Tome of the Undergates

crew.

Not until now, anyway.

‘So, you’ll forgive me if I’m not at the pinnacle of appreciativeness’ Argaol continued, scowling at the young man. ‘And you’ll forgive me for saying that if you ever so much as think of fleeing and leaving my men without escape again, I’ll chop you up and serve you in the mess.’

‘Hope you’ve got a bigger sword,’ Lenk muttered under his breath.

‘What was that?’

‘I said if you’re so concerned for your crew, perhaps you should be down there moving corpses and grieving.’ Lenk cast a sneer of his own back at the captain. ‘I promise I won’t look if you start crying.’

‘Ah, we’ve got a merry jester here, in addition to a filthy adventurer. I bet a man of such diverse talents would like a lovely strawberry tart.’ He snapped two thin fingers. ‘Sebast, fetch the fanciful adventurer a tart!’

‘As you like, Captain.’ The mate set aside his mop and began to trundle down the steps.

‘Get back here, you nit,’ Argaol snarled. ‘I was being sarcastic.’

‘Facetious,’ Lenk corrected.

‘What?’ He sighed, slumping at the wheel slightly. ‘You got word for me, boy? Or did you come up here to demonstrate your impeccable wit?’

‘A little over a dozen of the Cragsmen dead, fewer of our own.’

‘My own,’ Argaol snapped back fiercely. ‘The Riptide sails under Argaol, the men serve under Argaol, not some runty adventurer.’

The mate leaned upon his mop, peering thoughtfully at the young man. ‘Where is it you said you came from, Mister Lenk?’

‘Steadbrook,’ the young man replied, ‘in Muraska.’

‘Steadbrook, is it? That can hardly be right. I’ve travelled up, down, through and around Muraska and I’ve never heard of any such town.’

Lenk opened his mouth. His voice caught in his throat as he blinked. ‘It’s gone,’ he whispered, choked, ‘burned.’

‘Such a shame.’ Whatever sincerity the first mate might have hoped to convey was lost as he returned to his mop-ping. ‘It would have been interesting to visit a place that produces such short men with grey hair.’

Before Lenk could respond, Argaol interjected with a rough cough. ‘What of the Lord Emissary?’

‘Evenhands is-’

‘Kindly refer to our charter by his proper name,’ the captain interrupted sharply. ‘This ship is free of all blasphemy, no matter how minor. I won’t have a. .’ He stared hard at Lenk. ‘What’s your faith, boy?’

‘None of your business,’ Lenk responded hotly.

‘Khetashite,’ Sebast muttered. ‘All adventurers follow the Outcast, I hear.’

‘The proper title is the Wanderer.’

‘Khetashe gets a proper title when he’s a proper God and not some patron of misfits.’ Argaol coughed. ‘At any rate, what of the Lord Emissary?’

‘Evenhands is safe. No pirate managed to get through us.’

‘Aye, thanks to that monster of yours, no doubt.’ Argaol laughed, his humour tinged with an edge of hysteria. ‘Your boys are good at killing, Mister Lenk, no doubt about that. A shame you couldn’t find a more decent skill to devote your life to.’

Lenk’s only response was an acknowledging hum. There was no real sense in getting angry at slights towards his profession. He had heard them all, up to and including slights against his God, Khetashe. There was, after all, little sense in getting irate about insults to a God who watched over people who killed things for money.

‘Speaking of faith, your men are all Zamanthrans, I hear.’

‘All men of the Riptide pay homage to the Sea Mother, aye.’

‘Should we not stop to give them their proper burial, then?’

‘Not with Rashodd’s boys on our backsides, no.’ Argaol shook his head. ‘We’ll attend to the rites when we’re free and clear.’ He turned to his mate and gestured with his chin. ‘Mister Sebast, inform the men to trim up the sails. They won’t be catching us anytime soon.’

As the sunburned man nodded and scampered off, Lenk stalked to the edge of the railing. The Linkmaster wasn’t fully out of sight, but far enough away to resemble a glistening black beetle on the horizon.

‘Are you sure it’s wise to trim the sails?’ he asked. ‘They might catch up.’

‘Not so long as Zamanthras loves us,’ Argaol grunted. ‘And I don’t need the wind ripping my sails while it’s on our side. We’ll be out of their sight before the Sea Mother even realises I’m carrying a shipload of heathens.’

‘Of course, Captain,’ Sebast interjected as he clambered back up the stairs, ‘you are also carrying the Lord Emissary of the Church of Talanas and one of the Healer’s holy maidens.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps the two cancel each other out?’

‘And that’s why you’re first mate, Mister Sebast.’ The captain sighed. He jerked his chin towards the railing. ‘Have a glimpse, then. Tell me how far they are behind us and see if you can’t assuage the adventurer’s fears.’

The man came up beside Lenk and peered out over the rail. ‘A good ways, I should say, Captain.’ Sebast hummed thoughtfully.

‘How the hell far away is a “good ways”, Mister Sebast? Can you see their faces?’

‘Nay, sir. I wouldn’t wager they can see me, neither. They look a mite busy loading up that huge crossbow.’

‘Crossbow?’ Lenk’s eyes widened at the calm expressions of the captain and mate. ‘So they do have a ballista.’

‘How do you think they launched that chain in the first place, boy?’ Argaol snorted, then spat. ‘Back in the day, a pirate would be as concerned with the condition of a ship he meant to take as her captain would be. Nowadays, they don’t even bother. Who cares for the condition of a ship if you’re just going to scuttle it, aye?’

‘A tragic example of the decline of ethics, Captain,’ Sebast agreed.

‘Should we be worried?’ Lenk asked, though their expressions seemed to answer that already.

‘As I said, not so long as we’ve got the wind on our side,’ Argaol replied. ‘And the Sea Mother is apparently overlooking your various blasphemies today and giving us Her blessing.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Tell me, Mister Sebast, have we lost Rashodd yet?’

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Captain, but assuming we are losing him, he should be getting smaller, shouldn’t he?’

‘What are you trying to say, Sebast?’

‘He’s right.’ Lenk pointed out to sea as the black blot that was the Linkmaster gained shape and definition. Dozens of figures swarmed over its deck. ‘They’re catching up.’

‘Whoresons must-’ Argaol paused, staring at the wheel as though it were suddenly something alien. It remained unmoving, even as his thin, dark fingers gave it a swift jerk. The helm made no response. Nor did it move even as he gritted his teeth, set his feet and pushed with his shoulder.

‘Gods-cursed piece of. .’ The captain’s words faded into an angry snarl as he pushed. ‘Move, you stupid thing!’ A growl became a roar. ‘MOVE!’

The wheel obeyed.

It spun with such ferocity and suddenness as to hurl the captain to the deck, whipping around in opposition to his will. Everyone’s eyes went wide, staring at the possessed device with horror as it continued to spin, whirling one way, then the other. The roar of the sea became a low, dejected sigh. The ship rocked, its headway dying to a crawl.

‘Something’s wrong,’ Argaol gasped, ‘something. . something’s wrong with the rudder.’

Lenk peered over the railing, glancing down at the ship’s stern. His breath caught in his throat, denying him any curses he might have uttered. Beneath the pristine blue, stark against the white froth of the ship’s wake, was blackness, an inky, shapeless void that clung to the Riptide’s rear like a sore.

‘What the hell are those?’ Sebast muttered.

It took Lenk a moment to realise the first mate wasn’t referring to the lightless stain at the rudder. He then saw the flashes of pale skin in the water, gliding towards the Riptide like fleshy