* * *
Feeling the need for distraction from the monotony of the long voyage, Bars took a spot at a sweep. He pulled gently at first, testing the limits of his chest wound. The deep ones always healed the slowest. As he pulled he was barely aware of the awed, even frightened, glances his fellow oarsmen cast his way. He was busy trying to avoid thinking of what was to come. But their return, their eventual return, made that impossible. Failure. How it galled him – it burned in his chest even worse than the wound. Even more humiliating, he must deliver news of the probable annihilation of the 4th Company of the Guard. And worst of all, he was worried: would further men then be sent to investigate that end? Cal's last instructions argued flat against that. And Bars agreed. The Guard had lost enough resources to that unforgiving Abyss in Assail. Corlo appeared at his side, tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Jemain wants you.’
Grunting, Bars relinquished the oar. ‘Keep pulling, men,’ he said, trying out his South Genabackan Confederacy vocabulary, ‘we'll get out: of this eventually,’
‘Aye, Captain.’
On the way aft Corlo leaned close. ‘How's the chest?’
‘Hurts like Hood's own pincers. It always hurts just as much, don't it.’
‘You're only spared the dying part.’
‘Not even that.’ Bars watched as Corlo's round face pulled down. ‘Don't worry, we'll get there.’
Corlo gave his wry assent.
Jemain waited at the stern, peering into the dense fog that had enveloped the ship more than a week ago. ‘You'll go blind if you keep that up,’ Bars called to him.
‘Shhh,’ he hissed. ‘Please.’
‘What is it?’
‘Something's out there.’
‘Un-huh …’
‘Yes. I think so. Someone becalmed. Just like us. But shadowing us.’
‘Really? Corlo?’
‘I've quested. Someone. Can't do any better than that.’
‘Un-huh. So? What can we do about it? Maybe they just hope we know where we're going.’
Jemain's face glistened, sweaty and pale; he was clearly unhappy with what he was about to suggest. ‘We should stop oars, listen. Perhaps we'll lose them.’
Or not.’
Jemain shrugged his agreement.
‘What's our position?’
‘North. Far north of where we want to be.’
Bars turned to Corlo. ‘Anything from the Brethren?’
‘Whispers. They are, ah, agitated. Hints of movement. Continued movement.’
‘Hunh. Very well, Jemain. Orders by word of mouth only. Corlo, you and Lamb take the bow. I'll hold the stern. Stop oars. Arm everyone willing.’
‘Aye, Captain.’
Soon, the oars stilled, slid gently into their ports. Bars pulled on the largest set of leather armour available. With hand signals he dispersed his eight remaining regular Guardsmen. He signalled for missile fire first. The men readied what bows and crossbows they'd dug up from the holds and neglected innards of the trader scow. Sailors and oarsmen took the deck as well, indifferently armed.
Jemain followed Bars to the port side; both squinted into the thick creamy curtains of fog. ‘Where do you think we are?’ Bars whispered.
‘Perhaps near the middle of Menigal Waters.’
‘Hmph. Reacher's Ocean, maybe.’
Jemain pointed. ‘There.’
Bars strained to see, then he caught it – movement. A low dark shape slowly closing on them, coming in at an angle. A single row of sweeps, open-decked. A war-galley, lateen-rigged, the sail reefed now in the dead air. Bars searched the waters at the bow for any hint of a ram but saw no wake or frothing. Strange that, usually a war-galley would have a ram. Shields lined the sides of the vessel. He raised his arm to signal firing the first volley. Oddly, however, no similar volley flew up to meet them now that they could see each other.
Then Jemain lurched back from the side as if struck by an arrow. He snatched Bars’ raised arm. Bars searched the man's stricken face, ‘What is it?
‘Don't fire,’ he managed, his voice strangled. ‘Please. No firing.’
Scanning the decks of the war-galley, Bars could see no movement – he relented. ‘Very well.’ He signalled a switch to hand-to-hand weaponry. ‘Why?’
The Genabackan first mate appeared terrified beyond words. He could only point. ‘The shields – don't you see … ?’
‘Gods, what is it, man?’ What Bars saw now was what he had taken for shields appeared to be that, but oddly shaped, each painted to resemble a mask. The first mate was no longer listening; he glared about as if seeking escape. The man actually appeared to be considering jumping overboard. Bars grabbed a handful of his ratty sailor's jerkin, bodily lifted him by his front and shook him. ‘Who is this?
