Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(39)

‘Three points to starboard,’ came the answer.

Jute turned to scan to the rear. No other vessel was in sight. The Malazans may have sunk; they’d looked uncommonly low in the water. He turned to find Buen on the mid-deck walk. ‘Light a smudge,’ he called.

The man gaped at him. ‘A smudge? Here? On an unknown shore?’

‘Do it!’ Jute snapped, suddenly annoyed at having his word challenged.

Buen seemed to remember himself and he ducked his head, touching his chest. ‘Aye, cap’n.’

‘Everyone’s on edge, luv,’ Ieleen murmured from his side.

‘I’ll give him the edge of my hand.’

‘It’s a steep gravel strand,’ Dulat shouted. ‘Wide, though.’

‘Have to do,’ he answered.

‘Steady on,’ the lad shouted to Lurjen.

Black smoke now wafted in a choking thick cloud from the pot Buen had set. Sailors moved the iron brazier to keep as much of the ship upwind as possible. The smoke plumed low and heavy over the waves, as if the Dawn were unravelling a scarf.

The shore now hove into view. In the deep gold of the setting sun Jute made out a steep rise of black stone gravel leading to the last remnants of the narrows’ cliffs: an inland rise of perhaps no more than a chain, topped by long wind-whipped grasses. And spread across the wave-washed gravel lay a litter of broken timbers, barrels, torn sailcloth and a tangled rigging, and the blackened skeletal hulls of two ships.

Jute tried to remember the stories he’d heard of the region and came up with a name. The south shore of the Dread Sea – the Anguish Coast. Wasn’t that the best of Oponn’s jests! They were like sailors on leave staggering blind drunk from one rats’ nest to the next. And he’d thought things couldn’t get any worse. ‘Any sign of survivors?’ he called up.

After a time the lad answered: ‘None as I can see.’

Jute wiped a hand across his brow and found it cold and sweaty.

‘Another ship!’ Dulat shouted then, making Jute flinch.

‘Whereaway?’ he snapped, alarmed.

‘Following. That Malazan galley p’rhaps.’

Jute let out a long breath. A hand brushed his and he snapped his head down: Ieleen reaching out. He took her hand and she gave a squeeze. Jute’s chest suddenly hurt with a great swelling pressure and he answered the squeeze. ‘Very good, Dulat,’ he said. ‘Take us in, slow and steady.’

‘Aye.’

The lad directed them to a relatively clear swath of strand and Buen drove them in at a strong speed. The bow ground and grated its way up the gravel and crewmen and women jumped over the sides, pushing and tugging on the hull. Buen then tossed out two stout hemp lines that most of the crew grasped to heave the Dawn as far up the slope as possible. The lines were staked into the gravel.

Jute climbed down over the side. Ieleen, he knew, would remain on board. She hadn’t set foot on land for some years now and he’d chided her on it, but she remained adamant and so he’d relented. It was a silly superstition to his mind, but it was important to her and he really couldn’t care either way.

The black gravel crunched under his boots. Letita stood awaiting him, still armoured, helmet under an arm. ‘I want a perimeter, a picket, and a watch. And send out some scouts. What’s past that short rise?’

She saluted. ‘Aye, captain.’

He next tracked down Buen. ‘Gather some of this wrack for fires. Both for cooking and for signals.’ The man nodded his assent but appeared unhappy with the idea of casting signals far and abroad. Jute then ran into a grinning Dulat who was inspecting the unpacked casks and kegs of their remaining foodstuffs. Jute made a show of studying him long and hard as if puzzled.

The lad’s smile faltered and he asked, uneasy, ‘Yes, captain?’

‘Why aren’t you at your post, sailor?’

‘My post? Ah, well – we’ve hauled up, haven’t we?’

‘What has that to do with anything?’

‘And it’s getting dark.’

‘You coming down makes it lighter, does it?’

The lad had to think about that, his head cocked. ‘No …’

‘Then get back up there and keep an eye out for those ships or any others!’

Dulat cast one last glance at the stores, sighed his longing, then saluted and jogged off for the ship. Jute clasped his hands behind his back and paced off to a vantage from which to scan this most southernly bay of the Dread Sea. The Malazan ship was a black dot making its way to their location; of the other two vessels he could see no sign. As he watched it occurred to him that the Malazan silhouette was canted rather alarmingly to the starboard. There’s seamanship, he told himself. Keeping afloat despite every reason to be underwater.

The dark silhouette limped nearer. Its oars, a single bank on each side, flashed in the weakening sunset. The fires piled on the beach sent out clouds of grey smoke that sometimes blew over Jute as the contrary winds gusted and shifted. He spotted one of Letita’s marines, Gramine, and waved the man over.

‘Any word from the scouts?’

‘No sir. Not yet.’

‘Send Letita over when there’s news.’

‘She’ll come, sir.’

Jute gave a light snort. Nerves. Damned nerves. ‘Yes,’ he allowed. He returned to examining the Malazan galley. ‘I suppose she will.’