Out unlimbered Mock, wincing and holding his head. He waved a farewell to someone within and tottered up the gangway, gripping its rope guide for purchase.
‘Cast off!’ he called the instant he set foot on the wet decking, and winced again, a hand cradling his forehead.
Tattersail pounced on him. ‘Where were you!’
The pirate admiral blanched, hunching. ‘Not so loud, my dear.’ To Marsh: ‘How’s the wind?’
‘Thin. But we’ll manage.’
‘Very well. Raise more sail if necessary.’
‘Aye, aye.’
‘And who was that?’ Tattersail demanded.
Mock’s brows clenched as if he were puzzled, then he waved airily. ‘Just an old friend, dearest. That’s all.’ He slipped an arm round her waist. ‘Come, let us retire to our quarters. My head is pounding fit to kill me.’
‘Why didn’t you return to the Hold?’
‘Because I knew we’d be travelling together, yes? Now, come. I am sorely in need of your soothing hands.’
Tattersail steered him towards the cabin door. ‘You fool. You’re not young any more, you know.’
‘I know, I know.’ He leaned more of his weight on her and she was glad to accept it.
The Insufferable eased from its mooring as its sails bellied and the tide drew it into the bay.
*
Later that day, at sea, Tattersail walked the rocking deck. To either side and behind, the full fleet of the raiding island of Malaz slammed the waves under full sail; the Intolerable and the Insolent flanked her, the core of the strike force, while beyond stretched captured merchant caravels, galleasses, fat barques armed now with siege catapults and onagers, and even low open longboats, oared and under sail, captured from foreign travellers.
She nodded to Marsh, pleased with their passage so far. Soon they would make sighting of the mainland and head for the prearranged rendezvous off Point Spear, east of Cawn, before entering the Bight of Cawn as dawn rose and with the tide behind them.
All was going to plan – provided the damned Napans showed.
She glanced behind, far to the south, and thought she glimpsed something there amid the iron-grey waves – a dark blotch or smear. She motioned Marsh to her.
‘What’s that, there?’ She pointed.
He shaded his gaze, frowning. ‘I see nothing, ma’am.’
‘Something’s there. Get a man up top.’
‘Probably just a laggard falling behind.’
‘I don’t like the look of it.’
‘No need to worry yourself, ma’am.’
She eyed the man and raised one brow. ‘Your sea-mage orders it.’
Marsh pulled a hand down his unshaven jaws, swallowing hard. He nodded, said, ‘Yes, Tattersail,’ and stomped off, yelling, ‘Get Olan up top, right quick!’
Moments later a lean young lad went shimmying up the mizzen to where the very top swayed sickeningly with every wave and there he clutched the slim pole like a monkey, legs wrapped round it, peering to the south.
After surveying the waves for a time he shouted down: ‘Can’t believe it!’
‘What, lad?’ Marsh called up. ‘What can’t ya believe?’
‘Damme! ’Tis the Twisted!’
Marsh turned to gaze at Tattersail in wonder. ‘I can’t believe they got that scow under sail.’
Tattersail crossed her arms, gazing south. She nodded to herself. ‘Looks like we’re going to be joined by all kinds of Napans.’ She went to give the news to Mock.
The admiral was in their cabin, head clutched in his hands, a glass of wine before him. Tattersail braced herself with a hand on a beam of the low ceiling as the ship rocked in the waves.
Mock massaged his temples. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ he asked, his voice pained.
‘Just thought you ought to know.’
‘That ship is a wreck. It was legend decades ago. They’ll just fall further and further behind. It matters not.’ He looked up, blinking and pale, and it struck Tattersail that this vaunted pirate was, of all things, seasick. Or perhaps just hung-over.
‘And how are we doing?’ he asked, swallowing and grimacing at what he tasted.
‘We’ve made the arc to avoid Napan waters and should make the rendezvous at Cawn in plenty of time.’
‘Excellent.’ He lowered his head once more. Tattersail thought she heard a groan.
She hesitated, but decided to broach the subject that was worrying her. ‘Mock … about this raid … perhaps we should hold a few ships back.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘In case Tarel tries something. Betrays us.’
Leaning back, he waved a dismissal. ‘Why would he do that? And in the face of a successful raid … sacrifice all that loot? No.’ He opened his hands. ‘Listen, Sail dear. I’m certain he wants the riches of Cawn as much as we do.’
She couldn’t argue with that, though misgivings remained. She shook her head. ‘I still don’t like it.’
‘Don’t worry, child. We’ll keep a close eye on young King Tarel, never fear.’
She almost felt embarrassed: of course they would be keeping an eye on things! What was she thinking, imagining these experienced raiders wouldn’t be careful? She gave a nod, smiling, ‘Of course, Mock. Do you need anything? Soup?’
The admiral paled, waved a negative, gasped, ‘No, nothing. And Sail, not a word to anyone about … this. Yes?’
She took one of his hands, found it cold and shaking and slick with sweat. ‘Of course, dearest. Not a word.’
*
Lee was in the main room of the Golden Gyrfalcon when the man himself came down to confront their new hired knife.
It was long overdue; for more than a week the lazy ass had done nothing but slouch around, eat Geffen’s food, and take long ambling walks about town. Lee wondered why the boss had tolerated the situation for so long.
Geffen came to the table and stood there, hands on hips, glaring down at the young fellow where he sat peeling a boiled egg.
‘I’m not paying you to rest,’ he growled.
The lad continued peeling the shell from the egg – something in the way he did this with his slim fingertips made Lee feel vaguely sick.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Geffen prompted again.
The lad took a tiny bite out of the egg. ‘He’s not here on the island, is he?’ He reached for the salt.
‘Who’s not?’
‘Our man … Dancer.’
Geffen’s hands clenched to fists at his waist – perhaps to avoid grasping the knives thrust through his belt. ‘Who cares? His people are. Take them out, it’ll weaken him.’
The skinny lad frowned at his egg as if the salt hadn’t improved it. He set it down and picked up his tea. ‘There’s only one name on the contract, Geffen.’
‘I don’t fucking care, you damned prick! I hired your services—’ He stopped himself, flinching slightly as the lad surged to his feet.
Lee was impressed to note that Cowl, as he fancied himself, didn’t spill one drop from the full cup as he stood. He finished the tea and set the glass down. ‘You hired me for one kill, and one kill only. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going out for some air.’ And he ambled to the door.