Shouts of excited dismay carried across the water. They'll finish us with the cannon if they suspect, Maia knew. Or if they're bloody-minded about the value of their spies.
Even feign-fighting with Charl was a grunting, intense effort. Bobbing movements of the boat kept forcing them to clutch each other for real. Minutes into the contest, Charl's grip tightened on Maia's windpipe, setting off waves of authentic pain.
"Maia!" Naroin hissed from below and aft, her hand on the tiller. "Where are they?"
Maia pushed Charl back and affected to punch just past the woman's ear. Looking over Charl's shoulder, she saw the reaver turn and fill its jib enough to gain some headway. "Under . . ." Maia gasped for breath as Charl shoved her against the skiff's mast. "Under a hundred meters. They're coming. . . ."
The next thing Maia knew, Charl had picked up an oar and aimed an awfully realistic swipe. Ducking, Maia had no chance to mention what else she had seen. Among the crowd of rough women gathered at the bow of the ketch, two had brandished slender objects that looked chillingly like hunting rifles. The only thing saving Maia right now was her close proximity to a figure the reavers thought to be their accomplice.
"Eighty meters . . ." Maia said, elbowing Charl in the ribs, knocking aside the oar and lifting her locked hands as if to deliver an overhand blow. Charl staved this off by ducking and grabbing Maia's midriff.
"Uh! ... Not so hard! . . . Sixty meters . . ."
The ketch was a beautiful thing, lovely in its sleek, terrible rapacity. Even with jib alone, it prowled rapidly, s'triking aside flotsam of its victim, the ill-fated raft. Logs and boxes rebounded off its hull, wallowing in its wake. The sheer island face now lay behind the skiff. There was no escape.
"Fifty meters ..."
In their wrestling struggle, Charl's makeshift wig suddenly slipped. Both women hurried to replace it, but one of the reavers at the bow could be heard reacting with tones of sudden outrage. The jig is up, Maia realized, looking across the narrowing gap to see a pirate lift her rifle.
There was no sound, no warning at all, only a brief shadow that flowed down the stony cliff and a patch of sun-drenched sea. One of the corsairs on the ketch glanced up, and started to shout. Then the sky itself seemed to plummet onto the graceful ship. A cloud of dark, heavy tangles splashed across the mast and sails and surrounding water, followed by a lumpy box of metal that struck the starboard gunwales, glanced off ... and exploded.
Flame brightness filled Maia's universe. A near-solid fist of compressed air blew Charl against her, throwing the two of them toward the mast, sandwiching Maia in abrupt pain. Sound seized the flapping sail, causing it to billow instantaneously, knocking both women to the keel where they lay stunned. The skiff rocked amid rhythmic, heaving aftershocks.
Still conscious, Maia felt herself being dragged out from under Charl's groaning weight, toward the bow. Through a pounding ringing in her ears, time seemed to stretch and snap, stretch and snap, in uneven intervals. From some distant place, she heard Brod's reassuring voice uttering strange words.
"You're all right, Maia. No bleeding. You'll be okay . . . Got to get ready now, though. Snap out of it, Maia! Here, take your trepp. Naroin's bringing us along the aft end. . . ."
Maia tried to focus. Unwelcome but frequent experience with situations like this told her it would take at least a few minutes for critical faculties to return. She needed more time, but there was none. Climbing to her knees, she felt a pole of smooth wood pushed into her hands, which closed by pure habit in the correct grip. Inanna's trepp bill, she dimly recognized, which had been among the dead spy's possessions. Now, if only she recalled how to use it.
Brod helped her face the right way, toward a looming, soot-shrouded object that had only recently been white and proud and exquisite. Now the ship lay in a tangle of fallen cables and wires. Its sails were half torn away by the makeshift bomb, which had been catapulted at the last moment by two captives who had remained high on the bluff, hoping to do this very thing.
"Get ready!"
