Grinning, the old man offered him a wink. ‘Naw. They’re true.’
Cartheron blinked, a touch nonplussed; personally, he’d half counted on that’s being the case. ‘Ah … well…’
‘Naw. It’s just that I’m of the opinion that runs of luck, good or bad, that’s all just nonsense.’ He scratched his scraggly beard and winked again. ‘And maybe it’s time for the luck to turn, anyway.’
Cartheron answered with a half-grin. ‘I see. Then you are more than welcome.’ Nodding a farewell, he continued on to the last recruit. He was a tall young fellow with a swordsman’s wide shoulders. Dujek leaned in to say, ‘I take credit for this one – recruited him myself. Been through the old Talian officers’ academy at Unta.’
Cartheron looked the fellow up and down, impressed. ‘So. An officer?’
The young man shook his head. ‘No, sir. Didn’t graduate.’
‘Why not?’
‘Killed a fellow student in a duel.’
Cartheron frowned as he considered this. ‘I thought such things were sanctioned. An occupational hazard, you might say.’
‘They are. But the student was of an Untan noble family and his father is a regent of the academy.’
Cartheron’s brows rose as he understood. ‘Ah. Put a price on your head, hey? And what have you been doing since then? A veteran, I assume?’
‘Yes, sir. Some army work, some hire-swording.’
‘What’s your name, then?’ he asked, knowing he’d get a pseudonym.
‘Jack, sir.’
‘Just Jack?’
The fellow looked quite uncomfortable and Cartheron felt for him – no need to embarrass him. ‘Fine. More of a marine, safe to say then. Yes?’
The fellow actually saluted, saying smartly, ‘Yessir.’
Cartheron waved them all in. ‘Okay. Get to work. I’ll write up the papers tonight.’ He watched while Choss set them to work, thinking, gods, an island-wide recruitment and this is all who’d dare show. Malcontents and those spurned by Mock. They were still grossly under-crewed. If he were a superstitious fellow he’d almost say it reeked of bad luck … but he wasn’t. He raised and kissed the amulet round his neck.
* * *
It was the overcast and rainy predawn of the day of departure and the entire Malazan fleet of forty-two raiders was finishing its last details and readying to quit the harbour.
All save one. The flagship of the fleet. Mock’s own Insufferable.
Tattersail paced the wet deck, fuming. Where was the fool? Yes, he’d been out all night ‘celebrating’ with his favoured captains – all of whom had since reported for duty and were busy preparing their vessels for departure. He’d not shown up since!
Where was he! She shot yet another searing glare to Marsh, the mate, who ducked his head – almost guiltily, it seemed to her. Guilty? Why guilty?
‘All is ready?’ she demanded.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And the rest of the fleet?’
‘Waiting on the Insufferable, ma’am.’
She bit at her lip, seething. Should they depart without him? That would be absurd. A fleet without its admiral. They had no choice but to wait.
Moments later, a small carriage came rattling down one of the narrow cobbled lanes that led off the waterfront wharves. It clattered to a halt before the Insufferable’s waiting gangway and the door was kicked open.
Out unlimbered Mock, wincing and holding his head. He waved a farewell to someone within and tottered up the gangway, gripping its rope guide for purchase.
‘Cast off!’ he called the instant he set foot on the wet decking, and winced again, a hand cradling his forehead.
Tattersail pounced on him. ‘Where were you!’
The pirate admiral blanched, hunching. ‘Not so loud, my dear.’ To Marsh: ‘How’s the wind?’
‘Thin. But we’ll manage.’
‘Very well. Raise more sail if necessary.’
‘Aye, aye.’
‘And who was that?’ Tattersail demanded.
Mock’s brows clenched as if he were puzzled, then he waved airily. ‘Just an old friend, dearest. That’s all.’ He slipped an arm round her waist. ‘Come, let us retire to our quarters. My head is pounding fit to kill me.’
‘Why didn’t you return to the Hold?’
‘Because I knew we’d be travelling together, yes? Now, come. I am sorely in need of your soothing hands.’
Tattersail steered him towards the cabin door. ‘You fool. You’re not young any more, you know.’
‘I know, I know.’ He leaned more of his weight on her and she was glad to accept it.
The Insufferable eased from its mooring as its sails bellied and the tide drew it into the bay.
* * *
Later that day, at sea, Tattersail walked the rocking deck. To either side and behind, the full fleet of the raiding island of Malaz slammed the waves under full sail; the Intolerable and the Insolent flanked her, the core of the strike force, while beyond stretched captured merchant caravels, galleasses, fat barques armed now with siege catapults and onagers, and even low open longboats, oared and under sail, captured from foreign travellers.
She nodded to Marsh, pleased with their passage so far. Soon they would make sighting of the mainland and head for the prearranged rendezvous off Point Spear, east of Cawn, before entering the Bight of Cawn as dawn rose and with the tide behind them.
All was going to plan – provided the damned Napans showed.
She glanced behind, far to the south, and thought she glimpsed something there amid the iron-grey waves – a dark blotch or smear. She motioned Marsh to her.
‘What’s that, there?’ She pointed.
He shaded his gaze, frowning. ‘I see nothing, ma’am.’
‘Something’s there. Get a man up top.’
‘Probably just a laggard falling behind.’
‘I don’t like the look of it.’
‘No need to worry yourself, ma’am.’
She eyed the man and raised one brow. ‘Your sea-mage orders it.’
Marsh pulled a hand down his unshaven jaws, swallowing hard. He nodded, said, ‘Yes, Tattersail,’ and stomped off, yelling, ‘Get Olan up top, right quick!’
Moments later a lean young lad went shimmying up the mizzen to where the very top swayed sickeningly with every wave and there he clutched the slim pole like a monkey, legs wrapped round it, peering to the south.
After surveying the waves for a time he shouted down: ‘Can’t believe it!’
‘What, lad?’ Marsh called up. ‘What can’t ya believe?’
‘Damme! ’Tis the Twisted!’
Marsh turned to gaze at Tattersail in wonder. ‘I can’t believe they got that scow under sail.’
Tattersail crossed her arms, gazing south. She nodded to herself. ‘Looks like we’re going to be joined by all kinds of Napans.’ She went to give the news to Mock.
The admiral was in their cabin, head clutched in his hands, a glass of wine before him. Tattersail braced herself with a hand on a beam of the low ceiling as the ship rocked in the waves.
Mock massaged his temples. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ he asked, his voice pained.
‘Just thought you ought to know.’
‘That ship is a wreck. It was legend decades ago. They’ll just fall further and further behind. It matters not.’ He looked up, blinking and pale, and it struck Tattersail that this vaunted pirate was, of all things, seasick. Or perhaps just hung-over.
‘And how are we doing?’ he asked, swallowing and grimacing at what he tasted.
‘We’ve made the arc to avoid Napan waters and should make the rendezvous at Cawn in plenty of time.’
‘Excellent.’ He lowered his head once more. Tattersail thought she heard a groan.