The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(38)

Cursing under his breath he scrambled down the rigging as fast as he dared. At last he glimpsed the rail just below him. With a last burst of bravado he swung his feet back onto the rail, jumped backwards and spun in mid-air to land on the deck, then sprinted for the cabin.

"Mal, get up! Corsairs!"

Mal groaned. "What?" He propped himself up on his elbows and squinted at Ned.

God's teeth, I thought he was over the seasickness. He looks like the day's leftovers at Billingsgate fish market.

"Corsairs. Slavers, like as not."

Mal climbed unsteadily to his feet. "How far off?"

"I don't know. Not far enough."

"All right." He leant against the bulkhead for a moment, his expression distracted. "We'd probably best get up on deck, but try and stay out of the crew's way."

"Can't we stay in here?" Ned replied, looking around him. The cramped, stuffy cabin suddenly felt as welcoming as his own bedchamber back in Southwark.

"If the corsairs fire on us, we're better up there being shot clean dead than shredded by splinters from a cannon hit."

Ned retrieved Mal's sword belt and dagger from the bunk, feeling as sick as his friend looked. Mal threaded his rapier hanger onto the belt and cinched it around his hips. Ned swallowed. Now there was a sight to stiffen a man's sinews.

"Take your waster," Mal said. "It's not much of a weapon, but at least you know its weight and reach. We'll get you a sword if Raleigh has any spare."

Footsteps thudded overhead as men ran back and forth, putting on sail in an attempt to outrun the corsair ship. Mal and Ned left the cabin and made their way up to the poop deck. Raleigh was directing his men with calm efficiency, as if being attacked by pirates were an everyday occurrence.

"Ah, Catlyn," he said as they approached. "Ready for your first sea-action?"

Mal's reply was drowned by a shout from aloft. "Enemy coming about, captain!"

"So, they have made their decision," Raleigh said. "May God protect us."

They all crossed themselves.

"Sure I can't persuade ye to exchange that hat-pin for a more fit weapon?" Raleigh asked Mal, patting the hilt of his own backsword.

"Thank you, no," Mal replied. "I'll take my chances with the blades I know."

"Please yourself; it's no loss to me." Raleigh turned back to his crew. "All hands to the guns!" He patted his first mate on the shoulder and added in quieter tones, "More speed, Master Warburton. As much as she can give us."

The corsair galley was running before the wind at alarming speed, her oars shipped but ready to be deployed at a moment's notice. As she came nearer, Mal could make out the crew leering at them from the rigging, sun-darkened faces contrasting with the bright colours of kerchiefs or half-concealed by wild black hair. Not all were Moors, however; here and there he spotted the bleached hair and reddened skin of men from lands far north of Africa. Dutch, probably, or perhaps even renegade Englishmen. There were always a few who sought mayhem like others sought wine or women.
"Remember what we practised," he told Ned. "Keep your weapon low and close. Don't be tempted by anger to raise it up and leave yourself vulnerable."

"I'll try," Ned muttered.

Mal caught his gaze. Ned was terrified, but trying very hard not to show it. Of course. He's never been in a real fight before, not one with guns firing and deadly blades on all sides. Mal chuckled ruefully.

"What?" Ned glowered at him.

Good. A little anger will take the edge off his nerves. Just not too much. "Don't worry. You'll do better than I did in my first battle."

"Why? What did you do?"

"Very nearly shat myself with terror, for one thing," Mal replied with a smile. "And dropped my pike on the sergeant's head. Twice."

Ned laughed. Into silence.

Raleigh's crew watched in fascinated horror as the corsair ship changed course again, heading straight for their stern.

"What's it going to do? Ram us?" Ned asked.

The galley was barely a hundred yards behind them now, and sat so low in the water that Mal could look down onto its bow deck from his position in the stern. The mouths of two large cannon stared back at him.

"Jesu help us," one of the nearby sailors muttered, turning his swivel gun as far on its mount as he could, in an effort to train it on the galley.

"What is it?" Mal asked.

"They're going to rake us." When Mal gave him a puzzled look he added, "Fire on our stern."

"And that's bad, is it?"

"It's the weakest part of the hull. Any shot that hits us will tear the length of the lower decks."

"Hard a'larboard!" Raleigh yelled at the helmsman. "All larboard guns prepare to fire!"

The galleon heeled to the left, lines thrumming like lute-strings as the sails fought the wind. Slowly, too slowly. Puffs of white smoke issued from the corsair cannons, followed a moment later by a low thunder – and Mal staggered against the rail as the poop deck bucked underfoot. Behind him men screamed.

"Get down there and help carry away the injured," Raleigh told Mal. He turned to his crew. "You there, fire on their gunners at will."