Assail

* * *

Once Jute Hernan, late of Delanss, was certain the Silver Dawn had passed beyond of the maze of rocks that choked the entrance to the aptly named Fear Narrows, he loosed the terror that squeezed his own chest like bound cordage and inhaled fully. He allowed his gaze to rise inland, up the calm channel of the long twisting narrows itself.

What he saw waiting ahead did not give him much cheer. Tall sheer cliffs on both sides offered little or no anchorage. And the Dawn was in desperate need of refit and repairs after threading through the Guardian Rocks; she was leaking at the seams, stores were water-spoiled, and she was desperately short of sweet water. Once more, he did his best to dredge up the tales of this region that he’d soaked up with his warm milk and bread when a boy. They told of how those vessels with enough luck, or piloted with enough skill, to navigate the Guardian Rocks could look forward to shelter within a protected port called Old Ruse, itself one of the many wonders of the region.

Scanning the rearing cliff walls, he saw no hint of any such tranquil or welcoming harbourage. Perhaps it was all sailors’ fancies and flights of tale-telling round the alehouses. Yet so far the stories had proved accurate to some degree: yes, the lands could be found more or less south of Genabackis; yes, the north-east coast was warded and ringed by hidden rocks and shoals; and, yes, an even worse hazard along this stretch of shore was its inhabitants, who, having no interest in trade or relations with the outside world, treated any vessels within their reach as sheep to be slaughtered, thus supporting the mariners’ universal wariness of the Wrecker’s Coast. And if one did pass beyond all this, one did come to a narrow inlet warded by series after series of jagged rocks. A formation any vessel would only dare attempt during the hours of highest tides. The Guardian Rocks.

Now, according to all the tales, what lay before his crew of the pick of all the mariners and pirates of Falar was Fear Narrows: a hostile inhospitable chute which allowed access to the broad calm Sea of Dread. Deceptively calm. Or so the stories always went.

Jute headed for the Dawn’s quarterdeck, nodding encouragement to the men and women of the crew as he went. Not that he felt it – it was simply his role as he saw it: reassuring these volunteers, each of them daring and intrepid enough to answer his call to join a voyage like none before. A voyage to the ends of the world in search of riches, though for most, including himself, such a voyage was a reward in itself.

He thought of what might lie in wait for them beyond the Sea of Dread: fortresses constructed from the bones of earlier travellers foolish enough to trespass there; strangling mists; limitless fields of ice taller than any city tower; forests guarded by giants of ice and rime. And beyond all these, mountains harbouring a race said to be willing to offer any gift a traveller daring and tenacious enough to reach them might think to request, yet no gift worth the harrowing price demanded by these legendary Assail.

Jute mentally cast all such unknowns overboard. One threat at a time! Right now his job was to see to finding safe anchorage for the Dawn, and such harbourage looked to be scarce indeed.

At the stern stood their master steersman, Lurjen, a short and broad stump of a fellow, gripping the side-mounted steering arm. His leathers were darkened with sweat and more ran in rivulets down his bald, sun-burnished pate. His massive arms still appeared to quiver from the exertion of heaving the ponderous oar to the directions of their navigator, who sat on a short stool behind him, leaning forward, chin almost resting on her walking stick. Ieleen of Walk, Jute’s navigator and his wife. A legend she was among the mariners of Falar, and some whispered witch or sorceress of Ruse, for her seeming miraculous intimacy with wave and channel. All the more fantastic as she was completely blind.

‘Sorceress you are, my dear!’ Jute called. ‘Your reputation is unshakable now.’ Sorceress indeed, dearest, he added silently. How else did you steal my heart away?

‘I just listen to the waves, luv,’ she answered, and she winked one staring wintery-white eye. ‘Our friends are still with us,’ she added, motioning to the rear with a tilt of her head.

Jute cast a glance behind where the last of the rocks now disappeared from sight. Indeed, some three or four vessels were still treading their wake. When they’d arrived out beyond the mouth of the narrows they’d found a great mass of foreign vessels at anchor awaiting the right tide. Or just waiting and watching to see who would be the next fools to dare attempt the jumbled currents and hidden tearing teeth of the Guardian Rocks.

For a time they had waited and watched as well. Six different vessels they saw make the attempt: each went down in a mass of shattered timber. Jute thought he could almost hear the screams of the crews as they were sucked down into the curling, tumbling currents and dashed against the rocks. And after each attempt a wash of corpses and litter of rope and broken wood rode the waves out on to the equally aptly named Sea of Hate.

Then, one day just before dawn, Ieleen gave him the nod and he ordered all the crew to the oars – no sails for this narrow passage – and they’d set out, following her directions. Their navigation through the shoals down the Wreckers’ Coast must have impressed the masters of other ships, for five other vessels quickly followed their route.

Of his part in that turning twisting run Jute was not proud. Ieleen barked her commands while Lurjen grunted and huffed, heaving the steering arm back and forth. The Dawn yawed and pitched so steeply that half the time one or the other side’s oars waved uselessly to the sky. Yet his love seemed to have taken all this into her calculations as she sat staring sightlessly, her head tilted ever so slightly, as if listening to someone whispering in her ear. All he could do was hang on tight to the mainmast, shouting to keep order among the crew as oars struck rocks to throw men bodily from the benches, or knock them senseless. Timber groaned as hidden rocks scoured the sides and keel. Many times the crew were not so much rowing as using the oars as poles to fend off looming black pillars that jutted from the foaming waters like saw-teeth.

Then, of a sudden, like the passing of a thunderstorm, it was over. The waters streamed beneath the bow as smooth as glass. The crew slumped where they sat, breathless, utterly spent, though with enough energy to weakly laugh and cuff one another. And he’d planted a kiss on Ieleen’s cheek and called her a wonder.

Now, glancing back, he saw only three of the five vessels that had set out following their lead. They also coursed along, oars idle for the nonce. Obviously just as relieved, or disbelieving, as they. ‘Yes,’ he told Ieleen. ‘They’re still with us. Two are of a strange cut to me, though one’s a Malazan galley or I’m a Kartoolian eunuch.’

‘You’re no eunuch, luv. I’ll attest to that.’

