The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(31)

Mal shook his head in despair.

"I cannot go into a fight knowing you can't guard my back – worse, that I must defend you as well as myself."

"All right, all right. Tell you what: if you can go an hour without puking, you can teach me what you will."

He held out his hand, and Mal clasped it. "Done."

Ned retrieved his bucket and swabbed up the vomit, then went back out on deck and threw the bucket's contents into the sea, being careful to choose the leeward side so that it didn't blow straight back in his face. Hansford might be a illfavoured lout, but he was right about one thing: he really was getting the hang of this sailing business. And now he was to become a swordsman too. Well, they do say that stranger things happen at sea.

Ned woke with a start, and for a moment wondered where he was. Why was the house creaking like a ship in a storm? Oh, yes – because he was on a ship. Probably in a storm. And his bladder was as full as an alderman's belly.

He climbed out of his bunk, cursing as he banged his shins on the raised side. Mal muttered something in his sleep and rolled over. Ned staggered across the cabin, still barely half-awake, and fetched up against the table. He was sorely tempted to piss on one of the unused mattresses and save himself the bother of going out on deck, but he'd heard alarming tales about naval discipline. He'd rather get soaked again than endure a flogging.

He pulled on his still-sodden hose, groped his way to the door and heaved it open. Thankfully the rain had stopped, though the westerly wind drove the Falcon onwards as swiftly as her namesake. The only light came from a couple of lanterns, barely enough to pick out the sheen on wet timbers and the pale faces of the men on duty. It was enough. Ned wove across the deck to the welcome cover of the forward cabin.

The darkness within stank of sweat, tobacco and stagnant seawater, and only a narrow gangway was left between the rows of hammocks. Ned sidled down it, praying he wouldn't disturb any of the sleeping sailors. He didn't know if Hansford was on duty tonight or asleep in one of these canvas swaddlings, but either way he had no wish to encounter him. He had nearly made it to the far end, and the tiny jakes-cabin they called the heads, when his nemesis stepped out in front of him.

"What be ye doing abroad at this time o' night?" Hansford growled. "Come looking for a pretty boy to f*ck?"

"I've come for a piss, nothing more."

"Hear that, lads?" Hansford laughed softly, and two other sailors materialised out of the blackness, no more than shapes against the pale bulks of hammocks. "This 'un's come to get his prick out for us."

Ned tried to run for the cabin door, but one of the sailors blocked his way. Someone – Hansford? – grabbed his shirt from behind and pulled him backwards. Before he could cry out, a fist connected with his belly and his aching bladder shed its load.

"Aw, the little babby pissed 'unself," Hansford crooned. "Better get him into the heads, boys, before he shits his breeches as well."

"Bastards!" Ned panted, catching the doorframe with one flailing hand and bracing his feet against the deck.

One of the sailors ducked and grabbed his ankle, hauling it up so that Ned was now suspended between his captors like a sack of turnips. He struggled as if the very devils of Hell had hold of him, but the doorframe slipped from his grasp and he was carried into the fetid blackness beyond.

Mal twitched awake and heard the cabin door creak shut.

"That you, Ned?"
There was no answer. Mal hitched himself into a sitting position, noting that he felt less queasy than he had done for a while. He turned to see a dark shape moving about the cabin.

"Ned?"

The figure leapt towards him, the sweep of his arm alerting Mal to his intent. Mal dodged and rolled over the side of the cot, landing heavily on the deck as the blade thunked into the wood where he had been lying. He carried on rolling until he was sure he was out of reach, then leapt to his feet. The assassin was between him and his blades, damn him. Mal dodged back around the table. The man hesitated, and Mal cast his mind about the cabin in search of a weapon. A lantern, on the hook behind and to his left. No point in a feint; they could barely see one another in the darkness.

He stepped back and reached up to his left, fingers brushing the lantern's greasy exterior. In a moment he had it unhooked, and transferred it to his right hand. Throw or swing? The assassin chose that moment to dash around the end of the table. Swing it was, then. He parried the incoming blade and continued to back away around the table. Just a little further, then he could get back to his bunk before his opponent and retrieve his weapons.

A cry rang out in the night air, distant but shrill. Ned? Mal threw the lantern at the assassin and ran for his bunk, scrabbling at the back of the mattress until he found his rapier and dagger. He turned just in time to catch another downward-angled thrust, this time on the sheathed rapier. Seizing the scabbard close to the tip with his other hand, he pushed his opponent backwards. The man staggered and almost fell, giving Mal time to draw both blades.

"That evens the odds, eh?"

The assassin began backing towards the cabin door. Mal lunged, driving the forty-inch blade across the space between them. The man cried out; a hit! Then his heavier blade crashed down on the rapier, driving it towards the deck.

Before Mal could pull the rapier back for another strike, light flooded the cabin.

"What's all this?" Raleigh bellowed. "Catlyn? And who are you?"