Paul Kearney: The Mark of Ran

The hull timbers were remarkably sound. Whatever was in the water of the docks, it discouraged teredo, the wood-boring worm that was the death of ships. Creed raided the wood stores of the city for deck planking and fittings and at the same time had experienced men out in the hills looking for the largest and straightest tree trunks they could find, for no mast in the stores was big enough to fit the butts of the hulk.

Miriam visited the dockside on the fourth day with two of her militiamen beside her. She looked over the swarm of men and women working on the hulk with a raised eyebrow, and asked where she might find Cortishane.

Rol was belowdecks aft, drawing rusted spikes from the transom timbers whilst about him Creed and several others were levering the salt-rotted rudder gudgeons loose. The hulk was iron-sick, for not enough copper had been used in her construction and parts of her hung together more through luck and stubbornness than anything else. He edged out of the tight space about the transom, wiping his rust-orange hands and frowning, to find Miriam squatting on her heels behind him, her musket slung shining on her back.

“Artimion wants a word.”

“I’m busy.”

She blinked. “You’ve been appropriating a lot of things that are not yours, Cortishane. The least you might do is answer to the man for your actions.”

“I thought we held everything in common in this place,” Rol told her with a feral grin. She backed a foot, then steadied. “You have a monster’s eyes.”

“Yes. It broke my mother’s heart. Where is he?”

“On the dock.” And as Creed rose to join Rol she said: “Cortishane alone.”

“It’s all right, Elias,” Rol said, and he followed Miriam up on deck, straightening with a groan and knuckling the base of his spine.

Artimion nodded curtly in welcome. “You have found a project, it seems.”

“It’s coming along. I’m still short of a few things, though. People mostly.”

“What exactly are you hoping to achieve, Cortishane?”

“I’m bringing a ship back to life. A good ship, better than any you have tied up at the wharves.”

Artimion’s eyes flashed coldly. “You take a lot upon yourself. Less than a week in the city and you are setting yourself up as some kind of captain.”

“I thought that was the general idea.”

“How long have you had at sea?”

“Long enough.” Rol met Artimion glare for glare.

“And you have commanded a man-of-war, have you?”

“I’ve smelt powder, if that’s what you mean. And I’ve fired great guns before.”

“That’s hardly the same.”

“It’ll have to do.”

Artimion looked about at the gaggle of workers on the dockside who were listening, some covertly, some openly. “Walk with me,” he said.

They ambled away from the dockside toward the busy wharves beyond and the blinding white arches of the sea gates. Men nodded at Artimion as he passed, without speaking. Rol saw respect in their eyes but not a great deal of affection; a far cry from their reception of Gallico, who was universally loved.

Artimion seemed to have read his mind. “Without the support of Gallico you would not have had a single pair of hands at work on that hulk.”

“I know. I’ve always been lucky in my friends.”

“I do not wish to be your enemy.”

“There’s no reason why you should be.”

Artimion smiled. “You put two dogs in the same kennel and one is always going to try to piss higher than the other. You are strutting about Ganesh Ka like some form of royalty, and it sways the weaker minds among us. Were you delicately brought up?”

Rol laughed heartily. “I have been educated in the finer things in life, it’s true.”

“Do not try to jump too high too fast, Cortishane.”

“All I’m trying to do,” Rol said quietly, “is rebuild a good ship.”

“And that you cannot do without my goodwill.”

Rol stopped, and they stared at each other. Again, that momentary contest of wills in the contact of their eyes. Again it was put off, postponed. But it would not be so forever.

“All right, so I’ve been like a bull at a gate about it,” Rol conceded. “But if I know anything, it’s that your little fiefdom here has rough weather ahead of it. The Bionari are sniffing up and down the coast, and have been for months from what I hear. They will find this place eventually.”

“They’ve been looking for it for nigh on a quarter of a century to no avail. Why should they chance across it now?”

“Because you’ve thrown in your lot along with the rebels. You are part of their politics now, and they cannot ignore that.”

“We have always been part of their politics. It was Bar Hethrun himself founded this place, before leaving for his death at the hands of betrayers. And now the woman who purports to be his daughter wants you delivered to her-so you are not above politics either, it seems.”

Rol stared in surprise at Artimion, and finally managed a strangled laugh. “By Ran’s beard, you have no idea.”

“What brought you to the coast of Ganesh?”

“The wind, what else?”

Artimion stared at Rol thoughtfully. “There is a shadow hanging over you, Cortishane. I have heard it said that when one with the Mark of Ran upon him comes to Ganesh Ka it shall be the harbinger of doom for our city. An old sailor’s tale, no more, but even old tales may have the lick of truth about them. I think it best you do not stay here.”

“Are you going to throw me out?”

“I owe you for saving Gallico’s life, if nothing else. No, I will let you stay until you have your hulk made seaworthy in some fashion or other, and then I would have you leave us. You are bad luck.”

“Maybe I am,” Rol said soberly. “But you’ll help me get this ship to sea?”

“I will. You may have the labor of any carpenter or blacksmith you desire, and the run of the storehouses-so long as it does not interfere with the provisioning of our regular vessels.”

“I suppose you cannot say fairer than that.” Rol held out a hand and Artimion shook it, unsmiling.

He was as good as his word. Two good ship’s carpenters, Jon Lorriby and Kier Eiserne, were released to work on Rol’s hulk, and with the news that Artimion himself had blessed its rebuilding, more veteran mariners came trickling to the dry dock to offer their services, for Ganesh Ka had experienced sailors by the hundred, and not enough ships to employ them all. Rol set Gallico and Creed to weeding out the chaff from the real professionals and within a fortnight he had sixty good, thorough-paced seamen on his muster-list and a portable forge had been set up on the dockside to turn out ringbolts, chain, and new rudder-pintles and gudgeons. The carpenters built oak carriages for the sakers, and these were trundled up to the magazine, and the guns bolted upon them. Then the whole contraption was trundled back down again, the wooden wheels squealing with the protest of new wood. But the most delicate business was the getting in of the lower masts. These were massive pylons of heavy timber, the best the Ganesh highlands could provide, the mainmast almost a yard across at its base. Sheerlegs were set up on the dockside and it took eighty men all told to haul on the tackles that lifted these massive yards into place. One false move and the masts would have dropped through the hulk’s bottom like spears, and it took a sweating, cursing, shouting three days to get them in. Once they and the bowsprit were in place, however, she began to look like a ship again. Another two days saw the shrouds, forestays, and backstays in place, and the sluice gates of the dry dock were opened. The ship’s company (for such they had become) stood in a crowd and cheered as the hulk’s keel lifted from the stone and the baulks that supported her hull were knocked away one by one by Gallico, half drowned in foam and rushing water. She was afloat; she was alive again. A ship of black wood, long and graceful as a thoroughbred, and larger than any other in Ganesh Ka. A Man of War.