Assail Read online

  The black gravel crunched under his boots. Letita stood awaiting him, still armoured, helmet under an arm. ‘I want a perimeter, a picket, and a watch. And send out some scouts. What’s past that short rise?’

  She saluted. ‘Aye, captain.’

  He next tracked down Buen. ‘Gather some of this wrack for fires. Both for cooking and for signals.’ The man nodded his assent but appeared unhappy with the idea of casting signals far and abroad. Jute then ran into a grinning Dulat who was inspecting the unpacked casks and kegs of their remaining foodstuffs. Jute made a show of studying him long and hard as if puzzled.

  The lad’s smile faltered and he asked, uneasy, ‘Yes, captain?’

  ‘Why aren’t you at your post, sailor?’

  ‘My post? Ah, well – we’ve hauled up, haven’t we?’

  ‘What has that to do with anything?’

  ‘And it’s getting dark.’

  ‘You coming down makes it lighter, does it?’

  The lad had to think about that, his head cocked. ‘No …’

  ‘Then get back up there and keep an eye out for those ships or any others!’

  Dulat cast one last glance at the stores, sighed his longing, then saluted and jogged off for the ship. Jute clasped his hands behind his back and paced off to a vantage from which to scan this most southernly bay of the Dread Sea. The Malazan ship was a black dot making its way to their location; of the other two vessels he could see no sign. As he watched it occurred to him that the Malazan silhouette was canted rather alarmingly to the starboard. There’s seamanship, he told himself. Keeping afloat despite every reason to be underwater.

  The dark silhouette limped nearer. Its oars, a single bank on each side, flashed in the weakening sunset. The fires piled on the beach sent out clouds of grey smoke that sometimes blew over Jute as the contrary winds gusted and shifted. He spotted one of Letita’s marines, Gramine, and waved the man over.

  ‘Any word from the scouts?’

  ‘No sir. Not yet.’

  ‘Send Letita over when there’s news.’

  ‘She’ll come, sir.’

  Jute gave a light snort. Nerves. Damned nerves. ‘Yes,’ he allowed. He returned to examining the Malazan galley. ‘I suppose she will.’

  The vessel drew nearer, silent but for the faint splash of oars. ‘I see the other ship!’ Dulat shouted then from his post atop the mainmast. ‘She has signal beacons burning at the bow!’

  ‘Very good, Dulat.’ He returned to watching the Malazan’s crippled approach. After a time, boots crunching through the gravel announced Letita. Jute turned and she saluted. ‘Grasslands inland,’ she reported. ‘Empty.’

  ‘These wrecks?’

  ‘Looted then burned here, on site.’

  Jute eyed the charred skeletal ribs. He wondered aloud, ‘Burned on shore?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Then someone’s here.’

  Her gaze slid to the north where it rested, naturally narrowed and wary. ‘They’re gone now.’ Attractive eyes, he reflected as he had a number of times. Hazel with a touch of sea-green, if he had it right. The wind cast her ragged-cut black hair about.

  ‘You do not mix much with the crew,’ he observed.

  Her gaze snapped to him. It remained narrowed, challenging now. ‘Nor do you.’

  ‘There is someone awaiting your return home to …’

  ‘Strike, sir. Yes.’

  Strike still? He’d known she was a graduate of the famed military academy on that island, but was surprised to hear that she still considered it home. ‘Well … we’ll make it back. That’s the point of any journey, yes?’ and he gave a small laugh. She watched him in silence. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, that’s all for now.’

  She saluted, ‘Very good, captain,’ spun on a heel and marched off.

  So serious, he reflected. Well, she was early yet in her career. He returned to watching their companion’s progress. Closer now, the ship appeared even worse for wear. Battered and scarred. Its planking faded with age. He couldn’t make out the name scrawled below the bowsprit. It ground up on to the beach, but far lower than the Dawn. Some of his crew helped secure lines that they hammered into the gravel. Two figures clambered down its side. Jute went to meet them.

  The foremost of the two was a squat wiry fellow, quite old. He was in much-worn leather armour, scoured where Malazan sigils of rank would once have ridden. His unkempt grey hair blew about in the winds and a grey-shot beard matched. His wrinkled features bore the faded slate hue of a native Napan. The second was equally wiry, spidery even, in common sailor’s jerkin and trousers, barefoot, with a mane of thin white hair and a pinched, worried face.

