Monarchies Of God - Hawkwoods Voyage Part 27

"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 pa.s.sengers."

"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 s.h.i.+ps. The one I met was chief pilot in the port of Alcaras in Calmar. Their magic works, Murad."

"Their magic, yes." The n.o.bleman 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 pa.s.sengers a parcel of sorcerers. Now we are to use sorcery to propel the very s.h.i.+p 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 Osprey I feel bound to tell you that if we do not use sorcery to fill our sails then we will be drinking our own p.i.s.s ere we sight land."

"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 s.h.i.+ning at his throat.

"My affairs of the heart are not a basis for discussion, Captain, at any time."

Hawkwood's eyes were aflame. "The pa.s.sengers are my responsibility, along with the running of the s.h.i.+p."

"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 p.i.s.s."

"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 p.r.i.c.ked 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 pa.s.sage 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 rea.s.suringly at him.

"Come, Master Pernicus. Show us your skill."

The waist was crowded with people. Most of the pa.s.sengers 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 s.h.i.+p'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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p'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 s.h.i.+p."

"Wait," Hawkwood said.

"Nothing happened, Captain."

"Wait, d.a.m.n you!"

The crowd in the waist was already dispersing, buzzing with talk. The soldiers were filing down off the gangways, beating out their slow-match on the s.h.i.+p's rail and guffawing at their own jokes. Ortelius remained motionless, as did Bardolin.

A breeze ruffled Hawkwood's hair and made the sails crack and fill.

"Ready, lads!" he called to the crew, who were waiting patiently at their stations.The light faded. The s.h.i.+p's company looked up as one to see outrider clouds moving across the face of the sun. The surface of the sea to the south-east of the s.h.i.+p wrinkled like folded silk.

"Here she comes. Steady on the braces. Tiller there, course nor'-nor'-west."

"Aye, sir."

The breeze strengthened, and suddenly the sails were full and straining, the masts creaking as they took the strain. The carrack tilted and her bow dipped as the wind took her on the stern. She began to move, slowly at first and then picking up speed.

"Brace that foresail round, you d.a.m.ned fools! You're spilling the wind. Velasca, more men to the foremast. And set bonnets on the courses."

"Aye, sir!"

"We're moving!" someone shouted from the waist, and as the carrack began to slide swiftly through the water the pa.s.sengers broke out into laughter and cheers. "Good old Pernicus!"

"Leadsman to the forechains!" Hawkwood shouted, grinning. "Let's see what she's doing."

The carrack was alive again, no longer the stranded, battered creature she had been in the past days.

Hawkwood experienced a jet of sheer joy as he felt the s.h.i.+p stirring under his feet and saw her wake beginning to foam astern.

"So we have our wind," Murad said, sounding a little bemused. "I have never seen anything like it, I must say."

"I have," said Brother Ortelius. He had climbed up to the quarterdeck, his face like granite. "May G.o.d forgive you both-and that wretched creature of Dweomer-for what you have done here today."

"Easy, Father-" Hawkwood began.

"Brother Ortelius," Murad said coldly, "you will kindly refrain from making comments which might be construed as detrimental to the morale of the s.h.i.+p's company. If you have opinions you may seek to air them in private with either myself or the captain; otherwise you will keep them to yourself. You are not well, obviously. I would not like to have to confine a man of your dignity to his hammock, but I will if need be. Good day, sir."

Ortelius looked as though a blood vessel might burst. His face went scarlet and his mouth worked soundlessly. Some of Hawkwood's crew turned aside to hide their exultant smiles.

"You cannot muzzle me, sir," Ortelius said at last, dripping venom. "I am a n.o.ble of the Church, subject to no authority save my spiritual superiors. I answer to them and to no one else."

"You answer to me and to Captain Hawkwood as long as you are aboard this s.h.i.+p. Ours is the ultimate responsibility, and the ultimate authority. Priest or no, if I hear you have been preaching any more superst.i.tious claptrap I'll have you put in irons in the bilge. Now go below, sir, before I do something I may regret."

"You have already done that, sir, believe me," Ortelius hissed out of a mottled countenance. His eyes glittered like a snake and he made the Sign of the Saint as though flinging a curse at the lean n.o.bleman.

"I said go below. Or will I have a pair of soldiers escort you?"The black-garbed priest left the quarterdeck. There was a hoot of laughter, quickly smothered, from one of the sailors on the yards.

"That may not have been wise," Hawkwood said quietly.

