A new sound grated its jagged course along Jute’s skull and spine. Through the swelling clouds of dust and smoke he thought he glimpsed the very stone of the tower, itself chiselled from the rock of the cliff-side, split in two there at the top. A teeth-shaking thunder announced the length of bronze links, each perhaps as great around as his own waist, slithering and thumping its way down the stone side of the tower to crash into the channel. The top of the tower followed. It burst into shards as it fell then punched the water, sending up great spouts of foam and spray that reached even to the Dawn, spattering its decks.
A great roar went up from the crew and Jute slapped Lurjen’s meaty shoulder. ‘Ahead easy, master Buen!’ he called.
‘Aye!’
‘I want pole-men at the bows!’
‘Aye.’
Buen called commands, setting the rowers’ pace. Jute bent down to plant a kiss on Ieleen’s head. ‘I’m for the bows, love.’
‘Wouldn’t do to get stuck and block the channel, yes?’
‘I do believe our Malazan friends would blow us to Hood’s own cellar if we managed that.’
She laughed and waved him off. ‘I do believe they would.’
At the bows, Jute picked up a pole and leaned over the side. He felt a twinge of guilt at striking for the channel first, after the Malazan did all the work. But of the two vessels, they were unquestionably in the better position to make for the opening. Even as he watched, the Malazans were turning to follow. Further back, the foreign vessel’s bow was sweeping their way in an ungainly broad arc; to the rear, the Genabackan soldiers had turned their vessel broadside to the incoming second wave of ships and boats and were exchanging racking arrow-fire with some ten of them even as their oarsmen worked to keep them mobile.
Jute had time to wonder, amazed, how they’d fitted so many men on that ship when the grey shapes of jagged rock blossomed in the water beneath him and he readied his pole.
‘Two rods!’ one of the pole-men, Anli, announced.
‘Steady on!’ Jute shouted.
‘One rod!’ Sill called from the starboard side.
‘A touch to port!’ Jute yelled to Lurjen.
Oars scraped the sheer cliffs to either side. It was suddenly very dark and chill in the shadow of the narrow slit. The pole-men kept jabbing. ‘A half-rod!’ Anli shouted, alarmed.
Damn the Twins! Nothing for it. Jute turned to Buen. ‘Keep going. Don’t stop for anything!’
Rock from on high pattered down upon the deck. Wood groaned and creaked as the hull grated over stone. Jute hoped to Mael that it was just piled wreckage and not some great obstinate boulder. The terrifying scraping and creaking passed, then the debris field fell away to reveal deep black waters.
Jute straightened in relief. He considered asking for more speed but decided against it. There was no need to risk banging against the cliff sides. When they broached the entrance the crew cheered again but Jute was quiet – for now there was but one thing to order. He caught Buen’s eye and called, ‘A westerly course up the narrows, First Mate.’
‘Aye,’ the man answered. His sun-burnished long face dropped its unaccustomed smile.
‘Slow,’ Jute added, then he turned to watch the entrance as it dropped behind them.
The Malazan was the first to exit, as Jute expected. It was a very long time before the next vessel emerged; by then a curve in the narrows was taking them out of sight. The tall foreign ship it was and Jute shook his head in amazement. Ye gods! The Genabackans covered the retreat of that great lumbering beast?
Then they were too far up the main channel and Jute turned his attention to finding some beach or cove to put in. He returned to the quarterdeck. Along the way he stopped at the mainmast to shout up, ‘Find us a landing, Dulat. Or you’re not coming down!’
‘Oh, no worries there, cap’n. We’ll sink long before that!’
Or be wallowing so bad we’ll have no control. In either case, time was limited. At the stern he called to Ieleen: ‘How’s the wind, lass?’
She tilted her head, her brow wrinkling in thought, and was quiet for a time. He and Lurjen kept quiet as well, awaiting her judgement. ‘It’s freshening ahead,’ she finally allowed. ‘Though how far I cannot say.’
Jute turned away, frowning. One good thing about sailing west: it was damned clear how much daylight they had remaining. That would put an end to things. There was no way he could sail into unfamiliar waters after dark. Have to drop anchor next to the base of one of these cliffs and risk being driven up against it.