‘There are legends but no one's ever actually seen …’
‘Who? Hood curse you …’
‘It's a Seguleh vessel,’ he gasped.
Bars dropped him. ‘The Seguleh? Who in Togg's tits are they?’
‘You don't know?’
‘No.’ To his men Bars signalled a stand-by. ‘Tell me.’
‘You must order your men to drop their weapons. Quickly. All weapons. Please.’
Bars stared at the man. ‘Really?’
Yes. Allow me to speak to the crew.’
Feeling almost like laughing, Bars waved for Jemain to go ahead. Meanwhile, the vessel was taking its time manoeuvring to come aside as if this were a rendezvous arranged long ago. Slim straight figures stood motionless, calm and silent. They were behaving as if they fully expected to simply come aboard, Bars reflected. Like they were conducting some kind of damned harbour inspection or something.
jemain called down to the deck where the sailors watched, their faces tense. ‘It is a Seguleh vessel! Yes, that's right! Drop your weapons and you won't be hurt.’
To Bars’ amazement, as one, the sailors and even the freed slaves and oarsmen complied. Jemain dropped his own small sailor's knife. Bars caught Corlo watching from the bow. He raised his shoulders in a question. The mage cocked his head, thinking, then signed agreement.
Bars sighed his utter disbelief. Gods! The things they have to go through to make it back to Stratem. ‘OK, lads. Drop them – but keep ‘em close. Just in case.’ He watched while reluctantly, one by one, his men set down their weapons. All but one who stared back, defiant. The vessel bumped up against theirs. Tossed grapnels took hold at the rail. A few trailed rope ladders. ‘Dammit, Tillin! I ordered you to drop them!’
‘What's come over you, Bars? I'm not gonna just surrender—’
‘Damn you to Hood! I didn't order anyone to surrender! I just ordered you to drop your weapons. Now!’
His face dark with fury, Tillin threw his sword to the deck.
‘And the other,’ called Bars. The sticker.’
Tillin pulled a long-knife from the rear of his belt, threw it down.
A rope ladder jerked, straining. Bars took hold of the railing; he had to admit he was damned curious to see who it was that put the fear of Night into these Genabackans. A masked face appeared at the side. Jup grunted his surprise. Well, what d'you know. Just like the shields promised. Then in one swift fluid motion the man was on deck, erect, hands at a broad waist sash where two swords hung, thrust through. Bars grunted again: damned fast these fellows, whoever they were. Seven more joined the man, all medium-height, whip-lean in light leather armour and cloth trousers, and, surprisingly, barefoot. All wore intricately painted masks.
The appearance of each of the masked fellows drew a whimper from Jemain. Finally, with the last, he clenched the shoulder of Bars’ leather hauberk as if to keep from fainting. ‘There's eight of them! Eight!’
‘I can count,’ Bars grumbled. He motioned to the deck of the galley. ‘There's still more on the ship.’
The sailors remained motionless, allowing the intruders to wander at will; the Guardsmen took their cue from that. The Seguleh walked about the deck, opening casks, poking into piled equipment. ‘What's going on …’ Bars asked of Jemain.
‘I'm not sure. I think—’
A blur of motion, one foot thumping the deck, then a man falling. Bars ran to the mid-deck, pushed aside sailors. There lay Tillin, face up. Bars knelt, felt for a pulse. The man was dead. Bars faced the nearest Seguleh, ‘What's the meaning of this!’
‘He was armed,’ another Seguleh called from across the deck in the dialect of the South Confederacies. The one facing Bars slowly turned his back – pointedly, Bars thought – and walked away.
Bars blinked his surprise. Jemain, who had also come, turned the body over. A sheathed long-knife remained tucked at his belt. He snorted. He'd forgotten Tillin always carried two. He looked up, but the Seguleh who'd spoken had moved. ‘Where'd he go?’
‘I'm not sure I can find him,’ Jemain said.
‘Just ask!’
Jemain's laugh sounded a touch crazed. ‘No. You don't understand. The one who spoke is the only one who will. He's actually forced to speak to us because he's the lowest ranked here. It is shameful for him to have to.’
‘Well, find him!’
Jemain raised his hands helplessly. ‘I'll try, but I can't read their masks.’
