by Dan Abnett
It was a ketch, single-masted, and it seemed adrift. There was no sign of any crew, and tangled lines trailed out in the water behind it.
“Let me look,” Hernan requested, and took the scope from Roque.
“What do you think?” the Estalian master-at-arms asked.
“A vessel in trouble… or so far past trouble that it’s dead. Master Roque, as sea captain of Aguilas, I am required to assist and inspect such traffic. Can we, if you don’t mind?”
“Of course,” Roque said.
Losing more sheet, the Rumour close-reached and swung into the wide bay. In less than twenty minutes, it had drawn within rowing distance of the drifting ketch, ratings at the forecastle lead-lining to make sure they did not run into any sandbar or hindrance. Roque ordered the tide-anchor rattled out and yards bare. A boat was lowered, and Captain Hernan descended with six of his marine guards.
“Benuto, the watch is yours,” Roque said, and hurried to join them.
“The watch is mine, aye sir, so tell.”
The strong arms of the marine guardsmen rowed them across the bay. Sunlight glinted off the guards’ breastplates and comb morion helmets, and glittered off the clear, green water. They were close enough to shore now to hear the hiss of the surf on the beach, and smell the walnuts, olives and dates thriving in the shoreline forest. Roque could even hear parrots and the thump of deepwater turtles. Looking over the bow, he saw the sea was like a clear glass, filled with racing, darting shoals of coloured fish, the swishing, silver shapes of barracuda and the slow-rippling, mottled wings of rays.
The sun was hot. Thicket insects itched from the shore. The oarsmen splashed and stroked, splashed and stroked.
The ketch hove in close. It had the taint of death about it. Roque made a charm-touch to his iron belt buckle and drew his sword. Hernan took off his helmet and pulled out his sabre.
They edged in, the front two marines reaching out to manage the meeting of the boats, pulling them round against the ketch’s side.
Two more of the marine guards stowed their oars and stood up, priming their muskets.
Hernan clambered onto the ketch, followed by Roque.
“Stand ready,” Hernan called to his waiting men.
Roque and Hernan searched the vessel. It was alarmingly empty, as if it had been abandoned in a hurry. Ropes lay untied; a half-drunk glass of rum sat beside the unmanned wheel. A tricorn hat lay on the floor of the mid-deck.
“This is blood here,” Roque called. “There was a lot of it, but the lap has washed it away. See how it stains the wood?”
Hernan nodded.
“Who’d sail a little boat like this out into waters this dangerous?” Roque sighed.
“A fool,” said Hernan. “A naturalist, I think. An explorer. His samples are all laid out below.” Hernan had already inspected the lower cabins.
“Samples?” Roque asked.
“You know the sort of thing. Wooden boxes for plants and other specimens—”
Hernan frowned as Roque suddenly pushed past him and went below.
“What is it, sir?” he asked, following Roque down the wooden stairs.
“Oh, gods, look,” Roque said, as he sorted through the little pine crates stacked on shelves in the master’s cabin. “These are plant boxes! And the names… the names are writ on the lids in Tilean!”
“Plant boxes?” Hernan echoed. “What does that matter?”
“She wasn’t lying after all!”
“Excuse me, who wasn’t?”
“The witch!”
“The… what?”
“Look here, Hernan. On the label here, Salvadore Laturni, botanist. It’s written in his very hand!”
“Master Roque, I don’t know what you’re—”
“This was predicted, Hernan! Predicted to me! By Sigmar, this might tell us where the Butcher Ship is!”
Hernan shrugged. “How in the world—?”
“Look for an orchid, man! An orchid!”
Hernan, puzzled, started to sort through the boxes. Roque was all but tossing them aside to search. Wooden crates hit the deck and broke open, spilling out dark loam and precious bulbs and shoots.
“The Midnight Silhouette?”
“No! Keep looking!”
“The Crown of Tobaro?”
“Not that! Gods, it’s got to be here somewhere!”
“What about this? The Flame of Estal.”
Roque looked around. Hernan broke open the box. The tiny orchid inside was the colour of flame.
“Oh, so bright!” Roque cried. “So very bright!”
