The Light of Heaven (2 page)

Returning to the quarterdeck, the two groups met at the mainmast.

"We've got what we come for," Farrow said. "Any survivors?"

"None. Whatever happened here it was devilry," Kale replied looked about nervously.

Farrow emitted a nervous laugh. "That's as may be, but it didn't finish the ship. We'll take her in tow, at least until the Captain decides what to do with -"

"Mister Farrow!" It was a sailor on the larboard side. "I think there's a man alive here!"

Farrow and the others ran over to where the sailor was peering into a water-barrel.

A very bedraggled-looking man was looking blearily back up at them. His skin was puffy and cracked, his hair seared off down to the scalp.

"If you call this alive," Farrow whispered, unable to keep the horror and revulsion out of his voice.

The survivor smelled blood in the darkness; old blood long since hardened into the wood that he could feel against his cheek and chest. Then the redness of his vision parted, letting in the sight of the dark wooden planking, and he realised he was scenting the salt air of the sea with every deep shuddering breath he took.

He opened his eyes to see two tall masts stretching dizzily away from him, and a number of weather-beaten unshaven faces looking down. None of them were faces he recognised, and he thanked the Lord of All for that. He snatched at a proffered ladle, and took a sip of water.

"Welcome aboard," a large man in a Captain's garb said. The man loomed over him, and he felt that his eyes were squeezing every memory out of his mind, examining them.

"Thank -" The word scraped in his throat, and he coughed and swallowed. "Thank you. Where am I? What ship?"

"You are aboard the trader
Vigilant
, out of Sarcre, on our way for Allantia. I'm Captain Wylde. We found your ship adrift. You appear to be the only survivor."

He tried to look as if he cared that the others were dead. Maybe he would care, if he could forget what had happened to him. If he could forget both the pain, and the stench of his own flesh burning.

He thought as carefully as he could about what to tell them. It would mostly have to be truth, as he found that he could barely think at all. "I was a soldier, a guard, on the
Belle
. Our ship was hit and then there was lightning... I was on fire... I ran... I thought the water would put out the fire!" He collapsed into sobs.

"You've certainly had a lucky escape," Wylde agreed. "Well, we lost a man in the storm, so we've a berth for you. You'll have to work, though."

"Anything."

"All right, I'll have the clerk add you to the muster-book."

"Thank you, again."

"That's all right, Mister -" Wylde frowned. "Your name, sir?"

"Kord," Travis Crowe said hesitantly.

Wylde looked at him for a moment, as if sensing the lie. "All right, Mister Kord. Farrow will show you to a hammock. Get some rest and some food. We'll speak again shortly, after I've had time to read your Captain's book."

By dusk, the storm that had surrounded the eye had eased off and they were now far enough away from the Stormwall to resume their course to Allantia. When Wylde finally retired to his quarters he felt satisfied that all would be well. The further he got his ship away from the Stormwall, the happier he became.

The
Vigilant
heeled slowly eastwards and the
Belle
followed meekly, under tow. Wylde wondered idly what his newest recruit - this man who called himself Kord - would think of the rescue of his ship.

Exhausted beyond words, Crowe slept well. He finally awoke to the clinking of tin mugs and plates as the day watch broke their fast. Crowe swung himself out of the hammock and slipped upstairs to begin his first watch.

He emerged onto the deck, and immediately felt the wind knocked from him. The ship riding under tow was an impossibility. The
Belle
could never have survived the fire, let alone the storm. Yet there she was, riding low in the waves, taunting him. Then he remembered something else his rescuers had said, about reading the Captain's book. Still weak, his legs and arms aching, Crowe leaned on the rail and let his head drop in resignation.

"Crowe?" someone said. For a moment he thought it was a memory, and he was just remembering a voice, but then a hand tapped him on the shoulder and turned him around. "Travis Crowe?" The sailor asking the question didn't look familiar, but Crowe had spent enough time in Freiport and Allantia that it was always possible that this was someone he had propped up a bar with, or fought alongside.

He turned away again, quickly. "You must be seeing things, mate -"

"It is you! I'd know your voice anywhere!" Crowe cursed under his breath, and turned back. He glanced left and right, checking to see how many other eyes were looking in his direction. He needed to silence this fool as quickly as possible, and grabbed a short knife that was stuck into a barrel near his hand. It was meant for cutting rope and net, but would cut a throat as easily. He lunged for the other sailor, but the man darted backwards, shouting: "Murderer!"