Read their masks? What was the man on about? Bars scanned the deck. Six. Two had gone below. Hood take them – what had he just done to his men? Lamb, he saw, had not moved from where he'd dropped his swords. Bars gave him a wait. Lamb responded with ‘extreme impatience’. Bars caught Corlo's eye, nodded. Corlo edged his hands up to his shirt-front, took a deep breath, then froze. A gleaming sword-blade had appeared at his neck.
‘Who speaks for this vessel?’ called out the Seguleh who'd spoken before.
Bars pushed his way forward. ‘I do.’
‘You have a mage among you. Either he refrains from his arts or he will be slain. Is this clear?’
‘Yeah – That is, yes, that's clear.’ Bars closed upon the spokesman until he stood face to face, or mask. He studied the mask in a furious effort to memorize the identity. For now he understood Jemain's comment: everything was there on the mask for all to see – provided you could understand the signs. Dark vermillion curls, he noted, low on the cheeks.
The spokesman turned away to face other Seguleh. Some subtle signs or body language was exchanged between them – neither said a word. The spokesman returned his attention to Bars. ‘We require your stores of food and drinkable water,’ he said in his curious high voice. ‘You will provide the labour to move the requisite cargo. Further, our oarsmen are tired. We will take the strongest among you to replace them.’
Bars just stared at the mask, the dark-brown eyes almost hidden wkhin. ‘You'll do what?’
The mask tilted fractionally to one side. ‘Our instructions are not clear? Perhaps we should speak to another? One capable of understanding?’
Jemain appeared at Bars’ side. ‘Yes, honoured sir. We understand. We will comply.’ With an effort, he pulled a disbelieving Bars aside. ‘We have no choice now,’ he whispered. ‘At least they'll let us live.’
‘To die!’ Bars snarled, glaring, but he needn't have made the effort. The spokesman now ignored him as thoroughly as if he'd disappeared. Furious, Bars snapped a hand around Jemain's throat. ‘I got my men into this and I will get them outl Give me an option, anything … something.’
The first mate pulled at Bars’ fingers, his eyes bulging. ‘There is only one thing,’ he gasped, ‘but it will just get you killed!’
Bars released him. ‘What? Name it.’
Falling to his knees, Jemain panted to regain his breath. ‘Challenge the spokesman.’
Bars grunted his understanding; something had told him it would come down to that. ‘How?’
‘Pick up a weapon – but you must keep your eyes on the spokesman! Do not look at anyone else. He is the one you are challenging.’
‘Right.’ Bars cast about the deck for the nearest weapon, found a straight Free City sword and a sturdy sailor's dirk. These he picked up, then, keeping his head down, turned to the Seguleh spokesman. Everyone, he noted from the edges of his vision, had gone quite still. One Seguleh happened to stand in the way. As Bars approached this one drew a weapon, touched it to Bars’ chest. Head resolutely held down, Bars paused, then pushed on. He watched the blade's keen edge slice a gash in his leather hauberk as he edged past. Moving with deliberate care, he approached the spokesman and stopped before the man, who had gone immobile. He raised his gaze, travelling up the leather hauberk, the neckscarf, to his mask and the eyes behind. The instant their gazes met the mask inclined minutely – acceptance?
As quick as a hunting cat the man stepped back, his bare foot lightly touching the deck, and hurtled forward attacking. Bars immediately gave ground parrying frantically. The attacks came so swift and unrelenting there was no time to think, no time to plan. He retreated fully half the length of the vessel before he succeeded in wrenching a fraction of a second for a counter-attack to find his own footing and forestall the man's advance. He was appalled; no one had ever done such a thing to him before.
But his relief did not last long. Parrying an elegant series of ripostes overextended him and he saw it even as it came: a thrust high in the thigh. He twisted just in time for the blade to fail its flensing withdrawal. An unfamiliar chill of cold dread took Bars, something he thought Assail had squeezed entirely out of him. This man was not simply trying for a kill – he was choosing his targets! That had been a precise attempt at the femoral artery. If he did not do something right away he would be cut to pieces. All he could think of was his friend Jup's laughter – Iron Bars, finally beaten by some masked jackass!
Less than six of his heartbeats had passed.
