Hawkswood's Voyage

“I was never informed of this,” Hawkwood said coldly.

“I did not think it necessary, but I do now with things the way they are. It would seem that western expeditions have a way of coming to grief that is similar.”

“Explain, please,” Bardolin said. Sweat was trickling down his temples and dripping off his battered nose.

Briefly, Murad informed them both of the fate of the Cartigellan Faulcon, over a century before. He also told them of the references in the rutter to an even earlier voyage west, one undertaken by a group of mages fleeing persecution in the Ramusian kingdoms.

“The information is fragmentary, and obscure, but I have tried to glean what I can from it,” he said. “What disturbs me are the similarities between the three voyages. Werewolves, Dweomerfolk. Murders on board ship.”

“And ultimate disaster,” Hawkwood added. “We should turn back for Abrusio, get the boats out and tow the ship’s head into a wind. That Inceptine is right: this voyage is cursed.”

Murad brought a fist down on the desk with a startling thump. Dust rose from the pages of the ancient book.

“There will be no turning back. Whatever demon has taken ship with us wants precisely that. You heard what Bardolin said. Someone or something has been sabotaging westward voyages for three centuries or more. I intend to find out why.”

“Do you think the Western Continent is inhabited then?” Bardolin enquired.

“Yes, I do.”

“What about the Grace of God?” Hawkwood asked suddenly. “Could her disappearance be the result of some kind of sabotage also?”

“Perhaps. Who can say?”

Hawkwood cursed bitterly.

“If the caravel is lost, Captain, don’t you want to find out how or why? And who it was that destroyed your ship and killed your crew?” Murad’s voice was low, but as hard as frost.

“Not at the expense of this ship and the lives of her company,” Hawkwood said.

“That may not be necessary, if we are vigilant enough. We have been warned by the fate of the previous ships; we need not go the same way.”

“Then how do we track this thing down? You heard Bardolin—there is no telling which man on this ship is the shifter.”

“Perhaps the priest can tell. I have heard it rumoured that the clergy can somehow sniff out these things.”

“No,” Bardolin put in quickly. “That is a fallacy. The only way to weed out a shifter is to wait until it changes and be ready for it.”

“What makes it change?” Hawkwood asked. “You said it was rational after a fashion, even in its beast form.”

“Yes. And I also said it is impulsive, uncontrollable. But if we turn back it will, I believe, have got what it wants and may not find the need to shift again. On the other hand, if we announce that we are sticking to our course it may feel forced to persuade us otherwise.”

“Excellent,” Murad said. “There you are, Captain. We must continue westwards if we want to hunt this thing out into the open.”

“Continue westwards!” Hawkwood laughed. “We are not continuing anywhere at the moment. The sails are as slack as a beggar’s purse. The ship is becalmed.”

“There must be something we can do,” Murad said irritably. “Bardolin, you are supposed to be a mage. Can’t you whistle up a wind?”

“A mage is master of only four of the Seven Disciplines,” Bardolin replied. “Weather-working is not one of mine.”

“What about the other passengers? They’re mages and witches to a man, else they would not be here. Surely one of them could do something?”

Bardolin smiled wryly. “Pernicus was the only one gifted in that particular field. Perhaps you should ask Brother Ortelius to pray for a wind, my lord.”

“Do not be insolent,” Murad snapped.

“I only point out that the dregs of Ramusian society have suddenly become sought-after in a crisis.”

“Only because one of those dregs jeopardizes the entire ship’s safety with his own accursed brand of hellish sorcery,” Murad said icily. “Set a thief to catch a thief, it is said.”

Bardolin’s eyes glinted in his old-soldier face. “I will catch your thief for you, then, but I will not do it for nothing.”

“Aha! Here’s the rub. And what would you like in way of payment, Mage?”

“I will let you know that at the appropriate time. For now, let us just say that you will owe me a favour.”

“The damn thing isn’t caught yet,” Hawkwood said quietly. “Worry about obligations after we have its head on a pike.”

“Well said, Captain,” Murad agreed. “And here”—he threw the rutter into Hawkwood’s lap—“peruse that at your leisure. It may be of use.”

“I doubt it. We are far off our course, Murad. The rutter is no longer any use to me. From now on, unless we regain our former latitude—which is well-nigh impossible without a Dweomer wind—we are sailing uncharted seas. From what you have told me, it seems that the Faulcon never came this far south. My intent now is to set a course due west, parallel to our old one. There is no point in trying to beat up towards our former latitude.”

“What if we miss the Western Continent altogether and sail to the south of it?” Murad asked.

“If it is even half the size of Normannia it will be there on this latitude. In any case, to try and sail back north would be almost suicidal, as I told you before we enlisted Pernicus’ services.”

Murad shrugged. “It is all one to me, so long as we sight land in the end and are in a fit state to walk ashore.”

“Let me worry about that. Your concern is this beast that haunts the ship.”

B Y the end of the morning watch the guns had been run back in and the rumour had circulated round the ship like a fast-spreading pestilence: Pernicus had been murdered by a stowaway spy, and the murderer lurked aboard, unknown. The carrack began to take on some of the aspects of a besieged fortress, with soldiers everywhere asking people their business, the crew armed and the ship’s officers barking orders left and right. The patched-up boats were swung out from the yardarms and crews of sailors began hauling the carrack westwards, out of the doldrums; a killing labour in the stock-still heat of the day.

In the midst of the militant uneasiness the last of the storm’s damage was rectified and the ship began to look more like her old self, with new timber about the sterncastle and waist and new cable sent up to the tops. But the sails remained flaccid and empty, and the surface of the sea was as obstinately flat as the surface of a green mirror, whilst the sun glared down out of a cloudless sky.

It was in the foretop that Bardolin and Griella finally found the peace to speak without being overheard. They sat in the low-walled platform with the bulk of the topmast at their backs and a spider tracery of rigging all about them.

Still red-faced from clambering up the shrouds in this heat, Bardolin released the imp. With a squeak of pleasure it darted around the top, gazing down at the deck far below and peering out at the haze-dim horizon.

“You’ve heard, I suppose?” Bardolin asked curtly.

“About Pernicus? Yes. Why would anyone have done such a thing? He was a harmless enough little man.” Griella was dressed in her habitual breeches and a thin linen shirt that Bardolin suspected was a cast-off of Murad’s. Fragments of lace clung to its neck and she had rolled the voluminous sleeves up to her elbows, exposing brown forearms with tiny golden hairs freckling them.

“He was killed by a shifter, Griella,” the mage said in a flinthard voice.

The pale eyes widened until he could see the strange yellow-golden circle around the pupils. “Bardolin! Are you sure?”

“I have seen shifters kill before, remember.”