Deadhouse Landing

How he wished he could’ve swept over this ship with his old crew! But Lady Sureth, or Surly, as she called herself now, was right. Where would they find safe habourage? Certainly not on Nap, nor then Malaz. And they were wanted all along the coast. Set off for parts unknown? A deep-water journey across Reacher’s Sea for the Seven Cities region, Genabackis, or legendary Jacuruku? Where they wouldn’t know the shallows or the shoals?

No. Best to establish a base. Some safe harbour where they could refit and repair, resupply and even recruit. But it was galling. So damned galling having to stomach these puffed-up raiders. None of whom could stand against even the worst Napan crew, in his view.

Footsteps, and Griff, the old steersman, joined him at the rail. The wizened wiry fellow boasted so many tattoos on his bald scalp that it was now as blue as Cartheron’s own native hue. He was puffing on a long-stemmed clay pipe, and he offered a nod of recognition that Cartheron answered with relief – some wisdom had been knocked into this one’s skull, at least.

‘Fine cosy berth you found for us,’ Griff said round the stem of his pipe.

‘Thank you.’

‘Not long now.’

Cartheron nodded at that; the convoy was in fact overdue.

‘Still … strange,’ the taciturn fellow added in a billow of smoke.

Cartheron nodded again. It was odd that knowledge of the convoy should have been so widespread. ‘Word sometimes gets out,’ he murmured.

The steersman offered a noncommittal grunt. In the silence, waves slapped the planks of the vessel and cordage creaked overhead as the vessel rocked. Out beyond the cove in the open waters a storm was rising beneath fat clouds.

‘What happened there on Nap anyway?’ the old sailor asked.

Cartheron felt his back tense and his hands tighten on the wooden rail. He forced a shrug. ‘Tarel usurped the throne.’

‘Ah. And that princess. What of her?’

He let out a long hard breath. ‘Died that night.’

‘Found yourself on the losing side, hey?’

Cartheron didn’t answer. He leaned more of his weight on the rail.

‘Faugh,’ the old sailor grunted. ‘Land and politics – curse ’em both to Oponn. Leave it all behind, son. Best to be at sea in the clean air.’

‘I hear you there, old-timer.’

The steersman regarded the dark foam-capped open waters beyond. ‘A high sea.’

‘Indeed. They may have lain up.’

‘Too dangerous, I’d wager. The Vorians wouldn’t allow a prize like that to pass.’

A cold chilling rain now came pelting down and Cartheron nodded his agreement with the old man’s assessment. ‘Probably running on a few scraps of cloth.’

Griff grunted.

‘And the men-o-war?’ Cartheron asked.

‘Out in deeper waters, waiting.’

‘Waiting to drive them towards the shore – and our waiting arms, hey?’

Griff eyed him, puzzled. ‘Thought you knew the plan.’

‘Bezil tells me nothing.’

Griff snorted a great cloud of smoke. ‘Hunh! Too many years fighting you Napans, I suppose.’

‘Probably thinks I’m a spy.’

‘As they say: blood and tribe first. All others are enemy.’

Cartheron shook his head at the narrow-mindedness of it and rested his elbows on the railing.

Griff had returned to eyeing the rough moonlit whitecaps and now he stiffened, straining. ‘See that, lad?’

Cartheron squinted. After a few moments he glimpsed it as well: a long thin dark line amid the waves, rising and falling. ‘A longboat.’

‘Scouting the shore.’

‘Looking to pull in?’

The old man shook his tattooed bald head. ‘No. Scouting the route. The cargo vessels should be following along.’ He waved one of the night crew to him. ‘Wake the captain. Silence rules, yes?’

The sailor nodded and padded off on bare feet.

Cartheron kept watch while the Honest Avarice came to life around him. All was readied in utter dark and silence. Though light and slim, the corsair packed an inordinately large crew of marines-cum-sailors. They were, in fact, its only cargo. Everyone fought; no one held back. Even Cartheron was expected to join in, though a hated Napan.

They lined the side, watching, while one by one, then in twos, the convoy of cargo vessels came plodding past like fat slow oxen, each showing minimal canvas to the intensifying storm.

Cartheron had to admire the skill of their navigators. To continue the run in such a blow; still, what options did they have, after all? And no doubt they’d made this trip many times before.

Lightning now joined in, the rain driving. In the brilliant flashes Cartheron glimpsed the vessels lit in silhouette. Amid their wide round contours he saw a new shape lancing through the waves and showing near full sail – lean and tall, like a scimitar, he recognized one of Mock’s men-o-war.

Around him, the crew sent up a great bloodthirsty cheer.

‘At ’em!’ someone yelled.

Then came Bezil’s great bellow. ‘Not yet! Wait for them to scatter! But,’ he added, ‘ready poles and sweeps!’

The crew jumped to the ready. Griff untied the tiller-arm. Cartheron helped him with it and the old man nodded his thanks.