Isles of the Forsaken (24 page)

“Even better,” she said as she worked. “There’s a horse in there. The Innings must have used it to get to and fro.”

“Have somebody saddle it,” he said. He had barely touched a horse in his life, but reasoned that if Innings could ride them, so could he.

As two women were leading the horse out into the courtyard to saddle it, Harg went over to the walls to talk to Cobb. “There might not be time to get the guns to Rockmeet before the ships arrive,” he said. “If not, just give it up and abandon them. But get your troop over there with muskets to line the cliffs; it’ll be just as good. Be sure to let the ships go by before you fire. Wait for our signal if you can; if we don’t make it, fire anyway.”

“Right, captain,” Cobb nodded. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Hurry, the ships were sighted forty minutes ago.”

The horse turned out to have ideas of its own about the proper speed to carry its rider down the hill to town, which was considerably faster than Harg would have chosen. He had little choice but to hang indecorously onto the pommel. When he reached the town, the streets were crowded with people, either craning up at the fort or watching the harbour, where there was now sporadic small arms fire. They scattered before the horse, and Harbourdown swept by in a blur of buildings, handcarts, and astonished faces.

A four-oared dinghy was waiting for him at the dock. He turned the horse loose without regret and climbed into the familiar sanctuary of the rocking boat. “What’s happening?” he asked the oarsmen.

“Can’t tell from here,” one of them replied, “but the firing’s stopped.”

As they pulled out from between the boats moored at dockside, Harg could see the frigate still lying at anchor out in the bay, with a dozen small boats clustered round it, like puppies attached to the mother dog. There was almost no one on deck; the fighting, if it was still going on, had gone below.

A watchman on the poop deck spotted their rowboat approaching, and for a moment Harg was poised to duck if the man levelled his gun at them. But instead he waved and went to alert someone below. As Harg’s boat came to the frigate’s side, Barko Durban came to the rail, his head tied in a bright red bandanna, grinning maniacally. Harg called out, “Permission to come aboard, Captain Durban?”

“Granted!” Barko called back.

Harg clambered up on deck and turned around to survey their prize. It was a neat little ship, not new but solidly built. The recent conflict had left some disarray on deck, but little damage. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“We’re getting the prisoners under control,” Barko said. “The Adaina seamen wouldn’t fight us; only the Tornas resisted. The captain’s a complete asshole. After that shot from the fort, he couldn’t decide whether to leave or defend the ship, and so they didn’t do either very well.”

“That’s the Northern Squadron for you,” Harg said. “Listen, Barko, we need to get under way. The warships were sighted—” he glanced at the sun, longing for his lost watch “—over an hour ago. They’ll be close to Rockmeet by now. Let’s leave the prisoners in the hold and get going.”

Barko disappeared down the companionway to redeploy his men, and Harg started loosening grappling hooks and mooring lines to detach the attack boats, aided by the men in the rowboat below. Soon, pirates started pouring back on deck to get the ship ready to sail. It was far from navy discipline or precision; everywhere he looked Harg saw things that made him wince. But he held his tongue; it would have to do, for now.

The anchor rattled aboard, the topsails billowed out, and soon the frigate was gathering way, heading for the harbour mouth. Beyond, the choppy sea that had been a brilliant blue all morning had turned grey under a sudden overcast. Harg looked up at the fort, then down at the town, barely believing they had gotten so far. He turned to Barko, who was standing next to the steersman, looking entirely in command. It was hard to believe it was the same person he had met three nights ago in the Green Lantern.

Before his eyes, Harg could almost see half a century of defeat and pessimism blowing away like mist. All the Adaina needed was a victory, and they were transformed.

*

Captain Slavens of the warship
Industry
stood on the slippery forecastle deck, peering into the chilly gloom before him. The air was blanketed with silence; a creak of rope and a tap of metal against wood sounded eerily close, yet distant in the grey limbo of mist. To larboard rose the slate cliffs of Thimish, topped with the ghostly shapes of pine trees. To starboard, lost somewhere beyond sight, lay the hills of Ekra.

All day the wind had been brisk as they had coasted down the north shore of Thimish. But as they had neared the strait that would take them to the south shore, a solid bank of fog had hung on the water as if placed there on purpose to form a barrier across Rockmeet Straits.

