Cartheron studied the statue. It was the stone figure of a woman crudely carved from the local granite. She stood with bare arms upraised, a large seashell in one hand, the other empty. Old faded scarves and garlands graced her shoulders while stubs of candles, burned incense, and other offerings littered the statue’s base. He knew the figure well. She was missing the set of scales that she was supposed to hold in her right hand – corroded away, or taken, perhaps. With those scales she judged the worthiness of those at sea, and the likelihood of their return.
‘Lady Nerrus. Goddess of the Shores. Calmer of storms and a patron goddess of sailors and fishers. Sister to Beru, Lord of Storms.’
The stick tapped again – perhaps his habit while in thought. ‘This island has given much to the sea,’ the old man mused.
‘Yes – as has Nap.’
‘Sea power,’ the fellow half-murmured to himself; then, suddenly, he was off again and Cartheron was left standing alone with no idea in which direction he’d gone. He squinted into the mists, panicked; how could he have lost the bugger?
The tapping of the stick once more alerted him to the fellow’s location – far down the street towards the waterfront. Cartheron hurried after him, wondering how the old codger could have got so far ahead.
He reached the wharves and peered right and left in a panic. Surly would have his balls … Then he saw him next to a pile of crates and bales, talking to a gang of labourers.
Cartheron came to his side in time to hear him saying, ‘What ship, then, would you never serve on?’
The men and women were eyeing him as if he were a lunatic. One rose from lounging on the bales and confronted him. ‘What do you mean, y’damned Dal Hon fool?’
Cartheron stepped up between them. ‘Forgive my friend – he doesn’t get out much.’
‘I’ll say. Who in Hood’s name does he think he is?’
‘Just a harmless old fool.’
A female stevedore gestured aside, observing, ‘Well, your fool friend’s wandered off.’
Cartheron turned, cursing. The mage – if indeed he was a mage – was now further along the wharf talking to a gang of kids. He jogged over to him and arrived just as a young lad was saying with a shrug, ‘Sure, there’re unpopular captains.’
Wu laughed indulgently and held up a copper Talian coin. ‘Ship, I meant. Sailors are a superstitious lot. Worse even than soldiers. There must be an unlucky ship.’
A girl pushed forward. ‘Oh, you mean the Twisted. No one will sign with it.’ She reached for the coin but Wu pulled his hand away.
‘And where is this unfortunate vessel? Is it with us now?’
The girl sneered her scorn. ‘Didn’t I just say no one would sign? Sure it’s here. Where it’s been f’r years!’ She pointed down the wharf.
Wu tossed her the coin. ‘My thanks.’
One lad, who had been watching the mage with a strange intensity, now pointed. ‘Ain’t you the one who entered the Deadhouse yard?’
Wu nodded. ‘Yes indeed.’
The gang of waterfront youths all stilled, their eyes growing huge. ‘Well,’ the lad continued, ‘how’d you escape?’
Cartheron was aware then of a thickening of the evening murk about them. It was a sudden darkening, like the eclipses he’d known over the years. Shadows seemed to have gathered about them, especially the old man, who now appeared enveloped in a deepening shade. And out of the obscuring darkness he heard an eerie hollow voice whisper: ‘Who said I did?’
The gang of youths gaped as one, then broke, scattering in all directions. He and his employer were suddenly alone and the darkness faded away – just as an eclipse might. Cartheron was then unsettled by a high childish giggle from the old Dal Hon mage. He composed himself to demand, ‘And what was that all about? Scaring children?’
The old man fluttered a hand to wave aside his disapproval. ‘Casting seeds, my friend. Merely casting seeds.’ Then he was off again down the length of the wharf. Cartheron looked to the darkening half-overcast sky and followed, a hand on his cutlass.
The mage was standing among a tall collection of cargo and supplies in barrels and crates. As Cartheron approached he pointed the walking stick to the very far end of the wharf, where a lone vessel lay berthed, far from any of its fellows, as if the bearer of some sort of contagion. ‘The Twisted,’ Wu informed him.
Cartheron eyed the vessel. Narrow and high, three-masted; a modified coaster rig. Probably carrying mixed square and lanteen. Potentially fast, but also very obviously poorly maintained for some time. Wood at the railing was greying, paint was worn from the sides, which were stained by run-off from the fittings. The running rig hung loose, the ratlines torn in places. The hull was no doubt badly in need of scraping, if not rotten.
‘It’s a derelict hulk,’ he told Wu, sneering.
‘It has acquired that terrible affliction – the reputation of a cursed vessel. Everyone says so.’
Cartheron knew the damned fellow had deliberately piqued his interest but couldn’t help following along and asking, ‘Cursed? How?’
The little fellow fluttered a hand once more. ‘Oh, a few unfortunate deaths during its last voyages. And a long failure in bringing in any prizes.’ The mage flashed a crooked grin that he then forced from his lips, clearing his throat. ‘Recently, however, it has been acquiring an even worse reputation.’
Cartheron wearily prompted him once again. ‘Which is?’
‘That it is haunted.’ The fellow glanced about the shadowed alleyway between piled cargo and nodded to himself in a satisfied manner. ‘And so … I must get to work.’ To Cartheron’s immense surprise – and unease – he began to fade away. ‘Don’t stay up for me.’ And he was gone.
Cartheron cursed and searched among the barrels but could find no sign of the fellow. Surly would kill him for losing the codger! He turned to the ship, the Twisted, where it lay at berth. Well, at least he knew where he was – or claimed to be. He backed away into the narrow alley to sit on a barrel and crossed his arms, waiting and watching.
Some time later he started awake, disorientated, then remembered where he was and why, and sat back. It was night and something had woken him. He peered round but saw nothing strange in the darkness. At least the fogs were gone, he noted, now that the evening airs had stopped churning. The Twisted lay motionless – but not abandoned; its stern lantern was lit and a faint gold glow shone from one cabin’s porthole.
A yell sounded then – an involuntary shout of surprise and alarm – and boots stomped along the wharf. A figure stormed past his hiding-place. All Cartheron had was a glimpse of an older gentleman, grey-bearded, his face as pale as snow, his eyes wild.
He sat back and eyed the Twisted, thinking. Did he really want to … No, he decided that he would definitely prefer not. And anyway, if this mage was as billed then he didn’t seem to be in any danger of being clubbed by Geffen’s men. He straightened, stretching, and headed back to Smiley’s.
He had to take a few detours to avoid gangs of brawlers lounging at street corners near the bar, but eventually managed to slide in the front door. The place was empty but for members of the crew.
At the door, Shrift asked, ‘Where’s our would-be employer?’
‘Working … I think.’
She was tall, a swordswoman who favoured heavy leather armour in battle, and now wore tanned hunting leathers. She sat back, crossing her arms. ‘Doin’ what?’
Cartheron eyed her. ‘You scared of ghosts?’
The swordswoman scowled at such an idiotic question. ‘Course. Who wouldn’t be?’
‘Then you don’t want to know what he’s doing.’
‘Is he really some kinda mage?’