As evening fell, the Rumour came in out of the sound and sailed into Aguilas Bay. The city’s lights had begun to glow. A vessel stood at the harbour side. It was the Safire.
The company of the Reivers, and just about everyone else in the harbour town, had set to celebration on the Safire’s return. Fireworks were bursting and fizzling in the town squares, and festivities had broken out all along the harbour taverns.
“Luka! Luka!” Roque shouldered through the press of drunken ratings, clutching a stack of plant boxes. Hernan followed him, similarly laden. Whooping Reivers swept off Hernan’s hat and sported it amongst themselves.
“Bastardos!” Hernan cried, struggling to keep hold of his boxes.
“Roque!” Luka cried, cup in hand, dancing with the crowd on the quay to a fife reel. “We’ve returned from—”
“Not now, Luka. You have to see this.”
They went aboard the Safire, into the master’s cabin, and plonked the boxes down on the table. Up on deck, Silke and his cronies were drinking and laughing as a jig played on whistle and guitarra.
“This had better be good to draw me away from such a party,” Luka said, taking a swig of rum.
“It is,” Roque said. “Put that glass down and listen. The Flame of Estal.”
“Which is what?”
“It’s an orchid. A precious orchid. Here, look at it. Lovely, isn’t it?” Roque pulled open the top of one of the plant boxes.
“Why, yes, indeed.”
“It was collected by a Tilean gentleman, a botanist, named Salvadore Laturni. For his trouble, he was voyaging up the Estalian coast, collecting rare specimens.”
“So?”
“Listen to Roque, sir,” Hernan said.
“He was killed. Murdered, I believe, by the Butcher Ship. Don’t ask me how I know that part. The important thing is, our poor friend Salvadore met with the Kymera.”
“So why is this flower significant?”
Roque smiled wolfishly at Luka and took out a leather-bound log book. He laid it open and flipped through the water-damaged pages. “Because, according to the last entry in Salvadore’s log, he had just sampled and recorded the Flame of Estal. His fate must have befallen him shortly after that. The entry was a week ago.”
“And the Flame of Estal grows only in one specific place,” Captain Hernan added.
“So you see,” Roque said. “We know where the Butcher Ship is.”
XXIX
The Flame of Estal, that rare and precious flower, grew only in a wide bay called the Golfo Naranja, which lay up the mainland coast, north of Aguilas, beyond Porto Espejo. It was four or five days’ sail away, no more than three, if a ship pressed on through the nights.
At noon the next day, the Reivers left Aguilas. The Safire led the way, the Rumour chasing in her wake. It was a bright, hot midday, with a thin wind, but the threat of storms grumbled out on the horizon. It reminded Sesto, unhappily of the storm that had menaced them at Isla Verde, before that particular night of horror.
That seemed so long ago now, on the other side of the summer. In truth, the season was changing. Autumn was setting in, and behind that came the gales and heavy weather of the winter. This was their last chance. If the Kymera could not be hunted out within the next few days at most, the turning weather would force them to suspend their mission, perhaps until the spring. Though the day was warm, Sesto could see how the colour of the sea was
changing, and the feel of the wind too. It was autumn, the time for careening and respite, not desperate expeditions.
A third ship, flying the ensigns of Aguilas and Estalia, accompanied the Reivers’ vessels. The Fuega, commanded by Captain Hernan, carried a detachment of marine guards and considerable munitions. His excellency the marquis had originally refused to allow the galleon to leave Aguilas vulnerable, fearing that while the Fuega was out looking for the Butcher Ship, the Butcher Ship might come looking for Aguilas. But now the whereabouts of the menace were better determined, he saw the sense in adding the Fuega’s considerable muscle to the fight. It was by far the largest of the three ships, and the most potent, though the Rumour and the Safire had to trim their speeds to allow her to keep pace with them.
On the Rumour’s quarter deck, Roque drilled the men-at-arms at their battle quarters, while Casaudor checked the state and readiness of every firearm and the sharpness of every blade. Silvaro himself went below and inspected the gun decks. He explained to Sheerglas that, when battle came, he would favour the Rumour’s starboard side, so as to protect the weaker, repaired port. Sheerglas ordered three of the port-side guns to be remounted on the starboard, so the Rumour’s battery potential would not be squandered. Aguilas had provided good quality powder, as Sheerglass had requested, and also canister and faggot shot to be used against rigging and personnel. The canister shot had been blessed by the cardinal of Aguilas himself.
