Corsair (41 page)

“What is it?” Gareth asked suspiciously.

“A draft I concocted which will make you sleep … and dream. But it won’t be dreaming. Vile-tasting, it is.”

Gareth swallowed, choked. “You aren’t understating the case.”

About half the column was sitting around the grove, watching, while others assigned to cooking or sentry duty busied themselves elsewhere.

“Now, finish it off, and go beddy,” Labala said.

Gareth yawned mightily, leaned back on his rolled blanket, and closed his eyes. In a few seconds, he let out a bubbling snore.

“I want a bottle of that,” Cosyra said, “for when he gets the broods and can’t sleep — and, worse, won’t let me nod off either.”

“A magician’s specialties should never be taken for that of a chirurgeon’s,” Labala said loftily.

“And I remember when you were no better than a longshoreman, living off coppers and what you could steal,” Cosyra said.

“Cosyra,” N’b’ry suggested, “don’t remind him of how he’s inflated his position — he’s,
hem-hem,
inflated enough as it is in reality.

“Labala, that’s a question,” he went on. “How in the hells is it, when all about you are starving, that you appear to be just as, well, nobly built as when we were aboard ship?”

Labala tried to look evil. “Haven’t you realized where those men we keep missing are going?” He licked his lips. “Learned some interestin’ things from the Slavers and those pricks with their pyramids. Nothing finer than thin-sliced, unwashed pirate. Yum.”

He reached over to Gareth, peeled back an eyelid.

“He’s well under, so the rest of you clamp your lips and let me set to work and show you what powers I’ve inherited from the unfortunate Lord Dafflemere.” His expression turned serious, then he forced the past away.

“Now, we gently crumble these butterfly wings, like so. Now, we touch these assembled twigs — notice how they flicker and flame into life, with nary a match nor ember, which is yet another benefit a master sorcerer can provide.

“Into the flames we put rue, skullcap, chohosh, other herbs of benefit.”

Labala half closed his eyes, began chanting:

He repeated the incantation three times, then held the crushed wings over his head and let them go. The smoke from the tiny fire caught them, whirled them up, and then the wind took them away.

He opened his eyes.

“Now we wait to see what happens. And, perhaps, start thinking about evening-meal.”

• • •

Without surprise, Gareth looked back and down at his camp, far below.

He realized that he was drawn in the direction he was “looking,” so he somehow changed his view, without understanding how he did it, to the east and to the north as he rose higher and higher.

It appeared as if the grasslands ran on forever, but then, not too far ahead of where the company rested, he saw the beginnings of a spring that became a creek, and grew into a small river.

It cascaded down from the plateau into the jungle in a great waterfall. It pooled, grew wider, and was a river, growing ever larger as it ran toward the waiting sea.

Somehow Gareth could see the spring as if he were standing beside it, as well as from high above it, how the river grew, washing toward the distant ocean. He hoped it was the Mozaffar, with the northernmost Linyati town at its mouth, for he remembered from freed slaves that it was navigable far into the interior.

He could even make out jungle villages along the banks of the river, and, through haze, the river mouth and the longed-for sea that would take him home from these strange lands. He even thought he could make out ships, sails set, leaving the city at the river’s end.

Sadly, he realized it was time to return, although he could have stayed here aloft, without body, without cares, caressed by the wind, forever. If only there was a way for Cosyra to be with him. Perhaps, when it came time to die …

Gareth’s eyes snapped open, and he was lying on his blanket, Cosyra beside him on one side, Labala on the other.

“About time you returned,” the magician said. “Or else there’ll be no dinner for you at all.”

“What did you see?” Cosyra asked, and behind her Froln and N’b’ry crouched, listening intently.

“I saw the birth of the river we’ll follow to the sea, and the city with the ships we’ll need to take,” Gareth said. “Not more than three or four days’ distant.”

Froln got to his feet.

