Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(4)

He’d ordered a stein of beer, which finally arrived at his table only because he’d proved himself a paying customer; something which might end soon enough. He supposed he could afford the short jaunt across Black Strait to Stygg on the mainland, and from there it was but a hop and a skip overland south across the Great Ice Wastes to Stratem, wasn’t it, my lad? He had the money for that at least. Or he could always join the Mare navy. They at least were recruiting. Not that they’d take a foreigner, and certainly not a blasted ex-Malazan who’d been at the naval engagement where the much vaunted Mare galleys had been razed to the waterline by said invaders and their allies.

He sipped the beer and damned that Katakan captain he’d hired. Once Fist slipped below the horizon the man turned round! He should’ve put his sword to his throat and forced him to sail on east. ’Course, there was no way he could’ve kept the whole crew at knife point for two weeks – but at least he’d have gotten off the wretched island.

Patience, he told himself, Kylarral-ten, son of Tulo, of the People of the Wind. There will be other chances.

Abyss, maybe a foreign trader would put in and he’d be able to hire on as crew. He was wondering how long it would be before that happened, and whether he had enough coin, when someone eased himself down into the chair opposite.

‘You are looking for a ship,’ the fellow said, and crossed his arms. He was wearing a canvas shirt, ragged and much patched, and his trousers were similar. His face and neck were sun- and wind-darkened to the Mare sailor’s usual deep polished brown. An antler-handled dirk stood up from the strip of hair rope he wore tied as a belt. His dark eyes held the common disapproval and scarcely hidden hostility Kyle usually found directed at him as the cut of his leathers, his belt, sheath and boots, labelled him as being of those recent invaders.

Kyle allowed a guarded nod. ‘Unsuccessfully,’ he said.

‘I speak for Tulan Orbed, Master of the Lady’s Luck. He is interested in your talk of lands east of here across the Bloodmare Ocean.’ The man’s face and tone, however, made it plain that he was not.

‘Those lands are so close the Bloodmare Ocean should be named a strait.’

The sailor leaned forward to push his stubbled chin out over their tiny round table. ‘Listen, Malazan. We Marese are the greatest sailors of the age. If there was any such land so close then it would be our colony by now.’

Not if those lands are the ones I seek, my friend, Kyle silently rejoined. He also thought it politic not to mention that the combined Malazan and Moranth Blue navies, having defeated the Mare navy, might have a word to say about who were the greatest sailors of the age. In any case, he allowed himself a small shrug. ‘What does Master Tulan Orbed say?’

The sailor fell back, scowling. Knife scars on his cheeks and chin twisted and paled a ghostly white as they stretched. ‘He would meet you to discuss the matter. He would have you come on board.’

‘When?’

‘Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever,’ and he echoed Kyle’s indifferent shrug.

‘Then I will come this night.’

‘We would require payment before we push out,’ he warned, and he thrust his chin forward once again.

Kyle stood, tossed a coin to the table. ‘That is for your master and me to discuss, I should think.’

He left the tavern not even glancing back. The fellow had made his disapproval obvious. There was nothing more to discuss. He headed to the wharf, or rather series of wharves. For Kevil, as he had discovered, like all Mare cities, was really nothing more than a land-based depot and servicing centre for their extraordinary, apparently unsinkable, galleys.

At least, he reflected, they may not sink but the Moranth certainly proved that they do burn.

He walked the uneven cobbles of the wharf’s main way. It bore ruts from centuries of foot and cart traffic. The cortex of many stones had eroded through to the creamy brown flint beneath. Through the evening gloom of clouds, smoke and mist he could just make out the looming shapes of the nearest moored vessels. All thrusting so tall and proud their sculpted galley bow-figures of waves, dolphins, and, of course, the obligatory women.

Well … maybe not quite so proud these days.

Dragging steps behind announced the resentful sailor following. Kyle searched for and found a lad lounging among the piled cargo of boxes and bales. He approached; the lad made a show of ignoring him. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m looking for the Lady’s Luck.’

A lazy sullen gaze scoured Kyle up and down. The gaze slid away. ‘Her mate’s a knife thrust behind you.’

‘Where’s his ship?’

The lad just smiled his contempt and crossed his arms, leaning farther back.

Calm, Kyle, he reminded himself. Calm. It’s worth it to get out from among these ignorant inward-looking people.

He headed on. Movement on his left and the mate appeared. He decided to give the man another chance. ‘This direction, I assume.’

The mate said nothing.

So, am I right or wrong? If they reached the end of the wharf, he decided he’d toss the man off.

After a long silent walk, interminably long it seemed to him, the mate edged his head over and muttered a grudging, ‘The Lady’s Luck.’

The famed galleys of Mare, when not drawn up for repairs, were each housed in their own slip flanked by piers allowing easy access to the long slim vessels. The effect of the league-long line of such berths was of a great set of teeth deployed ready to bite the waters of the bay.