Bakune sat and stared long and hard at the map, his chin nearly touching his chest. Damn you for doing this to me. You’re killing me. Dot by dot, you are surely killing me. Please, won’t you please just stop. Just go away.
He pressed his fingertips to his throbbing temples and sat motionless, staring. By the Blessed Lady, what could he possibly be expected to do?
Around noon the ship’s captain came to talk to Kyle. He was dozing under the shade of an awning, his leg raised and bandaged, when he became vaguely aware that he wasn’t alone any more. Cracking open one eye he saw a wiry fellow gazing down at him, old, grey hair all unkempt, the light dusting of a moustache at the mouth, and a pipe clamped tight between the lips. Multiple gold earrings shone at the lobes and gold bracelets cluttered — her? — wrists. ‘Yes?’ Kyle asked, wary.
‘All comfy, are we?’
‘Yes, thank you. Your bone-mender knows her business.’
A smile of appreciation stretched the thin lips. ‘Speaking of business…’
‘Ah. You are the captain?’
‘Yes. June. Cursed June, they call me.’
‘Kyle. Cursed? May I ask why?’
A rise of the bony shoulders. ‘Had seven husbands is why.’ The woman tilted her head to examine him up and down. ‘Can’t place you, I have to say. There’s something of the Wickan about you with the moustache an’ your dark hue an’ all. But not quite.’
‘Perhaps we’re distantly related.’
‘P’rhaps.’
Kyle took a pouch from his belt and held it out. ‘All I have for transport to your next port of call.’
She hefted it, frowning. ‘Not much…’
‘My companion may have some coin as well.’ A noncommittal grunt. ‘Where are we headed, may I ask?’
‘East to Belid. Five days’ sail.’
‘We’re grateful.’
The woman grunted again, letting loose a stream of smoke. She clearly itched to ask their background and what lay behind their flight, but was also clearly old and canny enough to know she’d get no satisfaction. She nodded instead in a guarded, vaguely welcoming way, and continued on.
The bone-mender, Elia, thumped herself down next to him on the burlap-wrapped cargo tied down on the deck. ‘What think you of our captain, then?’
‘Rare to see a woman captain.’
‘Not at all here in Falar. Curaca ships are all owned and run by the city an’ the city demands profits an’ tight management. Men captains just get drunk or gamble away the margins. Not like the womenfolk. What say you to that?’ The old woman cuffed his shoulder.
‘I’d say that anyone who’d voluntarily go to sea must be addled.’
The woman whooped, laughing. ‘Spoken like a true son of the plains, Kyle.’
He eyed her, wondering whether that was a probe. ‘She said they call her cursed — is that true?’
‘Yes, it’s true. But here’s the kicker… is it true because she’s had seven husbands, or because she’s had seven husbands?’
Kyle could only stare, his brow tight. What in the name of the Hooded Harrower He shook his head. ‘How is… my companion, Orjin?’
‘Oho! Orjin, is it? Sleeping like a whale below. Four of the crew couldn’t move him.’
‘Any wounds?’
‘Nothing serious. And he’s seen his share of Denul rituals.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean that the man’s far older than he looks, and heals far faster than most.’
‘I suppose that’s where his money went,’ Kyle suggested, looking away.
‘I suppose so.’
Three days later, just after dawn, a crewman woke Kyle where he lay in a hammock below. Groggy, rubbing his face, he climbed the short steep stair to the deck. Above, a low cloudbank reflected the gold and pink of sunrise. The waters of the Storm Sea were high, but not choppy. It occurred to him that every region seemed to have its body of rough water or gales, its ‘storm sea’. Forward stood Captain June, the mate, Masul, Elia, and Greymane. He joined them; Greymane gave him a tight, concerned glance.
Captain June pointed to the south-east, just off the bow. ‘Friends of yours?’
Kyle squinted into the light: three dark shapes emerging from the glare of the sunrise. Large vessels, many sails. ‘Who are they?’
‘Malazan men-of-war,’ said June. ‘They seem to be coming on an intercept and we can’t outrun them. We’re no sleek raider.’
‘Wouldn’t suggest you try, Captain.’
‘No?’
‘No,’ affirmed Greymane.
June’s expressive brows rose. She drew heavily on her pipe. ‘Ain’t going to be any hostilities, are there? ’Cause my people won’t participate in anything like that.’
Greymane pushed a hand through his tangled silvery grey hair. ‘No, Captain. No hostilities.’
‘Hunh! All right then.’ She turned to the stern. ‘Steady on!’
‘Steady on, aye!’
Kyle moved until he stood next to Greymane. His eyes on the distant ships, he asked, ‘What’s it going to be?’
The man let go a long growled breath. ‘Don’t want these fellows to suffer. Can’t swim. So, we’ll let them come abreast then board the first and take them one by one.’
‘Not two at a time?’
He glanced sideways at Kyle. A straight smile pulled at his mouth. ‘Let’s not get carried away.’
It was a fleet of Malazan men-of-war, tall and moderately broad for greater stability, commissioned for war at sea. From the soldiers lining the high railings, the stern- and forecastles, Kyle estimated that each of the twenty vessels carried some four hundred marines. Much larger troop transports could be seen in the east, convoyed, lumbering south in long straight columns. Even from this distance something struck him as odd about the vessels: they appeared just too damn huge, and of an odd hue, almost that of the waters they rode.
To Kyle it looked like an invasion assembled to take a continent. ‘Have you ever seen the like?’ he murmured to Greymane, awed.
After a time the man answered, a strange, almost resigned note in his voice. ‘Yes, Kyle. I have.’
No fool, Captain June ordered sails furled. A launch appeared, lowered from the nearest warship. Greymane and Kyle watched while it crossed the distance between the vessels, oared by some eighteen marines.
June ordered a rope ladder thrown over the side. Three officers crowded the launch, including one obvious Moranth Blue. The first pulled himself aboard easily to stand comfortably on deck, hands clasped at his back. An obvious veteran, short and stocky with a bald sun-darkened pate, and a high officer by the hatching on the silver torc on his arm. His mouth was thin and tight and had the look of rarely being opened. ‘Permission to come aboard,’ he asked of no one in particular.
June let out a gust of smoke. ‘Could hardly refuse, now, could I?’
The man’s mouth did not move.
The second officer was a Dal Honese woman in dark silks, a small silver claw sigil at her breast. The sight chilled Kyle even though the woman’s pasty-greyish face and hand clutching the gunwale took somewhat from the power of her presence. The Moranth Blue climbed aboard easily despite the weight of the chitinous plated armour, to stand silent and self-contained. He — or she — nodded a greeting to Captain June.