“A cheer, boys,” he called. “For we’ll not die in this stinkin’ damn’ wasteland after all!”

I like this but little,” Froln grumbled, looking over the cliff, paying little regard to the spray from the nearby waterfall drifting past.

“Nor I, sir,” Nomios agreed. “Th’ tackle’s worn and in bits. And I doubt me if there’s enough for a full run down to th’ cliffbase. The rope’ll wear on the rocks, for we’ve no decent timber for a windlass. It’ll all be shit, sweat, and yo-heave-ho, like in the old days before men discovered leverage.”

The column had reached the place where the river dove over the side of the plateau, crashing down and down, more than a thousand feet, to deep pools below.

“It’ll be a scramble for the able men,” Froln gloomed. “And it’ll take care to slip the stretchers with our sick and wounded down without losin’ anyone.”

He and Bosun Nomios looked at each other.

“As for the rest … like you said, we haven’t sheaves, windlasses, capstans, hoists, or levers,” Froln added gloomily. “It shall be a bitch.”

“We’ll need magic for the cannon,” Nomios said.

“Or a damned great friendly bird,” Froln agreed.

Gareth, only half listening, had been studying, foot by foot, the rocky, brush-covered precipice.

“We can do it,” he announced.

The other two seamen waited.

“We’ll do it in stages,” he said. “First from here down to that outcropping, then from there — the longest drop — to where the water bounces next to that ledge. We’ll carry the guns along the ledge, and make a short lower there — where that scraggly tree comes out of the cliff face — and then straight down, to that beach, and we’re home.”

The other two considered.

“Just possible,” Nomios said.

“We’ll link the ropes we’ve been using to pull the guns with, and, Labala, is there a strengthening spell you could cast?”

“I could,” Labala said. “But with no guarantees on how long it’ll hold true. Our ropes are damned near as worn as we are, Gareth.”

“I know that,” Gareth agreed. “First, we’ll put the sick and wounded down, the same way the guns will go. Froln, detail ten men for each position and get them headed down.

“Cosyra, would you do the honors of taking charge of that? Take Thom Tehidy as your assistant.”

“Gladly.”

It took the rest of the day to get the stretchers, and the men who were walking wounded, to the bottom of the cliff. Next went half the supplies. Gareth, not liking that his force was split, put musketeers down, to guard against anything coming out of the nearby jungle.

“I want steady officers at each landing,” Gareth said. “Froln, here at the top. Captain Petrich, you’ll be in the worst position, down on the ledge.”

“Thank you,” Petrich, once of the
Naijak,
said. “I thought you’d forgotten me.”

“Nomios, you can order the lowering from where that tree is, and Knoll, take charge of landing the guns down on that beach, moving them out of the way, and remounting them on their carriages.”

“What about you, Gareth?” N’b’ry said.

“I’ll stay up here and chew on my fingernails,” Gareth said. “Even though I’ve got my best seamen on the cliff.”

Those soldiers who hadn’t gone down the night before were put on the lashed-together ropes for brute muscle.

The rest of the supplies, then the gun carriages, powder, and the rest of the matrosses’ tools, went down. Sailors were stationed at each level, helping the rest of the soldiery to the bottom.

“Clear below,” Gareth bellowed, and the first of the guns, tied in a skein of ropes, slid over the edge, lowered by double ropes.

“Handsomely, you men,” he shouted, and the soldiers, moving slowly, obeying the command, walked the ropes to the edge of the cliff.

The cannon rested on the rocky outcropping. The ropes were released, and men took them down to where the gun waited. Again, the gun went down, but this time there were fewer men to lower it, and twice it almost got away from them.

But it came down safely, and was carried along the ledge, and once more was lowered, then again to the cliff’s bottom.

Gareth, in spite of the cool spray drifting across from the waterfall, was sweating hard.

Nimble topmen scrambled the ropes back to the top, and the second gun went down, again without incident.