Maia's ears were still filled with horrific reverberations. Nevertheless, she recognized Naroin's shout. Glancing right, she saw the bosun already using her bow and arrows, shooting while Tress guided the skiff across the last few meters. . . .
Wood crumped against wood. Brod shouted, leaping to seize the bigger ship's rail, a rope-end between his teeth. The youth scrambled up and quickly tied a knot, securing the skiff.
"Look out!" Maia cried. She commanded urgent action from her muscles, ordering them to strike out toward a snarling woman who ran aft toward Brod, an illegally sharpened trepp in hand. Alas, Maia's uncoordinated flail only glanced off the railing.
Brod turned barely in time to fend off the attacker's blows. One smashed flat along his left shoulder. Another met the beefy part of his forearm, slashing his shirt and cutting a bloody runnel. There was an audible crack as part of the impact carried through, striking his head.
The young man and the reaver stared at each other for an instant, both apparently surprised to find him still standing. Then, with a sigh, Brod pushed the pirate's weapon aside, took her halter straps, and flung her overboard. The reaver screamed indignant fury until she crashed into the sea, where other figures could be seen swimming amid the wreckage of the raft.
Tress and Naroin were already scrambling to join Brod, followed by a groggy Charl. Maia grabbed the rail and concentrated, trying twice before finally managing to throw one leg over, and then rolling onto the upper deck. In doing so, however, her grip on Inanna's bill loosened and it slipped from her hands, clattering back into the skiff.
Bleeders. Do I go back for it now?
Maia shook her head dizzily. No. Go forward. Fight.
Dimly, she was aware of other figures clambering aboard, presumably raft survivors, joining the attack while enemy reinforcements also hurried aft. There were sharp cracks as firearms went off. Feet scuffed all around her as grunting combat swayed back and forth. Looking up, Maia saw two women attack Brod while another swung a huge knife at Naroin, armed only with her bow and no arrows. The scene stunned Maia, its ferocity going far beyond the fights in Long Valley, or even the Manitou. She had never seen faces so filled with hatred and rage. During those earlier episodes, there had at least been a background of rules. Death had been a possible, but unsought, side effect. Here, it was the central goal. Matters had come down to abominations—blades and arrows, guns and fighting men.
Maia's hand fell on a piece of debris from the explosion, a split tackle block. Without contemplating what she was doing, she lifted it in both hands and swiftly brought it around with all her might, smashing one of Brod's opponents in the back of the knee. The woman screeched, dropping a crimson knife that Maia prayed was innocent of boy's blood. Without pause, she struck the other knee. The reaver collapsed, howling and writhing.
Maia was about to repeat the trick with Brod's other foe, when that enemy simply vanished! Nor was Brod himself in view anymore. In an instant, the fight must have carried him off to starboard.
Maia turned. Naroin was backed against the rail, using her bow as a makeshift staff, flailing against two reavers. The first kept the policewoman occupied with a flashing, darting knife-sword, while the second struggled with a bolt-action rifle, slapping at the mechanism, trying to clear a jammed cartridge. Before Maia could react, the reluctant bolt came free. An expended shell popped out and the reaver quickly slipped a new bullet inside. Slamming the bolt home again, she lifted her weapon ...
With a scream, Maia leaped. The riflewoman had but a moment to see her coming. Eyes widening, the reaver swung the slender barrel around.
Another explosive concussion rocked by Maia's right ear as she tackled the pirate, carrying them both into the rail. The lightly framed wood splintered, giving way and spilling them overboard.
But I only just got here, Maia complained—and the ocean slapped her, swallowed her whole, squeezed her lungs and clung to her arms as she clawed through syrupy darkness, l
ike coal.
Lamatia and Long Valley hated me, the damn ocean hates me. Maybe the world's trying to tell me something.
