Shadowmasque (20 page)

“You said that your people possess unusual talents,” Coireg said. “What tribe or clan are they?”

Qothan was silent a moment as they walked, then said: “In all our travels along these and other coasts we have both assumed and been given several names. New names come with new loyalties which is good since time and tide have ground the old ones away to dust.” He seemed to grow impatient with his own words. “Ser Mazaret, once we were the ones who served — once we were known as the Daemonkind!”

Into the grey veil of the sea
Vast sepulchre of the world,
We shall cast thine idols and thy bones,
Safe in that bleak, eternal tomb,
Trapped in those chilling depths,
Eaten by rot in the abyss.

—Ralgar Morth,
The Floating Fortress
, canto xxiii

With every sail rigged to catch the fitful morning breeze, the
Mocker
slid slowly through the shifting banks of mist. The crew went about their duties, manning the braces, heaving the lead, sweeping the decks, yet all their activity and every word and laugh was muffled by the enclosing grey shroud. The rattle of chaining, the knock of booms and spars, the creaks from the hull, all deadened. Even the slow beat of the
Mocker
’s guide bell seemed reduced to a muted clang.

Up on the helm deck, Captain Bureng lounged in a decaying wicker divan brought out from his cabin earlier. Before him, on a mildewed pillow of red silk, was the Crevalcor Codex, its yellowing pages held flat by one hand while the other periodically raised to his lips a short clay pipe from which he would suck and savour a sweet and heady smoke.

And even as his eyes traced the angular writing on those wrinkled pages, his senses were alive to the surrounding grey-veiled waters, to the great, slow mass of the
Mocker
, and to the moods and movements of his crew. This quest of his to go in search of the remains of Hanavok’s fleet had stirred superstitious anxiety in them and now a web of dread held them in its toils.

Such children are these,
he thought.
Even the likes of Flane and Logrum — I can see that now. I will be able to bring all of you to believe in me and my destiny, all of you, eventually.
He laughed to himself.
And long before that I plan to have the truth of my destiny laid bare, that I may understand it, and change it if need be. But first I must seize Sejeend, break it to my will and find out what is drawing me there….

A whim of thirst came over him and he raised a beckoning hand. Moments later Cursed Rikken was at his shoulder with a bronze-lined wooden stoop of mulled wine. Pungent steam wreathed the vessel as Bureng accepted it. He then drew once on his pipe and expelled a feathering plume of smoke before putting the stoop to his lips and drinking deeply. The wine was a scalding runnel spilling into his stomach, sending a thrill of flavour and heat through him. Ever since that night in Umbril Cove, when he was overcome by his destiny, his sense had become more perceptive somehow, allowing him to discern the depths and levels of smells, tastes and sounds. He could even tell when someone was lying by listening to their words and smelling the taint of their skin.

Which was why conversations with Flane, captain of the Bitter Biter, were so aggravating for it seemed that the man was lying all the time.

Finishing off the wine, he held out the stoop for another measure….and with a sideways glance saw that Rikken was staring over his shoulder at the open book. Rikken gave a start and almost snatched the beaker from Bureng’s hand in panic.

“Sorry, master, sorry!…I never meant….”

“Enough of that, enough!” Bureng said, amused at the man’s quivering fear. “Betrayed by your eyes, eh, Rikken? So, d’you know aught of the old tongues of the Grey Lord?”

“N-nay, captain.”

“Then have you the wit to comprehend the glyphs of the ancient and noble Othazi script?”

A shake of the head.

Bureng smiled, aware that all those on the helm deck — the tillerman, the rig-caller, and his lieutenants — were all watching and listening. Thus he laid a splayed hand on the aged pages of the codex, then tapped the intricate designs which he had been studying, five quiet taps.

“Crevalcor knew,” he said. “He was a sorcerer of the Well who knew how to draw power together, how to focus it, and he knew how to make the dead obey…”

A few feet away, the helmsman shuddered at his wheel while others muttered fragments of useless prayers under their breath or made surreptitious warding gestures. Bureng sense all this but continued.

“His writings are clear and offer an abundance of guidance. Five metal objects must be taken from the wrecks of Hanavok’s ships and once engraved with these metaglyphs they will serve us well…”

He paused, suddenly aware of something in the vicinity, something drawing near. He closed the book and got to his feet.