Gareth noted Labala standing at cliff’s edge, lips moving in what he hoped was an incantation, feared was a prayer.

On the last lowering, the men were tired. The gun slid over the edge of the cliff a little too fast. Gareth was about to shout for them to hold at the first landing, the outcropping, and rest for a spell before continuing. But he was too late. The soldiers were letting it down too fast, reacted to Froln’s angry shouts and braked too suddenly. The cannon jerked to a halt, and that was enough strain for one rope to let go, then the other.

The gun dropped, and crashed off the outcropping, shattering the arm of a sailor who was bravely trying to stop it, then rolled over the edge. It spun twice in the air, tarnished bronze casting the late-morning sun, and smashed down onto the ledge, crushing Petrich and another corsair, then bouncing, rolling, clanging like a horrible bell, and smashing apart on the rocks at the bottom of the cliff.

No one said anything, no one made any accusations.

The men on top and on the cliff ledges climbed down, and someone said a prayer for Petrich and his fellow.

Then they made up their packs and lifted the two surviving guns onto their carriages and set off into the jungle.

Its familiarity welcomed them, but no one rejoiced.

• • •

There were small animal tracks the pirates had learned to recognize and exploit, and they followed them, keeping close to the river as it grew larger, making crossings of the tributaries when they reached them.

On the third day of march the scouts Gareth had left at the waterfall rejoined the column.

There’d been no sign of the pursuing Linyati, and now there was cheeriness. All they had to do was continue on the leagues, who knew how many: a hundred, two hundred, maybe less, maybe more. Sooner or later, the river would get wide and deep enough for them to build rafts, and then, afloat, in their own world, all would be well, even though fresh water wasn’t nearly as comforting as salt.

They would find or take some ships somewhere along the way, maybe from those damned Slavers with their city at river’s mouth, and then home to Saros.

Men started making jokes, thinking maybe they’d live, considered what they’d do with the treasured gold each still carried in his pack.

Then, on the fifth day of march, the scouts reported they were being watched by men armed with muskets.

By the time Gareth reached the head of the column, the watchers had vanished. Gareth ordered them to march on, but slowly, with flankers out as far as the thick jungle around them permitted. He stayed near the head of the march, along with Labala and Iset.

For the rest of that day, they were watched. But no one shot at them or made any hostile moves, and so Gareth ordered his men to hold their fire.

That night — before it got dark, not wanting to give the watchers out there in the jungle a silhouette to aim at — they posted double sentries, and cooked their rations, now not much more than whatever could be gathered on the march, plus dried meat and various wild fruits and vegetables the cooks had decided were edible.

No one talked much, and everyone kept his weapon at hand. The officers around Gareth were tense, waiting.

“They
could
always surprise us and be friendly,” Cosyra offered. “Doesn’t it make sense that
somebody
in these damned jungles has to be?”

“I think,” N’b’ry said cynically, “everyone in Kashi who was a decent sort got devoured a dozen generations ago.” He stood up, stretched. “Well, I guess I’d best get my head down and have a nap before the shooting starts.”

Four men suddenly came out of the brush, somehow having bypassed the sentries. They were unarmed except for belt knives, and held up empty hands. They wore elaborately worked short leather jackets, and knee pants.

Instantly, two dozen muskets were aimed and cocked.

The men remained motionless, and the pirates relaxed — slightly.

One of them walked forward, very slowly.

“I am Riet,” he said in a language Gareth vaguely remembered, pointing to N’b’ry. “I think you are the man who returned me here to my homeland. Do you remember me?”

N’b’ry recovered.

“No …”

“I was afraid not,” Riet said. “But it was your ships … yours and some of these other men, I think, that took me from the chains of the men who called themselves Linyati.”

Froln walked forward.

“Yes,” Riet said. “And you are another.”

“Sunnuvabitch,” a pirate murmured. “Goodwill sometimes does pay off. And I would’ve sold these bastards for a handful of gold.”