Deadhouse Landing

Nara lay where he had left her, and he knelt at her side. The fresh sheet he’d laid upon her was already soaked through across her chest, stomach and thighs. He dipped a cloth into a bowl of sweet water, squeezed it, and substituted it for the one on her brow – so warm to his palm. ‘You spoke with Koroll?’ he asked.

‘We spoke,’ she answered, swallowing. Beads of sweat ran from her temples into her gleaming wet hair. ‘He said he’d met other mortal swords and that he thinks quite highly of you.’

Dassem allowed himself a quiet laugh. ‘An unusual point of view.’ He took up a crust of bread and dipped it in a cold broth, then brought it to her cracked lips.

She grimaced and turned her head away.

‘You must eat.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped.

‘Sorry?’

‘I know this is very … hard for you.’

He snorted his disagreement. ‘I am not the one suffering here. You are.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Not at all. You are ill – you will recover. That is all there is.’ She clenched her lips, saying no more. ‘Sleep,’ he told her, and rose.

He retreated to the very rear of the mausoleum, where the stone sarcophagus, the unofficial altar, resided. He eased himself down before it, cross-legged, hands on his thighs, and sat for some time, motionless.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, as dawn’s pink and gold light slid in through the doorway, his hands clenched into tight white fists.

*   *   *

After four more days at sea, the Honest Avarice dropped anchor in Malaz harbour. Cartheron expected that all those vessels that had survived the ambush would have arrived before them and so he scanned the harbour with a gauging eye. Losses, it appeared, were severest among the lighter class of vessels, the shallow-water sloops and galleys. All three of Mock’s men-o-war had fought their way free, though the Intolerant and the Insufferable looked to have taken terrible punishment from the ambush, scoured by flame damage, sails all down for repairs, spars and railings shattered.

A launch approached. It bore the freebooter admiral himself, plus four of his picked captains. A rope ladder was lowered and he climbed aboard. He peered round at the damage the Avarice had suffered, then frowned, confused. ‘Bezil?’ he asked of the crew in general.

‘Fallen,’ one answered.

Mock nodded. He tapped his fingers on the silver pommel of the filigreed duelling sabre he always carried. ‘Who captained?’

Several of the crew motioned to Cartheron where he leaned on the stern-deck railing. Mock beckoned him down.

‘And you are?’

‘Cartheron, admiral. Cartheron Crust.’

‘You are not first mate. Nor quartermaster.’

‘Common seaman, sir.’

‘Took command in the fight, sir,’ a sailor said. ‘Steered us free.’

Mock nodded again, stroking his goatee. ‘And took your time returning my ship. Thought perhaps the Avarice had gone a-roving.’

Cartheron indicated the thin crew. ‘We were short on hands and sail and the sea was against us.’

Mock considered, eyeing the crew. After a moment, perhaps taking in the mood of the Avarice’s hands, he laughed, cuffing Cartheron’s shoulder. ‘Well done. You acted as any crewman ought. You have my gratitude.’ He turned to one of his captains. ‘Hess – take command.’

Hess bowed. ‘As you order, sir.’

Cartheron noted a number of frowns and some grumbling among the crew. Dujek spoke up. ‘A promotion, perhaps, admiral? For service.’

Mock turned to him. ‘You desire a promotion?’

Dujek laughed and ran a hand over his scalp. ‘Not for me, admiral. I’m no sailor. For the Napan. He saved the Avarice.’

‘All the crew did their part, I’m sure.’

‘A’ course. I’m just sayin’…’

Mock returned his attention to Cartheron, now openly appraising. One of his captains leaned close, whispering, and he snapped, irritated. ‘What? Speak up, man.’

This captain brushed his moustache – a long thick one similar in style to Mock’s own. He indicated Cartheron. ‘This one’s part of that Napan crew causing all the trouble in town. There’s fights every night with Geffen’s people.’

Cartheron started. Trouble? What’s Sureth started?

Mock scowled anew. ‘And what is that to me, pray tell?’

The captain raised his brows, rather nonplussed. ‘Well … I was just saying.’

Mock eyed Cartheron. ‘Steersman, then. Well done, sailor.’

Cartheron bowed his head, accepting the promotion. A number of the crew raised a huzza in approval. Mock waved a negligent hand. ‘Yes, yes. Dismissed.’

A launch took those on leave to shore. The first rotation included Cartheron and the man who had spoken up for him, Dujek. On the pier, curious, Cartheron asked, ‘If you’re no sailor, then what are you?’

The man’s laugh was large and full-bellied. ‘A fool, perhaps?’ Cartheron smiled. ‘Naw. A fighting man all my life. Soldier, mercenary, bodyguard, hiresword … marine, now.’

Cartheron nodded. ‘Ah. See you when we’re recalled, then.’

The marine saluted his farewell, laughing. ‘Not too soon, I hope!’