Assail (34 page)

He leaned on his elbows over the side while Tulan bellowed to get the crew moving for departure. Sailors readied the running rigging. Arms crossed on the railing, he eyed the figures on the shore, who still had not moved. Seeing us off. The Barren Shore, he knew, was one name for this stretch of the northern coast. Fitting. Another name was the Plain of Ghosts.

He decided he did not want to discover whether or not that appellation was accurate.

Some charts he’d studied had included an inlet in the northern coast that led to rivers and a settlement. A fortress named Taken. But on this coast, on these lands of Assail, Reuth decided not to lead the ship to a fortress with the name of Taken. No, not in these lands. He hoped instead that they would find water before then; some unnamed stream or trickle – anything.

Again, while he daydreamed, his thoughts went to Kyle, as they often did. He must have made it to shore – he’d seemed completely confident that he could. And ashore, he must have headed north. If anyone could make it, he could. Perhaps of all of them he would be the only one to succeed.

Wouldn’t that be an irony? And the probable truth, too, given how the gods seemed to relish irony, reversals, and fitting unanticipated rewards for deeds both good and evil. And on that account, Reuth believed they had earned what they had so far received – the very real possibility of an ugly anonymous death on some desolate shore like this.

It had been wrong of them to turn on Whiteblade like that. His uncle should have thought further ahead. Given the dangers, they would have been so much more secure with him among their crew. Reuth did not think much of their chances now. And that was fitting. For he too had known it was wrong, yet he’d shrunk from drawing a blade and standing with his friend.

He was a coward, and he deserved whatever shameful death the gods had set astride the path of his life.

He heard Tulan come stomping up behind him. ‘Are there no rivers marked on this shore?’ he demanded.

Reuth turned round and peered calmly up at his uncle. ‘We’re bound to come across a stream eventually,’ he assured him.

Tulan cocked an eye beneath his tangled bushy brows, as if troubled by the answer in some vague manner that he could not pin down. Then he snorted and lumbered off, muttering darkly beneath his breath.

Reuth returned to contemplating the iron-grey waters. Yes, eventually they would find water. Or they would not. It did not matter. Eventually, just as certainly, they would meet their end.

And there was nothing any of them could do about it.

* * *

Shortly after the
Silver Dawn
set sail, leading the convoy of four ships into the Sea of Dread, Ieleen became ill. She refused to go below and would not budge from her seat behind the tiller. She sat all day leaning forward, knuckles white on her walking stick, her head bowed, pressing against her hands.

The times Jute had come to urge her to go below and lie down she’d snarled tersely and he’d backed away. They’d been under sail for six days now, although for the majority of the last day the description ‘under sail’ had no longer been accurate. The canvas hung limp. Only the barest of chill breaths brushed Jute’s neck. He ordered the crew to the rowing benches and they carried on.

But he was worried. He’d never seen Ieleen like this. It was as though she was being crushed beneath a terrible weight. Towards evening he went to her once more. He bent over her, but dared not touch her – she didn’t like to be touched when she was casting ahead. ‘Lass …’ he whispered. ‘Where away?’ She seemed to flinch. Her body beneath its layers of shawls shuddered as if in the grip of an ague. ‘What is it, lass?’

‘I can’t …’ she whispered. Her voice was thick with sorrow. Leaning closer, he saw that the planking of the deck beneath her head was wet. A teardrop fell even as he watched.

‘Rest, dearest,’ he urged. ‘Gather your strength.’

‘I haven’t the strength,’ she answered all in a gasp. ‘I can’t see us through!’

‘It’s all right, lass. Tomorrow. Tomorrow you’ll feel better.’

‘No!’ She drew a great shuddering breath. ‘Makes no difference. It’s too late. I can’t see ahead. And … I’m afraid … I can’t …’ She choked then on her words, collected herself, and continued, huskily, ‘I can’t see behind.’

