Within, she drew breath to damn him for treating her like a child, but before she could speak he turned on her, saying, ‘Do not unnerve the crew before battle, please.’
She blinked, quite taken aback. ‘Well…’
‘It could cost us lives – perhaps even the victory.’
‘Well, yes, but I’m worried—’
‘We’re all anxious, my love.’
‘Let me finish, damn you!’
Mock pulled away, his brows rising, then he stroked his moustache, nodding. ‘Very well. My apologies.’
Still angry, Tattersail struggled to order her thoughts. ‘The Napans aren’t here. Why? What is Tarel planning? What is his strategy here?’
The admiral’s nodding gathered strength and conviction as he took her shoulders, smiling. ‘Ah, my Tattersail. Cunning lass. Doing your job. But do not worry. You think this is deliberate?’ He pinched her chin between his thumb and fingers. ‘There are a thousand reasons to explain why they have been delayed – or withdrawn. Poor sea conditions. Strong headwinds.’ He pulled away to pace the cabin. ‘Perhaps Tarel was embarrassed by the small number of vessels he could muster; perhaps he didn’t wish to reveal that to me; perhaps—’
‘Perhaps he is burning Malaz City even as we speak.’
Mock froze in his pacing, then spun on his heels to face her. ‘Ah. I … hadn’t thought of that.’ He returned to stroking his moustache, pacing again. ‘Yet, I think not. Our fleet remains. Upon discovering this we would naturally retaliate. Why invite that so soon after the burning of half of Dariyal? And his fleet is weaker than ours.’
‘Exactly. There is something in this throw of the bones. I feel it.’
But Mock was shaking his head. ‘You see treachery where mere incompetence or back luck would suffice. I am sorry – but I am not convinced.’
‘But—’
He was shaking his head. ‘Thank you, Sail. Thank you for your thoughts … but we are committed. Stay wary and observant, I value that. But now is the time to act.’ He kissed her brow then pulled open the cabin door.
Tattersail could only raise her fisted hands in the air in mute fury, then follow. Mock signalled Earnolth, his steersman, who hailed from some benighted land called Perish. The huge fellow gave an eager nod. ‘Raise canvas!’ he bellowed, and heaved over the tiller-arm.
The Insufferable yawed as the mains caught the wind and bellied. Quickly, the surrounding vessels followed suit. They carved wakes as they swung round, gaining headway. A sick feeling clawed at Tattersail’s stomach as she watched these preparations. Within hours they’d sight the harbour and Cawn; then she would know whether she was wrong to let her fears get the better of her, or whether she would face her strongest challenge to date.
She clenched the railing amidships, waiting and watching.
Later, as dawn touched the coastline to the north, her first view of the harbour made her wince for her foolish words. All appeared normal. No warships patrolled the waters in readiness. The harbour walls did not bristle with defenders and cocked catapults or onagers. The Malazan fleet appeared to have found their prey unprepared.
Marsh, the first mate, ordered the attack flags raised and the surrounding vessels answered the signal. He then bellowed, ‘Ready landing parties!’ The raiders – all those sailors who could be spared from manning the Insufferable – now crowded the deck. They strapped on extra armour and weapons. Tattersail, for her part, would remain with the vessel. Mock, she noted, was nowhere to be seen and she thought that negligent.
She was about to search for him when a shout went up from aloft that froze her in place: ‘Sails to the south!’ was the call, and she turned, her heart sinking with dread. Oh, please, Oponn no …
‘What colour?’ she yelled.
‘Blue! Napans!”
Shit! She stormed for the cabin. Within, she found Mock with two hands on the cut-crystal decanter of wine at his mouth. ‘Put that down!’ she yelled.
The admiral spluttered, coughing and dribbling wine down his front. He wiped his mouth with a satin sleeve. ‘What is it … dearest?’
‘The Napans – they’re behind us!’
Mock nodded, satisfied. ‘Well, here at last. As they promised.’
‘No. You don’t understand. They’re behind us.’ He smoothed his moustaches and the gesture infuriated Tattersail more than ever. ‘Behind!’
He headed for the door, inviting her to accompany him. ‘They’re late. Wherever else would they be?’
‘But…’
‘Do not worry yourself, darling.’ He pushed open the cabin door and stood blinking in the harsh light of the dawn, as if stunned. Tattersail pointed south, insistent, and the admiral nodded, shading his gaze. ‘Yes, dearest.’ He squinted. ‘You see, there’s nothing…’ His voice trailed off with a note of confusion.
Tattersail peered as well; the brightening saffron light now painted a long broad line of sails that crossed the mouth of the bay from side to side. She stared, and her heart sank in disbelief. By the gods – they’re blockading the bay!
She clenched Mock’s arm in a furious grip. ‘They have us in their jaws!’
A distant crash sounded then, as of the release of some titanic mechanism, and a fiery projectile flew from the harbour defences – a burning tarred bomb. Tattersail watched, helpless, while it climbed skyward in a parabolic arc that brought it down to strike the prow of a galley, shearing it off cleanly by the force of its impact alone.
‘Tarel’s betrayed us,’ she grated.
The admiral appeared to have mastered himself as he drew a hand down his moustaches, scowling. ‘Quite obviously, dearest.’ He gestured to Marsh. ‘Strike the attack! Raise the retreat!’ Marsh ran to convey the orders. Mock strode to the great blond giant that was Earnolth. ‘Bring us round tight. We’ll break through and hold the opening.’
The hulking fellow picked up a line and began lashing himself to the tiller-arm, rumbling a laugh as he did so.
Tattersail clenched the railing and called upon her Thyr Warren. She felt it igniting the air about her. Betraying bastards. She’ll send them all to the Abyss.
* * *
Cartheron was halfway into the job of rearranging the rigging on the foremast mains’l when Hawl came to his side. ‘Be entering the bay soon,’ she called, and he nodded in a distracted way. Whoever had set up this north-shore-style rigging had done them no favours. He preferred a tighter cinch. Less prone to slippage.
He spared a glance north to the distant shoreline – gods, they were far behind! And the sun was rising. They were hours from Cawn. What was the point now?
Choss came past carrying fresh line for repairs. He dropped the coil to stare at Cartheron’s work.
‘What have you done?’ the man said, outraged.
Cartheron gestured to the rigging. ‘Fixed it proper.’
‘Proper?’ The burly fellow set to redoing Cartheron’s work. ‘I had it all arranged just the way I like.’
‘North-shore style is too loose.’ He raised a hand to intervene but Choss knocked it aside.
‘You mind your own station, Crust. I’m in charge here.’
Cartheron backed away, his hands raised. ‘Okay, okay!’ He shook his head. The problem with the Twisted right now was far too many captains and not enough crew.
‘Smoke to the north!’ Hawl called from the bows. Cartheron squinted that way. He raised a hand against the oblique rays of the dawn. He couldn’t see any hint of smoke, but he trusted her Warren-enhanced senses.
‘You see!’ he called to everyone in general. ‘The attack’s started already! There’ll be nothing left for us!’