Hawkswood's Voyage

Bardolin released the imp. It hopped on to the table and sniffed at the neck of the brandy decanter, then grinned as Murad chucked it gently under the chin.

“Good luck, an imp aboard ship,” Hawkwood said quietly.

“Yes,” Bardolin said. “I remember Billerand telling me once, back in Abrusio.”

There was a heavy silence. Hawkwood downed his brandy as though it were water. “What have you found out?” he asked the wizard at last, eyes watering from the strong spirit.

“I have been doing some reading. On werewolves. My collection of thaumaturgical works is pitifully inadequate—my home was ransacked ere we left Hebrion—and I have had to be discreet in enquiring as to whether any of the other passengers have similar works in their possession, you understand. But according to what meagre researches I have been able to carry out, shifters do not like confinement of two kinds. Gregory of Touron reckons that the longer the man who is the shifter retains his human form, the more violent the actions of the beast once he transforms. Hence if shifters do not intend to run entirely amok once in animal form, they must change back and forth regularly, even if the beast form only lies motionless. It is like lancing a boil. The pus must be let out occasionally. The beast must breathe.”

“What’s the other form of confinement?” Murad asked impatiently.

“That is simple. Any prolonged period of incarceration in close quarters, such as a house, a cave—”

“Or a ship,” Hawkwood interrupted.

“Just so, Captain.”

“Brilliant,” Murad said caustically, flourishing his glass. “What good do these priceless nuggets do us, old man?”

“They tell us that this shifter is suffering on two counts. First because he is in the confined space of a ship, and second because he cannot change back and forth with the frequency he might desire. And so the pressure builds up, and the frustration.”

“You’re hoping he will make a mistake, lose control,” Hawkwood said.

“Yes. He has been very careful so far. He has murdered our weather-worker and left us becalmed, thinking perhaps that will be enough. But the wind has struck up again and still the ship is pointed west, so he strikes again—at a ship’s officer this time. He is starting to sow the seeds of panic.”

“They know it was a shifter that killed Pernicus,” Murad said, his eyes two slits in his white-skinned face. “It’s hard to say who are the most terrified, the soldiers or the passengers.”

“He hopes to ignite a mutiny, perhaps,” Hawkwood said thoughtfully.

“Yes. There is one other thing Gregory tells us, however. It is that the shifter who has recently killed is not sated—quite the reverse, in fact. Often he finds he must kill again and again, especially when he is in these confined conditions I have mentioned. He loses more control with every murder until in the end the rational part of him recedes and the mindless beast gains control.”

“Which perhaps is what happened to the shifter aboard the Faulcon,” Hawkwood put in.

“Yes, I am afraid so.”

“The Faulcon did not carry a complement of Hebrian soldiers, nor arquebuses with iron bullets,” Murad said stoutly. “No, this thing is becoming afraid, is my guess. If the wizard is correct then the shifter is beginning to succumb to his more bestial impulses. It may work to our advantage.”

“And in the meantime we await another death?” Hawkwood asked.

“Yes, Captain, I think we do,” Bardolin said.

“I don’t think much of your strategy, Mage. It is like that of the sheep as the wolf closes in.”

“I can think of nothing else.”

“There is no mark, no sign by which the beasts can be recognized in human form?”

“Some old wives say there is something odd about the eyes. They are often strange-looking, not quite human.”

“That’s not much to go on.”

“It is all I have.”

“Where will he strike next, do you think?” Murad asked.

“I think it will be at what he perceives to be the centre of resistance and the source of authority. I think that next he will strike at one of those sitting about this table.”

Murad and Hawkwood stared blankly at one another. Finally the scarred nobleman managed a strangled laugh.

“You have a sure way of ruining good brandy, Mage. It might be vinegar in my mouth.”

“Be prepared,” Bardolin insisted. “Do not let yourselves be found alone at any time, and always carry a weapon that will bite its black flesh.”

T HE carrack sailed on with its twin cargoes of fear and discontent. Velasca, Hawkwood noted, was slow to obey orders and seemed perpetually ill at ease, even when the splendid north-easter continued steadily, breezing in over the starboard quarter and propelling the ship along at a good six knots. Two leagues run off with every two turns of the glass, one hundred and forty-four sea miles with every full day of sailing. And west, always due west. The carrack’s beakhead bisected the sinking disc of every flaming sunset as though it meant to sail into its very heart. Hawkwood loved his ship more than ever then, as she responded to his attentions, his cajolings, his lashing on of sail after sail. She seemed unaffected by the feelings on board, and leapt over the waves like a willing horse scenting home in the air ahead.

2nd day of Endorion, year of the Saint 551.

Wind north-east, fresh and steady. Course due west. Speed six knots with the breeze on the starboard quarter.

Courses, topsails and bonnets.

Six weeks out of Abrusio harbour, by my estimate over eight hundred leagues west of North Cape in the Hebrionese, on the approximate latitude of Gabrion, which we will follow until we find land in the west.

In the forenoon watch Lord Murad had three soldiers strappadoed from the main yardarm for insubordination. As I write they are being attended on the gundeck by Brother Ortelius and some of the oldwives aboard. Strange bedfellows.

 

Hawkwood looked over the entry, frowning, then shrugged as he sat and dipped his quill in the inkwell again.

In the five days since First Mate Billerand and Ship’s Boy Mateo were lost there have been no further deaths on board, though the mood of the ship’s company has not improved. I have had words with Acting First Mate Velasca; it seems he is not happy with our course and the voyage as a whole. I told him that I expect to sight land within three weeks, which seemed to improve his temper and that of the crew. The soldiers, however, are growing more restless by the day, and despite the efforts of Murad’s junior officers, they refuse to man their posts down in the hold. There is something down there, they say, and they will only guard working parties hauling up provisions.

Billerand is sorely missed.

 

Hawkwood rubbed his tired eyes as the flickering table lantern played over the pages of his log. On the desk by the lantern Bardolin’s imp squatted cross-legged and watched the scrawling quill with fascination. The little creature was covered with ink; it seemed to love daubing itself with it.

On a chair by the door of the cabin his master slumped, asleep. The mage had an iron spike loosely gripped in one hand and his head had fallen forward on to his chest. He was snoring softly.

They had taken Bardolin’s advice to heart. None of them remained alone any more, especially at night.

If Hawkwood paused to listen, he could hear the creak and groan of the ship’s timbers, the rush and hiss of the sea as the carrack’s bow went up and down, the voices of men on the deck above his head. And from the other side of the thin bulkhead, dark moans and thumps from Murad’s cabin. He was not alone either. He had the girl in there with him, Griella.