Pained, he lowered his voice. ‘Not in front of the crew, dearest.’

She waved a hand. ‘Oh, they’re happy when we’re happy. They just don’t like it when we fight.’

Jute cleared his throat. ‘Well. Where we go from here is a mystery to me.’

‘Something’s ahead,’ she answered and lifted her chin. ‘The wind sounds different.’

He grunted his acknowledgement. ‘A touch of sail, Buen,’ he called to his first mate.

‘Aye, aye.’

‘Dulat, get up top and get an eye out.’

The youngest and slightest of the crew jumped up from a bench and exclaimed, ‘Thank the gods for that!’

‘No use anyway,’ Sarsen, a giant of a fellow out of Gano, grumbled. ‘It was like having a flea on my elbow.’

‘Someone has to show the ox where to go,’ Dulat retorted.

Sarsen peered up at him, squinting. ‘Better run up to your perch, little flea.’

Dulat set his feet on the mast and started up. ‘Now I have to show everyone where to go!’

Jute grinned; the crew was in good spirits. And they should be, given what they’d just accomplished. He waited until Dulat had had a good look then called, ‘Anything?’

‘Might be a cove or a channel ahead on the starboard cliffs.’

‘Very good.’ He turned to Ieleen. ‘Anything more?’

She sniffed the air. ‘There’s a settlement close.’

‘Old Ruse, then.’

‘Perhaps.’

He returned to Dulat. ‘Direct us over!’

‘Aye.’

‘We’re seeping, Buen. What’s the rate?’

‘Too fast for comfort. We have to make repairs.’

After a time Dulat shouted down: ‘Our shadows are following.’

Jute mentally shrugged. Nothing they could do about it. Moreover, since this journey promised to be a long one, they’d no doubt be seeing a lot more of each other in any case. And there’s strength in numbers, a more cautious voice whispered in his mind.

The crew rowed at a slow easy pace; in the slim cut of the narrows the sail did little to help. Jute kept his eyes trained on the gap in the cliff wall ahead. Steadily it became clear to any who cared to look that it held some sort of channel. When they came abreast of the opening, everyone saw at once that it opened on to a broad cove that was a natural harbour. Wharves, slips and docks lined its shore, while above rose the stone buildings of a town. Old Ruse, apparently.

‘Make for port!’ Jute bellowed, relieved. Thank hoary old Mael himself! He’d feared savages populated the entire land and they’d not be able to put in anywhere.

Lurjen grunted and grumbled anew as he swung the steering arm over. Ieleen sat still, hands atop her walking stick, humming a tuneless song to herself. As usual she was content to let him handle the mundane tasks. He knew she’d step in should she sense anything awry.

The channel was a narrow one. There was hardly room for the oars. Before entering the wide cove they passed tall towers to either side at the end of the channel – some sort of defensive installation against raiders or pirates, no doubt.

Within, the crew eased up on the oars to peer about in wonder. It was a town hacked from the very stone of the narrows’ cliffs. Great clouds of sea-birds crowded the ridges of the surrounding cliffs. Their screeching and cawing drowned out all other sounds.

‘Make for the nearest berth,’ Jute told Lurjen. The Dawn curved across the smooth waters on its own for a time. Lurjen directed it to the north side of the broad arc of the harbour.

‘Our friends are with us,’ Dulat called down.

Jute glanced to the stern: so they were. Their entourage nosed into the cove one after the other. Closer now, Jute recognized the lines of the first vessel: Genabackan. No doubt some damned pirate out to make a quick fortune. The middle vessel, a tall three-tiered ship, remained a mystery. He’d frankly never seen anything like it on any sea, from Quon to Seven Cities. The Malazan galley brought up the rear. Quite dilapidated Jute thought it. A veteran, that one. Or just damned sloppy.

‘Movement all about,’ Dulat called, sounding bemused.

Jute turned to the wide arc of wharves and slips. Indeed, crews were swarming out on to the ships and boats, which, it now occurred to him, were a mishmash of various styles and origins. Oars slapped the water up and down the harbour.

Behind him Ieleen had stopped humming. ‘Luv …’ she began tentatively.

A small voice whispered in Jute’s thoughts: oh, dammit to Mael.

‘Swing us round!’ he bellowed to Lurjen though the man stood right next to him. The squat fellow savagely heaved the thick wooden steering arm over. ‘Port side back oars!’

The port side oarsmen raised their arms high to bite deep then pushed with all their might, gasping and grunting. The Dawn lurched into a tight circle. Glancing back, Jute saw their companions reach the same conclusion as all three vessels now struggled to bring themselves about. The Malazan galley was the quickest to respond, obviously crewed by old hands. The Genabackan vessel followed. The foreign ship, however, responded slowly and awkwardly; she was clearly a top-heavy ungainly design. How she could possibly have made it through the rocks was a mystery to him.

‘Archers!’ Dulat warned from atop the mainmast.

Jute cast a quick glance over the arc of ships approaching under oar. Arrows flew here and there, but not a steady volley. Not yet. Just testing the range. No, too distant yet. It appeared to his eye that these Old Ruse pirates had sprung their trap too soon. They might all make the channel before being intercepted and engaged. All except the tall three-tiered vessel that, now that she was circling near, had the look of a strange class of oared galleon about her.

‘The entrance!’ Dulat yelled, and real alarm choked his voice. ‘The towers!’

Something was happening at the channel entrance. The water across the way was foaming and tumbling. Squinting, Jute made out chains rising from the course. They climbed each tower wall, crossing the narrow channel from side to side.

A gods-damned harbour chain. No wonder they jumped to the attack. We’re trapped within. It occurred to Jute that in a way they were still on the Wreckers’ Coast, after all. And, he supposed, this town must be its damned capital city. They’d avoided every hazard, side-stepped every pit so far, only to walk right into the mouth of the very last trap. He almost hung his head at the injustice of it.

‘I know your moods, luv,’ murmured Ieleen. ‘Don’t you despair.’ She shifted her blind gaze to the starboard. ‘That foreign vessel near?’

‘Yes,’ he answered, his voice heavy. ‘We’re passing her.’ Not that any of it mattered any more.

‘Well. You call me a sorceress …’ and she offered another wink.

