Assail (50 page)

She shrugged. ‘Coupla lads from my old command swung by, said he was looking to hire.’

‘So you know
of
him …’

The woman snorted again. ‘Abyss, yes. Who doesn’t?’

‘Then you came here on your own?’

‘Yeah. Overland from the west.’ She shook her head. ‘Only a handful of us made it. And for what? There’s no gold left. Only people rakin’ it in are those selling booze or shovels. Or stealing it from those that got it. Ended up trapped here. Can’t afford to stay. Can’t afford a ticket out.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She shrugged again. ‘How it goes. Had a family farm outside Mott. Sold it to raise the money for this trip. All gone now. Fortunes of life. Gotta take risks to achieve anything.’ She eyed him up and down. ‘Same as you, hey? You just arrived with a ship, hey?’

‘Yes. A full cargo to sell.’

‘Whatcha bring? Timber? Anvils? Chandeliers? Ice for drinks?’

‘Oh no, nothing fancy like that. Just basic staples. Barrels of flour, molasses, rice, salted pork, jugs of spirits.’

The woman looked him up and down again. ‘
God-damn
,’ she breathed, in something like awe.

Jute and the woman – a retired officer? – made it down to the dock without incident. Perhaps it was the eight or so burly ex-soldiers surrounding them. In any case, they followed him up on to the
Dawn
and he checked in with Ieleen. He found her where she always was: sitting at the stern next to the tiller. ‘Back, love,’ he announced.

‘And who’s the woman?’ she asked.

Jute blinked. ‘Ah … she works for Cartheron. Here to help guard the ship. How did you know?’

‘I can smell her. She’s pretty?’

‘Ah … well, I suppose so. Yes.’

‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’

‘Ah … of course.’ He waved the woman to the stern. ‘Ah, this is Ieleen, my wife and ship’s pilot. And this is … ah …’

The woman bowed. ‘Lieutenant Jalaz. Giana Jalaz, of Mott. At your service, ma’am. Here to help out defending the ship.’

Ieleen inclined her head. ‘You are most welcome. Our ship’s master of weapons has had her hands full beating away thieves trying to sneak on board.’

‘We will give her a hand, then,’ Lieutenant Jalaz said, and went on her way.

‘She seems nice,’ Ieleen said. Jute blew out a long breath. Then he jerked, remembering Cartheron’s words.

‘Oh! I have to go to the
Ragstopper
. They have to ready to cast off – as do we.’

Ieleen urged him away. ‘Well, then. Off with you.’

He headed to the gangway but froze as Giana barked: ‘Stop him!’

The men guarding the gangway shifted to block his way. Suddenly, a sinking realization came to him: By the gods … I’ve just handed my ship over to a pack of Malazans! What a purblind fool! I deserve whatever it is they have in store for me. An unexplained disappearance, probably.

He slowly turned to face the lieutenant. She came to stand quite close before him. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

In his peripheral vision, Jute caught his master of weapons, Letita, edging in close, her hand at the grip of her longsword.

He swallowed hard and gestured up the dock. ‘Cartheron’s ship, the
Ragstopper
.’

‘Why?’

‘Cartheron wants both ships ready to cast off.’

‘Oh.’ She pointed to two men. ‘You two, go with him. Cartheron wants you guarded.’

Jute felt his legs weaken. Gods! Was that good or bad? Am I under unofficial arrest? Maybe I’m not being fair to the commander. But he’s of the old guard – infamous for their treachery.

He raised a hand to wave off Letita. Either Giana missed the gesture, or, more likely, she chose not to notice it, and did not react. One of the Malazans headed down the gangway first, and Jute followed. The second trailed him.

Scruffy would-be stevedores and touts came shuffling up. They made offers for work, or offered women, d’bayang dust, rustleaf, durhang, khall leaf. The guards brushed them aside. Jute did not think himself in any danger; the poor wretches obviously hadn’t had a decent meal in some time. They did, however, seem to have access to a lot of drugs.

Reaching the side of the vessel, he shouted: ‘Ho!
Ragstopper
! Permission to come on board?’ He waited, but no one answered. ‘Ahoy!
Ragstopper
?’

