The Larion Senators e-3

by Rob Scott

  Brand’s scepticism was almost palpable, filling the space between them. ‘You can’t be serious! He’ll sink this tub before you even catch the outgoing tide.’

  Sharr wheeled on him. ‘You really want to come along, Brand? Well, I don’t care, come, then – you, too, Markus, if you’re so determined to die. But we’re not going anywhere without him.’

  ‘Why?’ Markus said, waving encouragingly to Stalwick.

  ‘Because he has special gifts.’ Sharr started towards the wharf. He turned to say, ‘Make peace with the gods tonight, boys, because the tide turns just before dawn tomorrow. If you’re coming, I’ll see you here. Right now, I’m off home.’

  The Missing Daughter sailed with the predawn tide. A frigid bank of fog had swallowed Capehill overnight and a ponderous gloom had settled over the trawler. The northerly winds that had been raking the Falkan coast for days died suddenly after middlenight, leaving the wharf blanketed in a foreboding silence.

  Sharr set his main and spanker in a broad reach, but didn’t bother with the bowsprit; there wasn’t enough wind. He leaned at the helm, watching for the channel marker denoting the last lazy tack to port needed to clear the dogleg that was Capehill Harbour; perhaps then they’d get lucky and catch a bit of breeze. Stalwick and Markus huddled together in the middle of the deck; Brand stood in the stern, watching the fog billow past like a ghostly memory.

  ‘Any tecan?’ he asked laconically.

  ‘No,’ Stalwick was quick to reply, ‘but I can make some, Brand. I can. I’m good at tecan, well, not as good as-’

  ‘Stalwick,’ Markus stopped him, ‘it’s over there, in the canvas bag near the top of that chest.’

  ‘Oh, right, thanks. I’ll get it going right away, thanks.’ Fumbling, he managed to dislodge the pot and a tin of leaves, struggled to open one of the hogsheads lashed to the mainmast, then finally disappeared to the tiny galley to get the mixture brewing.

  ‘Thanks, Stalwick,’ Sharr shouted down to him. ‘Goblets in that leather bag on the shelf above your head.’

  ‘All right, Sharr, all right. I’ll tell you, I was worried, scared even, to go out on the ocean with you three, but I tell you what; this isn’t so bad. I’d rather be able to see something, I would, I’ll tell you, but this isn’t bad sailing at all.’

  Still staring at the wall of white, Brand said mockingly, ‘Swells that block my view of the horizon, huh, Sharr?’

  ‘Be careful what you wish for, my friend,’ Sharr warned. ‘We’re not even out of the harbour yet.’ Like the rest of them, Sharr was dressed in a cotton undertunic, a boiled wool tunic, a leather vest and a boiled wool cloak, all topped with an oiled leather poncho to help ward off the frigid winds. Sharr worried that one of the others, as green as they were, might slip and fall overboard, especially if ice formed on the deck later that day. Layered vestments made winter fishing bearable, but they were not good for swimming.

  ‘We’ll never catch them at this rate,’ Markus said, helping Stalwick pour out tecan.

  ‘You’ve got to remember that if we don’t have any wind, they don’t have any either,’ Sharr reminded them. ‘Actually, I’m hoping that carrack passed by last night, with all her sails filled to bursting, so we’ll never catch her – if that’s the case, we’ll make a day of it and I’ll teach you how to haul a net.’

  ‘All right,’ Markus shivered. ‘I’m up for a bit of fishing today.’

  ‘That’s not very patriotic of you,’ Brand said, checking the throwing knives he wore at his belt.

  ‘Call it self-preservation,’ Markus said. ‘Here, tecan’s ready.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, then looked up suddenly and said, ‘Hey, Captain, look at the fog.’ From the south, the sound of crashing waves reached them through the gloom.

  ‘What?’ Stalwick cried as he turned a full circle, ‘what’s it doing?’

  ‘It’s moving north,’ Markus said. ‘We’ve found a bit of wind.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good, right, Sharr? A bit of wind, and we can get going out there, right?’

  Sharr tested the wind. He checked the mainsail, let the beam out slightly, then belayed the line. ‘Be careful what you wish for, my friends,’ he muttered again.

