A ghostly predawn light revealed the waters south of Cawn empty of any approaching vessels and Tattersail found herself cursing the Napans for their tardiness, just as she’d fumed at Mock for his belated arrival yesterday.
Where were the blue-skinned bastards? Why weren’t they here? Now she wondered whether she’d properly understood the arrangements. Perhaps they, or Tarel, had got the wrong night. But the equinox – who could misunderstand that? She went to find Mock.
Since they’d been anchored for a few hours close to shore in a sheltered cove just outside the Bight of Cawn, the admiral had regained his sea-legs. She found him walking the Insufferable’s deck, trading stories and greetings among the crew, reminiscing about one of the last engagements he’d participated in. It might have just been her mood, but it seemed to her that the freebooters were only half paying attention – the way one might endure a grandparent’s favourite story or lecture.
When she motioned for his attention the men and women quickly melted away. The admiral stroked his long moustache, eyeing her, looking pleased with himself.
‘Where are they?’ she hissed, trying to keep her voice low. ‘We can’t delay much longer if we wish to arrive with the dawn.’
Mock shrugged expansively, quite unconcerned. He raised his voice, speaking to all within earshot. ‘If the Napans renege because they have no stomach for a fight then that’s all the better, hey boys? More loot for us!’
Cheers answered this, but to Tattersail they did not sound as enthusiastic as they might have. Keeping her voice low, she answered, ‘I don’t like it. We should withdraw.’
Mock almost laughed. ‘Withdraw? We’re in position. Cawn is ours!’
She refused to give up her misgivings. ‘But why—’
He came close, and in the way that so infuriated her motioned for her silence by pressing a finger to her lips. When he invited her to accompany him to their cabin, she bit down on her outrage and followed, fuming silently.
Within, she drew breath to damn him for treating her like a child, but before she could speak he turned on her, saying, ‘Do not unnerve the crew before battle, please.’
She blinked, quite taken aback. ‘Well…’
‘It could cost us lives – perhaps even the victory.’
‘Well, yes, but I’m worried—’
‘We’re all anxious, my love.’
‘Let me finish, damn you!’
Mock pulled away, his brows rising, then he stroked his moustache, nodding. ‘Very well. My apologies.’
Still angry, Tattersail struggled to order her thoughts. ‘The Napans aren’t here. Why? What is Tarel planning? What is his strategy here?’
The admiral’s nodding gathered strength and conviction as he took her shoulders, smiling. ‘Ah, my Tattersail. Cunning lass. Doing your job. But do not worry. You think this is deliberate?’ He pinched her chin between his thumb and fingers. ‘There are a thousand reasons to explain why they have been delayed – or withdrawn. Poor sea conditions. Strong headwinds.’ He pulled away to pace the cabin. ‘Perhaps Tarel was embarrassed by the small number of vessels he could muster; perhaps he didn’t wish to reveal that to me; perhaps—’
‘Perhaps he is burning Malaz City even as we speak.’
Mock froze in his pacing, then spun on his heels to face her. ‘Ah. I … hadn’t thought of that.’ He returned to stroking his moustache, pacing again. ‘Yet, I think not. Our fleet remains. Upon discovering this we would naturally retaliate. Why invite that so soon after the burning of half of Dariyal? And his fleet is weaker than ours.’
‘Exactly. There is something in this throw of the bones. I feel it.’
But Mock was shaking his head. ‘You see treachery where mere incompetence or back luck would suffice. I am sorry – but I am not convinced.’
‘But—’
He was shaking his head. ‘Thank you, Sail. Thank you for your thoughts … but we are committed. Stay wary and observant, I value that. But now is the time to act.’ He kissed her brow then pulled open the cabin door.
Tattersail could only raise her fisted hands in the air in mute fury, then follow. Mock signalled Earnolth, his steersman, who hailed from some benighted land called Perish. The huge fellow gave an eager nod. ‘Raise canvas!’ he bellowed, and heaved over the tiller-arm.
The Insufferable yawed as the mains caught the wind and bellied. Quickly, the surrounding vessels followed suit. They carved wakes as they swung round, gaining headway. A sick feeling clawed at Tattersail’s stomach as she watched these preparations. Within hours they’d sight the harbour and Cawn; then she would know whether she was wrong to let her fears get the better of her, or whether she would face her strongest challenge to date.
She clenched the railing amidships, waiting and watching.
Later, as dawn touched the coastline to the north, her first view of the harbour made her wince for her foolish words. All appeared normal. No warships patrolled the waters in readiness. The harbour walls did not bristle with defenders and cocked catapults or onagers. The Malazan fleet appeared to have found their prey unprepared.
Marsh, the first mate, ordered the attack flags raised and the surrounding vessels answered the signal. He then bellowed, ‘Ready landing parties!’ The raiders – all those sailors who could be spared from manning the Insufferable – now crowded the deck. They strapped on extra armour and weapons. Tattersail, for her part, would remain with the vessel. Mock, she noted, was nowhere to be seen and she thought that negligent.
She was about to search for him when a shout went up from aloft that froze her in place: ‘Sails to the south!’ was the call, and she turned, her heart sinking with dread. Oh, please, Oponn no …
‘What colour?’ she yelled.
‘Blue! Napans!”
Shit! She stormed for the cabin. Within, she found Mock with two hands on the cut-crystal decanter of wine at his mouth. ‘Put that down!’ she yelled.
The admiral spluttered, coughing and dribbling wine down his front. He wiped his mouth with a satin sleeve. ‘What is it … dearest?’
‘The Napans – they’re behind us!’
Mock nodded, satisfied. ‘Well, here at last. As they promised.’
‘No. You don’t understand. They’re behind us.’ He smoothed his moustaches and the gesture infuriated Tattersail more than ever. ‘Behind!’
He headed for the door, inviting her to accompany him. ‘They’re late. Wherever else would they be?’
‘But…’
‘Do not worry yourself, darling.’ He pushed open the cabin door and stood blinking in the harsh light of the dawn, as if stunned. Tattersail pointed south, insistent, and the admiral nodded, shading his gaze. ‘Yes, dearest.’ He squinted. ‘You see, there’s nothing…’ His voice trailed off with a note of confusion.
Tattersail peered as well; the brightening saffron light now painted a long broad line of sails that crossed the mouth of the bay from side to side. She stared, and her heart sank in disbelief. By the gods – they’re blockading the bay!