Jute straightened. He studied the southern horizon out past the following three vessels. Then he glanced to the north. The flat horizons appeared identical. A thickening sea mist obscured both. The waters were uniformly calm. Not even the winds gave any hint of which direction was which. If they were to be turned round in the night, how was anyone to know? Other than studying the night sky, of course. But should this fog close in about them …

He knelt to her once more. ‘What am I to do, love?’

‘Just keep going,’ she answered curtly. ‘Try to chart us a course tonight.’

‘Aye. Tonight. You just hold on then, dearest. Hold on till then.’

He paced to the bows. He might have reassured Ieleen but he held little hope. How could they escape if they had no heading? They’d oar in circles until they ran out of water and provisions and that would be the end of them.

Later that afternoon a launch came aside the
Dawn
and Cartheron himself climbed aboard. The old man peered about the deck and nodded to himself, evidently approving of what he saw. Jute greeted him. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’

‘A word, captain, if I may,’ and he lifted his chin to indicate the cabin.

Jute swept an arm to invite him onward. ‘This way.’

Inside, the Malazan captain glanced about the cabin as if searching for something. ‘You wouldn’t still have that bottle I handed over, or such like, would you?’

‘In fact I do.’ Jute produced the bottle and two tiny glasses.

Cartheron frowned at the small glass but shrugged and held it out.

‘And what can I do for you, captain?’

Cartheron tossed back the liquor and held out the glass again. ‘I was just hoping that you knew where you were headed. Because we sure as Mael’s own bowels don’t.’

Jute studied the clear fluid in his glass. ‘I won’t dissemble. My … pilot … has been having trouble in that regard. But tonight we hope to get a heading from the stars.’

Cartheron threw back his drink, sucked his teeth. ‘Hunh. The stars.’ He squinted at Jute. ‘Have you been studying them these last few nights? No? Well, I tell you – they’ve not been of much help. But …’ he drew a steadying breath and set down the glass, ‘I leave it to you.’ He slapped Jute on the shoulder and opened the cabin door. ‘Because, other than you, we’ve no damn hope of ever finding our way out of here.’

Jute laughed, a touch uneasily. He walked Cartheron back to the side and saw him off.

Tonight then. They had to make some progress through the night. Some measurable progress.

He waved Buen over. ‘Have the crew take a rest. We’ll resume at the evening watch.’

The first mate frowned, not liking loss of motion, but nodded and went to give the orders. Jute turned to Ieleen, meaning to give her the news, but one glance at her rigid back, her hands bloodless upon the walking stick as if it were a lifeline, and he decided not to disturb her.

If they made any headway this night, then she could rest. He’d see to it.

He ordered a general rest. The crew took turns napping. He would’ve himself, but Ieleen wasn’t getting any sleep so he couldn’t bear to lie down. He knew it would be useless.

Behind, the following three vessels slowed as well. Jute ordered the smallest launch lowered, a tiny skiff used for repairs, to be taken across to the others to let them know to be ready this night. Then he sat to await the dusk.

When twilight thickened, Buen came to him. ‘Permission to resume rowing?’

‘No. Wait for a bearing. No sense running off chasing our own shadow.’

The first mate appeared dubious, his brows rising. ‘As you say, captain. But I really think …’

Jute gave him a sharp look. ‘You think what?’

The man ducked his head. ‘Nothing, captain.’ He marched off.

Jute watched him go. That had been a strange outburst. Be-calmings can be hard on the nerves – was the man feeling it already? Damned soon for that.

He stared out across the rippling waters. Calm. Too calm for a body like this. The winds should kick up larger waves over all these leagues of water. Strange. He was not a man given to brooding, but something about this sea troubled him. He drew a hand down his face, rubbed his gritty eyes: perhaps he was just reacting to Ieleen’s troubles.

Gradually, the stars emerged. Jute’s mood darkened with the night as he realized that he couldn’t recognize any of the constellations. It was as if he was staring up at someone else’s night sky. Yet how could that be? Must be a trick of the night and the mists here on the sea. Even so, none of that would matter if he could just identify a pole star: a star that did not move.

Yet which was it? Amid all this panoply of glimmering infinity … which?

