The Bird King(86)

“Another rogue wave?” she asked.

Gwennec looked into the surf.

“No,” he said after a moment, “too regular. It’s more like—like a tide coming in. Waves breaking somewhere close.”

“Which means what?”

“Land. It means land.”

Fatima stood, ignoring Gwennec as he shouted at her to keep down. She turned in a circle, looking for some sign, but there was only fog and the carrack and the fading echoes of voices.

“I don’t see anything,” she howled.

“You think I can explain this?” said Gwennec. “You think I can explain any of this? It looks like a tide breaking, that’s all I know. So for the love of Christ, get down before an arquebus catches you straight in the neck.”

Fatima shrank as another volley of lead popped and sang against the flank of the hull. There followed a moment of quiet as the smell of gunpowder dissipated. The cog began to list ominously.

“We’re sinking,” said Fatima.

“Well of course we’re sinking,” shouted Gwennec. “How much fire do you think a ship of this size can take? Someone has gotten off a lucky shot and punctured the hull below the waterline. It was only a matter of time.”

The waves beyond the railing of the deck had become a steady, rolling surf, loud enough to muffle the groaning of the cog as it began to buckle. Fatima sat with her legs sprawled in front of her. An empty barrel bounced across the width of the deck and lodged against the lowest point of the rail, where salt spray was already licking at the deck. Fatima realized with dismay that Stupid was gone. The pitch of the waves, the listing of the ship had carried him overboard without a sound, one small life claimed by water. Hassan was kneeling where the horse had been, his robe pooling around him in the rising foam, communing in silence with what had been. Tears stung Fatima’s eyes. She looked toward the carrack, which filled one half of the sky like a mountain under sail.

There was nothing left to do; or rather, there was only one thing left to do. Rising, she climbed the short steps to the stern castle and leaned into the tiller. It resisted her, and as she threw her weight against it, she heard a corresponding groan from deep within the ship. Slowly, the prow began to swing around, until the bowsprit pointed, needlelike, at the exposed hull of the carrack.

“What the hell are you doing?” called Gwennec.

“Take Hassan,” replied Fatima. “I think that barrel stuck against the railing over there will float, don’t you?”

“What do you mean? What are you saying?”

“If you get away, it’s not suicide,” she said, half to herself. “If we all die, it’s just silliness and dramatics.”

Gwennec looked from the tiller to the carrack and back again.

“You mean to ram them,” he said incredulously. “You’ll never get up enough speed, Fa. Not with us listing like this.”

“I don’t care. If one little hole can sink us, then one little hole can sink them. Now shut up and take Hassan and do as I say.”

Gwennec slammed his closed fist against the step nearest him, then pulled his hand back and slammed it down again twice more.

“You’re selfish,” he spat. “Hassan was right. Everything must be done your way, on your say-so. I’ll be damned before I cling to some barrel to save my own wretched life and let an unarmed girl go down with the ship.”

“I’m selfish,” muttered Fatima, pressing the bones of her hips into the sluggish tiller. “If I were a man, you’d call me a hero. Instead, you want to argue with me because I’ve reversed the order in which honor demands we must die.”

“Oh don’t be such an ass! I didn’t say anything about honor! Only I can’t stand the idea of you drowning, Fa, it’s a horrible way to die. You’re awake and in pain ‘til the very end—”

Fatima turned to look at him. He was on his knees on the steps with his face turned up toward her, blond stubble obscuring his jaw, his eyes flat and blue and full of horror. She stooped and pressed one hand to his roughened cheek and bent to kiss his brow.

“Help me,” she said. “Hassan has to live. If he dies, then I don’t believe in anything. God loves him, if God loves anyone at all. He’ll take care of Hassan, and if you’re together, He’ll take care of you too.”

“Then you go with Hassan. It’s you he needs, not me. I’ll stay with the ship. I’m the only real sailor between us, anyhow. Don’t ask me to leave you behind, Fa.” His eyes flickered at hers, pleading. Fatima saw that he would not be persuaded. She disengaged herself from the tiller and came down the steps, helping Hassan up from where he knelt near the railing. The empty barrel was already floating in the bed of foamy water that had swamped the lowest part of the deck.

“What are you doing?” asked Hassan. “What are—where—”

Fatima ignored him. She darted up the stairs to the stern castle and grabbed the map, bundling it into Hassan’s carry case, which swung by its strap from the table. Below her, Gwennec had taken off his cord and lashed it around the thickest part of the barrel; he took one of Hassan’s hands and curled it around the slender rope, as if teaching a child how to hold a spoon.

“You don’t let go,” he said. “No matter what, you hold on for dear life, because that’s what this is.”