It was a frustrating turn of the weather. They had been behind schedule since leaving Tornabay, and today Captain Slavens had been trying to make up the time. His orders from the new man, Commodore Joffrey, had been to get to Harbourdown as soon as possible, and he could have been there two days ago, but for the Inning passengers. There were four of them, friends of Provost Minicleer, ostensibly bound for the South Chain to take up administrative posts. They were treating the journey as a sightseeing tour. For a whole day the ships had waited while the Innings had sampled the local wines at Larbot; and at Croom Light they had insisted on being put ashore so they could hunt birds with their fancy engraved shotguns. Captain Slavens was certain his new Commodore, who seemed to be a by-the-book young man, would not have approved of his giving in; but the Commodore was far away in Tornabay, and the Innings were here. Long experience in the Northern Squadron had taught Slavens that one catered to the Innings, no matter how absurd their demands. It was one reason he was a captain.

Beside him stood the navigator and the sullen Adaina guide they had taken aboard at Croom Light to see them through the straits. When Slavens turned, it was to the navigator he spoke, for the Croomman communicated only in surly monosyllables. “It’s damned strange,” he said. “The weather’s fine everywhere else.” His voice fell dead on the blank air.

The navigator was nervous. “We’d better wait.”

“We could tow her with the cutter.”

“Why? It’s sure to break before too long.”

Behind them, Captain Slavens heard the opening of the aftercastle door that led to the Innings’ suite of cabins. He had thought the pack of them were stowed for the day, playing cards, but now apparently they were getting restless.

Proctor Gamiel sauntered across the deck toward them. As he came up, Slavens could smell the expensive tobacco the man had been smoking.

“Where are we?” Gamiel said.

“North shore of Thimish,” Captain Slavens answered. “That’s Rockmeet Straits ahead.”

“How far to Harbourdown?”

“Five, six miles.” And it might as well be a hundred, with this fog, he wanted to say.

“Will we still get there this afternoon?”

Now he was in a hurry. “It all depends on the weather.”

The Inning seemed as if he resented not being able to order the weather to oblige him. “Could you put us ashore, and let us walk?”

“No,” said the captain. “There’s no road. You couldn’t get through.” He had no idea if it was true; he just wanted the Innings delivered safely, so he could wash his hands of them.

The proctor turned and paced fretfully aft. The Croomman had been oblivious to the exchange; he was facing westward into the mist, sniffing the air like a dog. Some of these Adaina had senses normal people lacked; they were closer to the elements, and had an affinity to them. “What is it?” Slavens said.

It took the guide a long time to respond. “It’s not natural,” he said at last. “The Ashwin are here.”

The captain rolled his eyes. If there were any demons about, he knew where they were: in the after-cabin, smoking and playing cards. He glanced up, and saw a hopeful sign: the pennant at the top of the mainmast was stirring, and torn fragments of mist were swirling uneasily around the topgallant yards.

“I think it’s breaking,” he said to the navigator.

Sure enough, as they watched, over the next fifteen minutes a breeze thinned the fog above them, though it still hung on close to the water. At last Captain Slavens passed the word for the boatswain. “We’ll proceed under topsails,” he said. “The
Industry
first,
Pimpernel
next, then
Assurance.
” He glanced at the guide. “Peel your eyes, now. If you let us run on a rock, you’ll pay for it.”

The boatswain’s whistle tore shrilly through the silence and the sailors gathered from below to man the sails. Soon the
Industry
’s ponderous bow swung round and the great ship edged forward through the entrance of Rockmeet Straits. Under the shadow of the cliffs, Captain Slavens felt the air grow chill. The fog hid the channel beyond twenty or thirty yards ahead. Astern, the
Pimpernel
followed, ghostlike. An occasional call from the navigator, conning, pierced the thick air.

They had proceeded almost a mile when the lookout high in the masthead called down, “Ship in the channel, dead ahead.”

Captain Slavens peered through the fog, but could see nothing. “What sort of ship?” he called.

“I can only see their masts—three of them. They must be aground; they’re crosswise in the channel.”

“Back the sails,” Captain Slavens ordered. “Ready the anchor. Pass the word to the
Pimpernel
.” This was just what he needed, some tomfool blocking the channel in a fog. It had to be a merchant ship, and now he’d have to give it aid. He called up, “Are they flying a flag?”