“We are
close
,” he said. “Very close….
Lookout! — what vantage?
”

“Port and aft — no sighting,” came a voice from atop the stern mast.

“Starboard and for’ard….coastline I see, ‘bout five furlongs off the starboard bow!” came another.

“Sickle Bay at last,” Bureng said. “Ringer — double the strike!”

The quickened belling rang out through the mist, a pre-arranged signal that they had reached their destination. The wind was rising now, tearing long gaps in the mist, but Bureng did not need sight or the sun to know whereabouts on the seabed Hanavok’s wrecks lay mouldering. For the interleaving of his senses and his destiny led him on, as if there were some strange eye in his head which could see things hidden to others. He
knew
where those wrecks were and with the Crevalcor book under his arm he stood by his helmsman, ordering course changes and the reefing of sails until the
Mocker
reached a certain spot about half a furlong out from the bay’s eastern shore.

“Drop the anchors!” he cried. “Smartly now — we don’t want to be staved in by the rocks that did for Hanavok.”

As a frenzy of action erupted down on the main deck, he stood stock still, seemingly staring out at the hillocky land beyond the shore of the bay. But his sense were taking in the depths that stretched below his ship, sinking down the few fathoms to where shadowed hulks lay motionless amid jagged stones and forktail sharks….

Ah yes, this is the place,
he thought.
The graveyard of a thousand ships, a cold and desolate prison. Soon I will force it to give up its ghosts.

Then he called his lieutenants to him and issued orders, with the last given to the man he had put in charge of the diving teams.

“Things of gold and silver are what I want most of all, Arik,” Bureng said. “Otherwise, things of iron or bronze or copper. And I’ll be calling the boats back in about 2 hourse so your boys had better work hard and fast.”

“Aye, they will that,” said Arik, a burly, balding man known as the Bull to the rest of the crew.

“And coins,” Bureng said. “I need a good number of smaller valuables, pearls or gems, as many as you find.”

As Bull Arik hurried off to join the diver, who were already clambering over the side, Bureng spotted Cursed Rikken still standing by the brazier where he mulled up the wine.

“Rikken,” he said, gesturing the man over. “We’ll be receiveing guests soon so get you to the galley and bring up a keg of ale and cask of goldpurl, and half a dozen jacks.”

“I will, master,” Rikken said, then gathered up his various containers before hurrying below.

See how eager he is to please and how quick to fear,
Bureng thought.
You could not ask for a better servant.

As the boats of divers rowed out from the
Mocker
, the grey shapes of the other pirate vessels emerged from the veiled distance, following the tolling of the ship’s bell. Their wraith-like appearance grew as the fitful breeze chased away the mists. Bureng paced the confines of the helm deck, still holding the Crevalcor codex, while regularly glancing over at where the small boats were now riding the swell on their own anchor lines. And all the time he was aware of the other four captains observing the divers from their own vessels, waiting for him to run up the congering banner to invite them aboard.

Raleth spins a coin in the air, his inner perception told him. Zanuur writes in a journal, Logrum throws daggers into a wooden bulkhead, while Flane just watches.

The sun had slipped behind angry orange clouds by the time one of Bureng’s lieutenants turned the hourglass for the second time. Bureng closed his book and nodded.

“Wave the red flag,” he said. “Bring ‘em back in.”

Seeing this, the divers ceased their explorations and when the last was onboard, the boats began rowing back to the
Mocker
. Before long, dripping sacks of plunder were being handed up to the helm deck where Bureng had ordered a weighted trestle table set out earlier. As he looked on, two of the galley boys emptied out the first of the sacks and began sorting through a variety of unrecognisable objects clogged with mud, weeds and other seabed detritus.

Periodically, Bureng’s attention fastened on this or that lump which was then plunged into a large basin of water and scrubbed to reveal its details. But more often than not they turned out to be pieces of pottery, bones and skull fragments, and a couple of carven marble bulkhead ornaments. As the contents of each sack was pawed through and rejected his mood darkened while his temper grew short.

