Cartheron wearily prompted him once again. ‘Which is?’
‘That it is haunted.’ The fellow glanced about the shadowed alleyway between piled cargo and nodded to himself in a satisfied manner. ‘And so … I must get to work.’ To Cartheron’s immense surprise – and unease – he began to fade away. ‘Don’t stay up for me.’ And he was gone.
Cartheron cursed and searched among the barrels but could find no sign of the fellow. Surly would kill him for losing the codger! He turned to the ship, the Twisted, where it lay at berth. Well, at least he knew where he was – or claimed to be. He backed away into the narrow alley to sit on a barrel and crossed his arms, waiting and watching.
Some time later he started awake, disorientated, then remembered where he was and why, and sat back. It was night and something had woken him. He peered round but saw nothing strange in the darkness. At least the fogs were gone, he noted, now that the evening airs had stopped churning. The Twisted lay motionless – but not abandoned; its stern lantern was lit and a faint gold glow shone from one cabin’s porthole.
A yell sounded then – an involuntary shout of surprise and alarm – and boots stomped along the wharf. A figure stormed past his hiding-place. All Cartheron had was a glimpse of an older gentleman, grey-bearded, his face as pale as snow, his eyes wild.
He sat back and eyed the Twisted, thinking. Did he really want to … No, he decided that he would definitely prefer not. And anyway, if this mage was as billed then he didn’t seem to be in any danger of being clubbed by Geffen’s men. He straightened, stretching, and headed back to Smiley’s.
He had to take a few detours to avoid gangs of brawlers lounging at street corners near the bar, but eventually managed to slide in the front door. The place was empty but for members of the crew.
At the door, Shrift asked, ‘Where’s our would-be employer?’
‘Working … I think.’
She was tall, a swordswoman who favoured heavy leather armour in battle, and now wore tanned hunting leathers. She sat back, crossing her arms. ‘Doin’ what?’
Cartheron eyed her. ‘You scared of ghosts?’
The swordswoman scowled at such an idiotic question. ‘Course. Who wouldn’t be?’
‘Then you don’t want to know what he’s doing.’
‘Is he really some kinda mage?’
‘I think so.’ In fact, he now wondered whether the fellow was of the worst kind. That the old man truly was a mage seemed to trouble the swordswoman, so Cartheron added, ‘At least he’s on our side.’
Shrift didn’t appear relieved. She slapped her side where her weapon usually rode. ‘I don’t understand why we don’t just storm over there and put everyone to the sword.’
‘Because then it would be war between us ’n’ all the locals – and guess who would win?’ Her tight mouth worked as she ground her teeth, but she subsided and leaned back on her stool. ‘Slow and steady,’ he told her, passing on.
He took a seat next to the fireplace and set to work building up the fire against the relentless damp. That accomplished, he leaned back to study his fellow crew on watch – Shrift and their tall lean archer, Tocaras. Neither looked happy sitting and staring out at the mist-cloaked streets.
Garrison duty, he reflected. Not our strength. No fighting man or woman’s, frankly. Surly would have to be careful. Loyalty was one thing, but frustration and a perceived lack of success or advancement could erode even the strongest allegiance. Something had to give. And while he had complete confidence it wouldn’t be any of them, still, he prayed, and hoped.
Chapter 5
Tattersail leaned her forearms on the gritty salt-stained stone of a battlement crenel and considered the island’s modest highlands to the north. Her loose hair blew about and she pushed it from her eyes. Overhead, gulls and cormorants hovered in the brisk wind, calling harshly. She watched their easy freedom for a time then lowered her gaze to the dun-brown hillocks of the Flint Plain. North, little more than a day’s journey beyond the last Malazan headland, lay the continent. So close, yet, as they said, so far.
Something needed to be done if she and Mock were to come into their titles. And if he were too … how should she put it … too content, then it must fall to her. The question then, was just what.
And the answer that came to her mind was an old-fashioned expedition. A raid upon the mainland such as used to be organized in Mock’s younger days and before. All in the honoured pirating tradition of Malaz.
That should remind them who controlled the seas, all their valuable shipping, and the entire coastline itself, and who was therefore owed the recognition and respect due to such a power. That would put the fear of gods into those quaking merchants in Cawn, the decadent aristocrats in Unta, and those damned snobbish Kanese.
She pressed a fist to the guano-streaked stone. Done. She’d settle it with Mock tonight.
A throat-clearing behind her brought her attention round to a guard. ‘Yes?’
‘A ship at the harbour mouth, m’lady.’
‘So?’
‘Lubben thought you’d be interested.’
Lubben – the hunchbacked castellan of the Hold. ‘Very well.’
She crossed to the nearest overlook. Guano dotted the ancient stones of the walk and Tattersail found herself hating the damned old heap of rock. How she looked forward to getting off this gods-forsaken backwater for a proper manor in a real city like Unta or Tali!
The vessel was anchored as far out as could be managed. It was long and low, two-masted, tiny in the distance, yet she knew it instantly for what it was without even needing to be sure of its blue-tinted sails. ‘What in all the seas is a Napan ship doing here?’ she asked aloud.
The guard nearby wisely judged her question to be rhetorical. ‘They’ve sent off a launch with a flag of truce,’ he observed.
What was there to talk about, she wondered. ‘Well, Lubben was right. I am interested. Keep an eye on them. Have a party ready as escort. I’ll go tell Mock.’
The guard bowed and she swept off for the main keep.
She found him in their sleeping quarters. Oddly, though it was mid-day, he was in a state of undress, flushed and struggling with the ties of his corset. She hurried over and slapped his hands away to take the ties. ‘What are you doing?’ She yanked, fiercely.
He shrugged, embarrassed. ‘The outfit simply was not right…’ He gasped as the breath was squeezed out of him.
‘So you’ve heard.’
‘Heard what, my love?’ She might have been mistaken, but his voice sounded slightly higher.
‘Napans! Here, in the harbour! It may be an official delegation.’
Mock kept his arms wide while Tattersail tightened the many ties of the corset. He stroked his long moustache, thinking. ‘A delegation … yes. This new king we’ve heard about. Official relations…’ His usually narrowed dark eyes now widened, ‘Or official recognition!’
He took her hands in his, urged her away. ‘Summon that new girl, Viv. You meet them in the audience hall. I must dress properly.’ He walked her to the door.