Jute frowned his confusion. Sorceress? Even if she was, they were still trapped.

‘The Genabackan trader’s circling behind!’ Dulat called.

Jute looked. The Genabackan vessel was now heading to brush past them as if meaning to intercept the entire fleet. As she stormed abreast, oars flashing, a man hailed them from her side. ‘Wait by the channel!’ Then they were gone.

That was strange enough, but what was really odd was that the man was armoured like a heavy infantryman. He wore a white tabard over a banded hauberk of iron and iron greaves and vambraces, was bearded with a great mane of black hair, and had a helm in one hand and the tall grip of what must be a great bastardsword at his side in the other.

But what was strangest of all was that the entire deck was jammed from one side to the other with soldiers all armoured alike. All wearing white tabards. And on the chest of each tabard a triangular shield shape of a pale sky blue.

‘There must be over two hundred soldiers on that ship!’ Dulat cried out, and he threw his hands in the air in amazement.

‘We’re not out yet,’ Jute growled under his breath. Blue – that struck a cord in his memory somehow. ‘Who in Togg’s name was that?’ he murmured to himself, and he crossed his arms to tap a thumb to his lips.

‘The voice of command, dear,’ Ieleen answered. ‘Now do head for the channel.’

His response was a snort, but he nodded to Lurjen.

‘And I may be blind but shouldn’t we ready our own archers?’ she added sweetly.

Jute let a hard breath escape between his teeth. Not that it would matter. He searched amidships, found their master-at-arms. ‘Letita! Ready archers!’

‘Aye!’ she answered, ever eager.

Half the crew at the oars stood for the detail. Jute knew he was lucky; some of the greatest sea-fighters in Falar had volunteered for this voyage, archers and swordsmen and women. If this were an even fight he’d place his bet on them any day – but they faced over a hundred damned ships.

‘The Malazan’s drawn near one o’ the towers,’ Dulat shouted. He was shading his gaze. ‘They’re readying springals and arbalests at stern and bows.’

Jute squinted at the far galley. Siege weapons? Did they mean to try to take the tower?

‘Engagement with them Genabackans!’ Dulat called.

Jute almost shook his head; the lad was actually excited by all this. Couldn’t he see how it would play out? It would soon be his own guts spread upon the waters.

The Genabackan pirate ship with its crew of soldiers had pretty much ploughed into the front rank of wrecker vessels. It was now surrounded by the rag-tag flotilla of ships and boats. Grapnels flew. They were being boarded from all sides.

‘That foreign ship!’ Dulat shouted.

The tall vessel had fallen behind as well. It too was being surrounded as it and the Genabackan now held the rear, engaging the wreckers, while the Dawn closed on the Malazan vessel.

Jute watched the fighting, fascinated despite his dismay. Hordes clambered up the side of the Genabackan ship. From across the smooth waters of the cove came the clash of iron and screams of the wounded. Shapes came tumbling over the sides. Most fell limp to splash into the water or crash on to decks.

‘They’re slaughtering them,’ Dulat breathed, awed.

Aye, for the nonce, Jute added darkly. But eventually they’ll be overrun. Numbers will tell. He shifted his gaze to the foreign ship. The wreckers appeared to be having trouble climbing the sides of the supernaturally tall vessel. Some few made it, clambering hand over hand on ropes, up and over the side. But what became of them he couldn’t see. Nor in all this time had he seen any crew on board either, for that matter.

No shouts or noise of fighting crossed the water from that vessel.

Then he physically jumped as explosions thumped the air behind him. They slapped him in the back to concuss the air from his lungs and the Dawn shuddered from stem to stern. Some of the oarsmen lost their grips, so shocked were they. He turned, gaping. ‘What in the name of the dead god of death was that?’

Blossoming clouds of smoke enmeshed the top of the north tower. Even as Jute watched, disbelieving, amazed, stone shards came flying through the swelling black clouds to arc over the waters before they struck, punching great tall towers of spray.

Dulat, atop the very highest spar, threw his arms in the air, howling in triumph: ‘Munitions! The damned Malazans are demolishing the tower!’

Jute felt an immense weight lift from his shoulders. By the Queen’s soothing embrace … there’s hope yet. He swung his gaze to the Genabackan; but have we the time? The vessel was completely surrounded, its sides aswarm with boarders – yet from the furious action on the deck, the soldiers fought still. The foreign vessel was equally engulfed and overrun, but oddly, disturbingly, quiet.

‘Send us a touch southerly there on the channel,’ he told Lurjen, who nodded profoundly, his eyes huge.

‘Yessir.’

‘They’re reloading their arbalests!’ Dulat called.

Jute ignored that to study the wreckers closing upon them in what he now understood to be a fleet of captured launches, traders’ coasters and unsuspecting travellers’ galleys. ‘Take the range,’ he called to Letita. She nodded, now fully armoured, her iron helm with its long camail of chain link hanging past her neck, bronze cheek-guards closed. She raised her bow.

The shot fell just short of the bow of the closest vessel.

‘Target that nearest one,’ Jute ordered.

‘Ready archers!’ Letita shouted. ‘Fire!’

All forty archers loosed. Most of the flight struck true over the open galley, raising chaos among the oarsmen. ‘Fire at will,’ Jute called. ‘Pound them!’

Buen appeared on the quarterdeck and handed Jute his blade, wrapped in its belt, which he tied on. The first mate then thumped into the wood of the deck next to Lurjen the wicked cross-hilted parrying daggers the man favoured for close-in fighting. The steersman grinned and winked his thanks.

Jute turned to Ieleen. ‘Sorry, lass,’ he said. ‘It’s time you went below.’

His wife shook her head. ‘I can’t hear so good down below.’

‘Ieleen …’

‘Never mind ’bout me.’

Jute sighed his exasperation. ‘Lass …’

She just smiled. ‘Every time we have this argument. And every time you lose. Now, forget about me and mind our speed.’

Jute spun to the bow and choked. They were so close to the channel opening he could make out the individual weed-draped links of the chain swinging and dripping ahead. ‘Ease off, y’damned blind fools!’ he bellowed. ‘Back oars!’