  Jute extended an arm to the first fellow and they clasped wrists, sailor-style. ‘Jute Hernan, Master of the Silver Dawn. At your service sir. You have my eternal gratitude for getting us out of that trap.’

  This fellow waved his other hand, dismissing the topic. ‘Ach – it was my own arse I was worried about. Cartheron, of the Rag-stopper. Our thanks for leading us through the rocks. We’d never have made it otherwise.’

  Jute stared, quite taken aback. Cartheron? The Cartheron? One of the legendary captains of the Old Empire? Unlikely … yet how many Cartherons could there be? He released the man’s hand and nodded at the compliment. ‘Well, as you say. We were worried about our arses as well. How fare our companions?’

  The Malazan captain glanced away, squinting to the east. Jute noted that squinting suited the man’s face, either through a lifetime’s habit, or perhaps naturally. ‘The galleon was limping along. Umryg is no sea-faring state.’

  ‘Umryg? I know nothing of such a land.’

  ‘As I said.’

  Jute blinked, rather at a loss. ‘Well. Can you effect repairs here?’

  The Napan’s squint soured into a scowl – the expression also no foreigner to his features. ‘Not my first choice, that’s for damned certain. Rather have her up and dry.’ Then he laughed. ‘But she’d probably fall to pieces so p’raps it’s for the best.’

  His companion pressed forward, outraged. ‘We can’t manage any of the necessary repairs here in this forsaken land. Gods, the keel needs inspection!’

  Cartheron turned on the man, his first mate, perhaps. ‘The keel needs no inspection,’ he snarled. ‘Its rotten through and through and that’s that!’

  The first mate spluttered, searching for words. He pulled at his hair in his passion. He finally yelled back: ‘And so what do you suggest, O great Captain Cartheron?’

  ‘Stuff more rags into her.’

  ‘More – more rags? She’s more rags than wood!’

  ‘And yet she floats. There’s philosophy for you, Orothos.’ Hands grasping fists of hair, the first mate glared back, dumbfounded. ‘What?’

  ‘Beacon fires on the water!’ Dulat yelled from the gathering twilight.

  Vastly relieved by the interruption, Jute stepped away from the two Malazans, who continued their furious argument until a threatened cuff from Cartheron sent the first mate ducking. ‘How far?’ he called.

  ‘Hard to say. Coming this way, though.’

  ‘Good.’ Jute studied the beacon fires on the shore for a time, then, satisfied with their strength, scanned the water for some sign of the approaching vessel. Cartheron came ambling over in a side-to-side wide-legged walk that only those who have spent most of their life a sea can manage. At first Jute was tongue-tied as he considered just who he might be standing next to all alone in the dark. What stories might he hear? What sudden, unlooked for intimacies or unburdenings of secrets? Was this the Cartheron Crust, one-time companion to the old ogre emperor and his killer and usurper, Laseen? Victor, with Nok, of the battle of Fenn Bay, where the combined Falaran navy was scattered in a rout? His grandfather had fought at that battle and told stories of the sorcery unleashed.

  Finally, he was unable to contain his curiosity any longer, and, gaze still shaded on the waters, he cleared his throat. ‘So, sir. Are you the Cartheron?’

>   ‘How many damned Cartherons do you know?’ the man growled.

  ‘Well … just you.’

  ‘Good. For a moment there you had me worried.’

  Jute cleared his throat once more. ‘Well, I was wondering because—’

  ‘There she hails,’ the Malazan said, pointing.

  Jute squinted. He could just make out the flickering glow of the fire, and his eyes were far younger than this man’s. ‘Who is she?’ he asked.

  ‘A sorceress. Damned powerful one. That’s all I know. We met while we were all anchored there waiting for someone to dare the rocks.’ Jute glanced to the man and saw him grinning. ‘You. As soon as I saw your light galley dart for the rocks just at the peak of high tide I knew you had a good chance. Trust a Falaran at sea, I always say. When there’s no Napan to be found, mind you.’

  ‘What of your pilot, then?’

  The Napan lost his grin. ‘My pilot’s a souse. Nerves.’ Jute frowned at that. Nerves? ‘Here we are,’ Cartheron announced. He raised his chin to the surf.

  The huge silhouette of the sorceress’s galleon detached itself from the surrounding gloom. A fire burned in a brazier atop the raised castle at its bow. Jute estimated that height at a good six fathoms above the waterline. A launch was being lowered over the side. He and Cartheron waited.

