by Hugh Cook
And Arabin described the treasure-burial place. It was in a cave set in a headland on one side of a sandy bay. A cave lined with emeralds.
'The treasure sits in an iron box which is enchanted,' said Arabin. 'It cannot be moved unless you say the magic word: Ponk!'
'Ponk,' said Drake, savouring the word. Then: 'Is there another magic word needed to open this treasure chest?'
'There is,' said Arabin. 'But only I know that word. But ... if you find the treasure, we'll split it. Equal shares.'
'What about the emeralds?' demanded Raggage Pouch.
'Ah, those,' said Arabin. 'Well. . . what you can hack out of the walls of the cave is yours to keep.'
'Why are we so privileged?' said Drake.
'Because the rest of my crew deserves no share of treasure,' said Arabin, 'for they have come far too close to mutiny. Aye. Whereas I never saw any of you in that mutinous mob.'
All three, in fact, had shouted against the hard labour of careening: but none of them confessed as much to Jon Arabin. Instead, they congratulated themselves on his trust, and began dreaming of how they would spend their share of the treasure.
Thus it was that Drake Douay, Raggage Pouch and Harly Burpskin provisioned one of the Warwolf 's boats and then, by oar and by sail, began to circumnavigate Island Tor.
Drake was intensely proud to have been chosen for this expedition. The honour confirmed his own high opinion of himself. All eagerness and expectation, he stared at the lush green shore, on the lookout for headlands and caves.
A few leagues south-east of Zanya Bay, the explorers came upon a U-shaped harbour perhaps two leagues wide and two deep. Drake saw at a glance that, compared with Zanya Bay, it offered infinitely better protection from hostile winds.
'Jon Arabin should know about this place,' said he. 'Let's turn back to tell him.'
'What fool's talk is this?' said Burpskin. 'Do you want to get rich, or what?'
'I want,' said Drake, 'to have a ship to go home in. This place would see the Warwolf safer than where she lies now.'
'Aagh,' sneered Raggage Pouch, and hawked, and spat. 'Talking like a ten-year salt-sea sailor, aren't we now? You're young, you're a landlubber, you know nothing of it.'
'I say let's look after us,' said Burpskin. 'That's the important thing. Who knows? The treasure could be hidden in this very harbour.'
'You're crazy,' said Drake, infuriated by such shortsighted selfishness. 'The ship's our survival. The ship comes first, aye, before wealth, food, sleep or leisure.'
'That's captain's talk,' said Pouch, with contempt. 'We've seen you sniffing round Jon Arabin, haven't we just? You're.thinking you want a career of command, perhaps? Well - why shoald we" risk our fortune to get you launched on such?'
'I'm thinking I want to stay alive,' said Drake, starting to get angry.
Thus began an argument which took so long that it was night before they finally beached their boat. They continued the argument round the campfire. It was not exactly an auspicious start to their journey.
And things got worse rather than better.
They found bays, headlands and caves, but never the cave they were looking for. They argued further, of course; they forgot precisely what Jon Arabin had told them, and proceeded to invent the details.
Drake learned a considerable amount about getting along with disagreeable companions. He also learned the hard way - about winds, tides, and small boat management. And where to camp and where not to camp.
And he suffered.
He was bitten by mosquitoes, stung by a scorpion, spiked by thorns and agonized by poison ivy. Food ran out. The three survived on seaweed, whore's eggs and rock-oysters. Then, when they thought they had almost circumnavigated the island, they wrecked their boat on its most northerly cape.
Jon Arabin had given Drake up for dead when the lad came staggering out of the forest one evening, thin, tired, ragged and footsore.
'Where have you been?' said Arabin.
'Chasing a treasure that never was,' said Drake, in something like fury. 'Your great-grandfather never sailed these waters! Or if he did, he never left treasure here.'
'Yes,' said Arabin. 'But you should have known that much to start with.'
And Drake realized this was true. He had let greed overbalance judgment.
'So why did you send me round the island?' said Drake.
'To see what you're made of,' said Arabin.
'Does this mean I get to be a sailor?'
'No, for you've obviously lost me a boat. And what have you done with Burpskin and Pouch? Have you eaten them?'
