Assail

by Ian C. Esslemont

  It made even Jute uneasy and he was the least superstitious person he knew. The crew began muttering of curses and becalmings, haunts and murder. Everyone was on edge. Buen reported to him the bizarre rumour that accused the sorceress, Lady Orosenn, of dragging them all to their doom.

  He’d laughed out loud when Buen repeated it to him, yet the strange thing was that the man had actually appeared hurt, as if he’d half believed it himself.

  Ieleen had been bedridden since Lady Orosenn’s intervention, and when he’d told her of the rumours she hadn’t laughed. She’d looked very worried, and murmured, ‘We have to get through here as quickly as we can.’

  Every day they sighted more of the drifting, abandoned vessels. Seventeen so far. They stopped bothering to send out launches to investigate. That was until they came abreast of a two-masted galley that Jute recognized as a Genabackan vessel, a craft the pirates of the south preferred. And there, standing amidships, was a man.

  Jute hailed him, waving. The man did not wave back. He stood immobile, as if staring in disbelief. Jute looked at his own crew and was unnerved to see that they, too, we’re not waving or hailing. Why in the name of Mael not?

  ‘Buen,’ he called, ‘lower a launch.’

  The first mate stared back up at him, rubbed a hand over his jaws. ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘Why? How can you ask that? There’s a man on board that vessel, that’s why.’

  Buen peered about among his fellow crewmen. ‘We saw no one, captain.’

  ‘No one? You saw no one?’ He snapped his gaze back to the vessel. The figure was gone. Had he been there at all? Had it been … a ghost?

  Jute slammed a hand to the railing. No! No damned ghosts! A man. Nothing more.

  ‘Ship’s boat coming alongside!’ the watch announced. Jute hurried down to the side. It was the dilapidated launch from the Ragstopper. Half the oarsmen rowed while the other half bailed furiously. Cartheron sat within, his legs stretched out, his leather shoes wet in the swilling water. He hailed Jute: ‘Going to take a look. Interested?’

  ‘Yes I am!’ He turned to Dulat. ‘Lower the ladder.’

  The rope ladder was thrown over the side and he climbed down to the launch. It took a while to settle down into the battered rowboat, as it was so low in the water he was afraid his added weight would swamp the thing. But it took him, although the freeboard was a bare hand’s breadth. The Malazan sailors, in their tattered shirts and trousers, scarves tied over their heads, looked more piratical than any pirate crew Jute had ever seen. They pushed off and started rowing.

  ‘Thought I saw someone,’ Cartheron said from the bow.

  ‘As did I. The crew claimed they didn’t, though.’

  Cartheron sagely nodded his grey-bristled chin. ‘Beginning to think you see or don’t see what you want on this sea.’

  Jute shook his head. All part of the curse. Tricks of the mind. Delusions became real while reality itself drifted away.

  They came up beside the dead vessel, which they saw was called the Sea Strike. No one answered their hail; Jute hadn’t expected them to. Cartheron ordered one of his sailors to climb the side and the man impressed Jute mightily by clambering up the planking as agile and sure as a monkey. Shortly afterwards a rope ladder came clattering down.

  The deck was empty and abandoned, just like all the others. This one was far worse for wear, however; bird-droppings covered the deck, and the lines and sails were faded and frayed. Still, like the others, there were no obvious signs of violence.

  ‘Hello!’ Cartheron called. No one answered. The Malazan captain went to the cabin door. ‘Let’s have a look.’

  Jute had turned away, meaning to investigate the bows, when a shriek spun him round. A shrill voice, hardly recognizable as human, had screeched: ‘At last!’

  Cartheron stood impaled on a sword that a man, lunging from the cabin, had thrust straight out.

  The Malazan had his hands pressed to his stomach around the blade. While everyone stared, stunned, the sword’s owner shrank from them, hands raised, his face white and his eyes rolling in mad terror.

  ‘Ghosts!’ the man yelled, and charged the side, toppling straight over.

  ‘No!’ Jute yelled. He lunged, but there was no sign of the fellow. It was as if he’d simply allowed himself to sink.

