Jute stared, quite taken aback. Cartheron? The Cartheron? One of the legendary captains of the Old Empire? Unlikely … yet how many Cartherons could there be? He released the man’s hand and nodded at the compliment. ‘Well, as you say. We were worried about our arses as well. How fare our companions?’
The Malazan captain glanced away, squinting to the east. Jute noted that squinting suited the man’s face, either through a lifetime’s habit, or perhaps naturally. ‘The galleon was limping along. Umryg is no sea-faring state.’
‘Umryg? I know nothing of such a land.’
‘As I said.’
Jute blinked, rather at a loss. ‘Well. Can you effect repairs here?’
The Napan’s squint soured into a scowl — the expression also no foreigner to his features. ‘Not my first choice, that’s for damned certain. Rather have her up and dry.’ Then he laughed. ‘But she’d probably fall to pieces so p’raps it’s for the best.’
His companion pressed forward, outraged. ‘We can’t manage any of the necessary repairs here in this forsaken land. Gods, the keel needs inspection!’
Cartheron turned on the man, his first mate, perhaps. ‘The keel needs no inspection,’ he snarled. ‘Its rotten through and through and that’s that!’
The first mate spluttered, searching for words. He pulled at his hair in his passion. He finally yelled back: ‘And so what do you suggest, O great Captain Cartheron?’
‘Stuff more rags into her.’
‘More — more rags? She’s more rags than wood!’
‘And yet she floats. There’s philosophy for you, Orothos.’ Hands grasping fists of hair, the first mate glared back, dumbfounded. ‘What?’
‘Beacon fires on the water!’ Dulat yelled from the gathering twilight.
Vastly relieved by the interruption, Jute stepped away from the two Malazans, who continued their furious argument until a threatened cuff from Cartheron sent the first mate ducking. ‘How far?’ he called.
‘Hard to say. Coming this way, though.’
‘Good.’ Jute studied the beacon fires on the shore for a time, then, satisfied with their strength, scanned the water for some sign of the approaching vessel. Cartheron came ambling over in a side-to-side wide-legged walk that only those who have spent most of their life a sea can manage. At first Jute was tongue-tied as he considered just who he might be standing next to all alone in the dark. What stories might he hear? What sudden, unlooked for intimacies or unburdenings of secrets? Was this the Cartheron Crust, one-time companion to the old ogre emperor and his killer and usurper, Laseen? Victor, with Nok, of the battle of Fenn Bay, where the combined Falaran navy was scattered in a rout? His grandfather had fought at that battle and told stories of the sorcery unleashed.
Finally, he was unable to contain his curiosity any longer, and, gaze still shaded on the waters, he cleared his throat. ‘So, sir. Are you the Cartheron?’
‘How many damned Cartherons do you know?’ the man growled.
‘Well … just you.’
‘Good. For a moment there you had me worried.’
Jute cleared his throat once more. ‘Well, I was wondering because-’
‘There she hails,’ the Malazan said, pointing.
Jute squinted. He could just make out the flickering glow of the fire, and his eyes were far younger than this man’s. ‘Who is she?’ he asked.
‘A sorceress. Damned powerful one. That’s all I know. We met while we were all anchored there waiting for someone to dare the rocks.’ Jute glanced to the man and saw him grinning. ‘You. As soon as I saw your light galley dart for the rocks just at the peak of high tide I knew you had a good chance. Trust a Falaran at sea, I always say. When there’s no Napan to be found, mind you.’
‘What of your pilot, then?’
The Napan lost his grin. ‘My pilot’s a souse. Nerves.’ Jute frowned at that. Nerves? ‘Here we are,’ Cartheron announced. He raised his chin to the surf.
The huge silhouette of the sorceress’s galleon detached itself from the surrounding gloom. A fire burned in a brazier atop the raised castle at its bow. Jute estimated that height at a good six fathoms above the waterline. A launch was being lowered over the side. He and Cartheron waited.
When the launch reached the surf Jute waved out his sailors to help draw it up. The eight oarsmen remained seated within while two figures climbed out. The first was an aged fellow, all in dark clothes, his hair long and brightly glowing in the murk. He held out a hand to his fellow passenger. As soon as the woman stood — for it was clearly a woman, though wrapped in loose windswept robes — it was also clear to Jute that she hardly needed the old man’s help. Unusually tall one might’ve described her — alarmingly tall, even. Strapping and sturdy would perhaps be kind. She was fully taller than he or any man of his crew and her presence was accented even more by her long flowing headscarf, a face veil that revealed only her eyes, and her equally disguising layered robes.
He and Cartheron bowed to the woman and he introduced himself.
The old man, his face sun-burnished and wrinkled and dominated by a long nose, carried a tall staff — thought not so tall as the woman. He stamped this to the gravel and announced: ‘Timmel Orosenn, the Primogenitrix of Umryg.’
The woman waved a hand as if to brush this pompous announcement aside. Jute noted the hand was large enough to encircle his head like a fruit. ‘Lady Orosenn will do,’ she said in a rich honey tenor. ‘Falaran,’ she added, addressing Jute. ‘We are in your debt. Your navigator is a sorceress indeed …’ and she gave a small laugh as if sharing some unspoken secret.
Jute laughed as well; he’d always thought so. ‘That she is, my lady. But it is we who owe the debt. Your actions in the harbour saved us all.’
‘I merely did what I could to buy us time.’
‘Speaking of the harbour, what of Tyvar?’ Cartheron asked. ‘They exited the channel,’ Lady Orosenn answered. ‘What has become of them since I cannot say.’
‘Tyvar?’ Jute asked.
‘The Genabackans,’ Cartheron explained. ‘He sent a launch among us while we anchored earlier. We’ll let him introduce himself — if he hasn’t sunk.’
‘Then we wait,’ Lady Orosenn said, agreeing.
The old man frowned at the news. He peered about glowering into the dark and muttering to himself. Finally, he raised his voice. ‘M’lady,’ he urged, ‘it is not safe for you to linger here on shore. Best you remain on board your vessel, yes?’
The Lady’s eyes, so very enticing behind the veil, shifted to the south. Jute followed her gaze but saw nothing. She nodded then, reluctantly. ‘Very well. If I must.’ She looked at Jute. ‘Give my thanks should Tyvar arrive.’
‘There is a danger?’ Jute asked.
‘Only to me. There are … old enemies that I must be wary of.’ The old man urged her back to the launch and her crew pushed off.
‘So we wait,’ Cartheron reaffirmed, and he wiped his mouth then eyed Jute. ‘Care for a drink? I have damn fine Untan distilled grain spirit on board. I could send for a bottle.’
Jute immediately felt his mouth water. ‘That would be wonderful. My thanks.’
Cartheron’s first mate had glared at the proposal and now he hissed aside to his captain: ‘You’re drinking the manifest!’
‘Manifestly. Now be a good man and have a bottle sent over.’
The first mate glared anew but threw his hands in the air and stalked off, grumbling and gesticulating. ‘… not a rat’s ass left … empty hold … utter loss … chicken farm …’
Some time after that a sailor in a tattered shirt and torn canvas trousers arrived carrying a bottle in one hand and two small glasses in the other. These he handed to Cartheron then walked away, all without a word or salute. Jute had the impression that standards had rather fallen on board the Ragstopper.