That drew more direct looks from other members of the crew, and a couple of the onboard mercenary guards stepped forward. "What's this?" one asked.

"I don't even know you," Crowe said to the sailor.

"You murdered my brother, Crowe," the man snarled. "You don't remember me, do you? But I remember you." He looked at one of the mercenaries. "Fetch the Captain. He'll want to know we have a murderer on board." Both mercenaries exchanged a nod, then one went below. The other grabbed Crowe by the shoulder, and Crowe let the knife slide back on to the top of the barrel before anyone noticed he had it. They would be jumpy now, and trying to silence his accuser would just guarantee that he would be overpowered and hanged from a yard-arm.

"This man has mistaken me for someone else," Crowe said. He gently touched the scarring on his left cheek, which still stung and tingled. "If my own face was in one piece things would be different."

"Your voice is still in one piece," the other sailor snapped. He jabbed a rabbit-punch into Crowe's gut. The punch was slow enough that Crowe could have dodged it, but instead he simply tensed and took it. It was a weak hit, but it would make the other man look bad, so Crowe doubled over as if it had hurt more than it did. By this time Captain Wylde had appeared on deck.

"What's going on here?" Wylde demanded. "Mister Kord? Mister Dass?" Crowe came alert at the name of Dass. He did remember a Jonen Dass from a year or so back. He had gone into business with Crowe, smuggling goods through Freiport. He had tried to keep Crowe's share of the profits, but Crowe was better with a blade than Jonen Dass had been.

Sailor Dass didn't miss the look of recognition on Crowe's features, and jabbed an accusing finger at him. "He knows my name, Cap'n!"

"So he should, I did just use it Dass. Now, what is this matter between you and Kord?"

"Kord? His name isn't Kord! It's Travis Crowe. He's a smuggler and a murderer, on the run from Freiport for over a year." Wylde looked between them, his lips thinning. The air around him seemed to darken with his mood.

"You know this man?"

"Not well. But I know his face and his voice. He murdered my brother, Jonen, in cold blood."

Wylde scrutinised Crowe closely. "Is that true?"

"Of course not! My name is Grantan Kord, first mate of -"

"It's just that I've been looking through the books of your ship, and there was a Travis Crowe listed among the crew."

"I bet there was, sir, because there was a man by that name aboard. One of the mercenary guards. Blade for hire." Wylde nodded slowly. "And," Crowe went on, "my name is in the crew list as well. At least, it bloody well should be, seeing as I was first mate."

Dass struggled to lunge at Crowe again. "First mate, my arse! When you killed Jonen to steal his half of your partnership's money, I was a-bed in the next room. But I heard his screams, and woke in time to see you take his purse." He sneered. "And it was the right side of your face that was to me, Crowe. For all I know your left could have been burned a ten-year ago."

"You're imagining things, lad," Crowe said softly.

"I bet you said that to Jonen when he challenged you about the profits you were stealing."

Crowe remembered it all now, of course, but concentrated on looking sympathetic and baffled. That was his only chance to avoid a noose here.

Wylde stepped in between them. "Grantan Kord is on the books as first mate of the
Belle
right enough," he said thoughtfully. He sighed. "Truth to tell, both your stories have the ring of truth about them." He straightened his lapels and closed his eyes for a moment. "Dass has been a member of my crew for almost a year, and I have found him to be an honest and trustworthy man. You, Mister Kord - if that is who you are - I do not know well enough to judge your honesty. But I shall try not to assume that you are untrustworthy simply because Dass is trustworthy. So, do either of you have something more that you can tell me, that would swing the matter one way or the other?"

Crowe wished he had made a better choice of word than 'swing,' under the circumstances. If Dass had seen his brother die, he might have something else on Crowe.

Dass grinned, a crude and hungry look. "Yes, Captain, I do." Crowe couldn't help the flicker of tension that tightened his lips. He saw that Wylde noticed it too. "He had a tattoo on his upper left arm. A wolf's head."

