, please, Captain,” he ordered authoritatively.
Bitterly, Captain Slavens handed over his sword. “Who are you?” he said.
“Captain Harg Ismol,” the Adaina said.
“Captain?” Slavens said. “Of what?”
There was an instant of hesitation, then Harg Ismol said, “Of the Independent Nation of the South Chain.”
A stir passed through the listening attackers, growing as it gathered into a cheer. Looking around, Slavens saw a mad elation in their eyes.
Harg turned around, holding up a hand. “Disarm them, get them secured below,” he said, and his followers turned to the job with a remarkably practiced air.
Across the water, the Assurance was already overrun by pirates, and the Pimpernel had floated onto the rocks at the base of the cliff. A second boat was approaching the Industry, like a scavenger come to see if there were any spoils to be had. On its deck was a massive white-haired man decked out in gold chains. Seeing the boat drawing near, Harg Ismol went to the huge warship’s gunwale, leaned over it, and yelled out, “Hey, Dorn! I brought you a boat! Satisfied?”
The men around him broke out laughing.
10.
Night of the Bonfire
When Nathaway’s wits returned to him, it was morning. He was lying in a room with a slanted ceiling, like an attic, and some sparse, battered furniture. Over by a dormer window sat a plain, solidly built Adaina woman, working at a
small table. He squinted to see what she was doing. She took a cloth bag from
a pile and put it on the table. From a wooden keg next to her she carefully measured three cups of sand into the bag, then started to sew it up with a needle and thread. Unable to make sense of this activity, Nathaway groped for his
glasses on the floor beside his bed, where he always put them. They weren’t there.
His movement attracted the woman’s attention and she came over to his side. He realized it was Strobe’s daughter.
“I ought to know your name,” he said.
“It’s Tway,” she answered. She had a competent, take-charge air, like a nurse or a teacher.
“You’re from Yora,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“But we’re on Thimish now.”
“Right again. Your brains seem to have survived. I guess you Innings must be as thick-headed as we always thought.”
She sat beside him on the bed, took a cloth from his forehead, rinsed it in a bowl of water on the nightstand, and put it back. It smelled of herbs. Her hands were gentle. It reminded him—
“That Grey Man,” he said. Then, uncertainly, “Was there a Grey Man here?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Did he . . . do anything?”
“No,” she said. “You made it pretty clear you didn’t want him to, before you passed out. He said he could still help you, even unconscious, but Harg wouldn’t let him. He said it would be like rape. Harg’s strange on the subject. But then, so are you.”
Once again Nathaway found himself grateful for Harg’s exposure to civilization.
“Where are my glasses?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Tway said. “Lost.”
“I couldn’t see what you’re doing.”
She glanced back at the table, stacked with finished cloth bags. “Oh. I’m sewing up cannon cartridges.”
“You mean that’s gunpowder?”
“Yes.”
There was enough of it in this small room to level a building. “Don’t you know how dangerous that is?” Nathaway said.
She shrugged. “I needed something useful to do, and you weren’t throwing off many sparks.”
He wanted to sit up, but was afraid to move and make the pain in his head come back.
“Hungry? Thirsty?” Tway said.
“Yes,” he admitted.
She went to the door and knocked on it. There was a rattle of a key in the lock, and someone opened it from outside. They exchanged some words, then the door closed again. The bolt shot home.
Frowning, Nathaway said, “Why is the door locked?”
Tway regarded him with crossed arms. “You’re a prisoner.”
This time he did sit up, despite the wave of aching dizziness, feeling like the situation demanded some action. From earliest childhood he had known that he could be a target of kidnappers. His mother had always said, “Don’t be afraid, just prudent.” He had spent his life alert, and nothing had ever happened. But since coming out here, where no one had the slightest idea who he was, he had let his guard down.
He said, “That’s a really bad idea. You don’t know what you’re messing with. As soon as Proctor Fullabeau finds out, you’re going to wish you never saw me. I’m serious, it could get bad for you.”