He eyed the peeling and barked-up timbers of the galley’s side. A single rope hung over the rail – the only means in and out? ‘Stay here,’ he told his guards, and took hold of the rope to haul himself up. It was a trick he imagined only a fellow sailor could manage.

He pulled himself over the side. The open galley benches were mostly empty. A few ragged sailors lay sound asleep. Jute carefully picked his way between them and up on to the centre walk. A familiar figure lay slumped and snoring amid jumbled rope here: Cartheron’s putative first mate with his thin mane of frizzy white hair. The sight of the fellow asleep – probably on watch – inflamed the lifelong sailor in Jute. He picked up a coil of rope nearby and heaved it on to the man, shouting, ‘Wake up, you useless whore’s son!’

The man sprang to his feet with a yell; he peered wildly about while squeezing some small object in both hands: ‘
We’ll die together!
’ he howled.

Jute flinched away; the man’s wild rolling eyes latched on to him and he blinked. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ He wiped his gleaming brow. ‘By all that’s holy – don’t you ever do that again.’

‘What’s that you’ve got there, then?’

The man whipped the round fruit-sized object behind his back. ‘Nothing. Nothing ’tall.’

Jute had a hard time believing the man would’ve been crazy enough to fall asleep while holding a munition. Still, the
Ragstopper
seemed a floating asylum.

Now the first mate was frowning suspiciously. ‘What’re you doing here, anyway?’ he growled.

‘Orders from Cartheron – he wants you ready to cast off some time this night.’

The first mate gaped, then his lower lip began to tremble. ‘But he just got here …’ He gazed about in a panic. ‘We can’t … Do you have any idea …’

‘I’m sorry. I’m just relaying—’

The man threw himself at Jute and hung on to his shirt. ‘But we have to sell our cargo!’ he blubbered. Alarmed, Jute saw that indeed the man held a munition in one hand; he gently eased it from his grip. The fellow was weeping uncontrollably now. ‘You have no idea what we’ve been through! No harbour would allow us to drop anchor! We’ve been turned away from every city, every port. We’ve been at sea for years. It’s like a curse!’ He tried to shake Jute by his shirt but was too weak. ‘You have to talk some sense into him! Please … for the love of all the gods. Have mercy on us!’

Jute took hold of the man’s hands and gently eased his grip free. ‘Yes,’ he soothed, ‘I’ll talk to him. I promise. We aren’t going far – just the next town. I promise.’

The first mate was nodding with him, his eyes swimming. ‘You promise …’

‘Yes. Absolutely. On my word.’

The fellow slumped back down into his nest of rope, hunched, head hanging. ‘Doomed …’ he was murmuring. ‘Retirement, the man said … golden years …’ He covered his face. Jute gently set the munition down nearby and slowly backed away.

Back on the dock, he blew out a long breath and shook his head. Poor fellow! Clearly addled. Strain of the passage, no doubt. He returned to the
Dawn
flanked by his two new guards. On board, he went to the bow to watch the darkened slope of the tent city. Torches burned here and there, as did fire pits. A few of the tents were lit from within, though most were dark. The noise of the countless tent-bars, taverns, and inns came and went with the wind – as did the stink – though already he was getting used to it. He waited; for what he had no idea. Considering Cartheron’s reputation, however, he suspected it would be dramatic. Whatever it might be.

He glanced over and flinched, surprised: next to him stood the skinny pinch-faced khall-head guide, also leaning against the side. ‘How did you—’ he began angrily, then, remembering Cartheron’s warning, cleared his throat and repeated neutrally: ‘How did you get on board?’

The man merely gave his dreamy smile, more vague than secretive. ‘Same as you,’ he said.

Jute rolled his eyes. ‘What do you want? A stake?’

The man’s smile widened as if the thought amused him. He swung his head in a tilted negative. ‘Oh, no. Just here to keep an eye on things.’

He frowned at the man; for the life of him he couldn’t see what Cartheron saw in the fellow. However, having just seen the
Ragstopper
, it occurred to him that he would fit right in.

Fire suddenly blossomed in a quarter of the tent city. Its billowing eruption lit the tent tops. The noise of the blast washed over the
Dawn
. ‘What the …’ he stammered. A second blast, this one in a different quarter, now lit the high slopes. The guide smiled again and nodded to himself. ‘What’s this?’ Jute demanded.

