The Merchant of Dreams (16 page)

He scrambled up the ladder and ran the length of the gun deck. At the foot of the next ladder he put out a hand to stop Ned.

“Hear that?”

Shouts and the clash of steel sounded from the deck above.

“Corsairs?” Ned asked. “They’ve boarded us already?”

Mal put a hand to his sword hilt – and halted with the blade half-drawn. Dammit, Raleigh was right. A ship was no place to be carrying a rapier. He slammed it back into the scabbard and drew his dagger instead. Ten inches of cold steel. It would do for now. He ran up the ladder two rungs at a time and leapt out onto the deck in a fighting stance. Immediately he found himself facing a heavily built Moor almost his own height. The corsair’s falchion came round in a belly-slicing arc and Mal sprang back, tripped over Ned and sent him tumbling back down to the gun-deck. The falchion smashed into the deck inches from Mal’s head as he rolled aside and scrambled to his feet again. Mal switched the dagger to his left hand and drew his rapier. The corsair laughed at the sight of the slender blade.

In that brief distraction Mal lunged, simultaneously raising his dagger to deflect another blow from the falchion. The Moor stared down at the red stain blooming across his white tunic, then sagged to his knees as Mal withdrew the rapier blade and closed in to slash his throat open with a backhand sweep of the dagger.

Another corsair prepared to leap across the hatch towards Mal, but the end of Ned’s cudgel slammed into his groin and he collapsed, moaning in agony. A moment later Ned popped his head up.

“Stay below!” Mal yelled, and stabbed the corsair through the heart before he could recover.

The enemy had not yet gained the upper hand, but far too many of the men lying helpless or dead were English. He roared and ran at the nearest corsair, a giant of a man made taller by an elaborate turban topped with red and black plumes. His falchion had a deep-toothed edge to its blade, designed to latch onto a ship’s rail as well as cause unpleasant puncture wounds. They danced back and forth for long moments, Mal dodging the shining arc of his opponent’s weapon rather than risking a parry, trying to coax the man to move in closer. There. He leapt into the opening, bringing his rapier round – and skidded in a pool of blood as the ship rolled.

The falchion whistled down and caught on the elaborate curves of the rapier’s hilt. Mal swore and released his grip before the toothed blade could sever his fingers. The corsair shook the rapier aside with a grin and moved in for the kill, but before he could do so, his head exploded in a spray of blood and splinters of bone. Mal looked up to see one of the swivel gunners grinning at him from the poop deck.

“Christ’s holy mother!” he yelled up at the man. “That could have been me!”

The sailor made an obscene gesture and set about reloading his gun. Mal got to his feet and retrieved his sword. The remaining corsairs were fleeing back to their ship, diving into the water to avoid being shot by the English sailors. With her sails still unfurled to catch the wind, the
Falcon
was being blown further away from the galley with every moment, unable to turn back and pursue the oared vessel. Mal watched in frustration as their enemy slipped beyond the reach of cannon fire, though in truth Raleigh had barely enough men left whole to crew his ship, still less take the corsairs on for a second bout.

He wandered into the shattered remnants of the poop. The table and benches lay in ruins, and the dividing wall between their cabin and Raleigh’s was gone, only a few splintered timbers showing where it had been. Beyond it, the stern was a gaping hole, floorboards shattered and sloping precariously down towards a drop into the sea. If he had not persuaded Ned to join him on deck, his friend would likely be dead right now. For the first time in weeks he was glad he had not brought Coby. The thought of her cut in half like that poor bastard out there… He put the grisly image aside. Where was Ned anyway? With a pang of guilt he headed back to the gun deck.

When he found Ned at last, the younger man rushed to embrace him, muttering curses over and over like prayers as he buried his face in Mal’s shoulder. Mal rested his chin against Ned’s brow, fighting down his own post-battle shakes. Around them the gunners were slapping one another’s shoulders and laughing, even as their injured fellows groaned in the hold below. They had lived to see another day, God be praised. No man could ask for more than that.