Movement above caught his eye: Dulat hunching, one arm covering his head and the other hugging the very tip of the mainmast where he sat atop the yardarm. Oh, for the love of D’rek … ‘Back oars!’

Multiple punches assaulted his ears and chest. Clouds of pulverized stone and black smoke blossomed above. A rain of stone shards came arcing for the Dawn. ‘Take cover!’ he yelled and bent over Ieleen, hugging her to his chest.

The striking rock sounded like cloth ripping as it punished the decking and splashed all about. It reminded Jute of the impact of shot from arbalests during his naval engagements. Men and women of the crew grunted their pain or slumped, unconscious or dead, from dull thumping impacts. The huge links of the sea-chain rattled and bumped as they swung. Jute grunted himself as small stones and gravel pelted his back and shoulders. He cast an eye to the barrier and the length appeared to slump lower in the water.

Beneath him, Ieleen squeezed his arm in empathy. He straightened to see that Letita had not allowed her archers to let up. The foremost boat that had been heading for them now wallowed, having lost all headway, and she’d turned her attention to the next – but some six more now came closing in upon them.

‘I think this is it, dearest,’ he murmured to Ieleen.

‘You’re always saying that.’ Then her head snapped up as something captured her attention. Her brows rose and she breathed an awed, ‘Oh my.’

He followed her blind gaze; it was fixed upon the tall foreign vessel. Something strange sounded then. Or failed to sound. It was like the tolling of a massive bronze bell as tall as a house, but silent. Something came rolling from that ship. It struck sharp expanding waves in the water. It swept over all the wreckers’ vessels. Wood of oar and hull snapped and splintered as the invisible wave engulfed them.

‘Here it comes!’ Jute shouted, but heard nothing of his own voice. Indeed, at that moment it was as if he was deaf to every sound.

The Dawn rocked as if punched, pitching from side to side. Yet the concussion merely passed over them while at the same time utterly crushing the nearest wreckers’ boats as if clenching them in a giant’s fist. Ieleen, wrapped in his arms, let out a gasped breath, and he heard, faintly, ‘Now there’s a sorceress!’

Atop the mainmast Dulat threw his arms into the air. ‘Yeaw!’ he howled, or Jute thought he did, for he barely heard the man. ‘We won! We won!’

Won? Jute snorted. The spell, or ward, or whatever it was, had only bought them time. Behind this first wave of attackers far more were oaring down upon them. Even their Genabackan defenders, he noted, were assembling oars to withdraw from the wreckage of broken timbers and canted half-sunk hulls surrounding them. And something told him they shouldn’t count on their foreign ally to rescue them a second time.

He turned his attention then to the Malazans. Squinting, he could make out figures still working frantically to wind their springals and arbalests. Amazingly, the crew had kept to their duties through the sorcerous blast and the fusillades of rock and the threat of impending boarding. But then, he reflected, they must have seen much worse – should all the stories be believed.

The arbalests swung into position at stern and bow even as he watched. At some unheard command they fired in unison. He caught a momentary glimpse of the fat munitions flying up like dark eggs to disappear into the billowing smoke obscuring the tower’s heights. Fresh eruptions punished his ears and punched his chest. Cussors, he judged. They must be throwing waves of cussors at the installation. Those boys are damned serious about getting out of this trap.

A new sound grated its jagged course along Jute’s skull and spine. Through the swelling clouds of dust and smoke he thought he glimpsed the very stone of the tower, itself chiselled from the rock of the cliff-side, split away in two there at the top. A teeth-shaking thunder announced the length of bronze links, each perhaps as great around as his own waist, slithering and thumping its way down the stone side of the tower to crash into the channel. The top of the tower followed. It burst into shards as it fell then punched the water, sending up great spouts of foam and spray that reached even to the Dawn, spattering its decks.

A great roar went up from the crew and Jute slapped Lurjen’s meaty shoulder. ‘Ahead easy, master Buen!’ he called.

‘Aye!’

‘I want pole-men at the bows!’

‘Aye.’

Buen called commands, setting the rowers’ pace. Jute bent down to plant a kiss on Ieleen’s head. ‘I’m for the bows, love.’

‘Wouldn’t do to get stuck and block the channel, yes?’

‘I do believe our Malazan friends would blow us to Hood’s own cellar if we managed that.’

She laughed and waved him off. ‘I do believe they would.’

At the bows, Jute picked up a pole and leaned over the side. He felt a twinge of guilt at striking for the channel first, after the Malazan did all the work. But of the two vessels, they were unquestionably in the better position to make for the opening. Even as he watched, the Malazans were turning to follow. Further back, the foreign vessel’s bow was sweeping their way in an ungainly broad arc; to the rear, the Genabackan soldiers had turned their vessel broadside to the incoming second wave of ships and boats and was exchanging racking arrow-fire with some ten of them even as their oarsmen worked to keep them mobile.

Jute had time to wonder, amazed, how they’d fitted so many men on that ship when the grey shapes of jagged rock blossomed in the water beneath him and he readied his pole.

‘Two rods!’ one of the pole-men announced.

‘Steady on!’ Jute shouted.

‘One rod!’ a pole-man on the starboard side called.

‘A touch to port!’ Jute yelled to Lurjen.

Oars scraped the sheer cliffs to either side. It was suddenly very dark and chill in the shadow of the narrow slit. The pole-men kept jabbing. ‘A half-rod!’ one shouted, alarmed.

Damn the Twins! Nothing for it. Jute turned to Buen. ‘Keep going. Don’t stop for anything!’

Rock from on high pattered down upon the deck. Wood groaned and creaked as the hull grated over stone. Jute hoped to Mael that it was just piled wreckage and not some great obstinate boulder. The terrifying scraping and creaking passed, then the debris field fell away to reveal deep black waters.

Jute straightened in relief. He considered asking for more speed but decided against it. There was no need to risk banging against the cliff sides. When they broached the entrance the crew cheered again but Jute was quiet – for now there was but one thing to order. He caught Buen’s eye and called, ‘A westerly course up the narrows, First Mate.’

‘Aye,’ the man answered. His sun-burnished long face dropped its unaccustomed smile.

‘Slow,’ Jute added, then he turned to watch the entrance as it dropped behind them.