'Came close to it,' said Drake. 'They gave up. They're two days north - two days as the survivor stumbles.' 'Inland?' said Arabin.
'No. Shorebound, on a beach at the foot of the cliffs of a cape to the north of here. There was a way up the cliff, aye, easy climbing, but they were both too gutless to try it.'
'Then I'll send a boat,' said Arabin. And did.
Then settled down to interrogate Drake, for he wanted to learn as much as he possibly could about Island Tor. Who knows? He might someday be forced back here again.
As Drake ate parrot-meat and ironbread, and answered Arabin's questions, he became quite proud of his achievement. Yes. Despite all difficulty, he'd managed. He'd not like to do it again, but... it was worth doing once.
Jon Arabin tested me. Aye. Well, I hope he's happy. For lam.
Seventeen days after she had arrived at Zanya Bay, the Warwolf put to sea again. She had a new foremast made of roble cut from the forests of Tor. The worst of her leaks had been repaired. She had a cargo of summerpine, cedar and bamboo, also cut out of the hinterland. That should fetch a good price in Narba - and should help pay for the permanent repairs which were still needed to make the Warwolf truly seaworthy.
They sailed north, rounding the island's northernmost cape. Then the wind got up and attacked them. A howling wind from the east. Despite Arabin's best efforts, they were forced westward, coming closer and closer to the mountain heights dominating the mainland.
Rumour held that the white enamel of those fangs was water curdied by cold. The Galish termed such stuff 'muff. Jon Arabin, who was much-travelled, knew it well: Drake, on the other hand, reserved judgment, withholding belief until the day he could walk on it.
If the wind kept up, that day might be soon.
Finally, when they were almost on the rocks, the wind died. Jez Glane claimed it was prayers to his god which had stopped it: and he converted three people to the worship of that god (the great white star-dragon Bel).
Drake was not interested in Glane's god.
He was, though, intensely interested in what he could see on the shore.
'Look!' he cried. 'Something moving!'
There were many things moving on the narrow coastal plain between the waters of the Drangsturm Gulf and the heights of the Dreldragon Teeth. It was too far to make out details, but clearly they were bigger than buffalo. Some were as big as cottages.
The entire western coast of the Drangsturm Gulf was, for as far as they could see, swarming with monsters of the Swarms.
Jon Arabin vowed that he would never come this way again. Not unless his life depended on it. His dreams of making a fortune from the timbers of Tor faded to nothing on the spot. Forget it! This place was far too dangerous!
Jon Arabin paced up and down the deck, waiting for the wind to get up again. But the ship floated in a deathly calm.
'Right!' said Arabin. 'We'll drop anchor!'
The net filled with ballast blocks which served them as an anchor slid away into the sea. And, on hitting the bottom, tore apart.
'Anch ench unchV said Jon Arabin.
Then apologized to his mother's shade, for he had once promised her he would never again use such obscenities.
A shadow flickered over the deck of the Warwolf. He looked up. Only a buzzard. But it could just as easily have been a Neversh.
'Lower the boats, boys!' roared Jon Arabin. 'We're going to sweat
the ship out of here.'
Arabin gave Drake command on one of the smaller boats, to see how he would do.
'The ship's survival is our survival,' said Drake, to his boat's crew. 'So pull, boys, pull!'
And, on this occasion, nobody disputed his judgment.
Fingerlength by fingerlength, the Warwolf was hauled away from the shore. Hands blistered. Eyes burnt with sweat. Men cursed, strained and swore. But they put distance between them and the monsters.
Then, finally, the wind got up. From which direction? From the west!
'A miracle!' said Jez Glane. 'All power to the great god Bel!'
Jon Arabin, who had his own gods to worry about, paid no attention to Glane.
'Let's hope we're favoured fair to Narba,' said Arabin grimly, knowing - everyone aboard had reason to know by now - that the winds of this strange season were powerful weird and treacherous.
Fortunately, Arabin's wish was granted, and, four days later, a bullock team was hauling the Warwolf up the ship canal to the Inner Dock of Narba.
13
Place: Narba, a low-lying city connected to the Central Ocean by four leagues of ship canals.