  By the dinner aven, there was a stiff wind blowing north and the Missing Daughter was running before it like a schooner. Markus, Stalwick and Brand were clinging to lines and belaying pins as if they were the last handholds outside the Northern Forest. The deck was wet, and icing over, but none of the intrepid seamen were willing to move from where they stood, so there was no immediate danger of anyone slipping over the side.

  At the helm, Sharr sang off-colour songs, obviously enjoying himself. ‘You don’t get too many days like this!’ he cried above the breeze. ‘Look there, that’s Raven’s Point! Great whoring mothers, but that’s got to be a new record, for a fishing boat, anyway.’ He looked at the others as the Missing Daughter rolled over an enormous swell and buried her bow halfway up the following trough. ‘You boys all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ Brand managed without letting go of the ratline he had looped about his wrist. ‘I’m thinking of spending all my winter Twinmoons on the water once this business is finished.’

  ‘Markus,’ Sharr shouted, ‘Brand just made a joke – he must be terrified!’

  The handsome lieutenant, soaked to the undertunic and shivering hard, said, ‘I’m too scared to talk right now. I’d rather my life end in silence.’

  Sharr laughed. ‘You’re not going to die in this, Markus. It’s a beautiful clear day!’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit… um… lumpy?’ Stalwick asked miserably.

  ‘A bit,’ Sharr acknowledged, ‘but the old girl’ll hold together, don’t you worry.’

  ‘What happens if we don’t spot that carrack today?’ Markus was doing his best to scan the horizon for sails.

  ‘We’ll stay off the wind for the night,’ Sharr pointed north, ‘then jibe, close haul and creep south again tomorrow morning. It wouldn’t be wise to do that before first light, though. And if the wind changes with the tide, which it might well do, we’ll come about and enjoy a nice run down the coast.’

  ‘You mean stay out here? All night?’ He sounded completely horrified.

  ‘Of course,’ Sharr said, laughing. ‘We’d not make it home now anyway, not tonight – we’re against the wind and the tide.’

  ‘I see.’ Markus swallowed hard. ‘It’s just- Well, to be honest, I never thought we’d be out here after dark.’

  ‘You afraid of the dark, Markus?’

  ‘Out here?’ He braced himself as the trawler crested another swell. ‘Yes, actually, quite.’

  Brand came forward, moving hand-over-hand along the starboard gunwale. He gripped the block-and-tackle crane like a lover and shouted, ‘Remember this morning, when I teased you about the wind?’

  Sharr grinned. ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Fetch me a beer from that crate below and we’ll call it even.’

  ‘I would,’ Brand’s teeth were chattering, ‘but I’m afraid to let go.’

  ‘Here, then-’ Sharr took Brand’s hand and placed it on the helm, ‘keep us on this course and I’ll fetch them myself. Who’s for a drink, then?’

  No one answered; Brand looked as though he was about to soil his leggings.

  ‘All right, beers all around it is then.’ Sharr disappeared into the galley, singing, ‘I know a girl and her name is Mippa. I bet you five Mareks she’ll give you a gripper!’ He returned a moment later and passed ceramic bottles to everyone.

  Markus looked askance at his, then gripped the cork with his teeth, pulled it out and spat it over the side. He guzzled as much as he could stomach. Brand saw the moribund pallor fade from his friend’s face and decided to follow Markus’ lead, chugging nearly the entire bottle.

  ‘Better?’ Sharr asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Brand nodded enthusiastically, ‘surprisingly so!’

  ‘How about you, Stai-?’ Sharr froze.
‘Oh, rutters.’

  Blanched and trembling, Stalwick stared straight ahead, his eyes unfocused. He gripped the beer bottle with one hand, squeezing until it shattered. Ceramic shards sliced into his palm; Stalwick didn’t notice.

  ‘Holy mothers!’ Markus cried, ‘what’s wrong with him?’

  Stalwick collapsed, kicking and scratching in wild spasms, rolling across the deck until he came to rest in a foetal ball beside the miniature dory they’d lashed down that morning.

  ‘I bet it’s-’ Brand’s feet went out from under him and he landed hard on his back, sliding across the icy deck.

  ‘Help me get him into the cabin,’ Sharr ordered. ‘Markus, there’s a cot folded up against the forward bulkhead, inside the storage cubby – go and get it. Brand, drag him in here. Make sure he’s breathing, then unfurl that tarp. It’ll keep him a bit warmer. There are blankets in the third cupboard, the one beside the cooking pots.’

