Hilemore spent the rest of the day going about his duties with typical efficiency and ignoring the nervous winks or grins offered by Steelfine’s chosen co-conspirators. He left the surreptitious gathering of arms and provisions to the Islander and, aware of Trumane’s continually watchful eye, confined his first act of outright mutiny to retrieving two-thirds of the ship’s product from the safe. Luckily, the captain’s distrust hadn’t extended to relieving him of the keys. He briefly considered taking all of the Red but decided there was a possibility, however faint, that Trumane might find a Blood-blessed at another port. Once you’ve decided your course you can never falter. Another of his grandfather’s lessons popping into his head as he regarded the contents of the safe, wondering what the old man would have made of this. Mutineer and now thief. Hanging will be too good for me.
He found the Chief waiting at the port rail with Zenida and her daughter. Akina seemed unusually cheerful, her usual scowl replaced by a bright-eyed excitement and she fairly bounced on tip-toe as the first boat was lowered over the side. Steelfine had ensured the night watch consisted entirely of his trusted crewmen, numbering sixteen men in total, mostly riflemen and stokers. They were further aided by Dr. Weygrand, who, despite refusing to join them, had contrived to add a soporific to the captain’s nightly dose of medicine.
“Doc says he’ll be dead to the world for at least eight hours,” Bozware reported. “Even if there’s another who raises the alarm, I doubt there’s a man aboard with the heart to fire on us, sir.”
Hilemore nodded and glanced over the rail to confirm the first boat was now in the water. “Captain,” he said, handing Zenida a small draw-string oilskin bag containing a good supply of their stolen product. “I would prefer no fatalities, if possible.”
She nodded and paused to kneel and embrace her daughter, speaking in soft Varestian. “Stay with the grease-rat.”
Hilemore swung himself over the rail and began to climb down, making the boat without undue difficulty and taking up the oars. Zenida joined him a moment later, taking the tiller whilst he began to propel them towards the dark bulk of the Superior. Behind them came the clinking of chains through the davits as Steelfine’s party lowered three more boats over the side. Hilemore concentrated on rowing the boat, working oars with a smooth, even rhythm to avoid tell-tale splashes, the squeal of the rowlocks muffled by a liberal application of grease and canvas. Zenida kept mostly to the shadows cast by the other ships at harbour, steering through the curving cliff-like hulls for several long minutes. Finally, she nodded for Hilemore to halt alongside an Alebond Commodities freighter some fifty yards from the Superior’s anchorage.
“We could get closer,” Hilemore whispered, judging the remaining distance too great for his liking.
“Too risky.” Zenida stood up and began to strip. Hilemore expected her to stop at her underthings and found himself instinctively averting his gaze when instead she removed every scrap of clothing. “It’ll just slow me down,” she said, crouching to retrieve the bag of product. “Besides, I’ve noticed men are often reluctant to shoot a naked woman.”
“I wouldn’t be,” he muttered. “If my ship were under threat.”
“But you are a very singular fellow, Mr. Hilemore.” It was too dark to see her face but he could hear the smile in her voice. She extracted three vials from the oilskin bag, presumably Red, Green and Black, and drank them all in quick succession. Drawing the bag’s string tight, she hooked it over her head and slipped over the side into the water. “If I die . . .” she began, the dark silhouette of her head just visible in the gloom.
“I’ll see her safe,” Hilemore promised.
A short pause and she was gone, her disappearance betrayed only by the softest slap of water against the boat’s hull. Hilemore turned his full attention to the Superior and waited. The mist that seemed to greet every morning in this port was beginning to gather as night faded towards day, a thin veil of vapour lingering over the still waters. It took perhaps two full minutes before he saw her pale form appear at the base of the frigate’s forward anchor chain. She ascended to the deck in seconds, moving with the strength and swiftness of a Blood-blessed fully dosed with Green. On reaching the deck she disappeared from sight, though he caught a brief glimpse of her through the upper gun-ports as she sprinted for the ship’s command deck, a white blur in the gloom almost too fast to follow. Hilemore counted ten seconds before the first shout of alarm sounded, followed by two rapid pistol-shots. He took up the oars and began to row as fast as he could, glancing back to ensure Steelfine’s party were following suit.
Two minutes of strenuous effort later the prow of the boat butted against the Superior’s hull and Hilemore shipped oars before reaching for the coil of rope at his feet. He swung the attached grapple with practised precision, the iron-barbed hook looping over the rail and snaring a firm purchase at the first attempt. Some skills were beyond the ability of his body to forget. Like most warships the Superior sat lower in the water than a merchant vessel and the climb was short, though made somewhat agonising by a fresh salvo of pistol-shots from above.
Grunting in frustration, he hauled himself up the last few yards and clambered onto the deck. The first sight to greet him was the body of an unconscious Corvantine sailor. He lay on his side near one of the starboard guns, his faint groans indicating that Zenida had so far managed to avoid any killing. Hilemore drew his revolver and ran for the ladder leading to the upper works. He passed another Corvantine on his way to the bridge, a stocky middle-aged man bent double and retching whilst a steady stream of blood flowed from his nose. He raised his head to gaze blearily at Hilemore, but returned to his retching when it became apparent he wasn’t about to be shot.
Hilemore found another Corvantine on the bridge, little more than a boy and presumably equivalent to an ensign in rank. He glared at Hilemore in helpless outrage, both his wrists firmly knotted to the helm by a length of rope. Hilemore’s Corvantine was poor but he detected more than a few choice obscenities in the invective flowing from the boy’s mouth. Hilemore gave the boy a quick salute and moved on, drawn towards the stern by the sound of a fresh commotion.
Lieutenant Sigoral stood amidst a section of poorly repaired superstructure, sword in one hand and revolver in the other, as something pale and very fast moved around him in a wide circle. He tracked the pale thing with his revolver and pulled the trigger, cursing when the hammer clicked on a spent cartridge. Sigoral then performed some impressively timed and well-practised strokes of his sword, each failing to connect with his tormentor, causing him to swear with increasing volume. This time Hilemore picked out the word “bitch” amongst the tirade. He tapped the barrel of his revolver against an iron railing, calling out, “Captain!” When Sigoral failed to respond, still swinging away with his sword, though with an increasing lack of finesse, Hilemore sighted the revolver an inch or two from the Corvantine’s foot and fired a single round. It proved sufficient to capture his attention.
“Captain,” Hilemore repeated, raising his sights to aim at the man’s forehead. “Look to starboard, if you would.”
Sigoral glared up at him, eyes blazing beneath a sweaty brow, then did as he was bid. He cursed again at the sight of Steelfine’s party now within ten yards of the ship, the Islander standing tall at the prow of his boat with grapple in hand.