Population: either 98,476 or 117,290, depending on which census one believes.
Rule: by elected City Fathers working within the General Terms of Alliance of the Consortium of Provincial Endergeneer.
Religion: Revised Atiniunism, Elchwade Transub-stantiation and the Reformed Rites of Devotional Quelochianism.
Location: on the Salt Road on western coast of Argan, north of Drangsturm and south of Stokos.
Drake leaned on the ship's siderail, watching the bullock teams at work. It was intensely pleasant to watch work being done, yet to know that one's labours were at an end.
'Tonight,' he said, dreamily, 'I'm going to have a hot meal, a woman with smooth thighs, and twenty-five beers. Not necessarily in that order.'
'Doubt it,' said Ika Thole, who was standing to his left.
T can afford it,' said Drake.
'That's not the point,' said Jon Disaster, who was standing to Drake's right. 'Jon Arabin won't let us off the ship till all the work's done to his satisfaction.'
Drake remembered the near-mutiny at Zanya Bay. Arabin's authority had proved slim enough then. How
could a single ship's captain hold back a crewload of pirates who were hot for boozing and whoring?
T don't think,' said Drake, 'that Arabin will get one whit of work out of us till we've had our fill of pleasure.'
Thole and Disaster simply laughed.
When the Warwolf reached the Inner Dock, she was immediately boarded by fifty grim men in mail, armed with swords and halberds.
'What's this?' said Drake, wide-eyed. 'Murder?'
'Nay, man,' said Jon Disaster, lazily. 'This is but the harbour guard, come to help our captain keep his authority.'
While most ports would have lynched them on arrival, Narba welcomed them. The Orfus pirates mostly preyed on ships sailing out of Runcorn, Cam and Androlmarphos. Narba merchants never invested in that north-trade, but financed, instead, ventures half a thousand leagues south-west to the Scattered Islands.
Narba profited from the Orfus connection, buying north-trade plunder, and selling everything from siege dust to lime for wormbags hung from each ship's bow to discourage ship-worms. But the good people of Narba had learnt long ago that no pirate captain could keep a lusty crew from temptation without ample armed assistance.
Drake, who had not worshipped the Demon for what seemed an age, was eager for religion. But shore leave was refused for twenty days - the time needed to finish repairs to the Warwolf The harbour guard maintained a watch by day and night, preventing a single pirate from stepping ashore till all the work was done.
Drake bitterly resented this labour, for he would never benefit from work on the Warwolf. He was quite determined that he would never sail another league on the ship. At least now they were in port they had fresh food. Hot meat dripping with red blood. Crisp crunching fresh vegetables. Fresh fruit. The dense red meat of plums, the quivering aroma of peaches . . .
Then at last the work was done. Arabin told the harbour guard he no longer needed their help. He set the crew at liberty for the day. And Drake was, for the moment, free.
Fully intending that moment to last a lifetime, he packed his treasure: pearls, magic amulets and gambling profits. All pearls but three went into his boots; the three shared pocket-space with coinage and magic amulets. For luck - he might need it in this foreign city - he still kept one amulet slung round his neck so that it lay next to his skin, close to his heart.
Turning his back on the Warwolf, Drake had no second thoughts whatsoever. He had stomached as much whale-oil cookery as he could bear. He was sick of damp gear, canting decks, sea-boils, bully-boy crewmen, wet ropes, wind, rain, sunburn, and all the other inconveniences of life at sea.
For a man with no prospects, piracy no doubt had its attractions. But Drake would likely enough find himself heir to the throne of Stokos, if he played his cards right. Aye. And owner of the high-breasted Zanya Kliedervaust. At the very least, he would be a priest of the temple of Hagon - which was in itself a very fine thing to be.
After his long captivity in Ling and his subsequent privations at sea, Drake found Narba to be an amazement of colours, smells, bustle and voices. And temptations.
First off, he bought himself a whore. Was he then unfaithful to his true love? No, for it was Zanya Kliedervaust he conjured into his mind to intensify his lust as he rode his woman.
'That was nice,' said Drake, exiting from the knocking shop. 'What next?'
Since he was young, and over-excited by growth hormones, what came next was another whore. Then, driven more by ego than desire, he bought himself a third. But his flesh failed him.
