nostrils had a tendency to weep, and the feigned scratch served to warn him of tell-tale wetness. This was one of his many gestures he probably imagined were subtle.
Alas, his captain was too sharp for that. She drew away her sidelong study of Skorgen, then glanced back at her waiting crew. A miserable but cocky bunch. Doldrums weighed everyone down, understandably, but the hold of the raider was packed with loot, and this run of the Errant’ luck seemed without end.
Now that they’d found another victim.
Skorgen drew in a whistling breath, then said, ‘It’s Edur all right. My guess is, a stray that got tossed around a bit in that storm we spied out west yesterday. Chances are, the crew’s either sick or dead, or they abandoned ship in one of their Knarri lifeboats. If they did that, they’ll have taker the good stuff with them. If not,’ he grinned across at her, revealing blackened teeth, ‘then we can finish what the sttorm started.’
‘At the very least,’ the captain said, ‘we’ll take a look.’ She sniffed. ‘At least maybe something will come of getting blown into the flats. Have ‘em send out the sweeps, Skorgen, but keep that lookout’s head spinning in every direction;’
Skorgen looked across at her. ‘You think there might be more of ‘em out here?’
She made a face. ‘How many ships did the Emperor send out?’
His good eye widened, then he studied the lone derelict once more through the eyeglass. ‘You think it’s one of those? Errant’s butt hole, Captain, if you’re right…’
‘You have your orders, and it seems I must remind you yet againn, First Mate. No profanity on my ship.’
‘Apologies, Captain.’
He hurried off, began relaying orders to the waiting crew.
Doldrums made for a quiet lot, a kind of superstitious furtiveness gripping the sailors, as if any sound reaching too far might crack the mirror of the sea.
She listened as the twenty-four sweeps slid out, blades setting in the water. A moment later came the muted call-out of the cox, and the Undying Gratitude groaned as’ it lurched forward. Clouds of sleeper flies rose around the ship as the nearby sea’s pellucid surface was disturbed. The damned things had a tendency to seek out dark cover once driven to flight. Sailors coughed and spat-all very well for them, the captain observed, as a whining cloud spun round her head and countless insects crawled up her nose, into her ears, and across her eyes. Sun and sea were bad enough, combining to assail her dignity and whatever varnity a woman who was dead could muster, but for Shurq Blalle, these flies made for profoundly acute misery.
Pirate, divine undead, strumpet of insatiability, witch of the deep waters-the times had been good ever since she first sailed out of the Letheras harbour, down the long, broad river to the western seas. Lean and sleek, that first galley had been her passage to fame, and Shurq still regretted its fiery loss to that Mare escort in Laughter’s End. But she was well pleased with the Undying Gratitude. Slightly too big for her crew, granted, but with their return to Letheras that problem could be solved easily enough. Her greatest sense of loss was with the departure of the Crimson Guard. Iron Bars had made it plain from the very start that they were working for passage. Even so, they’d been formidable additions on that wild crossing of the ocean, keeping the blood wake wide and unbroken as one merchant trader after another was taken, stripped of all valuables, then, more often than not, sent down into the dark. It hadn’t been just their swords, deadly as those were, but the magery of Corlos-a magery far more refined, far more clever, than anything Shurq had witnessed before.
Such details opened her eyes, her mind as well. The world out there was huge. And in many fundamental ways the empire of Lether, child of the First Empire, had been left in a kind of backwater, in its thinking, in its ways of working. A humbling revelation indeed.
The leavetaking with Iron Bars and his squad had not been quite as emotional or heartfelt for Shurq Elalle as it had probably seemed to everyone else, for the truth was, she had been growing ever more uneasy in their company. Iron Bars was not one to find subordination palatable for very long-oh, no doubt it was different when it came to his fellow Avowed among the Crimson Guard, or to their legendary commander, Prince K’azz. But she was not an Avowed, nor even one of that company’s soldiers. So long as their goals ran in parallel, things were fine enough, and Shurq had made certain to never deviate, so as to avoid any confrontation.
