Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(82)

‘A moment,’ the man called. Shortly afterwards a rope and wood ladder came clattering down. Jute stared up. ‘Wait here,’ he told his oarsmen, who all nodded, quite happy to remain.

He found the deck empty but for the old man. Jute peered about, a touch confused; normally such a huge vessel would require an equally large crew. Yet the vessel was unnaturally quiet but for the normal creaking and stretching of cordage and planks. Indeed, the old man appeared quite put out by his presence. It occurred to him that very possibly the only reason he now stood upon the deck was the fact that he had been raising a ruckus below.

‘What do you want?’ the scrawny old fellow growled, his voice low.

‘To speak to Lady Orosenn,’ he replied loudly.

The old man winced. ‘Keep your voice down,’ he hissed.

‘Why?’

‘You may disturb the Primogenitrix!’ the man shouted, angered, then ducked, glaring his rage.

‘I see. Well, won’t you go and see if she may be disturbed?’

The old fellow chewed on that for a time, his expression sour. Then he gave a curt jerk of his head and scuttled off. Jute waited. Alone now, in the quiet, he cast about for some hint of the crew’s presence, but all he noticed was the smell. The ship fairly reeked of foreign spices, and unpalatably so, too. He held a hand to his nose. Beneath the cloying scents he believed he also detected a faint whiff of rot. Perhaps even of decomposition.

The old man returned. He waved Jute off. ‘She won’t see you. Now go away.’

‘Go away?’ He peered past the scarecrow fellow to the stern cabin. ‘She seemed very approachable before …’

‘Well, she’s busy now.’

‘Doing what?’

The fellow frowned even more darkly, knotting his brows. ‘Sorcerous things. Now go – you are in great danger.’

‘Danger of what?’

The fellow drew breath to shout or argue, but caught himself and clamped his mouth shut. He leaned close, conspiratorially, and lowered his voice: ‘Perhaps you would care for a tour of this curious vessel, yes? I think you would find the lower decks of particular interest …’

‘Velmar,’ the rich contralto of Lady Orosenn called, ‘who is that you are speaking to?’

The old man jerked upright, still glaring his rage. ‘Captain Jute, m’lady.’

‘Is that so?’ The woman emerged from the murk. She loomed just as impressively tall as before, still wrapped in her loose robes, her head hidden in a headscarf, her veil in place.

Jute bowed. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, madam.’

‘Not at all. You are concerned, no doubt, about the choking wardings that have settled upon us.’

Wardings? Jute wondered. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘We seem to have lost our way.’

‘Such is one of their purposes.’

‘My, ah, pilot is attempting to find the way. But I fear the task is beyond her.’

The woman tilted her head, regarded him with her large, almost luminescent, golden-hazel eyes. ‘And you are concerned for her.’

‘Indeed.’

The woman nodded her great head, and Jute thought he heard a sigh. She turned away to the ship’s side, resting a hand atop the railing. ‘Your feelings do you credit, Jute of Delanss. I must admit I have been selfish. I had hoped to remain anonymous. To not have to … exert myself … as yet. But I see now that in doing so I have allowed a terrible burden to fall to another. A burden that should rightfully be mine.’

Velmar raised a hand. ‘My lady! This is none of your affair.’

She regarded her attendant then offered Jute what he thought a dry chuckle. ‘We work at cross purposes, my priestly guardian and I. You must forgive him. His only concern is my safety. Whereas the safety of others concerns me.’

She turned back to the railing, gazing off towards the Silver Dawn. ‘I sense your pilot’s struggle, Jute. She is drowning. The Sea of Dread will swallow her … as it would you all. Unless I finally choose to announce myself.’ She raised a hand, gesturing. ‘So be it. It is done.’

‘My lady!’ Velmar hissed, uneasy. ‘We are not yet far enough north.’

She looked back at him. ‘We are now, Velmar. ‘The Dread Sea is far enough. Do you not feel it?’ She spread her arms, expanding her robes like sails. ‘Never have I sensed it so strongly.’ She shifted her attention to Jute. ‘I am a child of exile, Falaran. Yet I am returning home.’ She extended a long-fingered hand, inviting Jute to the side. ‘Return to your ship. You will find your pilot at ease. I shall take the lead in the Supplicant. You must secure your vessels to mine. On no account must you become separated. Spread the word, Jute of Delanss.’

Jute could not help it: he bowed to the sorceress. ‘I will. My thanks – our thanks.’ He climbed down the ladder, stepped into the rocking skiff. ‘Head across to the Ragstopper,’ he told the men at the oars.

After the Ragstopper, they crossed to Tyvar in the Resolute. Chase launches were lowered, lines were unwound, and the coming dawn saw them arranged in line: the Supplicant leading, followed by the Silver Dawn, the Ragstopper, and the Resolute.

When Jute, exhausted, finally climbed aboard the Dawn he found the stool next to the tiller arm empty and he peered about frantically. The steersman, Lurjen, pointed him to his cabin. He lurched within. Ieleen lay in bed. He sat gently and laid a hand to her cheek.