Maia surfaced at last with an explosive, ragged gasp, thrashing through a kick turn while peering through a salty blur in hopes of finding her foe before she was found. But no one else emerged from the sea. Perhaps the raider so loathed losing her precious weapon, she had accompanied the rifle to the bottom. Despite everything she'd been through, it was the first time Maia had ever knowingly killed anybody, and the thought was troubling.
Worry about that later. Got to get back and help now.
Maia sought and found the reaver ship, awash in smoke and debris. Fighting a strong undertow, exhausted and unable to hear much more than an awful roar, she struck out for the damaged ketch. At least her thoughts were starting to clear. Alas, that only let her realize how many places hurt.
She swam hard.
Hurry! It may already be too late!
By the time she managed to climb back aboard; however, the fight was already over.
There were strands of cable everywhere. The tangled mass, remnants of the broken winch mechanism, had been the centerpiece of their intended trap. A net wide enough to snare a large, fast-moving boat, even using an inaccurate, makeshift catapult. It had been Brod's suggestion that the booby-trapped gearbox might also make a good weapon. Naroin had said not to count on it, but in the end, that had provided the crucial bit of luck.
Well, we were due a little, Maia thought. Despite all the damage wrought by blast, collision, and battle, the ketch showed no sign of taking water. Just as fortunately, the fickle currents now swept it away from the rocky cliffs.
Still, the rigging was a mess. The masthead and fore-stay were gone, as well as the portside spreader. It would take hours just to clear away most of the wreckage, let alone patch together enough sail to get under way. Heaven help them if another reaver ship came along during that time.
Barring that unpleasant eventuality, a head start and favorable winds were what the surviving castaways most wanted now. Even the wounded seemed braced by the thought of imminent escape westward, and a chance to avenge the dead.
Although, the reavers had been stunned and wounded by the ambuscade, it would have been madness for four women and a boy to try attacking all alone. But Maia and the rest of the skiff crew had counted on hidden reinforcements, which came from a source the pirates never suspected. Only a few of those who had been aboard the raft when the reaver ship was first spotted had remained aboard to face the brunt of the cannon's shells. The rest had by then gone overboard, taking shelter under empty crates and boxes already jettisoned—apparently to lighten the raft's load. In fact, they were tethered to float some distance behind, where the enemy would not think to shoot at them.
Only the strongest swimmers had been chosen for that dangerous role. Once the skiff crew began boarding, drawing all the reavers aft, five waterlogged Manitou sailors managed to swim around to the bow and clamber aboard, using loops of dangling, cable. Shivering and mostly unarmed, they did have surprise on their side. Even so, it was a close and chancy thing.
Small-scale battles can turn on minor differences, as Maia learned when she pieced together what had happened at the end. The last two Manitou sailors, those responsible for springing the catapult trap, had been perhaps the bravest of all. With their job done, each took a running start, then leaped feetfirst off the high bluff to plunge all the way down to the deep blue water. Surviving that was an exploit to tell of. To follow it up with swimming for the crippled ketch, and joining the attack in the nick of time . . . the notion alone put Maia in awe. These were, indeed, tough women.
Before Maia made it back from her own watery excursion, that last wave of reinforcements turned the tide, converting bloody stalemate into victory. Now ten of the original band of internees, plus several well-watched prisoners, labored to prepare the captive prize for travel. Young Brod, despite bandages on his face and arms, climbed high upon the broken mast, parsing debris from useful lines and shrouds, eliminating the former with a hatchet.
Maia was hauling lengths of cable overboard when Naroin tapped her on the shoulder. The policewoman carried a rolled-up chart, which she unfurled with both hands. "You ever get a good latitude fix with that toy Pegyul gave you?" she asked.
Maia nodded. After two dips in the ocean, she hadn't yet inspected the minisextant, and feared the worst. Before yesterday, however, she had taken several good sightings from their prison pinnacle. "Let's see ... we must've been dumped on . . ." She bent to peer at the chart, which showed a long archipelago of narrow, jagged prominences, crisscrossed by perpendicular coordinate lines. Maia saw a slanted row of cursive lettering, and rocked back. "Well I'll be damned. We're in the Dragons' Teeth!"