  A wet cough brought his attention back to Cartheron. The Malazan had yanked the blade free and fallen to his knees. Jute and the sailors blinked away their stunned confusion and went to him. Jute gathered up folds of the captain’s shirt and pressed it to the wound. ‘Make a seat,’ he shouted to the gathered crewmen. ‘We have to lower him.’

  Cartheron actually laughed, albeit without breath. ‘Ain’t this just the funniest comeuppance, hey? You drop your guard for a moment and … there you go. Damnedest thing.’

  Jute wrapped the wound as tightly as he could. ‘Quiet, now. We’ll take you to the sorceress. Maybe she can heal you.’

  ‘Don’t you bother, lad. Bound to happen sooner or later. Long past time, in my case.’

  ‘Don’t even think of it.’

  They tied him into a makeshift rope seat and lowered him into the launch. From the Sea Strike they oared straight across to the Supplicant.

  This time the sorceress herself appeared at the side. Jute shouted up that Cartheron was wounded. She gestured for a rope to be thrown up, and after a moment the seat, with the unconscious man secured within, began rising steadily up the tall ship’s side. A rope ladder came banging down. Jute climbed alongside the rope seat, attempting to steady it. On deck, he and Velmar struggled to raise Cartheron over the side until the lady herself took a hand and easily lifted him across.

  ‘I will take him to my cabin,’ she told Jute, and carried him within.

  ‘You should all just turn round,’ Velmar grumbled, and he glared as if all their troubles were Jute’s fault. Jute ignored him.

  They stood silently for some time. The launch from the Rag-stopper bumped the side below. The lines creaked and stretched. Velmar glowered sullenly, as if the very heat of his disapproval could drive Jute from the deck.

  The captain sat on the edge of a raised hatch leading to the cargo hold. Curious, he glanced down through the wood grating. It may have been a trick of the shifting light, but he thought he glimpsed figures below, standing crowded together, motionless. He turned to the priest to ask him about them but the wolfish mocking grin that now climbed the man’s lips somehow stilled his tongue.

  ‘You’re sure you wouldn’t care to have a look below?’ the man asked, and the downturned smile widened.

  Jute had no idea what the priest was hinting at, but didn’t think it sounded healthy. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Aren’t you curious?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Later perhaps,’ Velmar said, thoughtfully tapping a finger to his lips.

  ‘Certainly – later.’

  The priest was nodding now. ‘Yes, I think so. Definitely later.’

  Jute merely bunched his brow. Such games were of no interest to him.

  Movement among the shadows of the stern brought him to his feet. The sorceress emerged. She still wore her headdress and veil. Jute peered up at her; all he could see were her eyes, and these appeared worried and saddened.

  ‘I have done what I can. He will not die. But neither is he certain to recover. Many organs were damaged. And he is old, and very tired.’ She glanced back to the stern. ‘Then again … he is an extraordinary fellow. He may just recover.’

  Jute bowed to her. ‘Our thanks, Lady Orosenn.’

  ‘It is nothing. I am glad to be of help.’

  Jute crossed to the side. ‘I’ll tell the crew. He is to remain here, then?’

  ‘Yes. He mustn’t be moved.’

  ‘Very well.’ He took hold of the rope ladder, swung his legs out over the side and climbed down.

  Velmar’s shaggy head appeared above him at the side. ‘Later, Captain Jute,’ the man called down in his enigmatic tone. Jute jus
t shook his head, while below the rowers from the Ragstopper steadied the launch.

  In the days that followed they met fewer and fewer abandoned becalmed ships until the outlook was again clear of all other vessels. The sea was improbably calm, as was the wind. No breeze ruffled the air; no ripple disturbed the iron-grey surface. To Jute it was as if they sailed a sheet of misty glass.

  Yet they were not entirely alone. Now and then crew members shouted their surprise and dismay, pointing down at the astonishingly clear water. Rotting vessels lay beneath them, in various stages of decomposition. And all, it seemed to Jute, from differing epochs or periods of history. Older-style galleys lay stacked upon even more archaic open-hulled longboats, which in turn appeared to rest upon even cruder hulls, some perhaps nothing more than dugouts. It was as if the Sea of Dread were one great graveyard of vessels, all heaped upon one another, each slowly settling into, and adding to, the mud and mire of the sea floor.

