‘Not at all. You are ill – you will recover. That is all there is.’ She clenched her lips, saying no more. ‘Sleep,’ he told her, and rose.
He retreated to the very rear of the mausoleum, where the stone sarcophagus, the unofficial altar, resided. He eased himself down before it, cross-legged, hands on his thighs, and sat for some time, motionless.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, as dawn’s pink and gold light slid in through the doorway, his hands clenched into tight white fists.
*
After four more days at sea, the Honest Avarice dropped anchor in Malaz harbour. Cartheron expected that all those vessels that had survived the ambush would have arrived before them and so he scanned the harbour with a gauging eye. Losses, it appeared, were severest among the lighter class of vessels, the shallow-water sloops and galleys. All three of Mock’s men-o-war had fought their way free, though the Intolerant and the Insufferable looked to have taken terrible punishment from the ambush, scoured by flame damage, sails all down for repairs, spars and railings shattered.
A launch approached. It bore the freebooter admiral himself, plus four of his picked captains. A rope ladder was lowered and he climbed aboard. He peered round at the damage the Avarice had suffered, then frowned, confused. ‘Bezil?’ he asked of the crew in general.
‘Fallen,’ one answered.
Mock nodded. He tapped his fingers on the silver pommel of the filigreed duelling sabre he always carried. ‘Who captained?’
Several of the crew motioned to Cartheron where he leaned on the stern-deck railing. Mock beckoned him down.
‘And you are?’
‘Cartheron, admiral. Cartheron Crust.’
‘You are not first mate. Nor quartermaster.’
‘Common seaman, sir.’
‘Took command in the fight, sir,’ a sailor said. ‘Steered us free.’
Mock nodded again, stroking his goatee. ‘And took your time returning my ship. Thought perhaps the Avarice had gone a-roving.’
Cartheron indicated the thin crew. ‘We were short on hands and sail and the sea was against us.’
Mock considered, eyeing the crew. After a moment, perhaps taking in the mood of the Avarice’s hands, he laughed, cuffing Cartheron’s shoulder. ‘Well done. You acted as any crewman ought. You have my gratitude.’ He turned to one of his captains. ‘Hess – take command.’
Hess bowed. ‘As you order, sir.’
Cartheron noted a number of frowns and some grumbling among the crew. Dujek spoke up. ‘A promotion, perhaps, admiral? For service.’
Mock turned to him. ‘You desire a promotion?’
Dujek laughed and ran a hand over his scalp. ‘Not for me, admiral. I’m no sailor. For the Napan. He saved the Avarice.’
‘All the crew did their part, I’m sure.’
‘A’ course. I’m just sayin’…’
Mock returned his attention to Cartheron, now openly appraising. One of his captains leaned close, whispering, and he snapped, irritated. ‘What? Speak up, man.’
This captain brushed his moustache – a long thick one similar in style to Mock’s own. He indicated Cartheron. ‘This one’s part of that Napan crew causing all the trouble in town. There’s fights every night with Geffen’s people.’
Cartheron started. Trouble? What’s Sureth started?
Mock scowled anew. ‘And what is that to me, pray tell?’
The captain raised his brows, rather nonplussed. ‘Well … I was just saying.’
Mock eyed Cartheron. ‘Steersman, then. Well done, sailor.’
Cartheron bowed his head, accepting the promotion. A number of the crew raised a huzza in approval. Mock waved a negligent hand. ‘Yes, yes. Dismissed.’
A launch took those on leave to shore. The first rotation included Cartheron and the man who had spoken up for him, Dujek. On the pier, curious, Cartheron asked, ‘If you’re no sailor, then what are you?’
The man’s laugh was large and full-bellied. ‘A fool, perhaps?’ Cartheron smiled. ‘Naw. A fighting man all my life. Soldier, mercenary, bodyguard, hiresword … marine, now.’
Cartheron nodded. ‘Ah. See you when we’re recalled, then.’
The marine saluted his farewell, laughing. ‘Not too soon, I hope!’
Cartheron smiled again. ‘True enough, friend. True enough.’ He shouldered his kitbag and headed up the pier. As he neared the block containing the bar, Smiley’s, he noticed a large number of toughs lounging about the street corners. Many nudged their companions and pointed him out. Gods, what trouble has Sureth – Surly – got into now?
Turning a corner, he found himself confronted by a gang of the ruffians. Damn – I’m not ready for this. They were showing no weapons, but he was certain they were armed. All he carried was his sailor’s knife.
He dropped his kitbag to free his hands. ‘What is it? Like to talk, but I’m late for a drink.’
‘You Napans need to get your blue arses out of town,’ one fellow drawled.
Cartheron shrugged. ‘Fine by me. Buy us a berth.’
Another snarled, ‘Let’s just teach this one a—’ He shut his mouth. As one, the gang backed away. Though a touch mystified, Cartheron drew his sailor’s knife and crouched into a fighting stance; he knew something was going on behind him, but daren’t turn his back on the gang in front.
He felt a presence at his shoulder and glanced over. A youth now stood at his side, though he’d had no inkling at all of anyone’s approach. The lad was of middling height, very lean, with short dark hair. His hands rested crossed at his chest, inside his loose cloak.
‘Who’re you?’ Cartheron demanded.
‘One of your employers.’
‘That would be old Jeregal.’
‘Sold out and moved to warmer climes.’
The ruffians continued backing away. One pointed, mouthing, Later. Cartheron found himself alone with the newcomer among the wet cobbles and stained stone walls. He straightened, tucked his knife back into his belt. ‘It appears they don’t like you.’
The youth nodded. ‘They’ve learned.’ He gestured down the street. ‘I’m here to escort you in.’
Escort? What in Mael’s mercy is going on? He eyed the lad and the fellow nodded his understanding. ‘Surly will explain,’ he said.
Ahead, the shop-front of Smiley’s was a battered, boarded-up derelict-looking mess of broken glass and strewn garbage. ‘What’s this?’
‘An effort to put us out of business.’
‘Urko’s cooking must’ve got worse.’
A reluctant smile climbed the youth’s thin lips and he inclined his head. ‘I don’t think that’s possible.’
Cartheron pushed open the heavy door, noting at the same time the fresh blade hacks and burn scars that now marred its iron-bound planks. He found the common room empty but for members of the crew: Grinner, Amiss, and Lady Sureth, who was leaning up against the bar.
He turned to the lad, but he was gone. Frowning, he pulled the door shut behind him then crossed to Surly. ‘What’s going on?’
‘We’re embroiled in another war,’ she supplied laconically. ‘You been paid?’
‘Not yet. A war? What kind of war?’
‘The protection and extortion kind. Get paid – we need the money.’
He glanced about the empty common room. ‘I’ll say. Met a kid claiming to be one of our bosses.’
‘He is.’
‘Who are the rest?’