He glanced behind, searching the narrows. There was the Malazan. Its master had it tagging along in the far distance, just keeping line of sight. Jute was puzzled. They could easily catch them if they wished; Jute had the Dawn keeping a slow pace.
Then he realized that the Malazan was holding back for the foreign vessel. Probably doing its best to keep a line of sight on her. But why bother? They were in a channel; there was no chance anyone could get lost. But what if he, Jute, found a slim hidden cove or inlet and put in? What if the way opened into a maze of islands or sand bars? That captain was playing a careful game.
It occurred to him then that if he wished, he could lose them now. Order chase speed and dash ahead to find this freshening wind then free all Dawn’s sail. This was a race after all. A selfish lunge to grasp what riches one could find and damn the slow ones to failure or death. Wasn’t that the point of chasing after gold or coin or any other fortune to be snatched from others or seized at sword-point? He’d leave them all completely lost, or he was an Untan dancing girl.
Yet they’d saved his life. Or, more important, saved the Dawn and all who served on her. Including his love. And so he could not in good conscience abandon them. Besides, travelling with Malazans armed stem to stern with munitions, a powerful sorceress, and a pocket army – if they survived taking on the entire wrecker fleet – could have its advantages.
‘The cliffs are slipping away!’ Dulat called from his perch. Jute was startled; he’d quite forgotten about the lad.
Indeed, the cliffs appeared to be smoothing out, sloping down as they advanced through the narrows. Perhaps the end of this interminable chute was near.
‘Strand on the south shore!’ Dulat called again, pointing.
Jute squinted; he couldn’t make it out. The light was gold and near straight on as the sun was falling to the horizon. ‘Take us in!’ he shouted up.
‘Three points to starboard,’ came the answer.
Jute turned to scan to the rear. No other vessel was in sight. The Malazan vessel may have sunk. They’d looked uncommonly low in the water. He turned to find Buen on the mid-deck walk. ‘Light a smudge,’ he called.
The man gaped at him. ‘A smudge? Here? On an unknown shore?’
‘Do it!’ Jute snapped, suddenly annoyed at having his word challenged.
Buen seemed to remember himself and he ducked his head, touching his chest. ‘Aye, cap’n.’
‘Everyone’s on edge, luv,’ Ieleen murmured from his side.
‘I’ll give him the edge of my hand.’
‘It’s a steep gravel strand,’ Dulat shouted. ‘Wide, though.’
‘Have to do,’ he answered.
‘Steady on,’ the lad shouted to Lurjen.
Black smoke now wafted in a choking thick cloud from the pot Buen had set. Sailors moved the iron brazier to keep as much of the ship upwind as possible. The smoke plumed low and heavy over the waves, as if the Dawn were unravelling a scarf.
The shore now hove into view. In the deep gold of the setting sun Jute made out a steep rise of black stone gravel leading to the last remnants of the narrows’ cliffs: an inland rise of perhaps no more than a chain, topped by long wind-whipped grasses. And spread across the wave-washed gravel lay a litter of broken timbers, barrels, torn sailcloth, tangled rigging, and the blackened skeletal hulls of two ships.
Jute tried to remember the stories he’d heard of the region and came up with a name. The south shore of the Dread
Sea – the Anguish Coast. Wasn’t that the best of Oponn’s jests! They were like sailors on leave staggering blind drunk from one rats’ nest to the next. And he’d thought things couldn’t get any worse. ‘Any sign of survivors?’ he called up.
After a time the lad answered: ‘None as I can see.’
Jute wiped a hand across his brow and found it cold and sweaty.
‘Another ship!’ Dulat shouted then, making Jute flinch.
‘Whereaway?’ he snapped, alarmed.
‘Following. That Malazan galley p’rhaps.’
Jute let out a long breath. A hand brushed his and he snapped his head down: Ieleen reaching out. He took her hand and she gave a squeeze. Jute’s chest suddenly hurt with a great swelling pressure and he answered the squeeze. ‘Very good, Dulat,’ he said. ‘Take us in, slow and steady.’
‘Aye.’
The lad directed them to a relatively clear swathe of strand and Buen drove them in at a strong speed. The bow ground and grated its way up the gravel and crewmen and women jumped over the sides, pushing and tugging on the hull. Buen then tossed out two stout hemp lines that most of the crew grasped to heave the Dawn as far up the slope as possible. The lines were staked into the gravel.