Relieved, but trying not to show it, Crowe rolled up the left sleeve of his shirt. The flesh was scarred and half melted, as his cheek and jaw were. The scarring had obliterated the tattoo. "I'm sorry for your loss, lad, but I'm not your wolf's-head man."

"Yes you bloody well are!" Dass struggled again, trying to reach for him

"All right, that's enough," Wylde decreed. "Dass, get back to work."

"But Cap'n!"

"But nothing Dass! I believe... Well, I believe that you believe this man is who you say he is. But men forget faces over time, and mistake them."

"Would you forget the man who murdered your brother?"

"Back to work, Dass." He stepped closer to the sailor, leaning in to his ear and whispered: "We'll keep a close eye on him, just in case." Wylde turned Dass around, and nodded to the men holding him back to walk him to his duties. He turned back to Crowe. "Come with me."

The hand on his shoulder let go, and Crowe followed Wylde to his day-room below the afterdeck. The two mercenaries followed closely behind him, and remained standing when Wylde bade Crowe to sit. Wylde carefully laid the
Belle
's logs and daybook on his desk, then gestured to one of the mercenaries. "Bring Mister Farrow, would you?"

As the mercenary left, Crowe knew what would happen next. No sailor could resist the lure of treasure, or the prize of salvage.

Wylde held his gaze for a long moment, with only the creaking of the ship's timbers and the muffled clatter of men at work to break the silence. Shortly, there was a knock at the cabin door, and the mercenary returned with Farrow. Wylde nodded Farrow to a seat.

"I have discovered something interesting," Wylde began. "We have found your ship's logs. It seems she was on a course for the Isle of the Star."

Crowe hesitated. "A fool's errand, sir. No such -"

"Place?" Wylde looked sidelong at the other mercenary who had accompanied Crowe. "You've heard of it, haven't you?"

The mercenary nodded. "An island made of pure diamond, like a star here on Twilight. Not a man-jack of us hasn't heard the story in a dozen wharf side taverns."

"From a hundred wharf-rats with pickled brains." Crowe scoffed.

Wylde nodded slowly, a hungry look now in his eyes. "What did you make of your Captain, mister Kord?"

"Sir?"

"What sort of man was he?"

"Fair," Crowe said, after some thought. "Hard working, sensible."

"A shrewd seaman?"

"I suppose so, sir, yes."

"Not gullible, then."

Now Crowe saw where Wylde was going with this. "No, sir. And, before you ask, he didn't believe in the Isle of the Star either." It was a lie, but Crowe prided himself on being a good liar.

"The Isle of the Star..." Wylde pursed his lips. "According to the last entry in this day-book, the
Belle
was anchored offshore of the Isle for at least one night. Would you care to tell me how that can be, if your captain was a pragmatic man and the Isle doesn't exist?" Crowe didn't answer. "Can you do that, mister Kord? Or, perhaps I should say mister Crowe?"

Crowe merely smiled. "And why would you say that?"

"That tattoo Dass mentioned might not show on your arm, but another interesting entry in your Captain's books tells us how he paid a sum of ten copper pieces to First Mate Kord for the loss of the last two fingers of his left hand. Your fingers are all present and correct. So you're not Grantan Kord."

"That wouldn't necessarily make me Crowe. There were seventy-odd of us."

"And I'm sure you could pick any name out of the crew list. I saw your expression up on deck, Crowe. You did a good job of hiding it, but I've always had an eye for truth or lies."

Crowe spoke carefully. "All right, you believe I'm Crowe. Fair enough. So why am I in here and not dangling at the end of a rope, or lying under Dass' fists?"

Wylde very deliberately tapped the logbooks. "Because the question about the Isle of the Star still stands. If your Captain didn't believe in it, why does he claim to have been anchored off it?"

"He was being paid good money to go to the area where someone thought it might exist. Even if it didn't exist, the money was still worth the journey."

"Quite a lot of money, I see..."

"Enough that he could afford the likes of me."

"In my experience," Wylde said, "the sort of people who can throw such amounts of money around are not fickle with it. They want to keep their wealth, or increase that wealth, not waste it on chasing smoke. Someone thought the existence of the Isle of the Star likely enough to be worth a heavy investment in it."

"Maybe. I never met whoever was paying Captain Margrave, so I wouldn't know."