The thing stank, of stagnant seawater and some other, nameless reek which Hawkwood could not identify, though it seemed hauntingly familiar. The men in the cabin rose to their feet to peer as Murad pulled back the mouth of the sack.
Something black and gleaming lay bundled within.
The nobleman took his poniard and ripped open the hessian with a flourish. Spilling out on to the cabin floor was what seemed at first glance to be a jumbled set of black armour. But the stink that poured out of it set them all to coughing and reaching for handkerchiefs.
'God Almighty!' Abeleyn exclaimed.
'Not God, sire,' Murad said grimly. 'Nothing to do with God at all.'
'How did you snare it?' demanded Hawkwood.
'We trolled for it with a net one of the crew had, in the wake of the caravel's sinking. We brought up others – all dead, like this – but threw them back and kept this as the finest speci shy;men.' There was surly triumph in Murad's voice.
'At least they drown then, like normal beasts,' Rovero said. 'What in the Saint's name is that stuff? It's not metal.'
'It's horn.' Abeleyn, less ginger than the rest, had knelt beside the carcass and was examining it closely, tapping it with the pommel of his dagger. 'Heavy, though. Too heavy to float. Look at the pincers there at the end of the arms! Like a giant lobster. And the spikes on the feet would pierce wood. Captain, help me here.'
Together the mariner and the King grasped a segment of plate that might be said to be the helm of the creature. They tugged and grunted, and there was a sharp crack, followed by a nauseating sucking sound. The helm part came free, and the smell it released set them coughing again. Hawkwood con shy;trolled his heaves first.
'It's a man then, after all.'
A contorted ebony face with snarling yellow teeth, the lips drawn back, the eyes a pale amber colour. It was a study in bone and sinew and bulging tendon, an anatomist's model.
'A man,' King Mark of Astarac said, rather doubtfully.
'If they're men, then they can be beaten by other men,' said Abeleyn. 'Take heart, my friends. Rovero, let this news be passed on to the crew at once. It's ordinary men in strange armour we face, not soulless demons.'
'Aye, sire.' Rovero gave the corpse a last, dubious stare, and left the cabin.
Hawkwood, Abeleyn, Murad and Mark were left to gaze at the dripping carrion at their feet.
'It's like no kind of man I've ever seen before,' Hawkwood said. 'Not even in Punt are their skins so black. And see the corner teeth? Sharp as a hound's. They've been filed, I believe. Some of the Corsairs do the same to render themselves more fearsome-looking.'
'Those eyes,' Abeleyn muttered. 'He burns in hell now, this fellow. You can see it in the eyes. He knew where he was going.'
They stood in an uncomfortable silence, the agony in the dead man's face holding them all.
'He may be a man, but something dreadful has been done to him all the same,' Mark said in almost a whisper. 'These sorcerers . . . Will their lord, Aruan, be here in person, you think?'
Abeleyn shook his head. 'Golophin tells me he is still in Charibon, marshalling his forces.' 'This fleet of theirs-'
'Is very close now. It may only have been sighted once or twice in the last ten years, but it exists. Small ships it is said, lateen-rigged and bluff-bowed. Scores of them. They appear out of mists like this. They've been raiding the Brenn Isles these two years past and more, taking the children and disappearing as they came. Odd-looking ships with high castles to fore and aft.'
'Like the cogs of ancient times’ Hawkwood put in.
'Yes, I suppose so. But my point is that they are built for boarding. Our long guns can – can keep them at bay . . .' The King's voice fell and they all looked at one another as the same thought struck them at once. In this fog, long guns were next to useless, and an enemy ship might drift close enough to board before anyone had any notion of her.
'If our sails are empty, then theirs are also,' Hawkwood said. 'I've not heard tell they have any galleys, and even the most skilled of weather-workers can affect only an area of ocean – he cannot choose to propel individual ships. They're boxing the compass just like us, and these things here – he nudged the corpse with his foot – 'they can't swim it seems, which is another blessing.'
Abeleyn slapped him on the shoulder. 'You hearten me, Captain. It is the good sense of mariners we need now, not the paranoia of politicians. You may rejoin the admiral on deck. We shall be up presently.'
Dismissed, Hawkwood left the cabin, but not before trading chill glances with Murad.
Abeleyn flicked the hessian over the snarling dead face on the deck and poured himself a long glass of wine. 'I should like to keep this thing as a specimen for Golophin to examine when he next visits us, but I fear the crew would not be overly enthusiastic at the notion. And the stink!' He drained his glass.
'Mark, Murad, no formality now. I want advice as the' – he raised his empty glass ironically – 'supreme commander of our little expedition. We have enough supplies for another month's cruising, and then we must put about for Abrusio. If we are not attacked tonight, then-'
'We're not going anywhere as long as this calm lasts,' Murad interrupted him harshly. 'Sire, while we are helpless and blind in this airless fog, it may be that the enemy is sailing past us in clear skies, and is intent on invading a kingdom stripped of its most able defenders.'
'Golophin has six thousand men garrisoned in Abrusio, and another ten scattered up and down the coast,' Abeleyn snapped.
'But they are not the best men, and he is no soldier, but a mage. Who's to know how his weathercock loyalties may swing if he sees this thing going against us?'
'Don't go doubting Golophin's loyalty to me, cousin. With shy;out him this alliance would never have been possible.'
'All the same, sire,' Murad answered him, unabashed, 'I'd as soon as seen a soldier in command back in Hebrion. General Mercado-'
'Is dead these ten years. I see where you are going with this, kinsman, and the answer is no. You remain with the fleet. I need you here.'
Murad bowed. 'Cousin, forgive me.'
'There is nothing to forgive. And I do not believe we will be bypassed by the enemy.' 'Why not, sire?'
King Mark of Astarac spoke up in the act of filling his own glass. His face had regained some of its colour. 'Because there are too many ripe royal apples in this basket to let it go by unplucked. Isn't that so, Abeleyn? We're dangling out here like the worm on the end of a hook.'
'Something like that, cousin.'
'Hence the pomp and circumstance that attended our de shy;parture,' Mark said wryly. 'Bar an engraved invitation, we have done everything we could to persuade the enemy to rendezvous with us. Abeleyn, I salute your cleverness. I just hope we have not been too clever by half. When is Golophin due to drop in again?'
'In the morning.'
'You can't summon him in any way?'
'No. His familiar is with Corfe, in the east.'
'A pity. For all your doubts, Murad, I for one would feel a lot happier with the old boy around. If nothing else, he might blow away this accursed mist, or whistle up a wind.'
'Sire, you speak sense,' Murad said, with what passed for humility with him. 'If the enemy has any intelligence at all of our comings and goings, then he will attack tonight, while the elements are still in his favour. I must get back to my ship.'
'Don't bump into anything in the dark,' Abeleyn told him, shaking his hand.
'If I do, it had best not be allergic to steel. Your majesties, excuse me, and may God go with you.'
'God,' said Abeleyn after he had left. 'What has God to do with it any more?' He refilled the wine glasses, and emptied his own at a single draught.