Crowe wished he had made a better choice of word than 'swing,' under the circumstances. If Dass had seen his brother die, he might have something else on Crowe.
Dass grinned, a crude and hungry look. "Yes, Captain, I do." Crowe couldn't help the flicker of tension that tightened his lips. He saw that Wylde noticed it too. "He had a tattoo on his upper left arm. A wolf's head."
Relieved, but trying not to show it, Crowe rolled up the left sleeve of his shirt. The flesh was scarred and half melted, as his cheek and jaw were. The scarring had obliterated the tattoo. "I'm sorry for your loss, lad, but I'm not your wolf's-head man."
"Yes you bloody well are!" Dass struggled again, trying to reach for him
"All right, that's enough," Wylde decreed. "Dass, get back to work."
"But Cap'n!"
"But nothing Dass! I believe… Well, I believe that you believe this man is who you say he is. But men forget faces over time, and mistake them."
"Would you forget the man who murdered your brother?"
"Back to work, Dass." He stepped closer to the sailor, leaning in to his ear and whispered: "We'll keep a close eye on him, just in case." Wylde turned Dass around, and nodded to the men holding him back to walk him to his duties. He turned back to Crowe. "Come with me."
The hand on his shoulder let go, and Crowe followed Wylde to his day-room below the afterdeck. The two mercenaries followed closely behind him, and remained standing when Wylde bade Crowe to sit. Wylde carefully laid the Belle's logs and daybook on his desk, then gestured to one of the mercenaries. "Bring Mister Farrow, would you?"
As the mercenary left, Crowe knew what would happen next. No sailor could resist the lure of treasure, or the prize of salvage.
Wylde held his gaze for a long moment, with only the creaking of the ship's timbers and the muffled clatter of men at work to break the silence. Shortly, there was a knock at the cabin door, and the mercenary returned with Farrow. Wylde nodded Farrow to a seat.
"I have discovered something interesting," Wylde began. "We have found your ship's logs. It seems she was on a course for the Isle of the Star."
Crowe hesitated. "A fool's errand, sir. No such — "
"Place?" Wylde looked sidelong at the other mercenary who had accompanied Crowe. "You've heard of it, haven't you?"
The mercenary nodded. "An island made of pure diamond, like a star here on Twilight. Not a man-jack of us hasn't heard the story in a dozen wharf side taverns."
"From a hundred wharf-rats with pickled brains." Crowe scoffed.
Wylde nodded slowly, a hungry look now in his eyes. "What did you make of your Captain, mister Kord?"
"Sir?"
"What sort of man was he?"
"Fair," Crowe said, after some thought. "Hard working, sensible."
"A shrewd seaman?"
"I suppose so, sir, yes."
"Not gullible, then."
Now Crowe saw where Wylde was going with this. "No, sir. And, before you ask, he didn't believe in the Isle of the Star either." It was a lie, but Crowe prided himself on being a good liar.
"The Isle of the Star…" Wylde pursed his lips. "According to the last entry in this day-book, the Belle was anchored offshore of the Isle for at least one night. Would you care to tell me how that can be, if your captain was a pragmatic man and the Isle doesn't exist?" Crowe didn't answer. "Can you do that, mister Kord? Or, perhaps I should say mister Crowe?"
Crowe merely smiled. "And why would you say that?"
"That tattoo Dass mentioned might not show on your arm, but another interesting entry in your Captain's books tells us how he paid a sum of ten copper pieces to First Mate Kord for the loss of the last two fingers of his left hand. Your fingers are all present and correct. So you're not Grantan Kord."
"That wouldn't necessarily make me Crowe. There were seventy-odd of us."
"And I'm sure you could pick any name out of the crew list. I saw your expression up on deck, Crowe. You did a good job of hiding it, but I've always had an eye for truth or lies."
Crowe spoke carefully. "All right, you believe I'm Crowe. Fair enough. So why am I in here and not dangling at the end of a rope, or lying under Dass' fists?"