  Brand crawled back to Stalwick, then half-dragged and half-pushed the unconscious man inside the little cabin. He found the oiled canvas tarp and unlashed it so it covered the doorway, shutting out some of the wind. The enclosed space quickly felt warmer.

  ‘He went like this before,’ Sharr said, ‘when Gilmour used him to warn us that the Malakasians knew we were coming.’

  ‘Listen closely, in case he says anything.’

  Stalwick didn’t speak; he just lay on the cot, his mouth hanging open and his eyes askew, staring blindly up at the wooden ceiling.

  The three men went back to the helm to confer.

  ‘We’ve got to go back,’ Markus said. ‘Who knows what this means?’

  ‘I told you: we can’t go back, not yet,’ Sharr said. ‘Just calm down; we’re out here at least until dawn when the tide turns.’

  ‘But-’

  ‘But nothing. Wind and water are against us and it would take more sailing skills than you two have combined to get us about and hauled close for Capehill. So as long as he’s breathing, we’ll give him a few moments and see if he wakes up. Brand, take the helm. Keep us right on this heading.’ He slid the binnacle open and showed him the compass. It was pointing east-northeast. ‘I’ll net us some fish for dinner, and then we’ll have a sailing lesson or two, just in case.’

  ‘But we’ve got dinner,’ Markus said plaintively. ‘We’ve brought plenty to eat.’

  ‘But this’ll give us something to do. Come on, Markus, I’ll bet you’ve always secretly wanted to learn how to sail, haven’t you?’

  An aven later, as darkness fell, the three companions ate their fill of fresh-caught jemma and drank enough beer to numb their uncertainty. They had no idea what had befallen Stalwick; he was an inept soldier, but he was also the only one amongst them with even a copper Marek’s worth of mystical power. They all felt the same foreboding chill as they watched Stalwick breathe in shallow gasps, his hands frozen in ungainly claws and his eyes fixed half a world away.

  Around middlenight, Sharr tossed Markus a blanket and ordered him to get some sleep. ‘Brand and I will take the first watch,’ he said. ‘You and he can trade in an aven.’

  ‘What about you?’ Brand said.

  ‘I’ll stay at the helm. The wind is dying a bit. If it drops more before dawn, you can keep us on course for a while and I’ll try to sleep, but I don’t want you two piloting in the dark. Who knows where we might end up?’ He laughed, wryly, trying to lighten the mood a little.

  ‘Fine with me.’ Markus ducked beneath the tarp curtain and curled up on the floor next to Stalwick’s berth. ‘See you in an aven,’ he called.

  Markus traded places with Brand just before the predawn aven. The wind had fallen off and the Missing Daughter made her way through the diminishing swells like a pleasure boat on a summer sea. It was warm inside the cabin, with the tarp curtain still closed. Marcus had removed his oiled poncho and cloak; Brand did the same, wrapped himself in Markus’ makeshift bed and was asleep in moments, snoring lightly.

  ‘Where are we?’ Markus asked softly.

  ‘Off the northeast coast, moving along the outer banks.’

  ‘No sign of our carrack?’

  ‘Hard to say; the winds are down, the tide’s about to start running against us. That’s bad for sailing, but good for standing the middle watch. If she’s out here and her watchlights are burning, we ought to be able to see her. I haven’t checked aft in a while; I don’t normally keep that tarp unfurled, but with Stalwick and all, I figured I ought to keep it warm in there.’

  ‘Thanks for that. So what am I looking for?’

  ‘A ship that large will have a number of watchlights on deck: fore, aft and amidships, maybe even a few aloft. Downwind, you might even smell her galley, what they’re serving for breakfast. So basically, if you see anything that looks like glowing orbs of fire floating just above the water, that’s our whore.’ He yawned, stretching his shoulders and back. He had been standing over the binnacle, keeping them on course with the changing tide, but finally he gave up and sat in his captain’s chair.

  ‘One luxury, I see,’ Markus teased him.

  ‘I’m getting older,’ Sharr smiled. ‘Can’t be standing here all day and night.’

  ‘So where’s our bowsprit?’

  ‘I reefed it last aven.’

  ‘Over the water? In the dark? Alone? That was brave of you!’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Sharr said, ‘there are horses all the way out to the end – that’s the lines you stand on. When I was a whelp, I worked on a cutter with a naked bowsprit, not a footrope to be seen. Rutting Pragans, but that tested your courage, especially in the rain and ice. You learned balance in a hurry, no mistake, with one hand on the standing rigging, not to mention how to tie a half-hitch with one hand and the occasional toe.’

