He opened his eyes and stared at the lowering sky again. Sudden squalls such as this were unusual but by no means unknown in the Hebrian Sea. Mostly they were quick to pass, a brief, chaotic maelstrom most dangerous in the first few minutes. But every horizon was dark now, and the sun had disappeared. This squall would blow for a day or two at least. The southern passage was too risky. He cursed silently. They would have to go north as soon as the ship could bear it.
He blinked rain out of his eyes. For a moment- And then he was sure. He had seen something up there against the dark racing clouds, a shadow or group of shadows moving with the wind. His blood ran cold. He stood staring with wide eyes, but saw nothing more than the galloping clouds, the flicker of the lightning, and the shifting silver curtain of the rain.
His cabin was swimming in at least a foot of water which sloshed back and forth with the pitch of the ship. A hooded lantern set in gimbals still burned feebly and he opened its slot to give himself more light, then bent over the chart and picked up the dividers. Navigating by dead-reckoning, with a rocky shore to leeward and the ship running full tilt towards it before the wind. A mariner's nightmare. He wiped salt water out of his eyes and forced himself to concentrate, estimating the ship's speed and plotting out her course. The results of his calculations made him whistle soundlessly, and he tossed down the dividers with something like anger. There was no shy;thing natural about this squall, of that he was now sure. It had reared up out of a clear sky at just the right moment, and was meant to wreck them on the rocks of Gabrion. It would blow until its work was done. 'Bastards.'
He roused out a bottle of brandy and gulped from the neck, feeling the good spirit kindle his innards, wondering if the xebec could stand a change of course to the north. The wind would be square on the larboard beam then, trying to capsize her. The decision had to be made soon. With every passing minute they were running off their leeway, thundering ever closer to that killer coast.
A knock on the door of his cabin. It stood open, swinging back and forth with the pressure of the water that sloshed underfoot. He did not turn around, and was unsurprised to hear Isolla's voice, somewhat hoarse.
'Captain, may I speak to you?'
'By all means.' He sucked from the neck of the brandy bottle again as though inspiration might be found therein.
'How long do you suppose this storm will endure? The mariners seem very concerned.'
Hawkwood smiled. 'I've no doubt they are, lady.' The lurch of the ship sent Isolla thumping against the door jamb. Hawk shy;wood steadied her with one hand. Her cloak was sodden and cold. She was as soaked as he was.
‘I believe the Himerians have found us,' Hawkwood said at last. 'It is they who have conjured up this squall. It's not violent enough to threaten the ship – not yet – but it is making us go where we do not want to go.' He gestured to the chart, which was wrinkling with wet. 'If I cannot change course very soon we will run full tilt on to the rocks of Gabrion. They timed their weather-working well.'
Isolla looked startled. 'How can they cast a spell over so great a distance? Hebrion is hundreds of miles behind us.'
‘I know. There must be another ship out there, somewhere beyond the walls of this storm. Weather-workers can only maintain one spell at a time; I believe they have used sorcery to speed their own vessel and draw within range of us, and then have switched their focus and unleashed this storm, which they think will propel the ship to its doom.'
'And will they succeed?'
'Even a preternatural storm can be weathered like any other, given good seamanship and a little luck. We're not beaten yet!' He smiled. Perhaps it was the brandy, or the storm, but he felt a certain sense of licence.
'You're wet through. You must try and keep yourself out of the water. Huddle in your cot under a blanket if you have to.'
She shrugged, and gave a wry smile. 'It's pouring in the door and down from the ceiling. There's not a dry spot in this ship I believe.'
Hawkwood leaned towards her on an impulse and kissed her cold lips.
Isolla jerked back, astonished. Her fingers went to her mouth. 'Captain, you forget yourself! Remember who I am.'
'I've never forgotten,' Hawkwood said recklessly, 'Not since that day on the road all those years ago when your horse threw a shoe, and you served me wine in Golophin's tower.'
'I am Hebrion's Queen!'
'Hebrion is gone, Isolla, and in a day or two we may all be dead.'
He reached for her again, but she backed away. He cornered her by the door and set his hands on the bulkhead on either side of her, the bottle still clenched in one fist. Around them the ship pitched and heaved and groaned and the water swept cold about their legs and the wind howled up on deck like a live thing, a sentient menace. Hawkwood bent his head and kissed her once more, throwing all sense of caution to the ravening wind. This time she did not draw away, but it was like kissing a marble statue, a tang of salt on stone.
He leant his forehead on her damp shoulder with a groan. 'I'm sorry.' The moment where all had been possible faded like the mirage it had been, burning away with the brandy fumes in his head.
'Forgive me, lady.' He was about to leave her when her hands came up and clasped his face. They stared at one another. Hawkwood could not read her eyes.
'You are forgiven, Captain’ she said softly, and then she lowered her face into the hollow of his neck and he felt her tremble. He kissed her wet hair, baffled and exhilarated at the same time. Half a minute she remained clinging to him, then she straightened and without looking at him or saying another word, she left, splashing up the companionway towards her own cabin. Hawkwood remained frozen, like a man stunned.
When he finally came back up on deck he felt oddly detached, as though the survival of the ship was not something that was important any longer. There were four men on the wheel now, and the remainder of the crew were huddled in the half-deck under the wheel, sheltering from the wind. Hawkwood roused himself and checked their course by the compass board. They were hurtling east-north-east, and if he was any judge the Seahare must be making at least nine knots. Before the squall they had been perhaps fifty leagues to windward of the Gabrionese coast. At their current speed they would run aground in some sixteen hours. There was no time to play with. His mind clear, Hawkwood stood by the wheel, clutched the lifeline, and bellowed at the helmsmen, 'Two points to port. I want her brought round to north-north-east, lads. Arhuz!'
'Aye, sir.' The first mate looked as dark and drowned as a seal.
'I want a sea anchor veered out from the stern on a five-hundred-fathom length of one-inch cable. Use one of the topgallant sails. It should cut down on our leeway.' Arhuz did not answer, but nodded grimly and left the quarterdeck, calling for a working party to follow him below.
The decision was made. They would try and weather the Gripe and strike out for the northern coast. If the southerlies finally kicked in after they had left this squall behind, then they would have the broad reaches of the Hebrian Sea to manoeuvre in instead of fighting for sea room all along the southern coast of Gabrion. They would have to risk the straits. It could not be helped.