Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(24)

The tall skinny fellow peered down his nose at her. ‘Only the ship’s master can order a change in course.’

‘It just so happens I’m his master,’ she snarled. ‘Now turn for shore.’

But the young fellow only gripped the faded wood of the tiller arm all the tighter. ‘No, ma’am. The slate shore is far too dangerous.’

Oh, for the love of all the dead gods! She drew a deep breath and called in her best battlefield bellow: ‘Master Ghelath! You are required on deck!’

In a few minutes the man himself appeared, puffing, scratching his wide belly, his bare chest a dense thatch of russet hair. ‘What is this?’ he growled, bleary-eyed.

‘She wants us to head for shore,’ the pilot complained.

The Master squinted at the night-hidden coast as if to confirm that it was even there. Then he turned on her. ‘Are you a fool? We’d be stove in. Those are the Cursed Soldiers. No ship can come within a league of them.’

‘Nevertheless,’ she answered through clenched teeth, ‘I wish to investigate that fire.’ She pointed over the stern where the flickering orange and gold glow was already disappearing into the gloom.

Ghelath spat over the side, then waved a hairy hand to dismiss the entire matter. ‘Ach! Well, it’s gone now, isn’t it? Too late.’ He turned to go.

‘Turn us round. Drop anchor. Do whatever is necessary.’

Ghelath just waved the hand over his shoulder as he descended the stairs. ‘Too dangerous.’

Shimmer crossed her arms, called, ‘Gwynn …’

The mage appeared amid-deck. He carried a tall staff of ebony wood. This he stamped to the planking and black flames burst to life, rippling all up and down the stave. The sailors on night watch scrambled away.

Master Ghelath slowly remounted the short set of stairs that led to the stern deck, pulling at his long grizzled beard. He cleared his throat and addressed the apprentice pilot in a weak voice: ‘See if you can’t get us a little closer, Levin.’

The lad didn’t move. He licked his lips. ‘I can’t – that is … I don’t know these waters well enough …’

Hoarse laughter drew everyone’s attention. The old master pilot, Havvin, all bones and pale skin, came edging past Gwynn. He pushed his apprentice aside, offered Shimmer a broad wink. ‘Rouse the lads, boy. Prepare to bring us round.’

The apprentice rang the bell, clearly relieved that his master had taken over. In a flurry of stamping feet the rest of the crew came pouring up on to the deck. ‘Man the lines!’ Levin shouted.

Havvin pushed the tiller arm over. ‘Have to lose headway, don’t you think?’ he directed his apprentice.

The lad nodded frantic assent, shouted: ‘Reef the mains’l! Lower the fores’l!’

Ghelath watched silently, one fist closed on his ragged beard. After a moment he caught the old pilot’s eye and pointed to the bow. Havvin nodded a brief acknowledgement.

Blues came up to the stern deck to stand next to Shimmer. He too was peering off over the side, to the glow of the distant bonfire.

‘Eyes up front, don’t you think, Levin?’ Havvin murmured, adjusting the tiller arm slightly.

The lad swallowed, nodding. ‘Aye. Four lookouts on the bows!’

Shimmer leaned close to Gwynn. ‘Black flames?’ she murmured.

He shrugged. ‘Thought it would be impressive.’

Ghelath shook his head. ‘I still don’t like it, Havvin. Lose all the canvas. Prepare the sweeps.’

Havvin nodded. ‘Aye, aye.’ He gestured to Levin.

The lad drew a great breath, shouted, ‘Lower the yardarm! Un-ship the sweeps!’

The crew scrambled to obey. The heavy yardarm scraped down the mainmast. Long thin oars that had been stored along the hull, just above the decking, were set into holes beneath the top railing.

‘Man the sweeps,’ Blues called down to Bars, who gave his curt assent and gestured to the gathered Avowed. They brushed the sailors aside to take the oars.

‘Dead stop,’ Shimmer called.

The Avowed levered the oars straight down then swept them back, grunting and heaving. The vessel slowed so suddenly that Shimmer had to take a step for balance against the loss of motion. The Master’s thick matted brows shot up in amazement and wonder. Havvin hooted his laughter.

All became quiet but for the splash of the waves, and, distantly, the roar of an unseen surf.

‘Ahead slow,’ the Master called, then cocked an eye to Shimmer, who motioned for him to take over.

Blues crossed to Havvin, who was pushing and heaving on the thick tiller arm. ‘Need any help, old timer?’

‘Nay. A gentle touch is all’s needed. Like caressing a woman.’

Blues shot an amused glance to Shimmer, who suppressed a smile. ‘We’re in good hands then,’ Blues supplied.

‘Oh, I could tell stories,’ Havvin answered, and he cackled his mad laughter once again.

‘Point starboard!’ a lookout called.

The lashing of the tiller arm creaked as Havvin edged it a touch over. The Master still held his beard in one fist, and now he reached out and clenched the stern deck railing in a grip so tight and white it looked to Shimmer as if not even the strongest impact could dislodge him.

Yells of surprise and horror suddenly went up as something immense and night-black loomed out of the murk. One of the soldiers this was, pillar of rock all webbed in spray, seaweed and barnacles where it met the waves. Its top stood too tall to see and its girth was a third of their vessel’s length.