‘That’s for sure,’ Cartheron muttered darkly.
It wasn’t that she looked particularly fearsome, he reflected. Neglected, perhaps. It was more her reputation, spread in waterfront taverns and sailors’ bars all across the islands south of Quon Tali. A tale of men lost at sea, ill-timed storms, and bad luck all round. That last bit was the important part; men and women at sea were superstitious, and bad luck, like an illness, was something to be shunned. Not that he was some hick, or that he carried a charm to Nerrus round his neck.
Amiss ambled over, hands tucked up under her armpits, and nodded to him. ‘Recruits, Crust.’
Cartheron pointed his brother to the vessel – ‘Get to work’ – then followed Amiss to where a line of five men and three women waited – none of whom were Napan, of course. One of the men he recognized immediately: the burly marine from the Avarice, Dujek. He beckoned the fellow to him, laughing. ‘What’re you doing here, man?’
Looking a touch embarrassed, Dujek shook his hand. ‘Hess is a jumped-up popinjay who couldn’t handle a boat in a tub. When I heard you was captaining the Twisted here, I quit my letters.’
‘Well, you’re more than welcome.’ He turned to the first of the women. ‘And you are?’
‘Autumn.’
Cartheron looked the slim young woman – still a girl, in truth – up and down. ‘You a sailor?’
‘Yessir.’
‘Seen action?’
‘Yessir.’
Cartheron didn’t think that likely, but held his peace. ‘Where do you hail from?’
‘Purge.’
‘Mock’s short on crew – why aren’t you signed?’
Dujek leaned in, saying, ‘Took down one o’ Mock’s officers, she did. Crashed a chair over him for his straying hands.’
‘Ah. Fine.’ Cartheron moved on to the third recruit, a battlescarred woman older and far bigger than Autumn. ‘Name?’
‘Glory.’
‘Glory … really.’ He knew it wasn’t her real name, but that was to be expected. Most in this trade took on new names; a new name for a new life. ‘You a sailor?’
The woman curled her lips in the way one who considered oneself superior to her company would. ‘No, sir. More a fighter.’
He nodded. ‘Very good.’
The next was very obviously an experienced sailor in tarred canvas trousers, sun-blackened and barefoot. ‘Name?’
‘Torbal, sir.’
‘Why aren’t you signed?’
The man’s mouth turned down in distaste and he spat aside. ‘Don’t like Mock’s way o’ dispensing rank … sir.’
Cartheron nodded. ‘I understand.’ The next recruit was a female version of Torbal. ‘Name?’
‘Clena, sir.’
‘What’s your story?’
‘I’m with Torbal, sir.’
Cartheron nodded again. The next recruit was a skinny kid, a boy. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Orthan.’
‘You look too young, lad.’
The youth’s hands clenched to fists at his sides. ‘Please take me on.’
‘Why?’
‘Two summers ago Gef’s bastards beat my brother senseless. Ain’t been the same in the head since. Can’t hardly even remember his own name. Broke Mam’s heart. Please take me on.’
Cartheron nodded. ‘I see. All right, lad.’ He came to the next to last recruit, a grizzled old veteran. ‘Name?’
‘Brendan, sor.’
‘Long in the tooth, aren’t you?’
The oldster smiled, revealing four yellowed and worn teeth. ‘Know the Twisted of old, I do. Grew grey together we did over the years, you could say.’
Cartheron couldn’t help but eye the fellow a little uncertainly. ‘Really? You served on board her and now you’re willing to return?’ Then he had a thought and asked, ‘All those stories of losing half the crew to the plague, all those sailors lost overboard or maimed in accidents, failing to take a prize in years – are they all just tall tales then?’
Grinning, the old man offered him a wink. ‘Naw. They’re true.’
Cartheron blinked, a touch nonplussed; personally, he’d half counted on that’s being the case. ‘Ah … well…’
‘Naw. It’s just that I’m of the opinion that runs of luck, good or bad, that’s all just nonsense.’ He scratched his scraggly beard and winked again. ‘And maybe it’s time for the luck to turn, anyway.’
Cartheron answered with a half-grin. ‘I see. Then you are more than welcome.’ Nodding a farewell, he continued on to the last recruit. He was a tall young fellow with a swordsman’s wide shoulders. Dujek leaned in to say, ‘I take credit for this one – recruited him myself. Been through the old Talian officers’ academy at Unta.’
Cartheron looked the fellow up and down, impressed. ‘So. An officer?’
The young man shook his head. ‘No, sir. Didn’t graduate.’
‘Why not?’
‘Killed a fellow student in a duel.’
Cartheron frowned as he considered this. ‘I thought such things were sanctioned. An occupational hazard, you might say.’
‘They are. But the student was of an Untan noble family and his father is a regent of the academy.’
Cartheron’s brows rose as he understood. ‘Ah. Put a price on your head, hey? And what have you been doing since then? A veteran, I assume?’
‘Yes, sir. Some army work, some hire-swording.’
‘What’s your name, then?’ he asked, knowing he’d get a pseudonym.
‘Jack, sir.’
‘Just Jack?’
The fellow looked quite uncomfortable and Cartheron felt for him – no need to embarrass him. ‘Fine. More of a marine, safe to say then. Yes?’
The fellow actually saluted, saying smartly, ‘Yessir.’
Cartheron waved them all in. ‘Okay. Get to work. I’ll write up the papers tonight.’ He watched while Choss set them to work, thinking, gods, an island-wide recruitment and this is all who’d dare show. Malcontents and those spurned by Mock. They were still grossly under-crewed. If he were a superstitious fellow he’d almost say it reeked of bad luck … but he wasn’t. He raised and kissed the amulet round his neck.
*
It was the overcast and rainy predawn of the day of departure and the entire Malazan fleet of forty-two raiders was finishing its last details and readying to quit the harbour.
All save one. The flagship of the fleet. Mock’s own Insufferable.
Tattersail paced the wet deck, fuming. Where was the fool? Yes, he’d been out all night ‘celebrating’ with his favoured captains – all of whom had since reported for duty and were busy preparing their vessels for departure. He’d not shown up since!
Where was he! She shot yet another searing glare to Marsh, the mate, who ducked his head – almost guiltily, it seemed to her. Guilty? Why guilty?
‘All is ready?’ she demanded.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And the rest of the fleet?’
‘Waiting on the Insufferable, ma’am.’
She bit at her lip, seething. Should they depart without him? That would be absurd. A fleet without its admiral. They had no choice but to wait.
Moments later, a small carriage came rattling down one of the narrow cobbled lanes that led off the waterfront wharves. It clattered to a halt before the Insufferable’s waiting gangway and the door was kicked open.