Yet while the attacks came as swiftly as Blues’– the Guard's preeminent finesse swordsman – they lacked power. More like surgical touches than blows. Having gathered himself – and he suspected few ever remained alive long enough to do so – he leaned in using all his fury to counter-attack with full strength. Batting aside one blade he surprised the man and got inside to rake the dirk across the forearm. The man's other blade sliced his face in a disengaging move but Bars bore on regardless, backhanding the dirk to the hilt through the man's light leather armour just above the heart. The power of the thrust threw the Seguleh backwards off his feet but even as he fell he flicked his other blade up to kiss Bars’ neck. It sawed deep under his chin. Bars lurched away, bellowing his pain.
He fell to his knees, wet warmth pulsed between his fingers. A hand clasped tightly over his. ‘Let me see. Let me see.’ Corlo. Bars relaxed. A cloth wrapped his neck. ‘OK,’ Corlo said. ‘It's OK. You'll live.’
Panting, Bars choked, could not speak.
Corlo took his arm and he straightened, weaving. He saw Jemain staring at him, incredulous. He waved him close. He tried to speak, failed. He glanced down to see how his front glistened in a red wash. ‘Now what?’ he croaked to Jemain.
Swallowing, the first mate remained motionless. ‘They said it could never be done …’ he breathed, awed.
‘It almost wasn't,’ Bars said, speaking as softly as he could.
Jemain motioned to another Seguleh who was now bent over the dead spokesman. Hood on his dead horse. Not another one! Do I have to duel every last blasted one?
This Seguleh straightened, faced Bars. ‘What is your name that we may enter it among the Agatii.’
The Agatii?’
‘The Thousand,’ the Seguleh said.
Bars could only stare. There's a thousand of these swordsmen? ‘Bars. Iron Bars, Fourth Company, Second Blade, Avowed of the Crimson Guard.’
All remaining Seguleh turned to stare. Bars returned the glances then remembered Jemain's warning and looked away. The one Seguleh who had kept the most apart from everyone, standing far at the bow, walked back to face him. His mask was far less decorated than the others, marked by just a few lines. But of course Bars could not make any sense of its design. Then he again recalled Jemain's words and he quickly pulled his gaze from the man's face. ‘Word of you Avowed have reached us,’ this one said. ‘Why did you not identify yourself before?’
Bars shrugged. ‘I saw no reason to.’
The Seguleh seemed to understand such reasoning. ‘You are a stranger to our ways, so I will be plain. I challenge you.’
‘Don't accept!’ Jemain blurted.
Bars gently touched the wet dressing at his neck, wiped his forearm across his mouth to come away with a slick of drying blood from the gash down his face. The pain of his pierced leg was a roar in his ears. It twitched, hardly able to support him. ‘I, ah, respectfully decline,’ he murmured, his voice a gurgle.
The Seguleh inclined his mask fractionally. ‘Another time, then.’ He glanced to his men and as one they moved to the ship's side. ‘We go now.’
Bars stared again. Gods, these people. They were constantly wrong-footing him. ‘Wait. Where are you going? What're you doing out here? Twin's Turning, man. Why're you even talking to me now?’
As the others carried the dead spokesman to the side, their leader, so Bars assumed, faced him again. ‘You have standing now. I am named Oru. I am now your, how is it … Yovenai…’
‘Patron, or commander – something like teacher, too,’ Jemain supplied.
Oru did not dispute Jemain's translation.
Bars gestured to the dead Seguleh. ‘And his name?’
‘Leal. Her name was Leal.’
‘Her? Her!’
‘Yes.’
Gods Below. He'd no idea. But he would remember her name; he'd rarely come so close to being overborne. Oru had jumped down lithely to the galley. Bars leaned over the side. Holding his neck he croaked, ‘What are you doing out here? Why are you just going like this?’
‘You are of the Agatii. You have your mission. We have ours. We search for something … something that was stolen from us long ago.’
‘Well … may the Gods go with you.’
‘Not with us,’ Oru replied flatly.
Crewmen pushed off with poles. As the oars were readied, Bars did a quick head-count and came up with fifteen. Burn's Mercy, fifteen of them. Then the fog swallowed the vessel leaving only the echoes of wood banging wood and the splash of water.
Turning from the side Bars found Jemain studying him once more. ‘What?’
‘I would never have believed it.’
‘Yeah. Well, the Lady favoured me.’
‘The Seguleh don't believe in luck.’
‘There you go. Now, let's get to rowing. You give the orders, first mate. I can hardly speak.’
‘Aye, Captain. And Captain … ?’
‘Yes?’
‘I tried to get a good look at Oru's mask. If I'm right, he's ranked among the top twenty.’