The Malazan was the first to exit, as Jute expected. It was a very long time before the next vessel emerged; by then a curve in the narrows was taking them out of sight. The tall foreign ship it was and Jute shook his head in amazement. Ye gods! The Genabackans covered the retreat of that great lumbering beast?

Then they were too far up the main channel and Jute turned his attention to finding some beach or cove to put in. He returned to the quarterdeck. Along the way he stopped at the mainmast to shout up, ‘Find us a landing, Dulat. Or you’re not coming down!’

‘Oh, no worries there, cap’n. We’ll sink long before that!’

Or be wallowing so bad we’ll have no control. In either case, time was limited. At the stern he called to Ieleen: ‘How’s the wind, lass?’

She tilted her head, her brow wrinkling in thought, and was quiet for a time. He and Lurjen kept quiet as well, awaiting her judgement. ‘It’s freshening ahead,’ she finally allowed. ‘Though how far I cannot say.’

Jute turned away, frowning. One good thing about sailing west: it was damned clear how much daylight they had remaining. That would put an end to things. There was no way he could sail into unfamiliar waters after dark. Have to drop anchor next to the base of one of these cliffs and risk being driven up against it.

He glanced behind, searching the narrows. There was the Malazan. Its master had it tagging along in the far distance, just keeping line of sight. Jute was puzzled. They could easily catch them if they wished; Jute had the Dawn keeping a slow pace.

Then he realized: the Malazan was holding back for that foreign vessel. Probably doing its best to keep a line of sight on her. But why bother? They were in a channel; there was no chance anyone could get lost. But what if he, Jute, found a slim hidden cove or inlet and put in? What if the way opened into a maze of islands or sand bars? That captain was playing a careful game.

It occurred to him then that if he wished, he could lose them now. Order chase speed and dash ahead to find this freshening wind then free all Dawn’s sail. This was a race after all. A selfish lunge to grasp what riches one could find and damn the slow ones to failure or death. Wasn’t that the point of chasing after gold or coin or any other fortune to be snatched from others or seized at sword-point? He’d leave them all completely lost, or he was an Untan dancing girl.

Yet they’d saved his life. Or, more important, saved the Dawn and all who served on her. Including his love. And so he could not in good conscience abandon them. Besides, travelling with Malazans armed stem to stern with munitions, a powerful sorceress, and a pocket army – if they survived taking on the entire wrecker fleet – could have its advantages.

‘The cliffs are slipping away!’ Dulat called from his perch. Jute was startled; he’d quite forgotten about the lad.

Indeed, the cliffs appeared to be smoothing out, sloping down as they advanced through the narrows. Perhaps the end of this inescapable chute was near.

‘Strand on the south shore!’ Dulat called again, pointing.

Jute squinted; he couldn’t make it out. The light was gold and near straight on as the sun was falling to the horizon. ‘Take us in!’ he shouted up.

‘Three points to starboard,’ came the answer.

Jute turned to scan to the rear. No other vessel was in sight. The Malazans may have sunk; they’d looked uncommonly low in the water. He turned to find Buen on the mid-deck walk. ‘Light a smudge,’ he called.

The man gaped at him. ‘A smudge? Here? On an unknown shore?’

‘Do it!’ Jute snapped, suddenly annoyed at having his word challenged.

Buen seemed to remember himself and he ducked his head, touching his chest. ‘Aye, cap’n.’

‘Everyone’s on edge, luv,’ Ieleen murmured from his side.

‘I’ll give him the edge of my hand.’

‘It’s a steep gravel strand,’ Dulat shouted. ‘Wide, though.’

‘Have to do,’ he answered.

‘Steady on,’ the lad shouted to Lurjen.

Black smoke now wafted in a choking thick cloud from the pot Buen had set. Sailors moved the iron brazier to keep as much of the ship upwind as possible. The smoke plumed low and heavy over the waves, as if the Dawn were unravelling a scarf.

The shore now hove into view. In the deep gold of the setting sun Jute made out a steep rise of black stone gravel leading to the last remnants of the narrows’ cliffs: an inland rise of perhaps no more than a chain, topped by long wind-whipped grasses. And spread across the wave-washed gravel lay a litter of broken timbers, barrels, torn sailcloth and a tangled rigging, and the blackened skeletal hulls of two ships.

Jute tried to remember the stories he’d heard of the region and came up with a name. The south shore of the Dread Sea – the Anguish Coast. Wasn’t that the best of Oponn’s jests! They were like sailors on leave staggering blind drunk from one rats’ nest to the next. And he’d thought things couldn’t get any worse. ‘Any sign of survivors?’ he called up.

After a time the lad answered: ‘None as I can see.’

Jute wiped a hand across his brow and found it cold and sweaty.

‘Another ship!’ Dulat shouted then, making Jute flinch.

‘Whereaway?’ he snapped, alarmed.

‘Following. That Malazan galley p’rhaps.’

Jute let out a long breath. A hand brushed his and he snapped his head down: Ieleen reaching out. He took her hand and she gave a squeeze. Jute’s chest suddenly hurt with a great swelling pressure and he answered the squeeze. ‘Very good, Dulat,’ he said. ‘Take us in, slow and steady.’

‘Aye.’

The lad directed them to a relatively clear swath of strand and Buen drove them in at a strong speed. The bow ground and grated its way up the gravel and crewmen and women jumped over the sides, pushing and tugging on the hull. Buen then tossed out two stout hemp lines that most of the crew grasped to heave the Dawn as far up the slope as possible. The lines were staked into the gravel.

Jute climbed down over the side. Ieleen, he knew, would remain on board. She hadn’t set foot on land for some years now and he’d chided her on it, but she remained adamant and so he’d relented. It was a silly superstition to his mind, but it was important to her and he really couldn’t care either way.

The black gravel crunched under his boots. Letita stood awaiting him, still armoured, helmet under an arm. ‘I want a perimeter, a picket, and a watch. And send out some scouts. What’s past that short rise?’

She saluted. ‘Aye, captain.’

