The loom slapped to a halt. She held the shuttle in one fist, glaring his way. ‘That’s what’s been bothering me of late! I knew there was something…’ She tossed the shuttle through the weave, shaking her head. ‘On this island, of all places. The fool.’ She raised her gaze to a narrow window high on one wall; her arms, hands and feet worked automatically for a while, shifting and plucking, as she cast her awareness elsewhere.
Eventually, her gaze shifted to him, sidelong. ‘He’s a sly one,’ she murmured in grudging appreciation.
‘I agree. I couldn’t get a fix on him.’
‘Perhaps he just wants to be left alone.’
‘Sadly not. Worse is, he’s making a play for Geffen’s job.’
Agayla threw herself entirely from the loom to press her hands to her thighs in frustration. ‘Blood and tar! That’s the last thing we need right now. War for control of the streets.’
‘Is there any chance Mock—’
‘Mock cares nothing for whoever runs things in town so long as he gets his cut.’
‘Thought so.’
She sighed, then returned her attention to her work. ‘Well, we’ll just have to keep an eye on things. If it gets out of hand, we’ll put an end to it.’
He blew out a long breath. Oh-kayyy … ‘And who is this “we”?’
‘Obo and I.’
The name rocked Nedurian. She can reach through to Obo? Belatedly, he realized that his name wasn’t on her list. I don’t even rate a mention in that company.
‘In the meantime you’ll sniff round, yes? See if you can pin down our foolish friend.’
He nodded his assent.
Agayla returned to work and he returned to watching her. It occurred to him that the finished portion of this particular piece – carpet or tapestry, call it what you will – was very short indeed. He asked, ‘Is this a new work?’
She nodded absently. ‘Yes.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘As always – what is to come.’
From the assurance of that simple comment he felt again the preternatural shiver that this woman raised on the nape of his neck. While no Ascendant herself, she was a potent agent to powers, said to be favoured not only by the Enchantress, but by Jhess the Weaver as well. Powers that he, even as an Adept, could only sense distantly.
He studied the colours of the thread gathered in a basket next to the loom: deep aquamarine blue, blood carmines, gleaming night-black, pewter greys, and sunset purples.
‘The future looks dark,’ he said.
Agayla merely pursed her thin lips colourless and bent to her work.
* * *
To Cartheron, everything on board the Honest Avarice was slack-ass and sloppy. But then, it was a Malazan raider. Not a Napan one. Twin-masted, the fore raked far forward, lean-beamed and shallow-draughted, she was damned fast; that he had to admit. But still … not Napan.
It was the night watch and they were anchored in a tiny cove on the Vorian coast. He kept to the stern deck, rearward of the mast. Here at least he had some peace; forward, it was another situation altogether. Constant elbows and thumps that had to be endured with gritted teeth. ‘Watch it, Napan,’ was the sneering refrain, or, ‘Don’t you Napans know how to sail?’
All this despite the fact that the ship’s officers damn well knew he was here because of his unparalleled knowledge of the south coast. Well, expecting any fairness in the world was something he’d given up on as a child.
Even worse, this cove had been one of his family’s favourite hiding-holes for generations, and now he had been forced to share it with these wretched Malazans. The western arm of the headland curved well over, its shore more than deep enough for this shallow corsair.
And not even one word of thanks from the captain, Bezil, a Bloorian renegade who seemed to think he was some sort of nobleman. Just a grunt, as of a job done to minimal satisfaction.
How he wished he could’ve swept over this ship with his old crew! But Lady Sureth, or Surly, as she called herself now, was right. Where would they find safe habourage? Certainly not on Nap, nor then Malaz. And they were wanted all along the coast. Set off for parts unknown? A deep-water journey across Reacher’s Sea for the Seven Cities region, Genabackis, or legendary Jacuruku? Where they wouldn’t know the shallows or the shoals?
No. Best to establish a base. Some safe harbour where they could refit and repair, resupply and even recruit. But it was galling. So damned galling having to stomach these puffed-up raiders. None of whom could stand against even the worst Napan crew, in his view.
Footsteps, and Griff, the old steersman, joined him at the rail. The wizened wiry fellow boasted so many tattoos on his bald scalp that it was now as blue as Cartheron’s own native hue. He was puffing on a long-stemmed clay pipe, and he offered a nod of recognition that Cartheron answered with relief – some wisdom had been knocked into this one’s skull, at least.
‘Fine cosy berth you found for us,’ Griff said round the stem of his pipe.
‘Thank you.’
‘Not long now.’
Cartheron nodded at that; the convoy was in fact overdue.
‘Still … strange,’ the taciturn fellow added in a billow of smoke.
Cartheron nodded again. It was odd that knowledge of the convoy should have been so widespread. ‘Word sometimes gets out,’ he murmured.
The steersman offered a noncommittal grunt. In the silence, waves slapped the planks of the vessel and cordage creaked overhead as the vessel rocked. Out beyond the cove in the open waters a storm was rising beneath fat clouds.
‘What happened there on Nap anyway?’ the old sailor asked.
Cartheron felt his back tense and his hands tighten on the wooden rail. He forced a shrug. ‘Tarel usurped the throne.’
‘Ah. And that princess. What of her?’
He let out a long hard breath. ‘Died that night.’
‘Found yourself on the losing side, hey?’
Cartheron didn’t answer. He leaned more of his weight on the rail.
‘Faugh,’ the old sailor grunted. ‘Land and politics – curse ’em both to Oponn. Leave it all behind, son. Best to be at sea in the clean air.’
‘I hear you there, old-timer.’
The steersman regarded the dark foam-capped open waters beyond. ‘A high sea.’
‘Indeed. They may have lain up.’
‘Too dangerous, I’d wager. The Vorians wouldn’t allow a prize like that to pass.’
A cold chilling rain now came pelting down and Cartheron nodded his agreement with the old man’s assessment. ‘Probably running on a few scraps of cloth.’
Griff grunted.
‘And the men-o-war?’ Cartheron asked.
‘Out in deeper waters, waiting.’
‘Waiting to drive them towards the shore – and our waiting arms, hey?’
Griff eyed him, puzzled. ‘Thought you knew the plan.’
‘Bezil tells me nothing.’
Griff snorted a great cloud of smoke. ‘Hunh! Too many years fighting you Napans, I suppose.’
‘Probably thinks I’m a spy.’
‘As they say: blood and tribe first. All others are enemy.’
Cartheron shook his head at the narrow-mindedness of it and rested his elbows on the railing.
Griff had returned to eyeing the rough moonlit whitecaps and now he stiffened, straining. ‘See that, lad?’
Cartheron squinted. After a few moments he glimpsed it as welclass="underline" a long thin dark line amid the waves, rising and falling. ‘A longboat.’
‘Scouting the shore.’
‘Looking to pull in?’
The old man shook his tattooed bald head. ‘No. Scouting the route. The cargo vessels should be following along.’ He waved one of the night crew to him. ‘Wake the captain. Silence rules, yes?’
The sailor nodded and padded off on bare feet.
Cartheron kept watch while the Honest Avarice came to life around him. All was readied in utter dark and silence. Though light and slim, the corsair packed an inordinately large crew of marines-cum-sailors. They were, in fact, its only cargo. Everyone fought; no one held back. Even Cartheron was expected to join in, though a hated Napan.