‘Ah, but you’re not attacking their vessels, are you?’
She could not help but shake her head at that, almost smiling. ‘You canny bastard. Very well.’ She prepared herself mentally, blocking everything out; everyone now knew not to bother speaking to her. She reached out to the Intemperate, grasping hold as best she could, and held it as the Insufferable now pulled away beneath her. The mass of the great man-o-war fought her at first, but once it swung round and started moving it almost cooperated as she sent it veering towards the nearest Napan galleon now moving to intercept. The Sapphire, for its part, had decorously arced away, signal flags waving furiously as her captain sought to reorder the Napan lines.
Once it became clear that it was under threat from a blazing bonfire the size of a small town block, the captain of the pursuing galleon broke off the attack and swung clear. All Malazan vessels currently free to manoeuvre now turned away from the engagement and raised all the sail they possessed.
Straining, gasping for breath and almost fainting with the effort as her vision darkened, Tattersail sent the Intemperate wherever she could to discourage pursuit.
Thankfully, the Ruse sea-mages present among the Napan vessels declined to raise their Warrens against her directly; it seemed they were too busy deflecting the Intemperate whenever it veered too closely to any one of their ships.
Between the Insufferable’s massed barrages and the threat of the conflagration that was the Intemperate, the surviving Malazan vessels worked to free themselves of the closing jaws of the Cawnese defences and the Napan fleet.
*
League after league of empty sea passed beneath the Twisted’s freshly tarred hull. Their lead on the Just Cause widened. Choss now came to Cartheron’s side. A worried frown crimped the big man’s thick brows. He cleared his throat, hesitant, saying, ‘You realize you’re leading them straight to Malaz…’
Cartheron closed his eyes, nodding. Yes, yes. ‘I’d hoped to have lost them by now.’
The soldier – an ex-Napan colonel – raised his brows. ‘Well…?’
Cartheron sighed, turned to Brendan. ‘Sou’-east.’
The sailing master eased a wary breath between clenched lips. ‘We’ll lose headway.’
Cartheron shot Choss a told-you-so look; the man answered with a shrug that said they had no choice in the matter.
South to sou’-east, Cartheron reflected. This could suggest a curving retreat for distant Kartool. Let them chew on that – if they could shake them.
The Twisted groaned and creaked about them now in far heavier swells. A crossing to Kartool was no timid strike for Malaz; deep ocean lay before them where waves could build taller than their masts.
Cartheron cast a wary eye to their stern; the Just Cause pursued, her Napan-blue sails peeping just above the white-capped crests. If they could pull ahead far enough to lose sight of her, then they could strike a more southerly course …
The explosive crack of wood yanked his gaze to the bows in time to watch the jibs collapsing in a heap of canvas and shattered wood, shrouding the bow. A scream sounded. He ran to join the marines, who were already digging through the wreckage.
They pulled Clena clear. She lay cradling her arm, panting her pain. Hawl gently examined it. ‘Broken,’ she told Cartheron.
‘What was it?’ he asked. Hawl shook her head; she didn’t know.
‘Get those sails up!’ Brendan barked from the stern.
Cartheron shot a glance to the rear. They were losing priceless headway. There was only one thing for it … He turned to Hawl.
She sensed his regard and raised her eyes to him. Her jaws worked as she slid her dark gaze to the stern. ‘If they have a sea-mage…’ she warned him.
Cartheron shared her worry. The Just Cause might have a Napan sea-mage, in which case he or she might know Hawl, or recognize her Warren-aspect.
He gave her a curt nod. ‘Do it.’
She straightened from Clena. ‘Very well. Let no one interfere. This could get messy.’ She headed for the mid-deck, pushing up her sleeves as she went.
Cartheron glanced about; Dujek and Jack were organizing the marines into teams on tackle they’d thrown up to raise the two intact jib spars.
Torbal came to him. He held an old wooden cat-block in his hands. ‘Was it a boom?’ Cartheron asked. The sailor just handed over the block, which came apart in Cartheron’s hands – split.
‘Is it rotten?’ the sailor asked; his gaze was on the near-unconscious Clena.
Cartheron examined the split then shook his head. ‘No. Just old and worn. Should’ve been replaced before we set out. I’m so very sorry…’ The sailor just shrugged. ‘Get her below decks.’
He turned to Hawl; she’d positioned herself at the base of the main-mast, facing forward, her skirts arranged over her crossed legs. Cartheron would’ve nodded his encouragement, but the woman was already far into raising Ruse – her open-eyed stare held that unseeing thousand-yard gaze.
The vessel lurched beneath everyone’s feet; it was as if the hull had scraped over a sandbar, and Hawl cursed, biting her lip and drawing blood. ‘There’s some kind of powerful spirit on board,’ she gasped through clenched lips.
‘That nacht thing – the mage’s familiar.’
Hawl’s teeth were set. ‘Or the other way round. Damned strong bastard.’
‘Is it—’ Hawl snapped up a hand for silence and Cartheron swallowed all questions. The raised hand slowly clenched to a fist, whitening, then relaxed and fell, trembling.
Hawl eased out her breath. ‘There. It was resisting … but it has stood aside. Good thing too – I’d hate to think of what it could do.’
‘What’s the damned thing doing here?’ Cartheron asked.
‘Under orders to make sure we don’t just take off with the ship, is my guess.’
‘Oh, come now,’ Cartheron scoffed.
Hawl simply waved him off. ‘I’m busy.’
Cartheron offered a mock salute and backed away to join Brendan. He asked, ‘What’s the last sighting?’
‘Closing,’ the sailing master offered laconically.
‘The repairs?’
Brendan raised his chin to examine the bows, then shook his head in despair. ‘Looks like a damned fire in a cathouse.’
‘Too many marines and not enough sailors.’
‘They know their stuff,’ Brendan demurred, ‘they’re just not a crew yet.’
Cartheron understood. It took months and months of training to settle into an organized disciplined crew where everyone worked to the same rhythms.
The main jib creaked upwards on makeshift tackle. It caught the wind and tautened. The workers sought to tie it off.
The Twisted charged forward then, rocking Cartheron backwards, and he knew it wasn’t the jib; his glance shot to Hawl. Their sea-witch was leaning forward as if pushing headlong into a storm. Her arms were out, her hands clawed as if pulling on something, heaving it towards her, and he knew just what that was.