Beneath an Opal Moon (17 page)

“Then why have you told me?”

“You said you wished to save Aufeya, piloto. Well and good. You are not Daluzan. You are not blood. You can go where others, constrained perhaps by the conventions of the land, cannot. You must help Aufeya and Senhor Seguillas. You must avenge his death. Kill Aufeya's mother!”

Moichi looked away from those blue eyes, burning with a manic passion. Thick cumulus were building themselves low on the horizon ahead of them to the northeast. Their tops were pure white but, as they continued to mount, he caught a glimpse of their dark undersides. Storm clouds. A squall was forming. It was far off, too distant to be an immediate threat, for the wind had not yet changed. But the gulls to port were already beginning to wheel, crying, toward the high shore.

He stared into those blue eyes. “I can promise you no such thing, Armazón. Aufeya is my concern, not her mother or her dead father.”

The bos'un's eyes blazed and he trembled with rage.
“Cobarde!”
Spittle flew from his glistening lips. “You meddle in matters over which you have no understanding. You are an outlander! What is Dalucia to you? Less than nothing.” He laughed grimly. “Ah, for you! Save yourself the misery, piloto. Throw yourself overboard before you reach Corruña. Let the sea take care of you for you look death in the face and you do not even know it!” He went away from Moichi in a rush, leaping for'ard, swinging around the mainmast, almost colliding with Chiisai as she came aft, before disappearing into the for'ard hatch.

Chiisai came up from the position she had taken near the bow soon after they had set sail. All the day, she had stayed there, studying the configuration of the shoreline, constantly checking it against the detailed maps aboard the lorcha.

“We are making exceptional time, Moichi,” she said, making no mention of the altercation with Armazón. She pointed to port. “See there, already we are near the coast city of Singtao.”

There, where she pointed, he could see the cinnabar smudge of the urban sprawl, far smaller than mighty Sha'angh'sei but important in its own right. The city's color was no illusion of the light for it was here that the famed red clay was exported to the world of man. It was the finest in all the world, and artisans, no matter where they resided, insisted upon using it.

The light was peculiar now because the vast bank of squall cumulus had not lowered entirely and the sun, caught behind it, nevertheless managed to fight through the underside so that the sea was illuminated by what sailors called the trail of the Oruborus, brilliant as molten metal where the rays hit it, as deep and brooding as iron everywhere else. Above the storm, the sky was a peculiar canary yellow fading to a cold dense gray.

His nostrils dilated and he scented. “It is coming now,” he told her. “And quickly.” As if to underscore his words, there came a deep but distant rumble of thunder, echoing across the sea. He looked to port. All the gulls were gone now, having sought the safety of the shore. For us, too, Moichi thought.

“Un buque!”
The piercing call of the lookout vibrated in the air. A ship.

“Dónde?”
he called.

“Adelante!”

He gazed straight ahead. For a moment he saw nothing but the heaving sea, made dark and dull by the confluence of the flying thunder-heads. They were very close now. Then he oriented and saw the triangular sail emerging from out of the cloud bank which now seemed to dip right into the heaving water. Whitecaps were appearing with alarming rapidity.

“Cuál close de buque?”
He called to the lookout. These were unfamiliar waters to him. Better to rely on the Daluzans here.

“Momento, piloto!”

The wind, gusting erratically, was plucking at the canvas with intensity as the storm approached; the rigging sang its mournful tune. Normally, he would have called for them to strike canvas. But some sixth sense, born to him upon the sea, caused him to delay. He wanted a positive identification first. He swung abruptly around as a particularly strong gust threatened to turn them.
“Firme! Firme, hijo!”
This to the helmsman, who he knew was young.

“Do you not think we should make for shore?” Chiisai said.

“Not yet.” Moichi had turned back, was listening for the lookout's identification. “Hellsturm already has a sizable head start on us. We cannot afford to let him build on that advantage. He has outrun the storm, I have little doubt. We must weather it.”