  When the launch reached the surf Jute waved out his sailors to help draw it up. The eight oarsmen remained seated within while two figures climbed out. The first was an aged fellow, all in dark clothes, his hair long and brightly glowing in the murk. He held out a hand to his fellow passenger. As soon as the woman stood – for it was clearly a woman, though wrapped in loose windswept robes – it was also clear to Jute that she hardly needed the old man’s help. Unusually tall one might’ve described her – alarmingly tall, even. Strapping and sturdy would perhaps be kind. She was fully taller than he or any man of his crew and her presence was accented even more by her long flowing headscarf, a face veil that revealed only her eyes, and her equally disguising layered robes.

  He and Cartheron bowed to the woman and he introduced himself.

  The old man, his face sun-burnished and wrinkled and dominated by a long nose, carried a tall staff – thought not so tall as the woman. He stamped this to the gravel and announced: ‘Timmel Orosenn, the Primogenitrix of Umryg.’

  The woman waved a hand as if to brush this pompous announcement aside. Jute noted the hand was large enough to encircle his head like a fruit. ‘Lady Orosenn will do,’ she said in a rich honey tenor. ‘Falaran,’ she added, addressing Jute. ‘We are in your debt. Your navigator is a sorceress indeed …’ and she gave a small laugh as if sharing some unspoken secret.

  Jute laughed as well; he’d always thought so. ‘That she is, my lady. But it is we who owe the debt. Your actions in the harbour saved us all.’

  ‘I merely did what I could to buy us time.’

  ‘Speaking of the harbour, what of Tyvar?’ Cartheron asked. ‘They exited the channel,’ Lady Orosenn answered. ‘What has become of them since I cannot say.’

  ‘Tyvar?’ Jute asked.

  ‘The Genabackans,’ Cartheron explained. ‘He sent a launch among us while we anchored earlier. We’ll let him introduce himself – if he hasn’t sunk.’

  ‘Then we wait,’ Lady Orosenn said, agreeing.

  The old man frowned at the news. He peered about glowering into the dark and muttering to himself. Finally, he raised his voice. ‘M’lady,’ he urged, ‘it is not safe for you to linger here on shore. Best you remain on board your vessel, yes?’

  The Lady’s eyes, so very enticing behind the veil, shifted to the south. Jute followed her gaze but saw nothing. She nodded then, reluctantly. ‘Very well. If I must.’ She looked at Jute. ‘Give my thanks should Tyvar arrive.’

  ‘There is a danger?’ Jute asked.

  ‘Only to me. There are … old enemies that I must be wary of.’ The old man urged her back to the launch and her crew pushed off.

  ‘So we wait,’ Cartheron reaffirmed, and he wiped his mouth then eyed Jute. ‘Care for a drink? I have damn fine Untan distilled grain spirit on board. I could send for a bottle.’

  Jute immediately felt his mouth water. ‘That would be wonderful. My thanks.’

  Cartheron’s first mate had glared at the proposal and now he hissed aside to his captain: ‘You’re drinking the manifest!’

  ‘Manifestly. Now be a good man and have a bottle sent over.’

  The first mate glared anew but threw his hands in the air and stalked off, grumbling and gesticulating. ‘… not a rat’s ass left … empty hold … utter loss … chicken farm …’

  Some time after that a sailor in a tattered shirt and torn canvas trousers arrived carrying a bottle in one hand and two small glasses in the other. These he handed to Cartheron then walked away, all without a word or salute. Jute had the impression that standards had rather fallen on board the Ragstopper.

  Cartheron inspected the glasses, blew in them, and wiped them on his very dirty shirt. He used his teeth to pull the cork free then splashed out a liberal measure of the spirit and handed Jute a glass. Jute’s enthusiasm had fallen off with the polishing, but he set aside his reluctance and raised the glass. ‘To a successful venture,’ he offered.

  ‘To ample wine and rich women,’ Cartheron answered. ‘Or is it the other way round?’

  They drank. The liquor was indeed very fine, and very strong – including the undercurrent of sweaty shirt. Jute coughed into a fist. ‘This Tyvar – you believe he’ll make it?’

  ‘Oh yes. Very impressive fellow. Reminds me of the old days. But I’ll let him introduce himself. We should see him soon.’