“A nice touch,” Silvaro said. “It may help us.”
“Aye,” Sheerglas nodded. “Just don’t expect me to handle the stuff.”
Sesto felt idle amid all the toil and industry. Every member of the crew was engaged in sailing the ship or preparing for the task ahead, and more than ever, he felt like a passenger. He told this to Ymgrawl.
“I’d rather stand and watch others work,” the boucaner laughed, “but if it’s labour thee wants…”
At Ymgrawl’s invitation, Sesto joined one of the rope-gangs, and put his back into the hard work. Saint Bones was in charge of that particular gang, and when orders came via Benuto, the man started singing his infernal hymns as a rhythm for the men to time their pulls against. The gang took sport in singing with gusto, trying to drown out the ribald chanteys of the other rope-gangs with their saintly hymns. Sesto raised his voice as loud as any of them.
They sailed north up the Estalian coast, staying no more than a mile or two from land. Distantly, on the eastern horizon, they could spy the nearest of the islands and atolls in the archipelago. By day’s end, they had long passed the lonely bay where Roque had found Salvadore Laturni’s ketch.
Night fell, and they sailed on into the darkness. The night was heavy and humid, and lightning flashed out in the south, over the open sea, but the storm failed to draw in, and remained a distant rumble and spark all night.
Once, Sesto heard Roque cry out in his sleep.
The second day was damp and cold, like a forest after rain. There was a drizzle in the air, and banks of mist covered the shoreline until well after noon. In the latter part of the day, the wind got up, and the sea darkened as it lashed and rolled. Heavy rain came out of the east and drenched everyone bone-cold.
The rain let up after dark, and the night was fair, though still cold. Long past the middle of the night, with blackness still across the world, Casaudor called Luka to the deck.
Away to the north-west, a vast pink glow, trembling slightly, lit up the sky.
“What is that?” Luka said.
“My guess,” said Casaudor, “is it’s Porto Espejo.”
The glow of the terrible fires remained in view all through the night, and before dawn they were even able to smell smoke on the air. As dawn came up on a thin, drab day, they saw the great, dark pall rising from beyond the northern headlands, bruising the sky in a wide brown stripe that drifted west and became fainter and yellower as it faded into the distance.
The smell of burning grew stronger.
Silvaro ordered ready quarters, and signalled this to the other ships.
By mid-morning they had come around the Espejo headland. Though the town was not yet in sight, there was no doubting that the fire had been seated there. The ships were passing under the trailing smoke, into the gloom, as the overhead smoke-bank starved the light. The scent was pungent and harsh, and scads of ash fell out of the air, like snow upon the decks.
The steady thump of drums began, echoing across the water from the regal Fuega, as the marine guards assembled.
Just before noon, they rounded the spit and got a sight of the town.
Porto Espejo was a small place, just a trading stop, with a fair natural harbour, popular with fishing boats. Not a scrap of it remained intact. The shoreline and quays showed the signs of furious bombardment, as if they had been systematically pulverised from the sea. The town itself had been torched and razed. Only the black shells and smouldering rafters of the buildings remained. The temple tower was half-fallen. From this burning ruin, the column of smoke rose into the wan sky.
The flames from the town’s destruction had spread and, through his spyglass, Silvaro could see where the woodlands and plantations on the neighbouring hills were now on fire in great swathes. There had been boats in the harbour, but all had been destroyed. Luka saw shattered, half-sunk hulls, and twisted masts poking up from the waterline.
The water of the harbour itself was littered with debris that lapped and rocked against the quayside walls. Then Luka realised it wasn’t debris. It was the corpses of the townsfolk, hundreds of them, washing together on the slow tide. Gulls circled above the water, dropping to feed on the pitiful bodies.
“Hernan signals he wishes to put ashore,” Roque said.