"Yeah. How about that." Naroin replied. These were islands of legend. "I'll tell you some interestin' things about 'em, later. But now—the latitude, Maia?"
"Oh, yes." Maia reached out and tapped with one finger. "There. They must have left us on, um, Grimke Island."
"Mm. Thought so from the outline. Then that one over there"—Naroin pointed westward at a mist-shrouded mass—"must be De Gournay. And just past it to the north, that's the best course toward deep water. Two good days and we're in shipping lanes."
Maia nodded. "Right. From there, all you need is a compass heading. I hope you make it."
Naroin looked up. "What? You're not coming along?"
"No. I'll take the skiff, if it's all right with you. I have unfinished business around here."
"Renna an' your sister." Naroin nodded. "But you don't even know where to look!"
Maia shrugged. "Brod will come. He knows where the man sanctuary is, at Halsey Beacon. From there, we may spot some clue. Find the hideout where Renna's being kept." Maia did not mention the uncomfortable fact that Leie was one of the keepers. She shifted her feet. "Actually, that chart would be more useful to us, since you'll be off the edge just a few hours after . . ."
Naroin sniffed. "There are others below, anyway. Sure, take it." She rolled the vellum sheet and slapped it gruffly into Maia's hands. Clearly she was masking feelings like the ones erupting in Maia's own breast. It was hard giving up a friend, now that she had one. Maia felt warmed that the woman sailor shared the sentiment.
. "O' course, Renna might not even be in the archipelago anymore," Naroin pointed out.
"True. But if so, why would they have gone to such lengths to get rid of us? Even as witnesses, we'd not be much threat if they'd fled in some unknown direction. No, I'm convinced he and Leie are nearby. They've got to be."
There followed a long silence between the two women, punctuated only by the sounds of nearby raucous chopping, hammering and scraping. Then Naroin said, "If you ever finally reach a big town, get to a comm unit an' dial PES five-four-niner-six. Call collect. Give 'em my name.
"But what if you aren't ... if you never ... I mean—" Maia stopped, unable to tactfully say it. But Naroin only laughed, as if relieved to have something to make light of.
"What if I never make it? Then if you please, tell my boss where you saw me last. All the things you've done an' seen. Tell 'em I said you got a favor or two comin'. At least they might help get you a decent job."
"Mm. Thanks. So long as it has nothing to do with coal—"
"Or saltwater!" Naroin laughed again,, and spread her small, strong arms for an embrace,
"Good luck, virgie. Keep outta jail. Don't get hit on the head so much. An' stop tryin' to drown, will ya? Do that an' I'm sure you'll be just fine."
PART 3
Peripatetic's Log:
Stratos Mission:
Arrival + 53.369 Ms
Today I told the heirs of Lysos all about the law. A law they had no role in passing. One they cannot amend or disobey.
The assembled savants, councillors, and priestesses listened to my speech in stony silence. Though I had already informed some of them, in private, I could still sense shock and churning disbelief behin
d many rigid faces.
"After millennia, we of the Phylum have learned the hard lesson of speciation," I told them. "Separated by vast gulfs of space, distant cousins lose their sense of common heritage. Isolated human tribes drift apart, emerging far down the stream of time, changed beyond recognition. This is a loss of much more than memory."
The grimness of my audience was unsettling. Yet Iolanthe and others had counseled frankness, not diplomatic euphemisms, so I told the leaders accounts from the archives of my service—a litany of misadventure and horror, of catastrophic misunderstandings and tragedies provoked by narrow worldviews. Of self-righteous ethnic spasms and deadly vendettas, with each side convinced (and armed with proof) that it was right. Of exploitations worse than those we once thought jettisoned in Earth's predawn past. Worse for being perpetrated by cousins who refused to know each other anymore, or listen.
Brin, David - Glory Season Page 46