“No,” the lookout said.

The
Industry
was still edging forward. A gust of humid breeze stirred the fog, and the captain glimpsed the shape of a dark hull ahead. A current of alarm passed through him. It was the shape of a navy frigate, and all its gunports were raised.

It was impossible. There were no hostile warships here in the Forsakens; Rothur was hundreds of miles away, and the war was over. In the instant he hesitated to issue the call to arms, the fog ahead lit up a ghastly orange colour, and a thunderous broadside crashed straight into the
Industry
’s bow. Seconds later, an answering thunder came from behind them, where the
Assurance
and
Pimpernel
were under fire from the cliffs.

“Man the guns! Hard to starboard!” Captain Slavens roared, intending to bring his guns to bear on the enemy while his ship still had some way on her; but they had caught him in the narrowest part of the channel, and the
Industry
shuddered down her whole length as the bow ran onto a sand shoal, leaving her helplessly aground.

A gust of wind swept the wall of fog aside, and Captain Slavens saw clearly for the first time. It was a navy frigate, their own ship, firing on them. The second broadside raked the decks to kill as many defenders as possible without damaging the ship itself. Still the
Industry
had not gotten a single shot off. “Issue the hand arms and cutlasses,” Captain Slavens ordered. “Prepare for boarding.”

The enemy ship had raised its anchors and now was making for the
Industry
’s stern, its gunwales lined with fierce-looking ruffians, its yardarms thick with snipers even now levelling their guns to pick off the navy men gathering on the
Industry
’s deck to defend her. Captain Slavens looked back and saw that the
Assurance
and
Pimpernel
were beyond coming to his aid; they were surrounded by a swarm of small pirate boats that had followed them down the channel from the north, and were now attacking from behind. Pinned in the narrow channel, fired on from above, unable to manoeuvre in order to fire their guns, the warships were nothing but enormous targets.

When the grappling hooks bit into the
Industry
’s after-rail and the first volley of fire raked through his men, Captain Slavens knew it was hopeless. A chilling shriek went up from the attackers as they swarmed aboard, cutlasses flashing. His own men were driven back; some turned to flee below.

“Surrender!” the captain ordered. “Lay down your arms!” For all he knew it was suicidal, since these savages might not know how to take prisoners, or anything but butchery and mayhem; but it was the only hope.

For the second time that day he was taken by surprise when a young Adaina warrior yelled out an order to desist, and the ruffians actually obeyed. With two henchmen at his side, the native leader strode across the deck to where the captain stood. He had an incongruously military bearing.

“Your sword, please, Captain,” he ordered authoritatively.

Bitterly, Captain Slavens handed over his sword. “Who are you?” he said.

“Captain Harg Ismol,” the Adaina said.

“Captain?” Slavens said. “Of what?”

There was an instant of hesitation, then Harg Ismol said, “Of the Independent Nation of the South Chain.”

A stir passed through the listening attackers, growing as it gathered into a cheer. Looking around, Slavens saw a mad elation in their eyes.

Harg turned around, holding up a hand. “Disarm them, get them secured below,” he said, and his followers turned to the job with a remarkably practiced air.

Across the water, the
Assurance
was already overrun by pirates, and the
Pimpernel
had floated onto the rocks at the base of the cliff. A second boat was approaching the
Industry
, like a scavenger come to see if there were any spoils to be had. On its deck was a massive white-haired man decked out in gold chains. Seeing the boat drawing near, Harg Ismol went to the huge warship’s gunwale, leaned over it, and yelled out, “Hey, Dorn! I brought you a boat! Satisfied?”

The men around him broke out laughing.

When Nathaway’s wits returned to him, it was morning. He was lying in a room with a slanted ceiling, like an attic, and some sparse, battered furniture. Over by a dormer window sat a plain, solidly built Adaina woman, working at a
small table. He squinted to see what she was doing. She took a cloth bag from
a pile and put it on the table. From a wooden keg next to her she carefully measured three cups of sand into the bag, then started to sew it up with a needle and thread. Unable to make sense of this activity, Nathaway groped for his
glasses on the floor beside his bed, where he always put them. They weren’t there.