CHAPTER XI

Coby stood on the after-deck, staring up at the red sails that bellied above her. Nearly three weeks into their journey and they were still zigzagging down the coast of Portugal. The same westerly winds that hindered their own progress would be blowing Mal’s ship around the coast of Spain and into the Mediterranean. She kicked the rail irritably, as if the ship were a lazy pony needing to be spurred on by its rider. The skrayling at the ship’s wheel turned to stare at her, and she muttered an apology in Tradetalk.

She looked around for Sandy, and presently spotted him sitting on a coil of rope with a book of mathematics open on his lap. She pattered down the steps to the weather deck and crossed the ship’s waist in long, slightly erratic strides.

Sandy looked up as her shadow fell across the pages.

“We left England only a day or so after Mal,” she said. “Do you think we might catch up with him?”

“The
Falcon
is a fast ship, made for war. They are well ahead of us by now.”

“But you cannot be sure, can you?” She squatted next to him so that they were eye to eye, and lowered her voice. “You have not… spoken to him yet?”

“I have tried.” He stared southwards, as if he could see Mal’s ship in the distance. Coby had to admit that he looked like a man who had not slept well in days. Or rather, nights. “But most likely he still wears the earring Kiiren gave him. At any rate, I have searched all night, as far as I dared to go, and found no sign of him.”

“You are right, I suppose,” she said, standing up. Though she strained her eyes, she could see nothing in any direction except miles of empty ocean. “It’s almost Easter, and still we sail south. Surely we must be nearing the Straits of Gibraltar?”

Sandy got to his feet. “I will speak to our captain, if that will soothe your spirit.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And you should take cover, like your friend Gabriel,” he added. “The sun is far stronger in these parts, and will burn you before you know it.”

Since the hold was now hot, stuffy and stinking of the bilges by day, Hennaq had rigged up an awning on deck between the two masts so that his passengers could shelter from the sun and keep out of the way of the sailors. Gabriel was lying on his stomach stripped to his shirt and hose, a sheaf of paper before him and an ink-pot wedged into a gap between the mats that covered the bare deck. He looked up with a frown, and Coby tried not to smile at the ink stain down the side of his nose.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“No, don’t go.” Gabriel laid down his pen and pushed himself up off the matting, twisting round to sit cross-legged. “I want your opinion on something I’m writing for Ned.”

Coby sighed. “I know little of love poetry, sir.”

“This isn’t a love poem. At least, not in the usual sense. It’s a play.”

“Oh.” She sat down on a cushion next to him. “What’s it about?”

“It’s…” He cocked his head on one side, his features twisted into a caricature of frustrated thought. Coby suppressed a laugh. Gabriel was ever the actor, on or off stage.

“There’s this young man and his sweetheart,” he said eventually, “but her father wants her to marry a rich old merchant, so they trick the old man out of his fortune and get married anyway. I’m calling it
A Bear-baiting in Bankside
, because that’s where it’s set. And the old man is the bear, do you see?”

“Oh. That’s… different.”

“Tales of kings and princes and foreign lands are all very well,” Gabriel said, “but what man – or woman –does not enjoy scandal and gossip? And one’s neighbours cannot be relied upon to follow lives of constant wickedness.”

“No indeed.”

“So I thought, why not put it in a play? A comedy about men’s foibles – with a moral ending of course.”

“That could work. And the Master of the Revels could have no objection to such a trifle.”

“My thoughts exactly.” He grinned and passed her a handful of papers. “Here, tell me what you think.”

Coby began to read. The handwriting was dreadful, and the page a mess of crossings-out with corrections written very small between the original lines, but she had seen enough such drafts in her time at the theatre to be able to make sense of it. She read on to the next page. It was hardly Marlowe, but the words had a lively spirit to them, the humour sharp-edged without being malicious. She found herself smiling at a line here and there.

When she got to the end of the first scene, she looked up to see Gabriel gazing at her anxiously.

“Well?”

“It’s… promising,” she said.

“You truly think so?”

“Truly. But if I were you, I’d make sure to put your name on every page. And burn the ones you mean to discard, or tear them up and throw them overboard.”