'Never mind,' she said. 'It happens to every man sooner or later.'
'Then what do I get for my money?' demanded Drake.
'Something nice,' she said.
And gave him a rub-down, squeezed his blackheads and washed his hair, all the while talking about how strong and handsome he was. All of which combined to restore his flesh for a third endeavour.
After that, Drake, who was still as devout as when he had left Stokos, went looking for a bar so he could complete his worship of the Demon. He soon found a pleasant enough place, with sawdust on the floor, men sitting at rough-wood tables eating oysters, and a stack of ragged claws in the free lunch bowl. However, Drake thought the publican regarded him strangely when he walked in, so he said to the man:
'I'm a pirate off the Warwolf. Any objection?'
'None,' said his host.
But peered again at a sketch kept hidden behind the bar, glanced back at Drake, and, after pulling a couple of mugs ('Set them up in twins, I don't want to be wasting my time'), sent a runner to an inn lying handy to most of the dockside bars.
Drake had only just started his fourth mug when into the bar, as if by coincidence, came Sudder Vemlouf, whom Drake knew from old times back on Stokos.
'Sudder, me old mate,' said Drake jovially. 'What are you doing here? Sit down, man, and have a mug. Bar! A couple of ales and a dash of cold potato.'
He was feeling generous, in part because the beers had warmed him nicely, yes, slurring the sharpness of the harder edges of the world.
'I was never any friend of yours,' said Sudder Vemlouf, as the drinks were served.
'Sure no, you were neighbour to old man Muck. And how is the scratchy old bastard, anyway?'
'The Blessed One is in good health,' said Vemlouf formally. 'And he is far from happy with you.'
'What? Upset about the mastersword, is he? Oh, I admit everything. Don't worry. When I'm home, I'll rich him up till his eyes pop. I've got the money now.'
'You have no need to travel home,' said Vemlouf, 'for justice has found you here.'
And, so saying, Vemlouf suddenly drew a knife.
A professional killer would have gutted in quick and low, and would ha
ve been halfway to the door before anyone realized a man was dead. But Vemlouf raised his knife on high like a ham actor in a melodrama.
'Die!' he screamed.
And, both hands clasping the hilt, he brought the blade down.
There was a certain ritual quality to the way he struck. He was slow, yes - but the beers had done their damage. Drake flung up a warding arm - too late! The steel bit through his sealskins, slammed into his chest - and skidded off the amulet.
'Get away with you!' said Drake, giving Vemlouf a shove which sent him staggering backwards.
Vemlouf glanced at his unblooded blade, and then, with horror, at Drake.
'You - you live?'
'Bloody oath I live! Now get out of here, before I kick your ring through your breakfast!'
'Demon-son!' hissed Vemlouf, tightening his hold on the knife.
'Oh, jalk off!' said Drake, as Vemlouf stalked toward him.
Then, seeing the man seriously intended to kill him, Drake picked up a bar stool and defended himself. But Vemlouf managed to give him a nasty scratch on the back of his hand. Drake, rather put out by that, broke his arm, knocked him unconscious, then threw him to the floor and jumped on him.
'Damned if I like your choice in customers,' he said to the barman, and left to find a quieter bar where he could practise religion in peace.
The next barman he encountered also had a hidden sketch, and also sent a messenger to a certain inn - only this time, of course, there was nobody to respond to the news.
'Who's drinking?' asked Drake of all and sundry, as a young man with sudden money necessarily must.
It turned out that everyone was. And, while demolishing a pearl's worth of ale, they were happy enough to listen to Drake hold forth on his recent adventures. Only one sceptic was unkind enough to dispute his tall tales about Ling.
'Where did all that fresh water come from?' asked he. 'And how did those cold cold lights keep burning?'
'By magic,' said Drake solemnly.
And would have come no closer to the truth even if he had managed to break into the armoured vaults holding the automated desalination plant, the Ground Effect generator, the Control, the Planet Link, and the other sophisticated machinery installed when the Plague Sanctuary was first established at Ling, many thousands of years before, in the nightmare years known as the Days of Wrath, which were now almost less than a memory.