  So too would they have ended, he imagined, were it not for the guidance, and shielding, of the sorceress with them.

  For the next few days a dense mist enshrouded them. It clung to the masts in scarves and tatters. Jute found it almost hard to breathe the stuff. The noises of their passage returned to them distorted, even unrecognizable. It was almost as if the sounds were from other vessels hidden in the miasma, calling to them.

  Then, slowly, the light ahead began to brighten ever so slightly. Took on a pale sapphire glint. The vapours thinned and they emerged as if through parting veils to find themselves once more behind the Supplicant, only now approaching a forested rocky coast bearing the last patches of winter’s snow. Great jagged spires of ice floated in the waters between them and the coast.

  The fog thinned even more, revealing that beyond the shore the land climbed to rocky jagged ridges. Behind these, distant and tall, reared the white gleaming peaks of mountains. Jute gazed, entranced. Could those be their destination? The near-mythical Salt range?

  A breath caught behind him and he turned, surprised. There stood Ieleen, gripping the doorway, walking stick in hand. He went to her. ‘Lass! You’re up!’

  ‘Aye.’ She sounded deathly hoarse. He guided her to her stool and she sat heavily, sighing her gratitude. ‘Aye. At last.’ Her sightless clouded eyes darted about. ‘I dreamed … troubled dreams. Someone shielded me from their worst.’ Somehow, the eyes found him. ‘We know who, hey?’

  He nodded, then remembered. ‘Ah, yes. So, what do you smell?’

  ‘The scent that has been tormenting me for days now,’ she growled, displeased. She closed both hands atop the walking stick and set her chin there. ‘The stink of ancient rotting ice.’

  * * *

  Two days after departing the Isle of Pillars, Master Ghelath came stomping up to K’azz and Shimmer. They stood at the bow of their new vessel, the Letherii-commissioned merchantman named the Venture. The captain was mopping his brow and scowling.

  ‘This vessel’s a useless tub,’ he announced.

  ‘Don’t pull your punches,’ K’azz answered, not looking away from the waters to the north.

  The Falaran sailor threw his arms wide. ‘We’re hardly making any headway at all!’ He thrust a finger down to their feet and the raised archer’s castle they stood upon. ‘These platforms fore and aft make us top-heavy. We’re squat, too broad at the beam, wallowing, and slower than a Cawnese river-barge!’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ K’azz murmured.

  Shimmer compressed her lips to hide a smile. ‘And what do you suggest, captain?’

  Ghelath waved his arms as if they could start anywhere. ‘Hack off these half-arsed platforms for a start,’ he finally spluttered.

  K’azz frowned. ‘There are easier options, master mariner.’

  The captain daubed at his flushed glistening forehead. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Light a smudge.’

  The man gaped at K’azz. ‘A smudge?’

  ‘Yes, captain.’

  ‘That’ll attract every ship within leagues!’

  ‘Yes, captain.’

  He squeezed the cloth in his hands, twisted it. ‘That’s yer orders, is it?’

  ‘Yes. I agree with you captain, we do need to make better headway. See to it.’

  Ghelath wiped his face with the rag. ‘Well … if you say so, sir.’ He went off shaking his head.

  Shimmer regarded K’azz. ‘It could bring the Letherii.’

  He turned away to lean against the railing once more. ‘I do not believe they are following.’

  ‘You underestimate the blind spitefulness of the self-righteous.’

  That raised a faint smile. ‘Perhaps so, Shimmer. Such emotions feel distant now.’

  She considered the statement. Indeed, she couldn’t remember the last time she felt an intense emotion. Such as rage. Or – and here her breath caught – even passion. And yet the pain I feel now burning in my chest is real. I feel. But I do not reach out. What is wrong with me? Am I still even capable …

  She went to find Bars.

  He was below talking with Blues, Sept, and Black the Elder. ‘A word, Bars. If you would,’ she said.

  He nodded. She led him to the main cabin, which was quite sumptuously decorated – the Letherii merchant Luthal Canar seemed to have valued his creature comforts. The bed, she noted, was much wider and longer than the usual sailor’s bunk. Good. Blasted awkward to be banging your head when you’re trying to enjoy yourself.

  She closed and latched the door behind them and stood before it.

