Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(51)

Back on board Mael’s Greetings, Shimmer immediately sought out Gwynn and Petal. She found them already together at the ship’s side. ‘How did you do it?’ she asked. They exchanged surprised, and rather alarmed, glances.

‘We thought …’ Petal began, ‘that is … we were just discussing how Blues could have managed …’

‘But he didn’t do it.’

‘As I said,’ Gwynn cut in, looking satisfied. ‘I detected no active Warren-manipulation at all.’

‘Yet there must have been something,’ Petal murmured. The possibility that there hadn’t been seemed to terrify him.

They looked past her, nodding their greeting, and she turned to see the man himself flanked by Blues and a second figure: the scarecrow-tattered High Mage Cowl, wearing his usual mocking smile.

Of course. Cowl.

The one mage she’d forgotten. And why? Because she so very much wanted to forget the bastard. Ghelath edged his way forward through the gathered Avowed as they congratulated K’azz. ‘We can’t sail,’ he complained. ‘The moment we leave the bay we’ll wallow and capsize!’

‘Yes, Master Ghelath. Unship the oars. Make for the nearest Letherii vessel. It’s time to collect a down payment on my debt. Bars – organize a boarding party. Minimum bloodshed. Just throw them overboard.’

Bars gave a savage grin and saluted. ‘’Bout goddamned time.’ K’azz caught Shimmer’s eye. ‘Every chance, Shimmer,’ he said, as if by way of apology.

‘I understand.’

‘I’m doing them a favour, actually,’ he added, and he motioned to the island. ‘You saw the palisade? The guards?’

She frowned, puzzled. ‘Yes.’

‘I could order their other ships sunk, yes? But I won’t. That would condemn them all to death. Seems the locals don’t want them here – and there’s no food or water on that narrow strand of shit.’

He gave her a small smile then and turned away, heading for his cabin. Cowl remained behind and she caught his eye, beckoning him aside. When they had a modicum of privacy, she asked, her voice low, ‘How did you do it?’

The man’s maddening, mocking grin deepened. ‘Do what?’

She bit down on her irritation. ‘Sustain him.’

The mage appeared to be enjoying the discussion so much he had to wrap his arms around himself. ‘I did no such thing, Shimmer.’

‘No?’ She did not bother to hide her confusion. ‘You didn’t? Then who …?’

‘No one did. That is, other than K’azz.’

‘K’azz? But he is no mage – is he?’

‘He is not.’

‘Then … how?’

The man just smiled all the more. And he slowly turned away, grinning and chuckling. Shimmer wanted to strangle him. But that had been tried before: Cowl had had his throat cut and been strangled by Dancer himself. Yet he’d lived. Somehow he’d lived. Was that the secret these two shared? If so, she felt a new sensation stealing over her. She realized she no longer simply feared for her commander. She faced the closed cabin door. Now, she knew a strange new sensation: now she felt a rising dread of her commander.

K’azz – what are you becoming?

* * *

Burl slept poorly after his confrontation with Gaff and the crew. Over the following nights he jerked awake at every slight creak of hull timber or tick of wood from the cabin panelling. Whellen still slept soundly, as if under some sort of spell. The crew worked quietly, subdued and watchful. It did not help that there was so little to do; the Strike hardly moved at all. Only the weakest of icy winds urged it on.

As the days passed, Burl quit his cabin less and less. Why bother? There was nothing to see or do. And he did not like the way the crew watched him; as if these troubles were all his fault. He suspected that they were planning to throw not only Whellen overboard, but him as well for protecting the man. As the days passed, he became certain of it. He took to sitting facing the door to his cabin, sword across his lap. He even slept in the chair, jerking awake and snatching up the weapon whenever he nearly slid from his seat.

Hunger finally drove him out. He gave the form of his still immobile First Mate one last glance, then eased open the door. Sword out, he edged out on to the mid-deck. The soft diffused light of the day made him think it was late afternoon, though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard the ship’s bell.

To his surprise and horror he discovered the deck empty of any crew. Not one soul was in sight. He drew breath to bellow his outrage but something choked his throat, some nameless dread and suspicion: if everyone was gone then couldn’t who or what ever did it – couldn’t it – still be about?

He hunched into a fighting crouch, sword raised, and padded onward as quietly as he could. When he edged past the mainmast some instinct, or faint rustle, made him glance upwards and he thought he caught a glimpse of movement there at the lip of the crow’s nest high atop the mast. A pulled-away dark lump against the ice-blue sky that might have been the silhouette of a head.

He tried one leaf of the cargo hold doors but found them secured somehow from within. Strange, that. He searched the bows and found that indeed the ship was empty of all crew. He came across no sign of violence or struggle; no blood, scattered gear, or damage. Everything was secured, tied down and squared away. It was as if the crew, after taking care to ready for ship’s inspection, then piled into launches and abandoned the vessel. But that was not quite so: the two small-boats remained in their moorings.