“I have felt the force of the storms here in the northwest.” She was, of course, speaking in relation to her home, Ama-no-mori. Moichi thought of Sha'angh'sei being in the south, which it was in relation to the rest of the continent of man. “And that was in a sea-going three-master. Do you think—?”

But Moichi had signaled her to silence. He was concentrating.

“A lorcha!” The lookout's cry came. “Daluz'!”

“One of theirs,” Chiisai said.

“Vigilarse cuidadosamente!”
he cried to the lookout. Watch it closely. Because there was something not quite right. He turned to the helmsman.
“A babor! Aprisa!”
Quickly now! The lorcha swung to port, heading in toward the shoreline. Moichi, after a brief glance into the shrouds, kept his gaze fixed on the other vessel.

“What's the matter?” Chiisai asked.

He ignored her, calling,
“Rohja! Dón' está?”

A young sailor working at midships called for a man to replace him, scrambled aft. “Piloto.” He was tall with a broad chest and muscular arms. His face was long and thin, dominated by the dark brooding eyes of a predator. He was dressed in a white cotton shirt, dark trousers and a purple headband. An exceptionally functional outfit.

“What do you make of that?” Moichi said, pointing to the oncoming ship.

The sailor peered ahead. “A lorcha.”

“Daluzan?”

“The design is Daluzan. That is not the same thing.” He continued to peer ahead but the low light was making sightings difficult. “Strange sail,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Just that I have never seen a Daluzan vessel with black canvas before. Perhaps you should ask Armazón.”

“I am asking you, Rohja.” Gaze flicking from the oncoming craft to the cumulus behind it. Flash of lightning, blue-white upon the mirror of the sea. The other lorcha had altered course but it could be heading in to shore as was Moichi's vessel. He kept their course, heading in, but his head was full of the calculation of vectors; he needed no instrumentation for this.

“I think they mean to intercept us, piloto.”

“They may just be heading in to shore, as we are,” Moichi pointed out.

“The angle isn't right.”

“Tell me, Rohja, would Senhora Seguillas y Oriwara send a ship after her daughter?”

“Not likely, piloto. No one knew where we were bound or even that we had gone until after we had set sail.”

Rohja was increasingly agitated but Moichi remained calm.

“The lorcha is primarily a merchant vessel, is it not? Correct me if I am wrong.” It appeared now as if the other lorcha would reach them before the storm did.

“That is true, piloto. But I must point out that this is so only on short voyages around Daluzan waters. For a trip along the coast”—he shook his head—“it is far too small a vessel to be in the least practical. You would not be able to load enough cargo to make the voyage worthwhile.”

That, of course, was the point; the anomaly of the other lorcha: it was coming on far too fast to be carrying any kind of load. He called sharply to the helmsman,
“Recobrarse el curso!”

The man spun the wheel as sailors leapt to the rigging and the lorcha swept to starboard, then righted itself. They were now moving out at a tangent, away from the shore, into the full face of the storm. The wind howled, just below gale level, and the sky was a gray mass, low and roiling like steam from a kettle. The horizon to the northeast had disappeared into a kind of continuous blur as rain slanted violently down.

“You have been of much help, Rohja,” Moichi said. “Now go and fetch Armazón from belowdecks. We shall surely need him.”

The man left the aft deck immediately. In a moment, the bos'un appeared with Rohja just behind him. Both were armed with straight narrow-bladed swords.

“Not Daluzan, then,” Chiisai said.

“If they are not, we shall see very soon now.” Moichi moved back along the deck until he was standing next to the helmsman. “Listen to me closely now, hijo, and move this vessel as I speak. Immediately, do you understand? Each moment is vital and any delay may undo us.”

“I understand, piloto.”

“Good.”

The other lorcha had altered its course away from shore. It was close now, tacking away from the wind so that it could cut across their bow and intercept them.

“Hijo,” Moichi said. “Steer us directly for them.”

“Piloto?” The man was startled.

“Do as I say, Oruborus take you!” Moichi barked. “Head for him now!”

Armazón rushed aft with Rohja in his wake as he discerned their course. The lorcha swung in an arc, directly for the other vessel.