Jute climbed down over the side. Ieleen, he knew, would remain on board. She hadn’t set foot on land for some years now and he’d chided her on it, but she remained adamant and so he’d relented. It was a silly superstition to his mind, but it was important to her and he really couldn’t care either way.
The black gravel crunched under his boots. Letita stood awaiting him, still armoured, helmet under an arm. ‘I want a perimeter, a picket, and a watch. And send out some scouts. What’s past that short rise?’
She saluted. ‘Aye, captain.’
He next tracked down Buen. ‘Gather some of this wrack for fires. Both for cooking and for signals.’ The man nodded his assent but appeared unhappy with the idea of casting signals far and abroad. Jute then ran into a grinning Dulat, who was inspecting the unpacked casks and kegs of their remaining foodstuffs. Jute made a show of studying him long and hard as if puzzled.
The lad’s smile faltered and he asked, uneasy, ‘Yes, captain?’
‘Why aren’t you at your post, sailor?’
‘My post? Ah, well – we’ve hauled up, haven’t we?’
‘What has that to do with anything?’
‘And it’s getting dark.’
‘You coming down makes it lighter, does it?’
The lad had to think about that, his head cocked. ‘No…’
‘Then get back up there and keep an eye out for those ships or any others!’
Dulat cast one last glance at the stores, sighed his longing, then saluted and jogged off for the ship. Jute clasped his hands behind his back and paced off to a vantage from which to scan this most southerly bay of the Dread Sea. The Malazan ship was a black dot making its way to their location; of the other two vessels he could see no sign. As he watched it occurred to him that the Malazan silhouette was canted rather alarmingly to starboard. There’s seamanship, he told himself. Keeping afloat despite every reason to be underwater.
The dark silhouette limped nearer. Its oars, a single bank on each side, flashed in the weakening sunset. The fires piled on the beach sent out clouds of grey smoke that sometimes blew over Jute as the contrary winds gusted and shifted. He spotted one of Letita’s marines, Gramine, and waved the man over.
‘Any word from the scouts?’
‘No sir. Not yet.’
‘Send Letita over when there’s news.’
‘She’ll come, sir.’
Jute gave a light snort. Nerves. Damned nerves. ‘Yes,’ he allowed. He returned to examining the Malazan galley. ‘I suppose she will.’
The vessel drew nearer, silent but for the faint splash of oars. ‘I see the other ship!’ Dulat shouted then from his post atop the mainmast. ‘She has signal beacons burning at the bow!’
‘Very good, Dulat.’ He returned to watching the Malazan’s crippled approach. After a time, boots crunching through the gravel announced Letita. Jute turned and she saluted. ‘Grasslands inland,’ she reported. ‘Empty.’
‘These wrecks?’
‘Looted then burned here, on site.’
Jute eyed the charred skeletal ribs. He wondered aloud, ‘Burned on shore?’
‘Aye.’
‘Then someone’s here.’
Her gaze slid to the north where it rested, naturally narrowed and wary. ‘They’re gone now.’ Attractive eyes, he reflected as he had a number of times. Warm brown with a touch of sea-green, if he had it right. The wind cast her ragged-cut black hair about.
‘You do not mix much with the crew,’ he observed.
Her gaze snapped to him. It remained narrowed, challenging now. ‘Nor do you.’
‘There is someone awaiting your return home to…’
‘Strike, sir. Yes.’
Strike still? He’d known she was a graduate of the famed military academy on that island, but was surprised to hear that she still considered it home. ‘Well … we’ll make it back. That’s the point of any journey, yes?’ and he gave a small laugh. She watched him in silence. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, that’s all for now.’
She saluted, ‘Very good, captain,’ spun on a heel and marched off.
So serious, he reflected. Well, she was early yet in her career. He returned to watching their companion’s progress. Closer now, the ship appeared even worse for wear. Battered and scarred. Its planking faded with age. He couldn’t make out the name scrawled below the bowsprit. It ground up on to the beach, but far lower than the Dawn. Some of his crew helped secure lines that they hammered into the gravel. Two figures clambered down its side. Jute went to meet them.