He next tracked down Buen. ‘Gather some of this wrack for fires. Both for cooking and for signals.’ The man nodded his assent but appeared unhappy with the idea of casting signals far and abroad. Jute then ran into a grinning Dulat who was inspecting the unpacked casks and kegs of their remaining foodstuffs. Jute made a show of studying him long and hard as if puzzled.

The lad’s smile faltered and he asked, uneasy, ‘Yes, captain?’

‘Why aren’t you at your post, sailor?’

‘My post? Ah, well – we’ve hauled up, haven’t we?’

‘What has that to do with anything?’

‘And it’s getting dark.’

‘You coming down makes it lighter, does it?’

The lad had to think about that, his head cocked. ‘No …’

‘Then get back up there and keep an eye out for those ships or any others!’

Dulat cast one last glance at the stores, sighed his longing, then saluted and jogged off for the ship. Jute clasped his hands behind his back and paced off to a vantage from which to scan this most southernly bay of the Dread Sea. The Malazan ship was a black dot making its way to their location; of the other two vessels he could see no sign. As he watched it occurred to him that the Malazan silhouette was canted rather alarmingly to the starboard. There’s seamanship, he told himself. Keeping afloat despite every reason to be underwater.

The dark silhouette limped nearer. Its oars, a single bank on each side, flashed in the weakening sunset. The fires piled on the beach sent out clouds of grey smoke that sometimes blew over Jute as the contrary winds gusted and shifted. He spotted one of Letita’s marines, Gramine, and waved the man over.

‘Any word from the scouts?’

‘No sir. Not yet.’

‘Send Letita over when there’s news.’

‘She’ll come, sir.’

Jute gave a light snort. Nerves. Damned nerves. ‘Yes,’ he allowed. He returned to examining the Malazan galley. ‘I suppose she will.’

The vessel drew nearer, silent but for the faint splash of oars. ‘I see the other ship!’ Dulat shouted then from his post atop the mainmast. ‘She has signal beacons burning at the bow!’

‘Very good, Dulat.’ He returned to watching the Malazan’s crippled approach. After a time, boots crunching through the gravel announced Letita. Jute turned and she saluted. ‘Grasslands inland,’ she reported. ‘Empty.’

‘These wrecks?’

‘Looted then burned here, on site.’

Jute eyed the charred skeletal ribs. He wondered aloud, ‘Burned on shore?’

‘Aye.’

‘Then someone’s here.’

Her gaze slid to the north where it rested, naturally narrowed and wary. ‘They’re gone now.’ Attractive eyes, he reflected as he had a number of times. Hazel with a touch of sea-green, if he had it right. The wind cast her ragged-cut black hair about.

‘You do not mix much with the crew,’ he observed.

Her gaze snapped to him. It remained narrowed, challenging now. ‘Nor do you.’

‘There is someone awaiting your return home to …’

‘Strike, sir. Yes.’

Strike still? He’d known she was a graduate of the famed military academy on that island, but was surprised to hear that she still considered it home. ‘Well … we’ll make it back. That’s the point of any journey, yes?’ and he gave a small laugh. She watched him in silence. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, that’s all for now.’

She saluted, ‘Very good, captain,’ spun on a heel and marched off.

So serious, he reflected. Well, she was early yet in her career. He returned to watching their companion’s progress. Closer now, the ship appeared even worse for wear. Battered and scarred. Its planking faded with age. He couldn’t make out the name scrawled below the bowsprit. It ground up on to the beach, but far lower than the Dawn. Some of his crew helped secure lines that they hammered into the gravel. Two figures clambered down its side. Jute went to meet them.

The foremost of the two was a squat wiry fellow, quite old. He was in much-worn leather armour, scoured where Malazan sigils of rank would once have ridden. His unkempt grey hair blew about in the winds and a grey-shot beard matched. His wrinkled features bore the faded slate hue of a native Napan. The second was equally wiry, spidery even, in common sailor’s jerkin and trousers, barefoot, with a mane of thin white hair and a pinched, worried face.

Jute extended an arm to the first fellow and they clasped wrists, sailor-style. ‘Jute Hernan, Master of the Silver Dawn. At your service sir. You have my eternal gratitude for getting us out of that trap.’

This fellow waved his other hand, dismissing the topic. ‘Ach – it was my own arse I was worried about. Cartheron, of the Rag-stopper. Our thanks for leading us through the rocks. We’d never have made it otherwise.’

Jute stared, quite taken aback. Cartheron? The Cartheron? One of the legendary captains of the Old Empire? Unlikely … yet how many Cartherons could there be? He released the man’s hand and nodded at the compliment. ‘Well, as you say. We were worried about our arses as well. How fare our companions?’

The Malazan captain glanced away, squinting to the east. Jute noted that squinting suited the man’s face, either through a lifetime’s habit, or perhaps naturally. ‘The galleon was limping along. Umryg is no sea-faring state.’

‘Umryg? I know nothing of such a land.’

‘As I said.’

Jute blinked, rather at a loss. ‘Well. Can you effect repairs here?’

The Napan’s squint soured into a scowl – the expression also no foreigner to his features. ‘Not my first choice, that’s for damned certain. Rather have her up and dry.’ Then he laughed. ‘But she’d probably fall to pieces so p’raps it’s for the best.’

His companion pressed forward, outraged. ‘We can’t manage any of the necessary repairs here in this forsaken land. Gods, the keel needs inspection!’

Cartheron turned on the man, his first mate, perhaps. ‘The keel needs no inspection,’ he snarled. ‘Its rotten through and through and that’s that!’

The first mate spluttered, searching for words. He pulled at his hair in his passion. He finally yelled back: ‘And so what do you suggest, O great Captain Cartheron?’

‘Stuff more rags into her.’

‘More – more rags? She’s more rags than wood!’

‘And yet she floats. There’s philosophy for you, Orothos.’ Hands grasping fists of hair, the first mate glared back, dumbfounded. ‘What?’

‘Beacon fires on the water!’ Dulat yelled from the gathering twilight.

Vastly relieved by the interruption, Jute stepped away from the two Malazans, who continued their furious argument until a threatened cuff from Cartheron sent the first mate ducking. ‘How far?’ he called.

‘Hard to say. Coming this way, though.’

