Dassem took a quick glance; the outlaws were gathering the beasts together, yet a solid picket of crossbowers still kept watch. Again Dassem regretted that such a competent commander should have left the Kanian fold.
He waited, crouched upon his haunches, weapon readied at his shoulder, for the moment he wanted, and eventually it came.
Luel appeared, swinging up on to his mount. He pointed about with his sword, giving orders. Dassem backed up three paces, then rose to his full height and extended his arm backwards. Shear opened her mouth to say something, but closed it without speaking, obviously not wishing to distract him.
He charged, thrusting his arm forward, hopping with the release. Shear rose to her feet, her masked face tracing the night sky as she followed the weapon’s high arcing flight. Shouts arose in the camp – they’d been seen.
Atop his mount, Luel turned their way, pointing his sword.
As if by magic the spear sprouted from his lower torso and he grunted with the impact. The sword fell from his nerveless fingers. He clutched at the thick haft then slid backwards off the horse.
Alarm erupted in the camp. The crossbow ranks scattered, running to any nearby mounts, throwing themselves into the saddles, and kicking them into a gallop. In an instant all had fled the clearing. Shear and Dassem waited until the dust settled, then advanced.
They found the outlaw commander lying on his back, still alive and conscious, a bloodied hand on the haft standing straight above him. The man’s dark eyes tracked Dassem as he closed to crouch next to him. Shear kept watch.
Luel licked his bloodied lips and whispered, ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Dassem Ultor.’
An explosion of laughter sprayed blood all over the man’s beard and chest. He bared his reddened teeth in a grin. ‘Should’ve guessed. I was at Heng. I heard Hood’s Sword was there.’
Dassem nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’
The commander gave a weak shrug. ‘No matter. You now bring death to the south.’
‘That is not my intent.’
The man’s hand fell from the haft. ‘Yet … it follows … you…’
Dassem closed the man’s staring eyes, rose, and faced Shear. Blood spattered her trousers, shirt and mask from the battle.
‘I am thinking you are no longer welcome among the caravan,’ she said.
‘And neither are you, no doubt. I am sorry.’
She waved that aside. ‘No matter. I was planning to return to my people anyway.’
He nodded. ‘I will collect our horses and go.’
‘I will keep them all from bothering you in the meantime.’
‘My thanks.’ He reached out. ‘Shear…’
She remained erect, hands at her sides. ‘Yes?’
He let go a long breath, let the hand fall. ‘Fare you well.’
She inclined her masked head slightly. ‘You too, Sword of Hood.’ She turned and jogged off.
He allowed her time to speak to Horst, then went to find his horses.
*
It was far from winter proper, yet a chill wind from the south sent shivers up Cartheron’s back where he sat on a heap of rope inspecting the tackle of the running rigging taken from the mizzen mast. Most was far older and more worn than he would’ve liked; however, given the shortage of equipment, they had to make do.
They hadn’t the time to haul the Twisted up so Choss was in charge of repairs and caulking below decks while he handled everything aloft. It was painful to him to have to pass sub-par blocks and frayed line, yet on Mock’s orders no vendor on the island would sell them one nail or a single yard of canvas, even under the table. Still, they had managed to appropriate a few supplies.
It was dark, but they were working in shifts through the night by torch and lantern light, and had even taken to sleeping in the hammocks in the crew’s quarters before the mast. They had to make do with what they could scrounge, or steal, and that was Grinner’s area. Already he’d come through with some new line, lumber of questionable provenance, and fresh pitch.
Though they had been working like this for days, Cartheron still found it difficult to sleep given the occasional sightings of the ship’s unofficial mascot, the strange nacht creature. That thing made him uneasy still, while Shift flatly refused to bed down on the vessel at all.
Surly, for her part, remained ensconced in Smiley’s with her bodyguard, rarely showing herself. Running everything, collecting money, and no doubt impatiently awaiting the day of their departure.
He sat back and set his hands on his thighs, stretching his back and neck; but that was unfair. Her security was paramount to him as well, even though Geffen’s organization, now under a lieutenant of his, was lying low, focused on regaining its strength. And as for Mock with his council of captains, the man had had no reported sober day in weeks. And the local merchants, wisely perhaps, took their lead from the council.
He stilled, then, noticing that the chill wind was no longer blowing in off the bay, but luffing his shirt from the front. He peered up, puzzled, and was surprised to see thick dark clouds massing over the island. A blaze of sheet lightning made him flinch and blink and he rose, peering to the south. The deep purple night sky was clear there, which was odd, given that most storms rolled over them out of the south.
A thick mist was now even rising off the icy waters and climbing the wharves. He backed away to the cargo hatch and called down, ‘Hawl. Better get up here.’
Their mage was already on her way up the steep stairs. She went straight to the side and peered up the shore into town.
‘What is it?’ Cartheron asked.
She turned to him, frowning her worry. ‘Shadow…’
‘Truly?’ He eyed the mist-shrouded streets. ‘You think, maybe … it’s our boy?’
A curse of alarm sounded from below and a short hairy shape burst from the companionway, swung over the side, and went loping up the pier to disappear into the swirling fog.
Hawl merely raised a brow in comment and Cartheron nodded. ‘We have to warn Surly. I’ll go.’
‘Not alone.’ Hawl leaned over the cargo hatch. ‘Urko! You still down there?’
‘Yeah?’ came an answering bellow.
She pointed a warning finger at Cartheron. ‘You take your brother.’
*
Grinner, Nedurian found, played a mean game of troughs. They sat before one of the two ground floor windows of Smiley’s. Nedurian had played a lifetime, campaigning all across Quon east to west, and now in the unlikely figure of this burly, scarred knife-fighter he’d found a fellow adherent as steeped in the game’s strategy as he.
He rolled again and considered his moves while Grinner chewed a thumbnail and eyed the board. When he hadn’t moved for some time the Napan peered up at him, frowning. ‘What is it?’
But Nedurian wasn’t listening. For some time a vague worry had been tugging at him despite his submersion in the game, and only now had it finally surfaced in a prickling all up and down his arms and the stirring of the small hairs of his neck.