The foremost of the two was a squat wiry fellow, quite old. His leather armour was much-worn, and scoured where Malazan sigils of rank would once have ridden. His unkempt grey hair blew about in the winds and a grey-shot beard matched. His wrinkled features bore the faded slate hue of a native Napan. The second was equally wiry, spidery even, in common sailor’s jerkin and trousers, barefoot, with a mane of thin white hair and a pinched, worried face.
Jute extended an arm to the first fellow and they clasped wrists, sailor-style. ‘Jute Hernan, Master of the Silver Dawn. At your service, sir. You have my eternal gratitude for getting us out of that trap.’
This fellow waved his other hand, dismissing the topic. ‘Ach – it was my own arse I was worried about. Cartheron, of the Ragstopper. Our thanks for leading us through the rocks. We’d never have made it otherwise.’
Jute stared, quite taken aback. Cartheron? The Cartheron? One of the legendary captains of the Old Empire? Unlikely … yet how many Cartherons could there be? He released the man’s hand and nodded at the compliment. ‘Well, as you say. We were worried about our arses as well. How fare our companions?’
The Malazan captain glanced away, squinting to the east. Jute noted that squinting suited the man’s face, either through a lifetime’s habit, or perhaps naturally. ‘The galleon was limping along. Umryg is no sea-faring state.’
‘Umryg? I know nothing of such a land.’
‘As I said.’
Jute blinked, rather at a loss. ‘Well. Can you effect repairs here?’
The Napan’s squint soured into a scowl – the expression also no foreigner to his features. ‘Not my first choice, that’s for damned certain. Rather have her up and dry.’ Then he laughed. ‘But she’d probably fall to pieces so p’raps it’s for the best.’
His companion pressed forward, outraged. ‘We can’t manage any of the necessary repairs here in this forsaken land. Gods, the keel needs inspection!’
Cartheron turned on the man, his first mate, perhaps. ‘The keel needs no inspection,’ he snarled. ‘It’s rotten through and through and that’s that!’
The first mate spluttered, searching for words. He pulled at his hair in his passion. He finally yelled back: ‘And so what do you suggest,
O great Captain Cartheron?’
‘Stuff more rags into her.’
‘More – more rags? She’s more rags than wood!’
‘And yet she floats. There’s philosophy for you, Orothos.’
Hands grasping fists of hair, the first mate glared back, dumbfounded. ‘What?’
‘Beacon fires on the water!’ Dulat yelled from the gathering twilight.
Vastly relieved by the interruption, Jute stepped away from the two Malazans, who continued their furious argument until a threatened cuff from Cartheron sent the first mate ducking. ‘How far?’ he called.
‘Hard to say. Coming this way, though.’
‘Good.’ Jute studied the beacon fires on the shore for a time, then, satisfied with their strength, scanned the water for some sign of the approaching vessel. Cartheron came ambling over in a side-to-side wide-legged walk that only those who have spent most of their life at sea can manage. At first Jute was tongue-tied as he considered just who he might be standing next to all alone in the dark. What stories might he hear? What sudden, unlooked for intimacies or unburdenings of secrets? Was this the Cartheron Crust, one-time companion to the old ogre emperor and his killer and usurper, Laseen? Victor, with Nok, of the battle of Fenn Bay, where the combined Falaran navy was scattered in a rout? His grandfather had fought at that battle and told stories of the sorcery unleashed.
Finally, he was unable to contain his curiosity any longer, and, gaze still shaded on the waters, he cleared his throat. ‘So, sir. Are you the Cartheron?’
‘How many damned Cartherons do you know?’ the man growled.
‘Well … just you.’
‘Good. For a moment there you had me worried.’
Jute cleared his throat once more. ‘Well, I was wondering because—’
‘There she hails,’ the Malazan said, pointing.
Jute squinted. He could just make out the flickering glow of the fire, and his eyes were far younger than this man’s. ‘Who is she?’ he asked.
‘A sorceress. Damned powerful one. That’s all I know. We met while we were all anchored there waiting for someone to dare the rocks.’ Jute glanced to the man and saw him grinning. ‘You. As soon as I saw your light galley dart for the rocks just at the peak of high tide I knew you had a good chance. Trust a Falaran at sea, I always say. When there’s no Napan to be found, mind you.’
The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire) Page 346