  ‘Ever lose anyone?’

  ‘We had a few that got dunked, but after a while we worked out we ought to be wearing safety lines.’ He sighed. ‘Took some of the adventure out of it.’

  ‘You want some tecan?’

  ‘No, let’s wait for first light. You’d have to climb over Brand to get in there, anyway.’

  Markus sat down gingerly on a coil of rope near the helm started sniffing the wind, hoping for the scent of Malakasian breakfast: boiled greenroot and cabbage or something similarly disagreeable. From time to time he hauled himself to his feet and peered over the gunwale, but he found nothing.

  After a quarter-aven, he rested his forehead on his knees, then gradually gave in to sleep.

  Markus woke to Sharr shouting, ‘Get up, gods rut you raw, get up!’

  He was on his feet in an instant, gripping the rail to keep from falling. ‘What? What’s the matter?’ he asked, still a little disoriented. ‘Is it the carrack?’

  ‘Stalwick’s gone!’ Sharr cried, looking about him wildly.

  ‘Gone? What? How can he be-?’ He peered into the little cabin. The cot was empty. ‘But where-?’

  Brand pushed past him and took the helm. ‘Go ahead,’ he said to Sharr, who rolled and lashed the tarp, opening the cabin to the elements. Dawn whitened the horizon. ‘Right, listen,’ he ordered, ‘when we jibe, we’ve got to let the main out. We’ve been on this broad reach, so we don’t have to let it far, and for rut’s sake, wait until I tell you!’

  Markus rubbed his eyes, muttering, ‘I don’t- What’s happening? Where-?’

  ‘Markus!’ Sharr cried, making him jump, ‘watch me, man. When I shout to Brand, you bring that spanker over. Keep it parallel with the main boom. Understand?’

  ‘But I don’t-’

  ‘That rope there, the pin’s aft on the port side. Come on, Markus, it’s not that big a sheet.’ Sharr moved out towards the bowsprit.

  Markus hurried over to Brand, saying, ‘What are we rutting doing?’

  ‘I think we’re turning around,’ he said. ‘I think that’s what jibing is, or coming about or whatever he calls it.’ Sharr was halfway out the bowsprit now, already over open water. Rather than being chased by towering swells as they had been
the previous day, now the Missing Daughter faced ranks of rolling waves, splashing over the bow, threatening to wash Sharr all the way to the Northern Forest.

  ‘But why? How do we know Stalwick is back there?’

  Brand pointed at the deck: the dory was gone.

  ‘Unholy rutting mothers!’ Markus untied the spanker, keeping the line tight as ordered and watching Sharr for the sign to bring it over the transom. ‘Demonshit, what did he do? Where is he, Brand? He can’t be out alone in that thing – we’ve got to find him!’

  ‘He’s there.’ Brand pointed over the transom.

  ‘Great gods of the Northern Forest.’ Markus stood in mute amazement, looking at the carrack in the distance, running north, perhaps a thousand paces off their stern. She was impossibly tall, and massive, and with her sails filled and billowing, looked more like an unchained sea monster than a ship. Between the two vessels, rolling dangerously in the swells, Stalwick Rees rowed furiously, careening from trough to trough. He was dressed as a Malakasian soldier.

  Stunned, Markus let go the spanker line, slashing a bloody gash across his palm as the little sheet ripped free, its miniature yard swinging wide to port.

  ‘Markus!’ Sharr screamed from the bowsprit. He plunged beneath another wave, but came up, still loosening the forward sheet and shouting, ‘Get that rutting line, Markus! Gods cook your mother’s arse, don’t let it run out of the tackle; you’ll never get it back through. Grab it!’

  Markus dived for the spanker yard, caught it and pulled back over the transom, then fell on slippery deck and hit his head. He cursed Stalwick’s entire family as he crawled on hands and knees to the transom and tugged the rigging line tight with bloody fingers.

  Once it was secure, he called to Brand, ‘How did he get away?’

  ‘We were sleeping, you and I were, anyway. I’m not sure what he did to Sharr, used some kind of spell, I guess. I don’t know; I thought he was dead.’

  Markus watched impotently as Stalwick rowed further and further away.