Wylde very deliberately tapped the logbooks. "Because the question about the Isle of the Star still stands. If your Captain didn't believe in it, why does he claim to have been anchored off it?"
"He was being paid good money to go to the area where someone thought it might exist. Even if it didn't exist, the money was still worth the journey."
"Quite a lot of money, I see…"
"Enough that he could afford the likes of me."
"In my experience," Wylde said, "the sort of people who can throw such amounts of money around are not fickle with it. They want to keep their wealth, or increase that wealth, not waste it on chasing smoke. Someone thought the existence of the Isle of the Star likely enough to be worth a heavy investment in it."
"Maybe. I never met whoever was paying Captain Margrave, so I wouldn't know."
Wylde grinned mirthlessly. "I have an ear for truth and falsehood as well as an eye for it. Please don't lie to me, again, or I may be forced to change my conversational style to something less companionable. You can hang if you want, or throw yourself upon young Dass' mercy…"
"I can hear another 'or' coming, Cap'n," Crowe said, dropping the pretence. "You can take it that I'm all ears."
"Or you can prove yourself useful."
Crowe shrugged. "I've always tried to be useful to employers. That's where the profit is."
Wylde turned the papers around so that Crowe could read them. Crowe tried not to show any reaction. "Where is it, Crowe? The charts show you as having come to, well, not far from our current position. Does this mean the Isle is close?"
"Yes and no," Crowe said at last.
"Continue."
Crowe rose and went to the ports that were set into the rear wall. He opened one, and pointed back at the thick black clouds that roiled on the horizon. "You see that, Captain?" he handed Wylde a spyglass from the desk.
Wylde looked through it. "See what? All I see is the Stormwall."
"That's what I mean. The Isle of the Star is beyond that."
Farrow's brows knitted in confusion. "But, Sir, I were always taught that the Stormwall couldn't be passed, not by any ship e'er built."
Wylde nodded slowly. "That's correct, Mister Farrow. It cannot." He smiled at Crowe. "And yet it would appear that the Belle managed it."
Crowe shook his head. "Believe me, the Belle was the exception."
"Why? What was so special about the Belle, Mr Crowe, that she was able to navigate the way to the Isle?"
"Nothing," Crowe said with a sudden cocky grin. "Maybe it was us fantastic crewmen, eh?"
"Then perhaps you can pull off the same trick for us."
"I couldn't, no. Only a magician could, and, to be honest, you don't want to be using magic around the Isle of the Star. Or so I've heard."
Wylde hesitated, then handed Crowe the relevant books. "You can write as well as read?"
"Just about."
"What I need is your Captain's navigational notes decoded into plain speaking, and help for my navigator to plot a course to the Isle. We'll return to Allantia and pick up whoever or whatever we might need, then begin a new voyage."
Crowe realised that Wylde had him against a wall but it took him only a few moments to realise what he had to do.
"I can try and give your navigator the help he'll need. But you won't find anything. However, if you will allow me to return to my cot I can retrieve my notes and begin right away."
"Return here in half an hour," Wylde said, nodding to the mercenaries, so that they would let Crowe past. "And then you can show me the route to the star."
When the mercenaries had escorted Crowe out, Wylde put his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. He looked across at Farrow. "What think you, Mister Farrow?"
"If the Isle is truly beyond the Stormwall… No ship ever
built could sail there."
"The Stormwall… Impassable by the stoutest timbers, by sail, by oars… But what of magic, eh? What of sorcery?
"Sorcery?" Farrow sounded nervous. Like most sailors Wylde had known, he was deeply superstitious.
"Nature magic, or elemental," Wylde suggested. "Maybe one of those — or some mixture — could have done something to let the Belle through. Transported them there, or made a hole in the Stormwall, or… something." Wylde stood, straightening his lapels. "We don't have anyone with those talents aboard, sadly. But there will be magicians for hire in Allantia."
"And Crowe, sir?"