"Indeed. But by all the saints in G.o.d's heaven, Hawkwood, I enjoyed it. Those black vultures think they have the world in their pocket; it is good to disabuse them of the notion now and again." Murad was smiling, and for a moment Hawkwood almost liked him; he knew he could never have stood up to the Inceptine in the same manner. No matter how much he hated the Ravens, their authority was deeply ingrained in his mind, as it was in the mind of every commoner. Perhaps one had to be a n.o.ble to see the man behind the symbol.

"There is something I cannot account for, though," Murad said thoughtfully.

"What is that?"

"Ortelius. He was angry, yes; furious, even. But I could have sworn his outrage was founded on more than that. On fear. It is strange. Inexplicable."

"I think he knows more than he seems to," Hawkwood said in a low voice. As one, he and Murad moved to the larboard rail to be out of earshot of the crew.

"My thought also," the scarred n.o.bleman agreed.

"You're sure he was sent by the Prelate of Hebrion?"

"Almost, yes. I have not encountered him before, though, and I know most of the clerics who hang about Abeleyn's court and the Prelate's."

"There is no clue as to his background?"

"Oh, he'll be a scion of some minor n.o.ble family-the Inceptines always are. There will probably be a plum post or other waiting for him in return for his services on the voyage."

"You do not seem too concerned about what he may report back to the Church in Abrusio."

Murad stared at Hawkwood, face expressionless. "There are many long leagues of sailing before us yet, Captain, and an unknown continent awaiting our feet. Many things could happen before any of us sees Hebrion once more. Hazardous things. Dangerous things."

"You cannot do that, Murad! He is a priest."

"He is a man, and his blood is the same colour as my own. When he chose to set his will against mine he fixed his own fate. There is nothing more to be said."

Murad's matter-of-fact tone chilled Hawkwood. He had seen battle, s.h.i.+p-to-s.h.i.+p actions with the corsairs where blood had washed the decks and men had been mangled by shot and blade, but this cold, calculated dismissal of another man's life unsettled him. He wondered what he would have to do to earn the same treatment from the scheming n.o.bleman.

He left the larboard rail and stood at the break of the quarterdeck, wis.h.i.+ng to put distance between himself and Murad. The carrack was flying along and spray was coming aboard to cool his brow. The third of the leadsmen, the one stationed by the taffrail, was holding the dripping, knotted rope with the thick f.a.ggot of wood fastened to the end."Six knots, sir, and she's still gathering way!"

Hawkwood forced himself to respond to the leadsman's gaiety, though whatever joy he had in the s.h.i.+p's progress had been dampened by Murad.

"Try her again, Borim. See if she won't get up to eight when the bonnets are on."

"Aye, sir!"

Murad left the quarterdeck without another word. Hawkwood watched him go, knowing that the n.o.bleman was plotting murder on his s.h.i.+p.

B ARDOLIN leaned on the forecastle rail and stared down into the breaking foam of the carrack's bow.

They were clipping along at a wonderful rate and the cool moving air was like a benison after the unmoving furnace of the doldrums.

The soldiers had hauled the remaining horses up out of the waist hatches and were exercising them, leading them round and round the deck. The poor brutes were covered in sores and their ribs stood out like the hoops on a barrel. Bardolin wondered if they would ever live to set foot on the new continent that awaited them in the west.

A good man, that Pernicus. It had been Bardolin who had convinced him to use his powers and call in a wind. He was below now, concentrating. There were few suitable systems of air in the region, and he was having constantly to maintain the one that propelled the s.h.i.+p. Usually a weather-worker selected a suitable system nearby and manoeuvred it into a position where it could do his work for him, but here Pernicus was having to keep at it to make sure the sorcerous wind did not fade away.

A desolate ocean, this. They were too far from land to sight any birds, and the only sealife Bardolin had glimpsed were a few shoals of wingfish flitting over the surface of the waves. He had seen a deep-sea jellyfish, too, which the sailors called devil's toadstools. This one had been twenty feet across, trailing tentacles half as long as the s.h.i.+p and glowing down in the dimmer water as it pulsed its obscure way through the depths.

The imp chirruped with excitement. It was peeking out of his robe, its eyes s.h.i.+ning as it watched the water break under the keel and felt the swift breeze of the s.h.i.+p's pa.s.sage. It was growing steadily more restless at having to keep out of sight. The only time Bardolin set it free was in the night, when it hunted rats up and down the s.h.i.+p.

He had wondered about sending it into Murad's cabin, to observe him and Griella, but the very thought had shamed him.

As though conjured up by his preoccupations, Griella appeared at his side. She leant on the rail beside him and scratched the ear of the imp, which gurgled with pleasure.