‘No other vessel could have made it out of the strait,’ the mage continued. ‘Isn’t that true?’
‘Possibly,’ Hawl granted.
Cartheron was thinking of the Just Cause. They’d lost sight of it soon after entering the Strait of Storms, and after that they had all been too busy fighting the ice buildup and evading the floes to consider its fate. But he still couldn’t let go of his worry – what if it had made it after all? Wouldn’t it be prudent …
He cleared his throat again, saying, ‘Surly might be right. Perhaps we should push off as soon as possible. Finish the repairs elsewhere.’
‘And just where?’ Hawl answered, exasperated. ‘We can’t show our faces anywhere on the mainland.’
‘Kartool?’ Choss offered.
Shrift shuddered and Urko’s blunt face twisted in disgust. ‘Gods, no,’ he rumbled.
‘Further afield,’ Surly said, crossing her arms. ‘We offer our services to one of the Seven Holy Cities. Aren, or Ubaryd.’
‘Got no navies worth the name,’ Urko offered, nodding and scratching his chin.
‘We’d be facing the Falari,’ Hawl warned.
Urko waved one great paw in dismissal. ‘Faugh! We can take them.’
But Surly would not move her steady gaze from Cartheron. He tapped his fingers on the scarred railing. ‘Heard troubling things about that sea cult of theirs. What is it? The … Jhistel? Blood sacrifices.’
Surly’s gaze did not waver. ‘We’ll face that when we must. But right now we’ve hung about too long.’
Cartheron nodded his agreement. Yes. By now Tarel must know they were here, word from the Just Cause or not. He already seemed to have the island in his sights. ‘Yes,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘Minimal repairs. Just enough to get us to Seven Cities.’
Choss snorted, commenting under his breath, ‘That’s some journey, I’ll have you know.’
‘Regardless,’ Surly said, and she uncrossed her arms. ‘How long?’ she asked Choss.
Their best boatwright twisted up his features, thinking. ‘Two moons, soonest.’
‘One.’
The man jerked his head as if pained. ‘What?’
‘One,’ she warned, pointing. ‘We’re done. Everyone help out on the repairs,’ and she turned and headed down the gangway, followed by Urko, Shrift and the new mage.
Choss leaned against the railing and looked to Cartheron, shaking his head. ‘Plenty of work ahead for all of us. So where’s your new guy, Dujek, and his tag-along?’
‘Out whipping our Malazan boys and girls into shape.’
Choss raised his chin to the pier. ‘What do you think of the new mage?’
Cartheron considered, lifted his shoulders. ‘Looks like a veteran.’
‘He is,’ Hawl said from behind. Cartheron turned to her; she was eyeing the retreating figures. ‘He has ex-legionnaire written all over him.’
‘Ex-legionnaire?’ Cartheron echoed. ‘As in the Talian iron legions?’ He whistled. ‘We could use him.’
‘If we can trust him.’
‘Trust him? What do you mean?’
But the heavy mage simply hugged her broad chest and tilted her head in thought. ‘Don’t know. Got a funny feeling on the ship just then with everyone … Keep an eye on him, Crust.’
Cartheron nodded his full agreement. ‘If you say so, Hawl.’
*
The caravan was encamped a day’s journey from Fedal, a southern Itko Kan city, and termination point of the main north–south overland trade route. At the sprawling caravanserai grounds – a broad meadow of trampled grass – fires were lit against the dark and animals were being brushed, fed, and cared for.
As was usual, Dassem went for a long walk through the night. This time, however, he was alone. Shear no longer even spoke to him, save to lower her masked head to him in passing as if she were his subordinate, which, he knew she now believed herself to be.
It was autumn; the grass was dry and brittle and snagged at his trousers. There was an early chill to the air; he’d overheard some merchants attribute this to the Sea of Storms just to their south.
He paused in the dark to look skyward. Old familiar stars glowed above the southern horizon. The constellations of his youth: the Spear, the Cart, the Sky Mother.
Tomorrow they would part. He would carry on to the coast to take a ship out to Malaz Island, which he’d heard described uninvitingly as cold, rainy, and dreary. While she, he understood, would return to her island home far away.
He ran a hand through the tall, sharp-edged grasses. Should he simply allow that to happen? Shouldn’t he return, ask her to accompany him and Nara? Why not?
After standing silent for a time he let out a long slow breath. No; Hood had not taken his eye from him. He was certain of that. The Grey Walker held some special fate in store for him. Some stern lesson for his defiance.
He would not embroil her in that.
Yet shouldn’t that be her choice? He could warn her of the dangers and let her choose …
He half turned back to the distant flickering fires of the encampment, then quickly sank to his haunches amid the tall sighing grasses.
Weapon oil and sweat.
Then, the brush of ring-mail, and the faint click of a crossbow setting.
He reached down to his waist only to remember that he’d left his sword behind.
And is Hood laughing now. Mortal Sword indeed! Ha!
He lay still, listening. From what he could piece together it sounded as if a wide, staggered picket line just passed his position, closing on the caravanserai. Crouched still, he padded along behind the nearest of the individuals. To his benefit it was a dark night, and none of the figures carried any source of light – no doubt being guided by the fires of the camp. He took the man from the rear, clamped his hands round his neck just long enough for unconsciousness, then lowered him into the grasses. What he found, a ragged patched hauberk over a stained old Kanian uniform, confirmed his suspicion: outlaws, or renegades.
Through this gap in the picket he hurried inward, still crouched for a time, and jogged for camp.
The main body of the outlaws entered the caravanserai even as he closed. Panicked shouts arose but thankfully no screams or clash of blades – yet.
He pushed through the milling families and groggy fretful merchants to a position across a fire from where Shear stood with Horst Grethall. The fat-bellied caravan-master had his arms in the air and was shouting for calm.
Shear, of course, spotted him amid the flickering shadows. In the firelight her mask seemed to swim with a kaleidoscope of rich colours. Her blade was not drawn, as yet. A hand low at her side gave a slight flat wave – wait.
‘No need for any violence, Luel,’ Horst was saying to one of the outlaws. ‘You’ll have your payment.’
‘Tithe,’ the man clarified, rather archly. He wore a faded officer’s surcoat over a hauberk of scale. He was bearded, and his hair was long and bedraggled, suggesting he’d been camping in the field for a great many months. ‘Our legal due for keeping the roads safe here, so close to the Dal Hon border.’
‘Safe from whom?’ Horst grumbled under his breath.