"Keep Dass away from him. Just in case. As far as the other men are concerned, Kord is exactly who he says he is, and Dass is understandably mistaken."
"Aye, sir."
Alone once more — or at least left to his own devices as the crew worked all around — Crowe looked around for a means of escape from what was surely going to be the carriage to his death. The Vigilant mustered double the crew the Belle had, by his judgement. As if the weight of numbers wasn't bad enough, there were warriors on board. Mercenaries, rather than Royal or Faith troops, but they'd still know one end of a sword from the other. The two who had accompanied him kept at a discreet distance, lurking by the companionway, watching him. They stayed close enough to keep him in sight, but not so close that they could see much of what he was doing. Crowe knew that the trick was to not appear furtive. Every man in a ship's crew knew his own job, and only the officers could change that. Only the officers were likely to notice that a man was doing something he wasn't meant to, especially if that man was new.
There was a voice in Crowe's head, hissing one phrase over and over: "Protect the Isle." It wasn't like a voice he imagined, but a real one, belonging to someone or something outside of himself. Unlike an imagined voice, he couldn't ignore it or silence it, but had to try to endure it
"Protect the Isle," it repeated firmly. "Protect the Isle." He could endure it, or obey it. Barely realising he was doing it, he insinuated himself into the gaps between busy crewmen. One pair, then another, and suddenly the line of sight between the two mercenaries and himself was broken. He ducked into a passageway down to the hold.
A couple of boys of no more than ten or eleven years were in the hold when he arrived, but he sent them off to get something to eat. Then he set about moving the barrels of oil and alcohol that were stored there. Pitch was used for waterproofing the hull, and there were buckets of it against a bulkhead. Next, he loaded a small crossbow and then led a slow fuse from the barrels. It was about ten minutes' worth of fuse, and he used flint and tinder from his belongings to light it. "Protect the Isle," the voice in his head said soothingly.
That done, he returned to the deck, and walked up behind the mercenaries.
"Looking for me, mates?"
They glared at him. A few minutes later, they returned him to the Captain's day room.
"Fast work," Wylde said, pleased. He held out a hand for the translations.
Crowe remained motionless and silent for a moment. "No work."
"I'm sorry?" Wylde glanced at the mercenary, who's eyes brightened slightly, becoming more alert.
"The code isn't the one I'm used to. I can't translate it."
Wylde sighed. "I told you about being lied to, Mr Crowe." He motioned to the mercenary guard. Both men kept their hands near their short swords. "Tell me why you're lying — is it because you want to keep the island's treasures for yourself?"
Crowe laughed bitterly. "No, Captain, it's not that." Wylde looked puzzled. "It's just that I can't let anyone try."
"Why not?"
"Protect the Isle," someone was saying.
Crowe shook his head. "You'd never believe me if I told you."
The burning fuse reached the oil and alcohol barrels. They exploded and the entire ship lurched. Spray erupted from the waterline on the larboard side, drenching the men on deck.
Everything in the day room juddered, candles falling onto charts and setting them alight. It was all the distraction he needed as Crowe pulled the small crossbow from under his notes and let loose. The bolt charged through Wylde's belly and out through the back of his chair.
Before Wylde's mercenaries were able to draw their swords, Crowe hit one in the face with the grip of the crossbow. He heard teeth and bone splinter as the man staggered back. Crowe drew a dagger from the first man's belt, and rammed the blade into the other man's gut. He wrenched it up under the ribcage, and the man fell onto the desk. Crowe spun, slamming the dagger into the chest of the man with the broken nose and teeth.
Crowe pulled the dagger free and ran, leaving Wylde screaming in agony amid his dead men. Everyone on deck was shouting, and running. Carpenters and sailors were running for the hatches to see what they could do about the damage, while others scrambled up ratlines to try to rig the sails so as to heel the ship over the other way, and keep as much of any hole in the side out of the water. Crowe took advantage of the confusion to lower a launch before cutting the tow cables that held the Belle to the Vigilant.
