No one had ever accused Colgrave of being sane. And only the once had he come out loser.
We sailed north. We turned and ran south once Tor could no longer discern land from the maintop. A steady breeze scooted us along. By nightfall, according to Toke, we had come back south of the southernmost tip of Freyland. But Colgrave did not alter course till next morning. Several hours after dawn he ordered a change to a heading due east.
He shifted course a point this way, a point that as we sailed along. He had Toke and Tor put on or take off canvas.
A plan was shaping in his twisted mind.
Time lumbered along. The sun set, and it rose. Tension built up till we were all ready to snap. Tempers flared. Some of the old hatred returned. We were not very tolerant of one another. The sun set again. I had seen Colgrave's matchless dead reckoning before. I was not overwhelmed when he brought Dragon into the mouth of the Silverbind Estuary with the same accuracy I showed in speeding a shaft to its target.
We were all dismayed. To a man we had hoped that he would change his mind, or that something would change it for him.
We had not seen one ship during our time at sea.
They had taken our false trail for true. The fleet had cleared Portsmouth only that morning, heading north in hopes of catching us in the wild seas between Freyland and Cape Blood. The only vessels we saw now, as we eased along the nighted Itaskian coast, were fishing boats drawn up on the beaches for the night.
Watchfires burned along the Estuary's north shore. They winked at us as if secretly blessing our surreptitious passage.
Those winks conveyed messages. A steady flow were coming from the north. Fat Poppo tried reading them, but the Itaskians had changed their codes since he had been in their navy. No one noticed our little caravel creeping along through the moonless night.
The lights of Portsmouth appeared on our starboard bow. Little bells tinkled over the water ahead. Then Poppo softly announced that he had spotted the first channelmarker buoy. Its bell pinged happily in the gentle swell.
Colgrave sent Tor to the forecastle to watch the markers.
He meant to try the impossible. He meant to take Dragon up the channel by starlight.
Colgrave's confidence in his destiny was justified. Dragon was surely a favored charity of the gods that night. The breeze was absolutely perfect for creeping from one bellbuoy to the next. The current did not bother us at all. We penetrated the harbor basin two hours after midnight. Perfect timing. The city was asleep. Colgrave warped Dragon in to a wharf with a precise beauty that only a sailor could appreciate.
Fear had that ship by the guts. I was so rattled that I don't think I could have hit an elephant at ten paces. But there I was on the forecastle, ready to cover the landing party.
Priest, Barley, and the Trolledyngjan jumped to the wharf. They searched the darkness for enemies. Mica and the Kid jumped. Others threw them mooring lines. They made fast in minutes. The gangplank went down for the first time in anyone's memory. Toke and Tor started ushering the men ashore. Tor made sure they were armed. Some did not want to go. I was one. I had not set foot on any land in so long that I could not remember what it was like.... And this was the country of my birth. This was the land of my crimes. This land loved me no more, nor wanted its sacred soil defiled by the tread of my murderer's feet....
Nor did I want to do any sorcerer's bloodletting.
Colgrave beckoned. I had to go. 1 relaxed my grip on my bow, descended to the maindeck, crossed to the gangplank.
Only the Old Man and I remained aboard. Toke and Tor were trying to maintain order on the wharf. Some of the men were trying to get back to the ship, to escape stable footing and everything that land meant. Others had fallen to their knees and were kissing the paving stones. Some, like Barley, just stood and shook.
"I don't want to return, either, Bowman," Colgrave whispered. "My very being whines and pules. But I'm going. Now march."
The old fire was in his eyes. I marched.
He had not changed clothing. He still wore rags and tatters. Following me down the gangplank, he looped a piece of cloth across his features the way they do in the deserts of Hammad al Nakir.
Colgrave's presence made the difference. The men forgot their emotions. Toke quickly arranged them in a column of fours.
A late drunk staggered out of the darkness. "Shay...." he mumbled. "What're.... Who're...." He almost tripped over me and Colgrave.
He was an old man young. A beggar, by his look, and a cripple. He had only one arm, and one leg barely functioned. He reeked of cheap, sour wine. He stumbled against me again. I caught him.
"Thanks, buddy," he mumbled. His breath was foul.
My god, I thought. This could be me if I keep on the grog.... I forced honesty. I was looking at what I had been when I had committed my murders, and most of the time since. All I could see was ugliness. The drunk stared at me. His eyes grew larger and larger. He glanced over the crew, peered at the Old Man.
A long, terrified whine, like the plea of a whipped cur, ripped from his throat.
"Priest!" the Old Man snapped.
Priest materialized.
"This man recognizes us. Man, this is Priest. Do you know him too? You do? Good. I'm going to ask some questions. Answer them. Or I'll let Priest have you."
The drunk became so terrified that for several minutes we could pry no sense from him at all.
He did know us. He had been a sailor aboard one of the warships that had helped bring us to our doom. He had been one of the few lucky survivors. He remembered the battle as if it had taken place yesterday. Eighteen years and a sea of alcohol had done nothing to erase the memories.
Eighteen years! I thought. More than half my lifetime.... The life I had lived before boarding Vengeful D. The whole world would have changed.
Colgrave persisted with his questions. The old sailor answered willingly. Priest shuffled nervously.
Priest had been the great killer, the great torturer, back when. He had loved it. But the role did not fit him anymore.
Colgrave learned what he wanted. At least, he learned all the drunk had to tell.
A moment of decision arrived. The old sailor recognized it before I did. It was the moment when a man should have died, based on our record.
A black bird squeaked somewhere in Dragon's rigging.
'There is a ship at the wharf," Colgrave said. "Barley! The keys." Barley came. Colgrave gave the keys to the drunk. He stared at them as if they fit the locks in the one-way gates of Hell.
"You will board that ship," Colgrave told him. His tone denied even the possibility that his will might be challenged. "You will stay there, drinking the rum behind the lock those keys fit, till I give you leave to go ashore."
The watchbird squawked again. Excited wings punished the night air.
Fog started drifting in from the Estuary. Its first tendrils reached us.
The drunk looked at Colgrave, stunned. His head bobbed. He ran toward Dragon.
XII
Bowman, come," Colgrave said. "You've been to Portsmouth before, You'll have to show me the way to the Torian Hill."
I did not remember ever having been to Portsmouth. I told him so, and suggested that Mica be his guide. Mica was always talking about Portsmouth. Mostly about its famous whorehouses, but sometimes about its people and their strange mores.