Deadhouse Landing полностью

‘They know their stuff,’ Brendan demurred, ‘they’re just not a crew yet.’

Cartheron understood. It took months and months of training to settle into an organized disciplined crew where everyone worked to the same rhythms.

The main jib creaked upwards on makeshift tackle. It caught the wind and tautened. The workers sought to tie it off.

The Twisted charged forward then, rocking Cartheron backwards, and he knew it wasn’t the jib; his glance shot to Hawl. Their sea-witch was leaning forward as if pushing headlong into a storm. Her arms were out, her hands clawed as if pulling on something, heaving it towards her, and he knew just what that was.

The Twisted lurched again, surging up the slope of an oncoming swell. When the vessel took the white-capped crest Cartheron scanned the northern horizon and cursed – he’d caught a glimpse of blue sail.

‘As long as you can!’ he yelled to Hawl, hoping she could hear him through her concentration.

‘Due south,’ he told Brendan.

‘Aye, aye.’

Jack came to Cartheron’s side; the young man was rubbing a chin that to Cartheron looked new to stubble. ‘What is it?’ Cartheron asked.

‘That troop carrier is no deep-water vessel … and she’s low in the water…’

Cartheron nodded. ‘’S true.’

‘She may wallow in these high seas.’

Cartheron snorted. ‘So might we.’

‘Regardless, perhaps we should lead them onwards.’ He offered up a smile that was almost sly. ‘Perhaps it’s time for a run to Genabackis…’

Cartheron laughed and slapped him on the back. ‘Remind me not to try to match strategies with you, Jack.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll think about it. But let’s just try to lose them first.’

The youth touched his brow in a half-salute and ducked away. Cartheron watched him go. Jack – too bland a name for a smart fellow like that. Have to come up with something better.

He stood with Brendan, ready to lend a hand at the tiller as the Twisted clawed its way up monstrous swells, pitched forward, then slid down precipitous slopes as long as hillsides. The water took on an iron-grey darkness and the spray bit his face like daggers of ice.

‘Strait o’ Storms dead ahead,’ Brendan muttered in low warning.

‘I know,’ he answered, just as low. ‘I know.’

‘Would rather take on our Napan friend back there.’

Cartheron nodded his agreement. When they broached a crest he searched the waves behind again and this time saw no sign of the Just Cause against the vast expanse of angry foam-webbed waters. Had they given up the chase?

Glancing ahead, he felt a chill take him as he glimpsed a line of darkness against the southerly horizon. Lightning flashes lit it from below like the fitful fires of a siege army. The Strait of Storms – home of the daemon Riders who haunted its frigid waters.

‘Easterly, sailing master,’ he murmured to Brendan.

‘Aye, aye,’ the old sailor answered with undisguised relief.

He now looked to Hawl; he’d go to her, perhaps take her hand to offer any help he could, but he had no wish to distract her. She was still upright in any case, her arms still outstretched, hands clawing the air.

Choss, who had been overseeing the repairs at the bows, now came to Cartheron’s side. Leaning close he set his mouth to Cartheron’s ear and and whispered, ‘Ice glaze on the bowsprit.’

‘Easterly, please, Brendan,’ Cartheron warned.

‘She’s slow to come round, isn’t she?’ the man answered through clenched lips.

Cartheron studied the winds. Damn if they weren’t against them for an easterly course. They’d have to claw for every league.

He now wondered whether he’d just traded a leap into the Abyss for Hood’s bony hand.

‘Keep an eye on it,’ he told Choss. ‘Have the crew strike it off as it thickens.’

The burly officer nodded, his face grim. ‘Been a long time since we’ve dared tempt the Stormriders…’

‘Just sneaking past, old friend. Sneakin’ past quiet as mice.’

The fellow snorted a dour laugh and ran a hand over his brush-cut hair. ‘Hunh. Let’s hope they see it that way…’ He headed forward.

Cartheron repeated, ‘Quiet as mice.’ He eyed the thickening black cliff of thunderheads that loomed before them and shuddered as the chill wind buffeted his face. Years ago he’d been part of an expedition north, to Falari, transporting liberated goods too identifiable to be sold anywhere on the Quon mainland. That journey had taken him past the coastline of the Fenn Mountains. There they’d passed monstrous tongues of ice that descended the slopes and slipped down into the steep bays like serpents. Icy winds had buffeted them then, too. But now it is summer in this region! And a chill great enough to dominate this entire strait comes off these alien Stormriders alone.

He touched a hand to the railing, now glistening with delicate hoarfrost. Don’t pay us no mind, my frigid friends …

Chapter 12