The youth’s hands clenched to fists at his sides. ‘Please take me on.’
‘Why?’
‘Two summers ago Gef’s bastards beat my brother senseless. Ain’t been the same in the head since. Can’t hardly even remember his own name. Broke Mam’s heart. Please take me on.’
Cartheron nodded. ‘I see. All right, lad.’ He came to the next to last recruit, a grizzled old veteran. ‘Name?’
‘Brendan, sor.’
‘Long in the tooth, aren’t you?’
The oldster smiled, revealing four yellowed and worn teeth. ‘Know the
Cartheron couldn’t help but eye the fellow a little uncertainly. ‘Really? You served on board her and now you’re willing to return?’ Then he had a thought and asked, ‘All those stories of losing half the crew to the plague, all those sailors lost overboard or maimed in accidents, failing to take a prize in years – are they all just tall tales then?’
Grinning, the old man offered him a wink. ‘Naw. They’re true.’
Cartheron blinked, a touch nonplussed; personally, he’d half counted on that’s being the case. ‘Ah … well…’
‘Naw. It’s just that I’m of the opinion that runs of luck, good or bad, that’s all just nonsense.’ He scratched his scraggly beard and winked again. ‘And maybe it’s time for the luck to turn, anyway.’
Cartheron answered with a half-grin. ‘I see. Then you are more than welcome.’ Nodding a farewell, he continued on to the last recruit. He was a tall young fellow with a swordsman’s wide shoulders. Dujek leaned in to say, ‘I take credit for this one – recruited him myself. Been through the old Talian officers’ academy at Unta.’
Cartheron looked the fellow up and down, impressed. ‘So. An officer?’
The young man shook his head. ‘No, sir. Didn’t graduate.’
‘Why not?’
‘Killed a fellow student in a duel.’
Cartheron frowned as he considered this. ‘I thought such things were sanctioned. An occupational hazard, you might say.’
‘They are. But the student was of an Untan noble family and his father is a regent of the academy.’
Cartheron’s brows rose as he understood. ‘Ah. Put a price on your head, hey? And what have you been doing since then? A veteran, I assume?’
‘Yes, sir. Some army work, some hire-swording.’
‘What’s your name, then?’ he asked, knowing he’d get a pseudonym.
‘Jack, sir.’
‘Just Jack?’
The fellow looked quite uncomfortable and Cartheron felt for him – no need to embarrass him. ‘Fine. More of a marine, safe to say then. Yes?’
The fellow actually saluted, saying smartly, ‘Yessir.’
Cartheron waved them all in. ‘Okay. Get to work. I’ll write up the papers tonight.’ He watched while Choss set them to work, thinking, gods, an island-wide recruitment and this is all who’d dare show. Malcontents and those spurned by Mock. They were still grossly under-crewed. If he were a superstitious fellow he’d almost say it reeked of bad luck … but he wasn’t. He raised and kissed the amulet round his neck.
* * *
It was the overcast and rainy predawn of the day of departure and the entire Malazan fleet of forty-two raiders was finishing its last details and readying to quit the harbour.
All save one. The flagship of the fleet. Mock’s own
Tattersail paced the wet deck, fuming. Where was the fool? Yes, he’d been out all night ‘celebrating’ with his favoured captains – all of whom had since reported for duty and were busy preparing their vessels for departure.
Where was he! She shot yet another searing glare to Marsh, the mate, who ducked his head – almost guiltily, it seemed to her. Guilty? Why guilty?
‘All is ready?’ she demanded.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And the rest of the fleet?’
‘Waiting on the
She bit at her lip, seething. Should they depart without him? That would be absurd. A fleet without its admiral. They had no choice but to wait.
Moments later, a small carriage came rattling down one of the narrow cobbled lanes that led off the waterfront wharves. It clattered to a halt before the
Out unlimbered Mock, wincing and holding his head. He waved a farewell to someone within and tottered up the gangway, gripping its rope guide for purchase.
‘Cast off!’ he called the instant he set foot on the wet decking, and winced again, a hand cradling his forehead.
Tattersail pounced on him. ‘Where were you!’
The pirate admiral blanched, hunching. ‘Not so loud, my dear.’ To Marsh: ‘How’s the wind?’
‘Thin. But we’ll manage.’
‘Very well. Raise more sail if necessary.’
‘Aye, aye.’
‘And who was that?’ Tattersail demanded.
Mock’s brows clenched as if he were puzzled, then he waved airily. ‘Just an old friend, dearest. That’s all.’ He slipped an arm round her waist. ‘Come, let us retire to our quarters. My head is pounding fit to kill me.’
‘Why didn’t you return to the Hold?’
‘Because I knew we’d be travelling together, yes? Now, come. I am sorely in need of your soothing hands.’
