Ian Esslemont - Assail

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.