“Are you mad?” Armazón cried. “With all sail and in this gale we shall surely destroy each other. Sheer off!”

Moichi ignored him, addressing Rohja instead. “Will the canvas take the strain?”

Rohja glanced upward. “Yes, piloto. There is no problem from rips—”

Moichi heard his tentative tone. “But—?”

“But there may be some danger of capsizing. With all sail if the storm caught us dead on, we would go over and down like a stone.”

“He is right, piloto!” Armazón brandished the sword. “Either way, it is suicide! Sheer off, devilfish take your eyes!”

The helmsman was sweating and Moichi murmured reassuringly to him,
“Firme, hijo. Firme.”

They were heading directly at the oncoming lorcha, the fierce wind propelling them dizzyingly across the waves. They were coming up on it with appalling swiftness, the storm front just behind. It was gaining on the other ship.

Fittings creaked as the canvas strained in the bucking wind and men scrambled constantly to keep the sheets at their proper angle. They were making all speed.

But Moichi's gaze had swung away from the other lorcha. He watched the rising of the squall, calculating distances and speeds, the vectors coming together. It was going to be very close.

Dimly he heard Chiisai call his name. He turned, saw Armazón, sword gleaming, mounting the short companionway to the raised aft deck.

“Get away from there, piloto! Leave the helm. You will kill us all in your madness!”

“Chiisai,” Moichi said softly so that only she could hear. “Stand just here, on the other side of the helmsman. See that we stay bow on to the other ship no matter which way he twists. Stand off this deck, bos'un,” he said, moving forward as he unsheathed his own sword. “You have a job to do. I want the men armed in the event we are boarded. See to it!”

“I shall see to your death first, piloto!” He swung wildly at Moichi, who slid his upper torso away from the blow and, at the same time, sent a vicious two-handed slash obliquely across the other's blade. It sheared through like a stalk of ripe wheat. Moichi stepped up, sheathing his sword, and let fly a balled fist into the bos'un's face. His arms flung out wide, Armazón plummeted backward onto the main deck. There he lay, stunned.

“Rohja,” Moichi called, “see that he is all right. Then make certain the men are armed. I want no surprises. Quickly, now. There is little time!”

He returned to the helm, saw that they were still dead on.

“Good,” he murmured. “Very good.”

The other lorcha was now quite close. So close, in fact, that he could see the individual men manning it. What—?

“Rohja!” He saw the man. He had just returned from belowdecks. “Look to the other ship! Are those Daluzan?”

“No, piloto, they are not!”

Moichi had thought not. Those men were larger than the Daluzans, broad-shouldered and heavily muscled in a narrow-waisted athletic way. They had hair as yellow as the sun and their skin was so fair it appeared almost white.

“What folk mans that lorcha?”

“Tudescans,” came the reply.

“Who are they?” Chiisai said. “I have never heard of them.”

“Nor I,” Moichi replied. “But we are about to find out.” Rohja scrambled aft in answer to Moichi's summons.

“The Tudescans are from the north, from a land above Dalucia.”

“What could they want from us? Are they pirates?”

“No, piloto, not to my knowledge, though they are most certainly a villainous lot.”

Moichi considered this for a moment. There were six different words for villainous in Daluzan that he was aware of—perhaps there were more—and all had their own various shades of meaning. The one Rohja had used had many ramifications. Too many to contemplate now, but he filed the information away for later study.

“Ahora!”

The two lorchas were bearing down upon each other now and he could see the frantic activity on the other ship as it tried to maneuver away so that it could close alongside.

As it had worked out, Moichi was obliged to cut it very fine, and if it did not work, their vessel would be beam on into the ravaging squall with all sails full and that would be the end, as Armazón feared. Nothing in the world could save them from going down.

“Steady,” he urged the helmsman. “Steady. They are trying to shake us off.”

Sheets of rain, so heavy they were almost solid, were closing in rapidly, cutting light drastically; judging distances accurately was now a major problem mainly because the blurring effect tended to foreshorten the distances. So it took a fraction of a moment longer for him to guide the lorcha as his brain interpreted the images of his vision and made the necessary readjustments.