‘Good.’ Jute studied the beacon fires on the shore for a time, then, satisfied with their strength, scanned the water for some sign of the approaching vessel. Cartheron came ambling over in a side-to-side wide-legged walk that only those who have spent most of their life a sea can manage. At first Jute was tongue-tied as he considered just who he might be standing next to all alone in the dark. What stories might he hear? What sudden, unlooked for intimacies or unburdenings of secrets? Was this the Cartheron Crust, one-time companion to the old ogre emperor and his killer and usurper, Laseen? Victor, with Nok, of the battle of Fenn Bay, where the combined Falaran navy was scattered in a rout? His grandfather had fought at that battle and told stories of the sorcery unleashed.

Finally, he was unable to contain his curiosity any longer, and, gaze still shaded on the waters, he cleared his throat. ‘So, sir. Are you the Cartheron?’

‘How many damned Cartherons do you know?’ the man growled.

‘Well … just you.’

‘Good. For a moment there you had me worried.’

Jute cleared his throat once more. ‘Well, I was wondering because—’

‘There she hails,’ the Malazan said, pointing.

Jute squinted. He could just make out the flickering glow of the fire, and his eyes were far younger than this man’s. ‘Who is she?’ he asked.

‘A sorceress. Damned powerful one. That’s all I know. We met while we were all anchored there waiting for someone to dare the rocks.’ Jute glanced to the man and saw him grinning. ‘You. As soon as I saw your light galley dart for the rocks just at the peak of high tide I knew you had a good chance. Trust a Falaran at sea, I always say. When there’s no Napan to be found, mind you.’

‘What of your pilot, then?’

The Napan lost his grin. ‘My pilot’s a souse. Nerves.’ Jute frowned at that. Nerves? ‘Here we are,’ Cartheron announced. He raised his chin to the surf.

The huge silhouette of the sorceress’s galleon detached itself from the surrounding gloom. A fire burned in a brazier atop the raised castle at its bow. Jute estimated that height at a good six fathoms above the waterline. A launch was being lowered over the side. He and Cartheron waited.

When the launch reached the surf Jute waved out his sailors to help draw it up. The eight oarsmen remained seated within while two figures climbed out. The first was an aged fellow, all in dark clothes, his hair long and brightly glowing in the murk. He held out a hand to his fellow passenger. As soon as the woman stood – for it was clearly a woman, though wrapped in loose windswept robes – it was also clear to Jute that she hardly needed the old man’s help. Unusually tall one might’ve described her – alarmingly tall, even. Strapping and sturdy would perhaps be kind. She was fully taller than he or any man of his crew and her presence was accented even more by her long flowing headscarf, a face veil that revealed only her eyes, and her equally disguising layered robes.

He and Cartheron bowed to the woman and he introduced himself.

The old man, his face sun-burnished and wrinkled and dominated by a long nose, carried a tall staff – thought not so tall as the woman. He stamped this to the gravel and announced: ‘Timmel Orosenn, the Primogenitrix of Umryg.’

The woman waved a hand as if to brush this pompous announcement aside. Jute noted the hand was large enough to encircle his head like a fruit. ‘Lady Orosenn will do,’ she said in a rich honey tenor. ‘Falaran,’ she added, addressing Jute. ‘We are in your debt. Your navigator is a sorceress indeed …’ and she gave a small laugh as if sharing some unspoken secret.

Jute laughed as well; he’d always thought so. ‘That she is, my lady. But it is we who owe the debt. Your actions in the harbour saved us all.’

‘I merely did what I could to buy us time.’

‘Speaking of the harbour, what of Tyvar?’ Cartheron asked. ‘They exited the channel,’ Lady Orosenn answered. ‘What has become of them since I cannot say.’

‘Tyvar?’ Jute asked.

‘The Genabackans,’ Cartheron explained. ‘He sent a launch among us while we anchored earlier. We’ll let him introduce himself – if he hasn’t sunk.’

‘Then we wait,’ Lady Orosenn said, agreeing.

The old man frowned at the news. He peered about glowering into the dark and muttering to himself. Finally, he raised his voice. ‘M’lady,’ he urged, ‘it is not safe for you to linger here on shore. Best you remain on board your vessel, yes?’

The Lady’s eyes, so very enticing behind the veil, shifted to the south. Jute followed her gaze but saw nothing. She nodded then, reluctantly. ‘Very well. If I must.’ She looked at Jute. ‘Give my thanks should Tyvar arrive.’

‘There is a danger?’ Jute asked.

‘Only to me. There are … old enemies that I must be wary of.’ The old man urged her back to the launch and her crew pushed off.

‘So we wait,’ Cartheron reaffirmed, and he wiped his mouth then eyed Jute. ‘Care for a drink? I have damn fine Untan distilled grain spirit on board. I could send for a bottle.’

Jute immediately felt his mouth water. ‘That would be wonderful. My thanks.’

Cartheron’s first mate had glared at the proposal and now he hissed aside to his captain: ‘You’re drinking the manifest!’

‘Manifestly. Now be a good man and have a bottle sent over.’

The first mate glared anew but threw his hands in the air and stalked off, grumbling and gesticulating. ‘… not a rat’s ass left … empty hold … utter loss … chicken farm …’

Some time after that a sailor in a tattered shirt and torn canvas trousers arrived carrying a bottle in one hand and two small glasses in the other. These he handed to Cartheron then walked away, all without a word or salute. Jute had the impression that standards had rather fallen on board the Ragstopper.

Cartheron inspected the glasses, blew in them, and wiped them on his very dirty shirt. He used his teeth to pull the cork free then splashed out a liberal measure of the spirit and handed Jute a glass. Jute’s enthusiasm had fallen off with the polishing, but he set aside his reluctance and raised the glass. ‘To a successful venture,’ he offered.

‘To ample wine and rich women,’ Cartheron answered. ‘Or is it the other way round?’

They drank. The liquor was indeed very fine, and very strong – including the undercurrent of sweaty shirt. Jute coughed into a fist. ‘This Tyvar – you believe he’ll make it?’

‘Oh yes. Very impressive fellow. Reminds me of the old days. But I’ll let him introduce himself. We should see him soon.’