He hunched, defeated. The only explanation that he could think of was sorcery. They’d been ensorcelled. In which case, as well as Ieleen, they now had a further authority to turn to.

He called to Buen. ‘Ready the launch!’

Four oarsmen took him across to the side of Lady Orosenn’s intimidatingly tall galleon. No watch or officer hailed him from the darkened vessel. As they’d approached he’d seen a single brazier burning towards the bow. Now, from so low next to the side, it was only visible as a faint glow above.

‘Ahoy! Lady Orosenn! It is Captain Jute, come to talk. May I come aboard?’

They waited in silence for a long time. Jute was finally driven to bash an oar against the thick planks of the side. A bump appeared above: a head peering down.

‘Who is that?’ Jute recognized the voice of the old man who’d accompanied the sorceress. He’d quite forgotten his name, if it had been given at all.

‘It’s Captain Jute, come to speak to Lady Orosenn.’

‘A moment,’ the man called. Shortly afterwards a rope and wood ladder came clattering down. Jute stared up. ‘Wait here,’ he told his oarsmen, who all nodded, quite happy to remain.

He found the deck empty but for the old man. Jute peered about, a touch confused; normally such a huge vessel would require an equally large crew. Yet the vessel was unnaturally quiet but for the normal creaking and stretching of cordage and planks. Indeed, the old man appeared quite put out by his presence. It occurred to him that very possibly the only reason he now stood upon the deck was the fact that he had been raising a ruckus below.

‘What do you want?’ the scrawny old fellow growled, his voice low.

‘To speak to Lady Orosenn,’ he replied loudly.

The old man winced. ‘Keep your voice down,’ he hissed.

‘Why?’

‘You may disturb the Primogenitrix!’ the man shouted, angered, then ducked, glaring his rage.

‘I see. Well, won’t you go and see if she may be disturbed?’

The old fellow chewed on that for a time, his expression sour. Then he gave a curt jerk of his head and scuttled off. Jute waited. Alone now, in the quiet, he cast about for some hint of the crew’s presence, but all he noticed was the smell. The ship fairly reeked of foreign spices, and unpalatably so, too. He held a hand to his nose. Beneath the cloying scents he believed he also detected a faint whiff of rot. Perhaps even of decomposition.

The old man returned. He waved Jute off. ‘She won’t see you. Now go away.’

‘Go away?’ He peered past the scarecrow fellow to the stern cabin. ‘She seemed very approachable before …’

‘Well, she’s busy now.’

‘Doing what?’

The fellow frowned even more darkly, knotting his brows. ‘Sorcerous things. Now go – you are in great danger.’

‘Danger of what?’

The fellow drew breath to shout or argue, but caught himself and clamped his mouth shut. He leaned close, conspiratorially, and lowered his voice: ‘Perhaps you would care for a tour of this curious vessel, yes? I think you would find the lower decks of particular interest …’

‘Velmar,’ the rich contralto of Lady Orosenn called, ‘who is that you are speaking to?’

The old man jerked upright, still glaring his rage. ‘Captain Jute, m’lady.’

‘Is that so?’ The woman emerged from the murk. She loomed just as impressively tall as before, still wrapped in her loose robes, her head hidden in a headscarf, her veil in place.

Jute bowed. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, madam.’

‘Not at all. You are concerned, no doubt, about the choking wardings that have settled upon us.’

Wardings? Jute wondered. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘We seem to have lost our way.’

‘Such is one of their purposes.’

‘My, ah, pilot is attempting to find the way. But I fear the task is beyond her.’

The woman tilted her head, regarded him with her large, almost luminescent, golden-hazel eyes. ‘And you are concerned for her.’

‘Indeed.’

The woman nodded her great head, and Jute thought he heard a sigh. She turned away to the ship’s side, resting a hand atop the railing. ‘Your feelings do you credit, Jute of Delanss. I must admit I have been selfish. I had hoped to remain anonymous. To not have to …
exert
myself … as yet. But I see now that in doing so I have allowed a terrible burden to fall to another. A burden that should rightfully be mine.’