“Why so?”

“The skraylings are mad for stories; they’re as good as money to them. Which means that ownership is important.”

Gabriel held out his hand for the script. “Thank you for the reminder. I’ll do it right away.”

She settled down on the cushions to doze the heat of the day away. Sandy was right. Mal was probably almost to Venice by now. Perhaps he would come to Provence on his way back to England. She smiled to herself at the thought, and closed her eyes.

Erishen waited until he was sure the girl was busy talking to Gabriel, then made his way to the bow. He had not wanted to alarm her, but she was not alone in her concern over their slow progress. The captain owed them a clearer explanation at the very least.

Captain Hennaq was conferring with his quartermaster over their supplies, so Erishen waited at a respectful distance until they were done. This would have to be handled carefully if he were not to cause offence. Though Hennaq had agreed to help them, he made it clear he did so for his cousin’s sake alone. As a law-breaker, even an unwilling one, Erishen had no place in the clan hierarchy.

From the little he could overhear, Erishen was able to gather that the captain was concerned about their supply of fresh water. It was always a problem on long voyages, and with enemy lands on either side, finding somewhere they could safely refill their barrels would not be easy. After some debate they agreed they would consult the navigator on the best place to land, and the quartermaster left the foredeck.

“You wish to speak to me?” Hennaq said, seeming to notice Erishen for the first time.

“I bring a request from my Christian friends.” It was not the ideal topic, but it had the advantage of having some truth behind it. “It is their custom at this time of year to celebrate their spring festival, and they seek your permission to do so.”

The captain glanced towards the passengers’ tent.

“What does this festival entail?”

“The first three days require only quiet contemplation, then it is customary to hold a celebratory feast.”

Hennaq hissed his amusement. “It does not sound like much of a festival.”

“It is their tradition, not ours,” Erishen replied, softening his reproving words with a stance of submission.

“Very well. They may proceed, though we have few enough supplies for a feast. I will instruct the cook to do his best.” He paused. “I think there can be no harm for us all to eat well together, eh?”

“No, indeed. Thank you, sir.”

“However your Christian friends must not interfere with the work of the crew, nor importune them to join in the other ceremonies.”

“Of course, captain.” The skraylings had listened attentively to the first missionaries to the New World, paid them generously for the stories they told, then told them very politely to go home. Those that did not take heed had soon fled in terror from visions of Hell out of their own sermons. “I think the Christians have learned their lesson.”

“Is that all?”

Erishen bowed. “My friends also asked me to enquire whether you or any of your crew possess a copy of the Christian book of stories they could borrow.”

“I shall make enquiries amongst the crew. But any such copies will be in our own tongue.”

“I will read it to the Christians, putting it into English,” Erishen replied. It would be good practice of his language skills, as well as another way to pass the time.

“When is this… festival to take place?”

Ah, now we get to it.
“That is the difficulty. My friends have lost track of the count of days since we left England, and it is important that they celebrate on the same day as other Christians.”

Hennaq looked up at the sky. “Please, excuse me.”

He hailed the first mate, then made a complex series of arm movements, signalling his commands to the crew. Something about the ropes, or the sails…? Erishen had little idea; he had never been much interested in sailing.

“We have been at sea for twenty-two days,” Hennaq went on. “Do you not agree?”

“That is what I thought, but I did not trust my own reckoning. I have been studying an English book of mathematics and astronomy, and also following our voyage on one of their maps.”

“And?”

“And I am perplexed. Either the map is wrong, or we have sailed much further south than the gateway to the Inner Sea.”

He watched the captain’s reaction, expecting bluster or denial. Instead Hennaq smiled, baring his fangs.

“The map is not wrong, nor your calculations.”

“What?”

“I have changed my mind as to our destination.”

The captain nodded absentmindedly. Erishen turned in alarm; too slow. Powerful hands seized his arms and a sack was thrown over his head. He struggled and cried out, but to no avail. There were at least three of them, maybe more, and though he was a good head taller than any skrayling, he could not fight blind. And even if he did break free, where would he run to?