They had another glass and Jute stood in the flickering firelight longing to question the man regarding those ‘old days’ he had so casually mentioned. But tact kept him quiet. If the man wanted to talk, he would. Besides, he understood that these veterans were often unwilling to discuss the past – it was usually painful. He was old enough himself to understand that.

‘Hear that?’ Cartheron asked after a long near-silence of crackling fires, the slow crash of the waves, hissing grasses, and the calls of night-hunting animals out on the plain beyond.

Jute started – he’d been fading. Exhaustion and alcohol. ‘I’m sorry? What?’

‘Listen.’

Jute struggled to focus. Then he finally heard it: the strike and ripple of oars out upon the water.

‘He’s here,’ Cartheron announced. ‘Good.’ He raised his drink to Jute and downed it, sucking his lips. ‘Our chances have just improved materially.’

A launch emerged into the firelight’s reach. Several of the oarsmen and women jumped overboard to drag it in through the surf. Jute noted that all wore belted layered gambesons or leathers that were the underpadding of heavy armour. All the crew fought, it seemed. Two men thudded down on to the gravel shore, both still in their armour. One was the bearded fellow who had called to Jute from the vessel earlier. The other was his virtual twin, similarly armoured, only older, his beard shot with grey.

The pair doffed their helmets and tucked them under their arms, then strode up the shore to Jute and Cartheron.

‘Captain Cartheron,’ the bearded fellow greeted him. ‘I am glad to see you still with us.’

Cartheron gestured to Jute. ‘May I introduce Captain Jute Hernan, of the Silver Dawn.’

The man bowed from the waist. ‘Captain. May I compliment you on your pilot? He is worth his weight in gold. I would follow him on any sea in any storm. But I am remiss.’ He indicated the man at his side. ‘Allow me to introduce my companion. This is Haagen Vantall, Steward of the Blue Shields.’

The man bowed, as did Jute, who strove to keep his amazement from his face. The Blue Shields! Of course. One of the fighting religious cults out of Elingarth. A brother order to the Grey Swords who had fought the Pannion threat years ago.

Haagen motioned back to his companion. ‘And this is Tyvar Gendarian, Commander of the Blue Shields. Mortal Sword of Togg.’

Tyvar shook his head. ‘Mortal Sword in title only. Togg has withdrawn, as so many of the gods have now, yes? We are all left with only our own prayers to comfort us these days.’

Jute took a steadying breath. He felt as if his head was swimming. ‘Well. My thanks for interceding in the harbour. You saved all of us.’

Tyvar waved it aside. ‘It was nothing. I would have remained and slain them all as a service to our fellow mariners, but time is pressing and we are yet at the very beginning of our journey, are we not?’ He looked to Jute expectantly.

Jute suddenly felt his mouth grow dry. He swallowed, or struggled to do so, nodding. ‘Yes. Yes, quite so. These southern reaches are said to be the easiest portion of the passage. They say it gets progressively more deadly the further one travels north. We have only just entered the southernmost bay of the Dread Sea.’

Tyvar shared a glance with his companion. ‘And does your pilot know these waters?’

Despite feeling strangely shamed to fail this man, Jute had to shake his head. ‘No. But I would dare the Stormriders with her and will sail on.’

Tyvar burst out a laugh and slapped his thigh with his bunched gauntlets. ‘Excellent. May we accompany you then and sail north under your guidance?’

Jute stared, utterly amazed. ‘I’m sorry?’ he finally stammered in disbelief.

‘Perhaps our good captain is concerned regarding the apportioning of shares …’ Haagen murmured to Tyvar.

The Mortal Sword’s brows rose and he nodded, ‘Ah! I see. Do not concern yourself, captain. We of the Blue Shields are not interested in what gold or plunder may be amassed—’

‘Hear, hear,’ Cartheron muttered into his glass.

‘We wish only to reach the north. Aid us in this and we offer our swords. What say you?’

Jute gaped, staring from one to the next before settling upon the wrinkled grey-hued features of Cartheron Crust. The old sailor cocked a brow and held out the bottle. Jute offered his glass, which Cartheron filled. ‘Then I say we travel north.’ And he raised the glass to toss its contents to the back of his throat, gasping and coughing.

The commander of the Blue Shields let out a great shout and slapped Cartheron on the back. ‘Excellent! Two days for repairs, yes? Then we sail.’

Two days was far less than Jute would have wanted, but the deadline reminded him that they were not alone in this rush to the north. Others were on their way, or already ahead; who knew how many. And so he nodded his agreement. ‘Very well. Two days.’ And he added, gesturing to Tyvar, ‘If I may ask, sir, why do you wish to journey to the north? If not for the gold or the plunder, then what?’

The tall man nodded again, sombre. ‘A very good question, captain. Before Togg withdrew, he set upon me one last task, one last mission. That when certain portents were fulfilled, we of the Blue Shields would venture to the north of this region and there fight to right an ancient wrong. And to prevent a great tragedy.’

Jute frowned, uncertain. ‘A great tragedy sir? What would that be?’

Tyvar waved as if the answer was obvious. ‘Why, the death of innocents, of course.’ He bowed his farewell, then turned to Cartheron. ‘My regards to our Lady,’ he offered. ‘Come, Haagen,’ and the two returned to their launch.

Jute and Cartheron watched them go. It was now the middle of the night, and darkness quickly swallowed the small boat. The bonfires snapped and popped on the beach, sending sparks high amid the stars of the night sky. Most of Jute’s crew lay asleep around them. He sighed and rubbed his aching, foggy brow.

Cartheron slapped the cork back into the bottle and regarded him, scratching meditatively at the bristles on his cheeks. ‘Take my advice, lad,’ he said. ‘Don’t get caught up in all this talk of missions and god-given purposes. I’ve seen it before and it only leads to misery and pain.’ He offered the bottle, which Jute took. Then he inclined his head good night and walked into the dark, crunching his way across the gravel strand to his launch.

Jute stood alone for a time. He studied the night sky as if he could somehow discern there a portent of what might lie ahead, but he was no Seer or mage. He turned to the ridge with its tall tossing grasses – who knew what enemies or dangers lay hidden within? Finally, he drew a deep breath and headed to a fire to find a place to lie down.