At dawn one could have said “if.” Now it was definitely “when.” The minotaur ship fled before Windsword at a pace that had to be wearying its rowers. The ship had been moving under full sail even as Windsword’s crewmen had sighted it, then wheeled sharply around to the south and fled under both sail and oars.
Windsword was lighter and faster; minotaur ships had to be stoutly built simply to carry their crews. Jemar’s ship had slowly gained on its quarry all morning. Meanwhile, the signal to the other four ships in the line had been to continue their search. Minotaurs seldom went to war in a single ship; the fleeing vessel might be doing so as a stratagem to draw Windsword away from its comrades, who even now might be closing in on Golden Cup.
To make his ship grow wings and fly, or even give his men the strength of ogres for a day, Jemar the Fair would have struck any bargain with any being, human or otherwise, who could grant him such gifts. As it was, he could only peer ahead across the sun-dappled sea, watching the minotaur ship grow larger with a slowness that prickled like fleas under armor.
Even if they caught the ship, he reminded himself, there would most likely still be a hard fight. He had no authority to order the minotaurs out of these waters, and even if he had, they would not go without a battle. But he was confident that his seasoned fighters could overcome any reasonable number of minotaurs without offending anybody’s honor.
Then it would be time to ask a few questions about the reasons for the presence of minotaurs on this coast, their strength, any other peaceful ships that might have fallen into their net.…
“Deck ahoy! Three ships, two points off the port bow.”
Jemar cupped his hands to reach the masthead with his reply. “Three ships, you say?”
“Aye, Captain. Can’t say what kind, for now.”
Jemar nibbled his lower lip. He wanted to bite hard enough to draw blood. Keep after the minotaur ship, overhaul it, and go on as he’d planned all day? Or gamble that these three ships might include Golden Cup, go about and head that way?
If he broke off the pursuit, the minotaur ship ahead would undoubtedly escape, to continue a career of havoc among the peaceful shipping routes. But if he allowed the ship to draw him away from the others, and one of them was Golden Cup, in danger …
In such case, Lady Eskaia’s blood would be on his hands, and though she might be dead already, he would always hear her death cries at night, until his eyes closed for the last time. He might be throwing away a certain gain for only a possible one, but gambling took on a different color when the stakes were human lives.
A ship’s boy ran aft, with orders to the helmsman. Sailors heaved the sails about, the beat of the oars changed, and everyone not rowing, steering, or hauling on lines began to break out the arms chests.
Jemar had armored himself with brass-studded leather jack, silvered, open-faced helm with its plume of scarlet-dyed sea gull feathers, cutlass, and dagger, when the lookout hailed the deck again.
“Captain, it’s three ships, all right. Two of them look minotaur-built.”
For a moment, Jemar’s throat was too dry to let him speak. Before he could-
“Hoaaa!” the lookout squalled. “The third one’s big, and she’s dismasted. Looks like Golden Cup.”
Jemar did not kneel in prayer. He knelt because his knees, briefly, would not support him. However, he let it be known that he had prayed to Habbakuk for an honorable victory, and no one was the wiser.
No one was the happier, either, for seeing the pursued minotaur ship turn about and become the pursuer. The wind was now on Windsword’s best point of sailing, however, and Jemar could rest half his rowers and still keep his distance from the minotaurs.
What might happen when all five ships were together depended very much on what had happened aboard Golden Cup. If it was holding strongly against the minotaur attack, Jemar’s help might turn the battle.
If it was already a prize, however, Jemar knew he might have a busy time saving himself and his ship from three minotaur vessels. The odds would be long, until the rest of his own ships understood that he’d been gone to the south far too long and came in search of him-or of vengeance for both him and Golden Cup.
Life would be simpler and merrier, Jemar decided, if Windsword could reach Golden Cup in time to make all that extra work unnecessary.
* * * * *
Pirvan could not remember ever having been so frightened in his life as when he saw that Haimya was missing.
No, he reminded himself, you were at least as frightened when you thought the sea naga had taken her.
There would be no sea nagas in this jungle, but otherwise it was no easy guess what had become of Haimya. She might have taken a wrong turn, encountered a silent menace such as a poisonous snake, or been ambushed and captured by sentries set out beyond the circle of firelight.
Reluctantly, Pirvan also considered that she might have been tried beyond endurance by hearing of the mysterious Istarian. Or perhaps not so mysterious-if the man was not Gerik Ginfrayson, then Synsaga was holding two Istarian captives.
Two Istarian captives-one of whom had turned his coat. That could hardly be doubted, with all the men had said.
No, believing in coincidence was often soothing, but seldom wise. Haimya’s betrothed had sworn oath to Synsaga, and even worse, was now in the confidence of the man’s pet mage (though the mage doubtless considered Synsaga his “pet pirate”).
At least he was alive and fit. But rescuing a man who did not care to be rescued, who might think he was better off where he was, who might betray his would-be rescuers to Synsaga …
Pirvan shuddered and thought that perhaps he now had sufficient cause to summon Hipparan. But the copper dragon could not aid the search for Haimya without alerting every man in Synsaga’s camp and ships. So far, even the fallen sentries seemed to suspect little, except perhaps evil creatures of the jungle (and Pirvan found these easy to believe in). The advent of a dragon would be another matter.
He would wait for Haimya’s return before he summoned Hipparan, and he would wait here. Even if Haimya wished to be found, they might well lose each other if he moved into the jungle. Also, if she had been captured, sooner or later she would be brought to the camp. Then Pirvan would know how matters stood, and do his best to give her a quicker and cleaner death, if nothing more.
Pirvan shifted to a tree that was thick enough to generously guard his back. There he unslung his pack, drew fallen branches under him until he was at least not sitting directly in the mud, and did his best to relax. He could see to three sides, his dagger was in his hand, and he could at least guard what little remained of his strength.…
Someone was approaching. Without opening his eyes, Pirvan rolled away from the footsteps, sprang to his feet, and aimed both free hand and dagger hand entirely by sound.
He halted the dagger’s thrust only when he felt hair finer than any man’s, as well as a smooth chin. He opened his eyes to see Haimya standing before him, arms at her sides. He stepped back, she put her hands over her face, then she crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.
Pirvan caught her so that she did not sprawl in the mud, took off her pack, then leaned her back against the tree. Soon after that, he found himself holding her hand and wrapping his free arm around her shoulders.
She did not weep loudly, from either self-command or fear of arousing the camp. But long shudders went through her, and tears streamed down her face no matter how hard she tried to squeeze her eyes shut.