“Rubbish,” he muttered. “Rubbish and dross!” He glanced at Bull Arik who stood at the end of the table, trying to conceal his edginess. “Did you hear
nothing
that I said? — metal is what I need, even the meanest iron bucket — not
this
…” As he spoke another sackload proved to be only a tangle of seaweed, scrapes of sail, rotting leather shoes and potsherds. Bureng roundly cursed the filthy debris and was about to extend his despite to the divers gathered fearfully down on the main deck….

When one of the last of the sacks made a dull clanking sound as it was upended onto the table. All eyes turned as the mud-splashed galley boys dug vigorously into the noisome contents, decaying wads of cloth, frayed netting, the jawbone of a horse — and a piece of iron chain about four feet long.

May be of use,
he thought,
should we uncover no coin.

Frowning, he nodded and the chain was washed and put to one side.

After that finds came to light more readily — a round bronze shield, a plain iron helm, a bronze lantern, a brass statuette of a bear, and a small silver hand mirror, its surface pitted by corrosion. The last sack held more bones, disintegrating knots of rope, a few lead playing pieces for the game Peril, and a small iron-bound, wooden chest which rattled dully when shook. A blow from a handaxe broke the rusted lock and a slurry of mud and sand poured out, along with a score or more of gold and silver coins. Bureng smiled and his smile was reflected in everyone else’s face.

“Good, good,” he said, scooping up a handful of the coins and letting them fall tinkling back into the chest. Then he spoke to one of the galley boys: “Get a hammer and pincers from Grezak the ironmaster, take that chain apart and put the links in with the coin.” He glanced at the other boy. “Clear away the rest of this stinking filth and wipe down the table….and I want it clean and dry, hear?”

As they hastily went about their tasks, Bureng straightened and sniffed the air. It was after sundown and the redness on the horizon was drowning the dark grey of rising night, and the air was cool and damp while an inconstant breeze blew off the shore. Colder weather was on its way, he surmised, but more likely as fog or mist rather than rain. Then he caught sight of Cursed Rikken standing by the deck’s wooden railing on which he had hung a closed-up wickerwork creel.

“That you ready for our guests, Rikken?” he said.

Rikken grinned then turned to open the creel, revealing the stubby, stoppered necks of two clay kegs. “Ready, captain.”

“Very fine, indeed. Now, someone run up the congering banner — time to announce our most hospitable invitation…”

“The other ships are putting out boats already, captain,” said Ferm, one of his lieutenants. “One’s near half way to us.”

Bureng nodded as his inner eye widened to take in the seen and the unseen.
Hither comes Zanuur, having written in his journal and closed the cover. After him comes Logrum who dreams of plundering Sejeend; third is Raleth and last is Flane, a most perilous man….

He smiled at his inner thoughts, at their acute wisdom and caution, pleased at the way some of them seemed to arise from his mind of their own volition. Perhaps they were really the secret voice of his destiny, watching and guiding.

Before long, the wiry, dark-complexioned figure of Zanuur climbed up onto the helm deck. A leather headband studded with semiprecious stone circled his brow, restraining long brown hair, while a faintly disdainful smile tugged at the man’s lips.

“Waiting can be a burden,” he said. “Thus here I am. And my compatriots are not far behind.”

Bureng shrugged. “Some things cannot be hurried, Zanuur, so you’ll still have to wait…Rikken, pour the man a drink.”

With that he went over to stand behind the trestle table, now scrubbed, wiped and covered with a ragged-edged length of sky-blue sateen on which the metal trophies were arrayed. He then carefully opened the Crevalcor Codex on the table and studied the interlocking intricacies that made up the metaglyph patterns, following the lines and loops, the repeating emblem-forms, the progressions of orthograms, all intended to channel the volatile power of the Wellsource into specific function and effects. But only when the patterns were inscribed with a nimbus of power could they fulfill Crevalcor’s intent. So Bureng took from within his long, heavy coat a jeweller’s lancet, then cleared his mind to allow the sharp flux of the Wellsource to rise through him until he could taste its glassy flavour in his mouth and see its emerald glitter in his sight. When he felt it tingle in the fingers that held the diamond-tipped instrument, he bent over to study the first pattern in the codex then drew the bronze lantern closer and began.