Another knock at the just-closed door, but before Hawkwood could say anything it had opened and Murad was standing there.
“I heard,” the nobleman said.
“Thin bulkheads. There are few secrets on board ship,” Hawkwood said, annoyed.
“Just as well. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say.” Murad perched on the edge of Hawkwood’s desk nonchalantly. He had taken off his leathers and was in a loose linen shirt and breeches. A scabbarded poniard hung from his belt.
“Do you believe him?” Murad asked.
“No. Seamen may be superstitious, but they are not fools.”
“Will we be at sea through the winter then, trying to regain our course?”
“Not necessarily,” Hawkwood admitted. Murad looked terrible. They all did in the aftermath of the storm. Most of the crew were like badly animated zombies, but Murad was as lean as a well-gnawed bone and there were muddy puddles under his eyes, red lines breaking across his corneas. He was like a man who had forgotten how to sleep.
“There is a weather-worker on board. I suppose you’ve heard.”
“The soldiers speak of it.”
“Well, we have two choices. Either we whistle for a wind and then try beating north-west, which according to Tyrenius’ rutter—or what you have allowed me to read of it—would be right into the teeth of the prevailing north-westerlies.”
“What would that mean?” Murad snapped.
“It would mean extra months at sea. Half-rations, the loss of your remaining horses. Probably the deaths of the weakest passengers.”
“And the other alternative?”
“We ask the weather-worker to utilize his skills.”
“His sorcery,” Murad sneered.
“Whatever. And he blows us back on course as easy as you please.”
“Have you sailed with a weather-worker before, Hawkwood?”
“Only once, in the Levangore. The Merduks employ them in their galley squadrons to bring down calms when they are attacking sailing ships. The one I met was chief pilot in the port of Alcaras in Calmar. Their magic works, Murad.”
“Their magic, yes.” The nobleman seemed deep in thought. “Do you realize that Ortelius is a spy, sent to observe the voyage for his master the Prelate of Hebrion?”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“It will be bad enough that our crew are half-Merduk and our passengers a parcel of sorcerers. Now we are to use sorcery to propel the very ship itself.”
“Surely the voyage comes under the King’s protection. The Prelate would not dare—”
“It is the colony I am thinking of. It is a new Hebrian province we will be seeking to establish in the west, Hawkwood, but if the Prelate of Hebrion sets his face against it, it may become simply a place of exile for undesirables.”
Hawkwood laughed at that. “I can see it now: Murad, lord of witches and thieves.”
“And Hawkwood, admiral of prison hulks,” Murad countered.
They glared at one another, tension sizzling in the air between them.
“It is your decision to make,” Hawkwood said stiffly at last. “But as master of the
“I will think on it a while,” Murad told him, and moved towards the door.
“One more thing,” Hawkwood said, feeling reckless.
“Yes?”
“That fellow Bardolin. He asked me to have a word with you about the girl Griella.”
Murad spun on his heel. “What about her?”
“I suppose he wants you to leave her alone. Perhaps she does not relish your attentions, my lord.”
Before Hawkwood could even flinch, Murad’s poniard was naked and shining at his throat.
“My affairs of the heart are not a basis for discussion, Captain, at any time.”
Hawkwood’s eyes were aflame. “The passengers are my responsibility, along with the running of the ship.”
“What’s the matter, Captain? Are you jealous? Have you lost your taste for boys, perhaps?”
The poniard broke the skin.
“I do not hold with rape, Murad,” Hawkwood said steadily. “Bardolin is rumoured to be a mage, not a man to cross lightly.”
“Neither am I, Captain.” The blade left Hawkwood’s throat, was scabbarded again. “Find this weather-worker, and let him ply his trade,” Murad said casually. “We can’t let a man like our good priest end up drinking his own piss.”
“What will you tell him?”
“Nothing. He is worn-looking, don’t you think? Maybe he has a streak of madness in him induced by the strain of the past days. It would be a shame were something to happen to him ere we sight land.”
Hawkwood said nothing, but rubbed his throat where the poniard tip had pricked it.
P ERNICUS was a small man, red-haired and weak-eyed. His nose was long enough to overhang his upper lip and he was as pale as parchment, a bruise on his high forehead lingering evidence of the passage of the storm.
He stood on the quarterdeck as though it were the scaffold, licking dry lips and glancing at Hawkwood and Murad like a dog searching for its master. Hawkwood smiled reassuringly at him.
“Come, Master Pernicus. Show us your skill.”
The waist was crowded with people. Most of the passengers had learned of what was happening and had dragged themselves out of the fetid gundeck. Bardolin was there, as stern as a sergeant-at-arms, and beside him was Griella. Most of the ship’s crew were in the shrouds or were standing ready at the lifts and braces, waiting to trim the yards when the wind appeared. Soldiers lined the forecastle and the gangways, slow-match lit and sending ribands of smoke out to hang in the limpid air. Sequero and di Souza had their swords drawn.
But at the forefront of them all, at the foot of the quarterdeck ladder, stood Ortelius, his eyes fixed on the diminutive weather-worker above. His face was skull-like in the harsh sunlight, his eyes two deep glitters in sunken sockets.
“Get to it, man!” Murad barked impatiently. Pernicus jumped like a frog, and there was a rattle of laughter from the soldiers on the forecastle. Then silence again as the two ensigns glared round and sergeant Mensurado administered a discreet kick. The sails flapped idly overhead and the ship was motionless under the blazing sun, like an insect impaled upon a pin. Pernicus closed his eyes.
Minutes went past, and the soldiers stirred restlessly. Three bells in the afternoon watch was struck, the ship’s bell as loud as a gunshot in the quiet. Pernicus’ lips moved silently.
The main topsail swayed and flapped once, twice. Hawkwood thought he felt the faintest zephyr on his cheek, though it might have been his hopeful imagination. Pernicus spoke at last, in a choked murmur:
“It is hard. There is nothing to work with for leagues, but I think I have found it. Yes. I think it will do.”
“It had better,” Murad said in a low, ominous voice.
The sun was unrelenting. It baked the decks and made tar drip from the rigging on to those below, spotting the painfully bright armour of the soldiers. Finally Pernicus sighed and rubbed his eyes. He turned to face Hawkwood.
“I have done it, Captain. You shall have your wind. It is on its way.”
Then he left the quarterdeck, gaped at by those who had never seen a weather-worker perform before, and went below.
“Is that it?” Murad snapped. “I’ll have the little mountebank flogged up and down the ship.”
“Wait,” Hawkwood said.
“Nothing happened, Captain.”
