Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(34)

At the stern stood their master steersman, Lurjen, a short and broad stump of a fellow, gripping the side-mounted steering arm. His leathers were darkened with sweat and more ran in rivulets down his bald, sun-burnished pate. His massive arms still appeared to quiver from the exertion of heaving the ponderous oar to the directions of their navigator, who sat on a short stool behind him, leaning forward, chin almost resting on her walking stick. Ieleen of Walk, Jute’s navigator and his wife. A legend she was among the mariners of Falar, and some whispered witch or sorceress of Ruse, for her seeming miraculous intimacy with wave and channel. All the more fantastic as she was completely blind.

‘Sorceress you are, my dear!’ Jute called. ‘Your reputation is unshakable now.’ Sorceress indeed, dearest, he added silently. How else did you steal my heart away?

‘I just listen to the waves, luv,’ she answered, and she winked one staring wintery-white eye. ‘Our friends are still with us,’ she added, motioning to the rear with a tilt of her head.

Jute cast a glance behind where the last of the rocks now disappeared from sight. Indeed, some three or four vessels were still treading their wake. When they’d arrived out beyond the mouth of the narrows they’d found a great mass of foreign vessels at anchor awaiting the right tide. Or just waiting and watching to see who would be the next fools to dare attempt the jumbled currents and hidden tearing teeth of the Guardian Rocks.

For a time they had waited and watched as well. Six different vessels they saw make the attempt: each went down in a mass of shattered timber. Jute thought he could almost hear the screams of the crews as they were sucked down into the curling, tumbling currents and dashed against the rocks. And after each attempt a wash of corpses and litter of rope and broken wood rode the waves out on to the equally aptly named Sea of Hate.

Then, one day just before dawn, Ieleen gave him the nod and he ordered all the crew to the oars – no sails for this narrow passage – and they’d set out, following her directions. Their navigation through the shoals down the Wreckers’ Coast must have impressed the masters of other ships, for five other vessels quickly followed their route.

Of his part in that turning twisting run Jute was not proud. Ieleen barked her commands while Lurjen grunted and huffed, heaving the steering arm back and forth. The Dawn yawed and pitched so steeply that half the time one or the other side’s oars waved uselessly to the sky. Yet his love seemed to have taken all this into her calculations as she sat staring sightlessly, her head tilted ever so slightly, as if listening to someone whispering in her ear. All he could do was hang on tight to the mainmast, shouting to keep order among the crew as oars struck rocks to throw men bodily from the benches, or knock them senseless. Timber groaned as hidden rocks scoured the sides and keel. Many times the crew were not so much rowing as using the oars as poles to fend off looming black pillars that jutted from the foaming waters like saw-teeth.

Then, of a sudden, like the passing of a thunderstorm, it was over. The waters streamed beneath the bow as smooth as glass. The crew slumped where they sat, breathless, utterly spent, though with enough energy to weakly laugh and cuff one another. And he’d planted a kiss on Ieleen’s cheek and called her a wonder.

Now, glancing back, he saw only three of the five vessels that had set out following their lead. They also coursed along, oars idle for the nonce. Obviously just as relieved, or disbelieving, as they. ‘Yes,’ he told Ieleen. ‘They’re still with us. Two are of a strange cut to me, though one’s a Malazan galley or I’m a Kartoolian eunuch.’

‘You’re no eunuch, luv. I’ll attest to that.’

Pained, he lowered his voice. ‘Not in front of the crew, dearest.’

She waved a hand. ‘Oh, they’re happy when we’re happy. They just don’t like it when we fight.’

Jute cleared his throat. ‘Well. Where we go from here is a mystery to me.’

‘Something’s ahead,’ she answered and lifted her chin. ‘The wind sounds different.’

He grunted his acknowledgement. ‘A touch of sail, Buen,’ he called to his first mate.

‘Aye, aye.’

‘Dulat, get up top and get an eye out.’

The youngest and slightest of the crew jumped up from a bench and exclaimed, ‘Thank the gods for that!’

‘No use anyway,’ Sarsen, a giant of a fellow out of Gano, grumbled. ‘It was like having a flea on my elbow.’

‘Someone has to show the ox where to go,’ Dulat retorted.

Sarsen peered up at him, squinting. ‘Better run up to your perch, little flea.’

Dulat set his feet on the mast and started up. ‘Now I have to show everyone where to go!’

Jute grinned; the crew was in good spirits. And they should be, given what they’d just accomplished. He waited until Dulat had had a good look then called, ‘Anything?’

‘Might be a cove or a channel ahead on the starboard cliffs.’

‘Very good.’ He turned to Ieleen. ‘Anything more?’

She sniffed the air. ‘There’s a settlement close.’

‘Old Ruse, then.’

‘Perhaps.’

He returned to Dulat. ‘Direct us over!’

‘Aye.’

‘We’re seeping, Buen. What’s the rate?’

‘Too fast for comfort. We have to make repairs.’