The man gave an easy shrug of his bony shoulders. ‘Oh, Lying Gell had a number of caches of food and equipment stashed away. Looks like they’ve been doused in alcohol and set alight.’

Jute gaped at him. ‘But that means … they’ll all be after …’

The fellow nodded again. ‘Oh, yes. My guess is the boys are runnin’ for the dock right now with the entire encampment hot on their tails.’

Jute wasted an instant trying to utter his disbelief, outrage and horror, only to throw his hands in the air and lurch from the side. ‘
Man the sweeps!
’ he bellowed. ‘Ready poles! Raise anchor! Cut all but one rope there!’

Lieutenant Jalaz and her cohort ran pounding down the gangway then dashed for the base of the dock. Would-be stevedores and touts went flying from the wood slats to land in the mud. A gang of hires-words had been lounging at the base of the dock amid crates and bales; now they came to their feet and peered up-slope to the fires. From the bows of the
Dawn
, Jute watched as the Malazans came crashing into them. In a moment, it was over. All of the toughs were down, either knocked unconscious or heaved over the side where they struggled knee-deep in the mud.

Lieutenant Jalaz now held the dock.

‘Captain?’ Jute turned; Letita stood armed and ready, helmet cheek-guards lowered. He shook his head. ‘Stay on board, master-at-arms.’ The woman’s mouth hardened but she did not object. Jute pointed out over the bows. ‘However, we do have a good view of the dock from here …’

Her lips climbed in a savage grin; she turned to the mid-deck. ‘Archers! Form up!’

The shouts and iron-clash of fighting now washed down to the
Dawn
. A gang of Gell’s thugs rushed Jalaz’s squad. This time blood flowed as swords were drawn.

More tents burst into flame. The yells and cries swelled to a steady roar. Jute could now make out a running mêlée making its way down the tent city. Everything in its way was trampled and destroyed as it came. Men were running both away and towards it.

A solid crowd now pressed against Jalaz’s position; Jute nodded to Letita. ‘Archers,’ the weapons master called, ‘Thin them out – try to avoid our crew.’

Her team of forty archers opened fire on the crowd.

A strange clacking noise pulled Jute’s attention to the rear. He glanced back and blanched:
Benevolent gods forgive us
. The
Ragstopper
’s springals were being brought round to bear on the shore.

He’d seen what they’d done to the fortifications at Old Ruse, and now … civilians? Yet could any soul here truly be counted as an innocent civilian? Very few, no doubt. And those should be fleeing the scene rather than closing on it.

The springals released with twin bangs and fat bolts shot overhead in trajectories lower than the
Dawn
’s tops’l. Twin explosions lit the darkness and sent geysers of wet earth to the night sky – along with cartwheeling doll-like figures. The mud and debris came pattering across the dock and smacked into the mud flats like wet fists.

Into the profound silence following the eruptions, Lieutenant Jalaz’s voice came bellowing out of the darkness: ‘Watch where yer shooting, y’damned apes!’

The pause was only momentary as the fighting renewed itself. The running scrum broke into the open close to the waterfront. Jute could make out individual figures within the press: the two Falarans who’d given their names as Red and Rusty – which was a joke of course, all Falarans tell outsiders their name is Red. And in the middle of the pack, a scrawny grey-haired figure pointing and shouting commands: Cartheron. The roiling knot now made for the dock. Sword blades flashed in the light of waving torches. Men and women cursed and grunted at blows given and taken.

The huge figure of Black Bull reared into view before Lieutenant Jalaz. He leaned in swinging two-handed. She met him with twinned shortswords. The weapons slid and grated across one another in blows and parries until one of Jalaz’s swords flicked up across the man’s beard and he reared back in a spray of blood. He clasped his throat, his eyes rolling white in the darkness. She raised a boot to his chest and kicked him down.

Jute couldn’t fathom the numbers of these would-be miners and fortune-hunters all piling in, all struggling to tear the Malazans apart. He’d been there when they’d been told Lying Gell’s thugs numbered some three hundred. Yet far more than that – a horde of over a thousand – now clamoured to pull them down. And more were arriving every minute.