She just said, “Well, you’ll have to take it up with Harg.”
“Fine. Let me talk to him.”
“He’s busy.”
Through the day that followed, he was unable to get any more satisfactory response. After he had eaten, Tway picked up her gunpowder and left, and he was alone with the furniture and walls. The combination of anxiety and idleness was corrosive. He stared out the garret window at the wall of the building next door, he paced the floor, he examined every inch of the room. Toward noon, he heard the sound of distant gunfire and pounded on the door to find out what was going on, but no one answered.
He slept part of the afternoon, and fretted the rest. Late in the day he started to hear gunfire again, this time seemingly in the streets outside, and he imagined a phalanx of policemen come to rescue him. He pounded on the door and shouted to attract attention till a rough Adaina man unlocked the door and leaned in to say, “If you don’t shut up I’m going to chain you to the bed.”
“I want to talk to Harg,” Nathaway said, unable to keep an imperious tone from his voice.
“So do a lot of people,” the man said, and started to close the door.
“Stop!” Nathaway said. “What’s the firing about?”
“Oh, they’re just celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?”
A slow, gloating grin grew on the man’s face as he regarded his prisoner. “Independence,” he said. “Harbourdown’s no longer under Inning rule.”
Nathaway stared at him, unable to imagine what he could mean.
The jailor appeared to be enjoying his reaction. “You’ll probably be joining the rest of the Inning captives up in the fort before long. It won’t be as comfortable up there, I promise you.”
“Inning captives?” Nathaway repeated incredulously. “Is Proctor Fullabeau . . .?”
“Fullabeau’s dead,” the man said.
“Dead!”
“Yes. We captured the fort and four warships. You Innings are done here.”
It was not until then that the true horror of his position struck Nathaway.
This wasn’t about ransom, as he had thought. He was being held by rebels with blood on their hands, uncontrolled by law or mercy. They not only didn’t know who he was, they didn’t care. He was just another prisoner of war.
“Oh my god,” he said.
The man started to close the door. “Stop!” Nathaway cried out again. “Harg’s not involved, is he? I have to talk to him.”
/>
The jailor only laughed and locked the door.
Sick with apprehension, Nathaway paced the narrow room. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this unthinkable situation. Chilling scenarios chased through his mind: abuse, beatings, lynchings, they had all happened in times of insurrection. As the minutes crawled past, he could hear through the door a celebrating crowd gathered somewhere below. Under normal circumstances it would have been a convivial sound; now it was nerve-racking evidence of an unpredictable mob who wished him ill simply because of his race. Never had he felt so anonymous, or so vulnerable.
The sound of footsteps and men’s voices approaching up the steps sent alarm chasing through his nerves, and he braced himself to appear courageous.
When the door opened he exclaimed in relief, “Harg! Thank god it’s you.”
“They say you’ve been demanding to see me,” Harg said. He came into the room and sank into the chair, looking bone-weary. There was a powder burn on his forehead, a purple bruise on one eye, and a two-day stubble on his chin. He would have looked desperately sinister if Nathaway hadn’t known him.
“Is it true, what they told me?” Nathaway asked anxiously. “That the fort has fallen, and Proctor Fullabeau is dead?”
“Oh, was that his name?” Harg said vaguely. “Yes, it’s true.”
“This is a disaster. You weren’t involved, were you?”
Harg looked at him with such a bemused expression that Nathaway realized it had been a rather stupid question, given the evidence.
“What were you thinking, Harg?” Nathaway said. “Don’t you realize this is treason? The courts can’t ignore this. I could have helped you if you hadn’t taken up arms. Now, there’s nothing I can do.”
Harg was watching him as if he had stepped off a boat from another reality. “I’m touched that you’re so worried for me,” he said.
“I didn’t even know you had grievances. There are ways to address grievances without blowing up warships. Why didn’t you ask?”
Isles of the Forsaken Page 20
