“On my shoulders, Tink.” Quire bent and lifted his swaying accomplice. Tinkler grabbed for the stair’s rail, missed, shifted himself and grabbed once more, catching it, swinging himself onto the lowest step, then leaning down so that Quire could jump, clasp his hand and be hauled up. The great ship settled again. Overhead, orders were being given in a language entirely unfamiliar to Quire and it seemed that some sort of discipline was in danger of being restored. Then, thankfully, Hogge and O’Bryan began their barrage and sent almost everyone crowding forward. Up the angled stairway they went, bodies against the ship’s side, until they had reached the main deck and could raise their noses high enough to inspect the scene. There were corpses on the deck, where men had been flung from the yards, and there were crippled sailors, with broken limbs and ribs, being tended by their fellows. Lanterns moved here and there and Quire glimpsed the captain in conference with the pilot, who was shaking his head and either pretending ignorance or professing it in good faith (Quire did not know how much Montfallcon had involved the man). He tried to see if Poland’s King was still in the sterncastle, but it was too dark. Boldly, with Tinker in his wake, he climbed rapidly for the stern, like two black shadows cast by the flapping sails above as the moon appeared mistily behind thinner cloud. Though many mariners passed them and some glanced curiously at them, Quire and Tinkler were only challenged when they reached the companionway to the castle itself. Quire held up his lantern to reveal the face of the armoured musketeer. “We’re from the shore. To help. We saw the wreck.”
The musketeer shook his head. Quire laughed confidently and held up the lantern again, clapping the guard on the shoulder as he and Tinkler squeezed past and continued on their way to find Poland sitting up against the rail, blinking and perplexed, with some noble greybeard bending over him in concern.
“I was sent here,” said Quire in a harried tone, “to attend a gentleman. Does anyone speak our tongue?”
The old noble, swathed in sable, looked up, his speech halting and guttural. “I speak it, sir. You’re from the shore? What happened? The shots.” He blinked. He was shortsighted.
“You’re wrecked, sir. Smashed up, sir. And you’ll be breaking before long if you don’t get off.” (This last, a lie.)
“What shall we do?” Peering. “Who are you?”
“Captain Fletcher. Coast guard, sir. The shots you heard were ours, driving off brigands who attend wrecks like crows attend a corpse. You were lucky we were close. Come now, where’s your women and children?”
“There are none.”
“This passenger looks like someone of quality.”
“In truth, sir, he is.”
“Then let’s get him over the side, and you too. Who else?”
“This one first. I’m not important. And there are valuables. In the cabin. They must be saved. They are gifts-”
“Valuables may be salvaged later, sir, but not lives,” said Quire chidingly.
“These valuables are of great importance. Help His-this gentleman-to the shore. I’ll fetch the treasure.” He spoke to the King in Polish. The King smiled, vaguely.
Quire appeared to debate with himself. Then he nodded. “Very well, if you think that’s for the best. My lieutenant here will go with you.” He offered his gloved hand to the King, who looked at it without understanding at first, then accepted it. “Up you get, your worship.”
The King climbed unsteadily to his feet and Quire supported him, helping him to the companionway and down it. “Carefully, now, sir.”
“I am much obliged to you, sir,” said Poland in the High Speech used for diplomacy throughout the globe, but Quire had to pretend hearty ignorance.
“Sorry, sir, but I don’t know a word of whatever it is you talk.”
They got to the deck and began to move back towards the point where Quire and Tinkler had boarded. The ship shuddered again, quite dramatically, and Quire was flung hard against the rail. The wind’s note changed, became shrill. The moon vanished. Water dashed itself aimlessly around the ruined ship. Quire staggered back, still half-carrying Poland, who murmured with hazy cordiality, permitting himself to be guided to the leaning steps and down them, while Tinkler cried “Here!” from behind and waved a bundle, the old nobleman at his rear calling out to the crew to follow, which was what Quire had feared would happen. “Easy, sir. Easy, sir.” He helped an irresolute Poland into the shallow water. “This way.” He took Poland’s arm and tugged. Tinkler was next, but the old man remained on the steps, still calling back for his men.
Quire and his charge left the water and began to trudge up the beach as O’Bryan and the others came in sight. “Off we go, O’Bryan!” he called. “Hold them, Tink, and we’ll meet you at the mill.”
O’Bryan put out a hand to take the King’s, leading him to their spare horse. “Up you go, my lord.”
The King chuckled and shook his head. O’Bryan said something in Polish and the King laughed again, readily straddling the sorrel. Quire found his black and was up, too, taking the sorrel’s bridle while O’Bryan mounted. He heard Tinkler yell an order as sailors began to wade ashore, seeking their liege, and musket and pistol fire roared in the hands of the half-score knaves Tinkler commanded, cutting down the first rank of sailors.
The King shouted a question to O’Bryan, who replied again, as he and Quire had arranged, that there were brigands along this coast who always came out in the hope of attacking a wreck but that their coast guards were holding the villains off.
They were galloping rapidly through the shallows separating the island from the mainland before Poland cried out and tried to draw rein.
“What’s he want, O’Bryan?” shouted Quire above the wind.
“Says he’s concerned for his people, that he should stay.”
“Very worthy. Tell him the tide’s due in and all must get to high ground, that our men are looking after the rest.”
O’Bryan spoke slowly in Polish. The King replied, still reluctant.
“What’s up now, O’Bryan?”
“He says the tide appears to be going out.”
“So it does!” Quire grinned. If the tide were not retreating, they would not have been able to cross this wide strip of sand at all. “He’s observant in some ways, eh? Tell him it’s deceptive. Put a bit of urgency in your tone, O’Bryan!”
The bitter wind grabbed at them, struck them with such force that the horses staggered. “Ride, by Mithras!” yelled Quire.
More gunfire sounded from behind. The King tried to turn the sorrel. “Oh, sweet Ariadne!” Quire rode in close, removed the King’s cap, drew a pistol from the holster on his saddle even as Poland began to crane to see what happened, and struck him hard at the base of his unkempt skull, grasping him before he fell too far, leaning him across the pommel, wrapping reins to hold him in position, taking the bridle and leading the sorrel on. O’Bryan fired off one of his pistols, apparently for the fun of it, and waved the other. They were almost at the grassy dunes where glinting snow displayed the evidence that they left the tidal flats behind and would soon be on true land.
They rode at a gallop, inland and eastwards, away from the harbour city of Rye, for Quire had determined that they should put at least fifty miles between them and the wreck if they were not to be accidentally detected.
Quire looked back and saw a few flashes, heard a few shots and yells. If he guessed right, Tinkler and the men had had less trouble than any of them had anticipated and were even now horsed, leaving the Mikolaj Kopernik and her crew to fare as best they could until news reached Rye and help was sent. By then it would be morning and the rufflers well on the way to London, while Tinkler joined him at the spot they had agreed, bringing with him, by happy chance, the King of Poland’s treasure.
As they galloped, Quire began to utter a series of sharp, barking notes, between the sound of a wolf and a raven, which made O’Bryan somewhat nervous even after it had dawned on him that Quire was laughing.