As the cut ends splashed into the water, he followed them overboard, and hauled himself aboard the launch. He took up the launch's oars, and began rowing as far away from the noose and the Vigilant's yard-arms as he could get. As Crowe pulled further from the Vigilant, no bolts came his way. Instead, a bloom of fire sprouted from a hatch, rising to set the mainsail and mizzen staysail afire. Smoke was pouring from the Vigilant's hatches and ports as she heeled away from him. Crowe only regretted what he had done for a moment. No man deserved to witness the horror that he had. Even if the Vigilant had been extremely lucky and reached the Isle, he didn't want to contemplate the chance that any man could go through what had scarred him so horribly. With his arms straining against the pull of the rough seas, he made for the Belle.
The Vigilant lurched out of his view, and he wondered whether anyone would miss it back in Allantia, because it was surely doomed. By the time he had climbed aboard the Belle, the Vigilant had gone.
Two Years Later
The Theatre of Heaven was at the heart of Miramas, both literally and in the minds and thoughts of the citizens. The inner city was filled with columned libraries and hemispherical playhouses, but all paled in comparison to the Theatre of Heaven. It was a full amphitheatre, large enough to hold the average market town within its circumference. That wouldn't have been impressive enough for the proud citizens of what they felt to be the most beautiful city in Pontaine, if not for its position.
There hadn't been an area wide enough to construct such an edifice in the centre of the city, and none of the existing artistic buildings could be sacrificed. A narrow tower had been built instead, rising over a hundred and fifty feet, and just wide enough to contain four intertwined staircases allowing entrance and exit to the Theatre, which was then built at the top of the tower. The amphitheatre spread outwards and a little further upwards, until the whole structure resembled a delicate wine glass. It provided shade for the streets below in summer and shelter from rain the rest of the time.
Visitors from Vos or Allantia were often seen to marvel at the architecture, and the theatre's builders knew that architects in those nations were practically tearing their hair out as they tried to deduce how it actually stayed up. The answer was simple, of course; the Guilds of magic had woven spells to reinforce the stonework and help it resist the efforts of gravity.
Dai Batsen was neither impressed nor unimpressed by the structure. It was merely a place, and he had never found himself able to get worked up about a mere place. A man of average height, and for the moment wearing mousy brown hair, Batsen had wrapped his more than averagely athletic build in the pastel trews, tunic and robes of a moderately prosperous citizen of Miramas; the sort who had some money to spare that could be spent on going to the opera on a fine summer's day.
He paid at the base of the tower and ascended to take his seat at the Theatre of Heaven. It was only four rows back from the
stage, and gave him a clear view of the two men, directly opposite, who seemed more interested in the contents of a scroll they were poring over than in the performance of the nude and painted players on the central stage. One of the pair was a rough-hewn type with greying hair tied back with a bow in the fashion of sailors out of Allantia. The other, making more of an effort not to look anywhere near the stage, radiated the arrogance of a Final Faith official.
The opera was erotic, the players the most beautiful examples of humanity, but it didn't stir anything in Batsen. Not even boredom. He simply ignored it. He didn't feel any need to cloak himself yet — even if they looked across, they had never seen him before, had no idea who he was. He was just another face in the crowd. He was content to watch the opera without really seeing it, mostly concentrating on being alert for any movement from the two men across from him.
In the interval, the two men exchanged a glance and got up. Batsen stayed where he was for a few moments, as they looked around to be sure no-one was following them. They descended into a busy stairwell, and Batsen immediately rose and made for the nearest staircase to him. The theatre was well-filled today, and it seemed like half the population of Miramas had come to see this performance. All manner of people, all wearing their finest robes and tunics, were circulating in search of privies or refreshments, but it was easy enough to steer them out of his way with a flick of the mind. Where everyone else bumped and jostled against each other, Batsen passed through the crowd as if it just wasn't there. None of the people looked at him, or showed any sign that they even noticed the person who they so neatly just avoided bumping into.
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