They had deposited the mercenaries on a stony beach of the eastern shore of a land called Jacuruku, the sky squalling with sleeting rain. The landing had not been without witnesses, alas, and the last she’d seen of Iron Bars and his soldiers, they were turning inland to face a dozen massively armoured figures descending the broken slope, great-helmed with visors lowered. Brutal-looking biinch, and Shurq hoped all that belligerence was mostly for show. The grey sheets of rain had soon obscured all details from the strand as they pulled away on the oars back to the Gratitude.
Skorgen had sworn he’d caught the sound of blades clashing-a faint echo-with his one good ear, but Shurq herself had heard nothing.
In any case, they’d scurried from those waters, as pirates were wont to do when there was the risk of organized resistance lurking nearby, and Shurq consoled her agitated conscience by reminding herself that Iron Bars had spoken of Jacuruku with some familiarity-at least in so far as knowing its name. And as for Corlos’s wide-eyed prayers to i lew dozen divinities, well, he was prone to melodrama. A dozen knights wouldn’t have been enough to halt Iron Bars and his Crimson Guard, determined as they were to do whatever it was they had to do, which, in this instance, was cross Jacuruku from one coast to the other, then find them-selves another ship.
A huge world indeed.
The sweeps lifted clear of the water and were quietly shipped as the Undying Gratitude sidled up alongside the Edur wreck. Shurq Elalle moved to the rail and studied the visible deck of the Blackwood ship.
‘Riding low,’ Skorgen muttered.
No bodies amidst the clutter. But there was clutter. ‘No orderly evacuation,’ Shurq Elalle said, as grappling hooks sailed out, the tines biting as the lines were drawn taut. ‘Six with us, weapons out,’ she commanded, unsheathing her own rapier, then stepping up onto the rail.
She leapt across, landed lightly on the mid deck two strides from the splintered stump of the mainmast.
Moments later Skorgen joined her, arriving with a grunt then a curse as he jarred his bad leg.
‘This was a scrap,’ he said, looking about. He limped back to the rail and tugged loose a splintered arrow shaft, then scowled as he studied it. ‘Damned short and stubby-look at that head, that could punch through a bronze- sheeted shield. And this fletching-it’s leather, like fins.’
So where were the bodies? Frowning, Shurq Elalle made her way to the cabin’s hatchway. She paused at the hold, seeing that the hatch had been staved in. Nudging it aside with her boot, she crouched and looked down into the gloom of the hold.
The glimmer of water, and things floating. ‘Skorgen, there’s booty here. Come over and reach down for one of those amphorae.’
The second mate, Misery, called over from their ship, ‘Captain! That hulk’s lower in the water than it was when we arrived.’
She could now hear the soft groans of the hull.
Skorgen used his good arm to reach down and hook his hand through an ear of the amphora. Hissing with the weight, he lifted the hip-high object into view, rolling it onto the deck between himself and the captain.
The amphora itself was a gorgeous piece of work, Shurq observed. Foreign, the glaze cream in colour down to the inverted beehive base, where the coils were delineated in black geometric patterns on gleaming white. But it was the image painted on the shoulder and belly that captured her interest. Down low on one side there was a figure, nailed to an X-shaped cross. Whirling out from the figure’s upturned head, there were crows. Hundreds, each one profoundly intricate, every detail etched-crows, flooding outward-or perhaps inward-to mass on the amphora’s broad shoulders, encircling the entire object. Converging to feed on the hapless man? Fleeing him like his last, dying thoughts?
Skorgen had drawn a knife and was cutting away at the seal, stripping away the thick wax binding the stopper.
After a moment he succeeded in working it loose. He tugged the stopper free, then leapt back as thick blood poured forth, spreading on the deck.
It looked fresh, and from it rose a scent of flowers, pungent and oversweet.
‘Kagenza pollen,’ Skorgen said. ‘Keeps blood from thickening-the Edur use it when they paint temples in the forest-you know, on trees. The blood sanctifies. It’s not a real temple, of course. No walls, or ceiling, just a grove-’