“For what purpose? There’s no one left to save, and we know damn well what wrought that havoc. Signal him no. And bring us about. I want to quit this place and press on. I want to find that butcher.”
Silvaro went below in a black mood. Sesto found him in his cabin. Silvaro had opened his personal weapons chest and was laying every device out on the table. Dirks, daggers, boot knives, two shamshirs, a dadao, three assorted cutlasses, swept hilt rapiers, sabres, a hooked tulwar, a hand-and-a-half greatsword from Carroburg, two axes, one beak-backed, the other round-bladed, a pole-arm…
Sesto marvelled at the collection. Luka was sorting through the weapons, flexing blades, testing sharpness, assessing feel.
“You’re angry,” Sesto said.
“Damn right.”
“Because we arrived too late to save Porto Espejo?”
Luka flexed the blade of his favourite shamshir between both hands, and then soughed a practice chop through the air. “No,” he said bluntly. “Oh, it’s a miserable scene, and I’d wish no ill on those people. But it’s the waste of it.”
“What do you mean?” Sesto asked.
Luka began stroking a whetstone gently along the shamshir’s edge. “Sesto, I’ve seen plenty in my life. I’ve seen horrors at least the match of what we just witnessed. I’ve seen atrocity, massacre, slaughterous ruin, all of it committed by pirates. In fact, I’ve done a share myself. But every last crime, every life taken, was in the name of gold and riches. For gain, Sesto. For the love of wealth.”
“So it’s all right to slaughter when there’s money at the end of it?” Luka laughed. “Not in your eyes, I know. But by my code, yes. What the Butcher Ship did here, and what it has done throughout this bleak year, is kill for killing’s sake. Those poor wretches back there did not even get to pay for their lives with gold. They were simply murdered. That sickens me. That is not part of my life, or any code.” Sesto sat down and picked up a curved gold and ivory dagger with beautiful inlay. “I’ve come to know you, Luka. But sometimes, I don’t think I understand you at all. You have a skewed moral philosophy.”
“I have the only one that works out here,” Luka replied. He had evidently settled on the cutting weapons he wanted: the shamshir, a long dagger, a dirk, a cutlass and the round-bladed boarding axe. He placed them
aside on the bench and began to return the others to his sea chest. “Anything you want?” he asked Sesto. “No, sir. Thank you.”
“Take the dagger. The gold makes it true and the ivory makes it lucky. It’s from Araby.”
“My thanks, Luka, but I’m fine with what I’ve got,” Sesto said, putting the dagger back in the chest. “I have enough weapons.”
“You can’t have enough,” Luka replied, “not where we’re going. Please take the dagger, as my gift to you. The luck in the ivory—”
“Really, no.”
Luka shrugged, placed the last of the blades in the chest, and closed the lid. “Then help me with this,” he said. He opened another heavy long box and began to take out his firing pieces. Sesto lent a hand. There were dozens of pistols: snaphance, wheel-lock and several heavy flintlocks. Some were matched pairs, some single pieces of exquisite inlay, some long and heavy, some small and fat. A small teak coffer contained a presentation pistol, a brass-mounted sea-service flintlock that had once been the pride of a Tilean admiral. Almost every piece was strung to a lanyard of ribbon or silk-cord. Under the pistols in the chest were the larger guns: matchlocks, muskets, calivers. Sesto took out an Arabyan miquelet-lock rifle, its triangular maplewood stock decorated with coral and gold. Luka lifted out a musketoon and a marksman’s long musket, and weighed them both.
“All too big,” he said. “Just pistols, I think.” They put the long guns back in the chest, and then Luka sorted through the pistols, choosing a pair of small snaphance guns, three wheel-locks of various design, and the heavy presentation piece.
They laid the six pistols out on a cloth and began to clean and load them. Silvaro had the finest-quality powder and lock-oil, and well-cast shot that Sheerglas had made for him. The snaphance and wheel-locks he intended for single use, but the flintlock, with its power and smooth action, he required reloads for. As Luka oiled the guns, Sesto sorted fifteen of the best lead balls into a drawstring purse, and then prepared two dozen cartridges, carefully weighing out each powder charge on a small brass set of scales, and winding it tight in twists of paper as Roque had taught him.
