SIX
A terrace shaded by a canopy of stickreed stems, the earthen water jars hanging from every corner to add some moisture to the arid air. In the shade the heat was bearable, and Hawkwood had his hands about a flagon of cold beer as though he were warming them.
The quayside tavern was busy both inside and out. It was an up-market sort of place, not a sailor’s haunt, more the kind of place a landsman would imagine a sailor to frequent. Periodically men watered the street in front of the tables so that patrons would not be sullied by the rising dust as the waggons and carts and mules and oxen and peasants and sailors and soldiers sauntered past.
But the beer was good, straight up from a cold subterranean taproom below the street, and there was a fine view of the harbour. Hawkwood could just pick out the tall mainmast of the Osprey, berthed at long last, her hatches open and men hauling on tackles to bring the precious cargo out into the white sunlight. Galliardo had assured him that the Inceptines no longer came down to the wharves to check the ship crews for foreigners. Things had relaxed somewhat, but Hawkwood had still left orders that none of the Osprey’s crew who were not native-born Hebrionese were to be allowed ashore. The men had not protested: news of Julius Albak’s fate had raced through the port like fire. Yawlsmen on the herrin run reported that Abrusio-bound ships were diverting to Cherrieros and even Pontifidad. The madness could not last. If it did, trade would be ruined.
Hawkwood sipped his beer and picked at his bread. He could hardly hear himself think with the noise of the tavern and the wharves surrounding it. He wished the wind would pick up. He felt almost marooned by the unmoving air, though many a time he had cursed the Hebrian trade as it blew in his teeth and he beat up into it, tack upon tack, trying to clear the headland beyond the harbour.
He must promote himself a new first mate, take on more hands. Would Billerand relish promotion?
For some reason he thought of his wife, delicate little Estrella. He had been back five days and still he had not been home. He hated her tears, her hysterics, her protestations of love. She was like some nervous little bird when he was around, forever darting about and cocking one eye to look at him for approval. It drove him mad. He would far rather be clawed and abused by that high-born bitch, Jemilla.
I love Jemilla, a whisper inside him said, but he hunted the thought quickly out of his mind.
A nobleman on a black destrier clove a path down the crowded street like a crag breaking a wave. He was thin to the point of emaciation, and he wore sable riding leathers, even in the heat. His face was long, narrow, marred by a badly puckered scar, and his hair hung in sweaty strings to his shoulders. A basket-hilted rapier was scabbarded by his side. He reined in and dismounted as the keeper of the tavern rushed out, clucking solicitously and brushing the dust from his shoulders. He batted the man from him, caressed the destrier’s muzzle as a liveryman led it away, and then stalked over to Hawkwood’s table, his spurs jingling. Hawkwood rose.
“My lord Murad of Galiapeno. You are late.”
Murad said nothing, but sat and slapped dust from his thighs with a doeskin gauntlet. The tavern keeper set a decanter of wine and two glasses on the table, and bowed as he retreated. Hawkwood chuckled.
“Something amuses you?” Murad asked, pouring the wine. He somehow managed to give an aura of world-weary contempt that immediately set Hawkwood’s teeth on edge.
“You said you wanted this meeting to be discreet.”
“That does not mean we must tryst in some stinking pothouse. Do not worry, Captain; the people I must be discreet for would never come so far down into the city.”
Hawkwood sampled the wine. It was a Gaderian red, one of the finest he had ever tasted, and yet when Murad sipped his he grimaced as though it were vinegar.
“You said in your missive that you might have need of my ships. Do you have a cargo you wish to transport?”
Murad smiled. His lips were as thin as blood-starved leeches. “A cargo. Yes, I suppose so. I wish to commission you, Captain, and both your vessels, to undertake a voyage with myself and several others as passengers.”
“To where?”
“West.”
“The Hebrionese, the Brenn Isles?” Hawkwood was puzzled. Hebrion was the westernmost kingdom in the world.
“No.” Murad’s voice lowered suddenly, became almost conspiratorial.
“I mean to sail across the Western Ocean, to a continent that exists on the other side.”
Hawkwood blinked for a moment, and finally found his voice. “There is no such continent.”
“And if I were to tell you that you are mistaken, and that I know where it lies and how to get there?”
Hawkwood hesitated. His first impulse was to tell this nobleman that he was either a liar or a fool-or both-but something in the man’s manner stopped him.
“I would need convincing.”
Murad leaned back, satisfied. “Of course you would. No sane captain would risk his ships on a foolhardy venture without some manner of surety.” He leaned forward again until Hawkwood could smell the wine and garlic on his breath.
“I have the rutter of a ship which accomplished the voyage to the west and returned safely. I can tell you, Captain, that the crossing of the Western Ocean took this vessel some two and a half months, with favourable winds, and that it was bound out of this very port. One has but to keep on a certain latitude for some twelve hundred leagues, and the same landfall can be made.”
“I have never heard of this ship, or this voyage,” said Hawkwood, “and my family has been at sea for five generations. Why is this discovery not better known?”
“The master died soon after the return voyage, and the voyage itself took place a century ago. The Hebrian crown has kept the information to itself until now, for reasons of state, you understand. But the time is ripe at last for this information to be exploited.”
“The crown, you say. Then the King himself is behind this?”
“I am the King’s kinsman. I speak for him in this also.”
A crown-sponsored voyage. Hawkwood experienced mixed feelings. The Hebrian crown had sponsored several expeditions down the years, and the captains of some had become rich, even ennobled as a result. But many others had lost their ships, their lives and their reputations.
“How do I know you come from the King?” he asked at last.
Wordlessly, Murad reached into his belt pouch and produced two rolls of parchment weighed down with heavy seals. Hawkwood unrolled them with sweating hands. One was a Royal letter of credit for the hiring and provisioning of two ships of between eighty and two hundred tons, and the other was a letter of authorization conferring upon Lord Murad of Galiapeno the governorship of the new colony to be founded in the west with the powers of viceroy. A list of conditions followed. Hawkwood let the parchments spring back in on themselves.
“They seem genuine enough.” In truth, he was shocked. He felt as though he were cruising in through shoaling water without a leadsman in the bows.
“Why me?” he asked. “There are many captains in Abrusio, and the crown owns many ships. Why hire a small independent who is not even Hebrionese?”
“You fulfill certain. . conditions. I want two ships owned by the same man; that way it is easier to keep a track of things. You are a skilled seaman, not afraid to sail the lonelier sea lanes beyond sight of land. It is amazing, the number of so-called sea captains who do not feel comfortable unless they have a coastline within spitting distance of their hull.”
“And?”
“And, I have something you want.”
“What?”
“Your crew, Hawkwood, those men of yours currently interned in the catacombs. Take on this commission and they will be returned to you the same day.”