Paul Kearney: The Mark of Ran

“Have you thought what you might call her?” Elias asked Rol as they stood in the midst of that cheering throng and watched Gallico haul himself up the ship’s side, his grotesque face all agrin.

“I have.” Rol looked back at the skeletal warrior in his stained armor who had watched over their labors. “We brought her back from the dead with the dead’s blessing, so it’s only fitting that she should be named the Revenant. ”

Seven weeks after Rol had first clapped eyes on her, the Revenant was near ready for sea. Her topmasts were in, a new ship’s wheel had been rigged up to her rudder, and two small cutters were made fast to the booms across her waist. They warped her out of the flooded dry dock to the wharves of the ship-cavern, and over a thousand people gathered there to see her topgallantmasts hauled up and lowered into place with tackles to the crosstrees. She had glass in her stern windows, a good bower and two kedge anchors, and a full load of ballast: piles of rock from some of the more ruinous galleries in the tunnels of Ganesh Ka. Rol, Gallico, and Creed had begged, borrowed, and in not a few cases stolen whatever they needed to fit her out, but they were still critically short on essentials. Sailcloth for one; they had enough for a full sail-plan, but not much in the way of reserves, and what stuff had been bent to the yards was a trifle worn for Rol’s liking. Cordage, also, was in short supply, and there was a lot of twice-laid stuff in the rigging which a full-hearted gale would play havoc with. But the worst deficiency was in gunpowder. Here Artimion’s indulgence had failed. They were allotted six small barrels, no more; enough for one moderate engagement.

“We need a shakedown cruise,” Gallico said, “a week or two at sea, preferably with a bit of a blow to see how the men shape up. And gunnery practice. They’ve all fired ship-guns before, but the gun-teams are new to one another and to the ship-and those sakers are nine feet long and weigh a ton and a half apiece, heavier metal than most will be used to, unless they’ve had a spell on a man-of-war.”

“We’re still thirty men short of complement,” Rol told him. “We could barely man a broadside and sail the ship at the same time.”

“Who said anything about broadsides? Ran’s teeth, Rol, we’re not looking for a fight-we just prowl up the coast a way and take her due east into the Reach, deepwater sailing. We’ve enough food and water on board for a fortnight at least.”

“If we run into a blow, it’ll go hard with us; the running rigging is a hand-me-down cat’s cradle, and I could piss through some of the topgallantsails.”

The halftroll grinned. “Creed is right-you are an old woman.”

They were seated in the captain’s cabin, a beautiful space of white-painted, curving wood with the noise of the wharves rattling in the open stern windows. Several of these had cracked glass, which had been sized to the frames with a liberal amount of putty. One good following sea would burst them through and have the stern cabin flooded. They would have to ship deadlights in anything but the mildest wind.

A cot and a lantern, both hanging by ropes from the deck-head, swayed minutely with the restless movement of the water beneath the keel, for the tide in the bay beyond the cavern was on the ebb, flowing back out to sea. Rol and Gallico felt that small motion through their feet and smiled at each other. There was living water under them again.

“It’s been a long time since I had a deck move below me,” Gallico said.

Rol was about to agree when Creed swung open the cabin door. “Something’s going on along the wharves. Looks like Artimion’s making some kind of speech, and the ships’ companies have all been mustered.”

They went on deck, where their own crew were gathered in a body forward. Rol hailed his carpenter. “Kier, what’s afoot?”

“Bad news, skipper. The Bionari are here.”

Twenty-one

They were still gathering by the hundred on the wharves. Artimion had piled up a couple of crates and was standing atop them. About his feet stood Miriam and a few of her musketeers. All work had ceased, and the yards of the ships in dock were black with sailors, listening.

“They’re troopships, no more, and their escort is only a pair of brigs,” Artimion was saying, his baritone echoing in the eerie silence of the ship-cavern. “But if they manage to land Bionese regulars onshore, then we are lost. We must meet and destroy them at sea.”

“Two Bionese men-of-war? Swallow and Albatross and Prosper cannot take them alone,” someone shouted, and there was a general murmur.

“You damned fool, how do you think we had word of them? Timian and Gan are out there in their own ships, shadowing this flotilla. The Osprey and the Skua carry nine-pounders. With their help we’ll take the brigs and sink the transports.”

“How many soldiers in these transports?”

“There are eight troopships in the convoy, so bank on a full regiment, sixteen hundred men.” Another murmur, disquieted and more widespread. Some women began sobbing. Artimion held up his hands.

“They’re still thirty miles out at sea, so if we’re quick we can meet them a good distance from the Ka. There is no reason to believe they know where we are, not yet.”

“Then why embark a marine regiment?” a burly mariner called out. “They’re not on board those troopships for their health.”

Artimion’s face grew grim and closed. “We must sink them all; drown every one of the bastards in the Reach. Not one must get back to Bionar, not one. We do that, and Ganesh Ka’s secret is safe.”

A general growl of approval met this.

“But we must plan for the worst also. We’re clearing the decks and holds of every fishing boat and launch in the Ka, and I want all those not in a ship’s company to prepare to leave the city.”

A roar went up; fear and anger in the wordless chorus of a thousand voices. Once again Artimion raised his hands amid the upcry, and the levelheaded about him began shouting for silence and cursing their more histrionic neighbors.

“Those who cannot or will not find a berth in the boats must take what they can inland, into the hills. When this fleet has been destroyed we will make contact with you as soon as we can. You shall return to your homes, I swear it. I will sink these enemies of ours in the Reach, down to the last man, or I will die in the attempt.”

A stillness fell over all that serried host of men and women. Some were nodding determinedly, others seemed sunk in resignation. A child cried out and was silenced by its mother.

“That is all. We are getting under way now, the men of the ships. May Ran be kind to us, and may Ussa of the Swells watch over us.”

Artimion jumped down from his box and the crowds began to part reluctantly. There was no panic, only a purposeful current of movement. The mariners began filing to their ships, and the decks of the Prosper, the Swallow, and the Albatross were at once crowded with busy men. Rol, Gallico, and Creed looked at one another, and then as one they left the Revenant and began forging through the milling throng to Artimion’s brigantine. They caught up with Ganesh Ka’s de facto ruler just before he boarded the gangplank.

“Where do you want us?” Rol asked.

Artimion turned round, eyes bright in his black face. “You are free to leave the Ka without obligation, as we agreed. I do not hold you to its defense.”

“The hell you don’t, Artimion,” Gallico began.

“Ask your captain, Gallico. You are his man now, not mine.”

“We’ll take our place in the line of battle with the rest of you,” Elias said hotly.

“No. I do not want you in it.”