  He turned and peered down at her with a rather puzzled look. ‘Yes, Shimmer?’

  This close she found she had to tilt her head back quite far. Damn, but he’s a big one. She’d quite forgotten. She drew a hard breath to steel herself, and said, ‘Kiss me.’

  First his brows fell, then they rose higher and higher. The colour of his face actually deepened.

  Oh, come on, you great ox! You’re not making this any easier. I can’t do all the work here. Without looking down she started undoing her belt. ‘Does a woman have to ask twice?’

  Now he was shaking his head. ‘No, Shimmer. Don’t … not like this …’

  Her weapon belt hit the floor and she started on his. ‘Come on, Bars. Don’t you feel anything? I want to. I want to feel.’

  He snatched her hands in his. ‘No! Shimmer. No …’

  She gazed up at him, saw hurt in his eyes. Hurt? Why that? Am I so—

  She yanked her hands from him, flinched away. ‘I may not be some soft courtesan, Bars. My nose may be broken and I may have calluses on my hands … but I am a woman!’ She turned to the door. ‘And you are a fool.’

  ‘You are beautiful, Shimmer,’ he said, very quietly. Her hand lingered on the latch. ‘I’ve always thought you beautiful. You do not know how long I’ve wanted … longed … well.’ She heard him cross the cabin. Wood creaked as he sat on the framed edge of the bed. ‘I don’t want something so beautiful if it will just be taken away from me tomorrow. That would hurt too much, Shimmer.’

  She slowly turned back to him. Oh, Bars … I didn’t know … How could I have known? You said nothing. Why didn’t you at least say something? She pulled her mail coat over her head. It dropped to the floor in a crash of jangling metal. She came to him. ‘How was I to know, you great oaf? You never said a thing!’

  A wistful smile crossed his scarred face. He wiped something from his cheeks.

  Tears? Oh, Bars … you great fool!

  He cleared his throat. ‘There’s a saying where I come from, Shimmer. If you have to chase and corner the wild animal, then it’s not yours. But if you stand very still and let it come to you – then it’s yours.’

  She stood very close before him. ‘So I’m a wild animal, am I?’

  A smile crooked his lips as he peered up at her. ‘The wildest. And the most frightening.’

  ‘Frightening? How so?’

  ‘Women are terrifying to men,’ he whispered, ‘because they can break them with the simplest word
or briefest glance.’

  Now she smiled. ‘Not if they care for them.’ She took his head in her hands and gently pressed his cheek to her stomach. Even through the layers of padding and undershirts she could feel his heat. She closed her eyes at the pleasure that warmth gave her. ‘I think we have a lot of catching up to do,’ she said, and her voice was very faint, and husky.

  He ran his hands up under her shirts along her thighs.

  Her breath escaped her in a gasp.

  *

  The light streaming in through the opaque window glazing deepened to the gold of late afternoon and still they did not leave the cabin. Even shouts and the stamping of running feet across the deck did not rouse them. Only the thrumming release of crossbows and the muted sound of Ghelath shouting orders caused her to raise her head from his shoulder.

  ‘What is that?’ she murmured.

  ‘Blues can handle it,’ he answered, and pressed his mouth to hers. She clasped his head again and straddled him.

  Later, a quiet knock on the planks of the door brought her head up. Groaning, she stood and dragged off the embroidered quilt to wrap around herself as she crossed the cabin. She yanked open the door. ‘What is it?’

  Master Ghelath stood in the way. His grizzled brows shot up and his already ruddy cheeks darkened further. He swallowed and pressed his hands together. ‘Ah … we’ve another ship, ma’am. If you’re ready to move …’

  She peered out past him. The masts of another vessel rose beyond the side of the relatively tall merchantman. A lower vessel – probably a far faster galley. She gave a curt nod. ‘Very good, captain. What does K’azz say?’

  She pushed back her hair and the quilt fell partially open. Ghelath quickly glanced away. He blew out a long breath. ‘He awaits your pleas— Ah, that is … when you’re ready, ma’am.’

  ‘Very good. You may begin.’

  He bobbed a bow. ‘Yes, ma’am. At once.’

  She slammed shut the door, threw aside the quilt. ‘Get moving. K’azz has captured a better ship.’