  They had another glass and Jute stood in the flickering firelight longing to question the man regarding those ‘old days’ he had so casually mentioned. But tact kept him quiet. If the man wanted to talk, he would. Besides, he understood that these veterans were often unwilling to discuss the past – it was usually painful. He was old enough himself to understand that.

  ‘Hear that?’ Cartheron asked after a long near-silence of crackling fires, the slow crash of the waves, hissing grasses, and the calls of night-hunting animals out on the plain beyond.

  Jute started – he’d been fading. Exhaustion and alcohol. ‘I’m sorry? What?’

  ‘Listen.’

  Jute struggled to focus. Then he finally heard it: the strike and ripple of oars out upon the water.

  ‘He’s here,’ Cartheron announced. ‘Good.’ He raised his drink to Jute and downed it, sucking his lips. ‘Our chances have just improved materially.’

  A launch emerged into the firelight’s reach. Several of the oarsmen and women jumped overboard to drag it in through the surf. Jute noted that all wore belted layered gambesons or leathers that were the underpadding of heavy armour. All the crew fought, it seemed. Two men thudded down on to the gravel shore, both still in their armour. One was the bearded fellow who had called to Jute from the vessel earlier. The other was his virtual twin, similarly armoured, only older, his beard shot with grey.

  The pair doffed their helmets and tucked them under their arms, then strode up the shore to Jute and Cartheron.

  ‘Captain Cartheron,’ the bearded fellow greeted him. ‘I am glad to see you still with us.’

  Cartheron gestured to Jute. ‘May I introduce Captain Jute Hernan, of the Silver Dawn.’

  The man bowed from the waist. ‘Captain. May I compliment you on your pilot? He is worth his weight in gold. I would follow him on any sea in any storm. But I am remiss.’ He indicated the man at his side. ‘Allow me to introduce my companion. This is Haagen Vantall, Steward of the Blue Shields.’

  The man bowed, as did Jute, who strove to keep his amazement from his face. The Blue Shields! Of course. One of the fighting religious cults out of Elingarth. A brother order to the Grey Swords who had fought the Pannion threat years ago.

  Haagen motioned back to his companion. ‘And this is Tyvar Gendarian, Commander of the Blue Shields. Mortal
Sword of Togg.’

  Tyvar shook his head. ‘Mortal Sword in title only. Togg has withdrawn, as so many of the gods have now, yes? We are all left with only our own prayers to comfort us these days.’

  Jute took a steadying breath. He felt as if his head was swimming. ‘Well. My thanks for interceding in the harbour. You saved all of us.’

  Tyvar waved it aside. ‘It was nothing. I would have remained and slain them all as a service to our fellow mariners, but time is pressing and we are yet at the very beginning of our journey, are we not?’ He looked to Jute expectantly.

  Jute suddenly felt his mouth grow dry. He swallowed, or struggled to do so, nodding. ‘Yes. Yes, quite so. These southern reaches are said to be the easiest portion of the passage. They say it gets progressively more deadly the further one travels north. We have only just entered the southernmost bay of the Dread Sea.’

  Tyvar shared a glance with his companion. ‘And does your pilot know these waters?’

  Despite feeling strangely shamed to fail this man, Jute had to shake his head. ‘No. But I would dare the Stormriders with her and will sail on.’

  Tyvar burst out a laugh and slapped his thigh with his bunched gauntlets. ‘Excellent. May we accompany you then and sail north under your guidance?’

  Jute stared, utterly amazed. ‘I’m sorry?’ he finally stammered in disbelief.

  ‘Perhaps our good captain is concerned regarding the apportioning of shares …’ Haagen murmured to Tyvar.

  The Mortal Sword’s brows rose and he nodded, ‘Ah! I see. Do not concern yourself, captain. We of the Blue Shields are not interested in what gold or plunder may be amassed—’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Cartheron muttered into his glass.

  ‘We wish only to reach the north. Aid us in this and we offer our swords. What say you?’

  Jute gaped, staring from one to the next before settling upon the wrinkled grey-hued features of Cartheron Crust. The old sailor cocked a brow and held out the bottle. Jute offered his glass, which Cartheron filled. ‘Then I say we travel north.’ And he raised the glass to toss its contents to the back of his throat, gasping and coughing.

  The commander of the Blue Shields let out a great shout and slapped Cartheron on the back. ‘Excellent! Two days for repairs, yes? Then we sail.’