Hawkwood, Murad, Bardolin, Sequero and di Souza: the hierarchy of the colony. Murad’s exclusive guestlist had antagonized half a dozen of the more prominent of the colonists, who felt they should have been drinking his brandy also.
The lucky few talked civilly enough amongst themselves, with the light of the precious ship’s candles playing on their glistening faces. Sequero was mourning his horses; they were deteriorating fast in this foreign climate, and no fodder the men could find seemed to suit them. Not that a horse could bear a man anywhere in the jungle, Hawkwood thought; but from now on the nobility would walk like the meanest trooper. Perhaps that was what grieved the aristocratic young officer most.
Huge moths circled the candles, some as big as Hawkwood’s hand, and fizzling around them were the tinier insects which were nevertheless the more irritating. Despite the attempts Murad had made to make the gathering a gracious affair, with a couple of the female colonists as maidservants, the men around the rough board table and mould-spattered linen tablecloth were none too clean and tidy. Leather rotted here with incredible swiftness, they had found, and many of the soldiers were already securing their armour with twisted lengths of creeper or ship’s rope. Soon they would be a crowd of savages dressed in rags.
The colonists were experimenting with the fruits which hung in profusion from almost every tree, Bardolin told them. Some were very good, others smelled like corruption the minute they were opened. A few birds had been trapped with greenlime smeared on branches. There was food here for all, if only they could learn how to use it, prepare it, recognize it.
“Food for savages,” Sequero sneered. “I for one would prefer to trust to the ship’s salt pork and biscuit.”
“The ship’s stores will not last for ever,” Hawkwood said. “And most of them will have to be reserved for the homeward voyage. I have men trying to extract salt from the shallower pools on the shore, but we must assume that we have no way of preserving food. The barrelled stores must be kept intact.”
“I agree,” Murad said unexpectedly. “This is our country and we must learn to use it. From tomorrow onwards, the exploring party will be living off the land. It would be absurd to try and carry our food with us.”
Sequero held up a glass of the ruby Candelarian. “We will miss many things ere long, I suppose. It is the price we pay for being pioneers. Sir, how long do you expect to be gone?” He was to be in command of the colony while Murad was away.
“A month or five weeks, not more. I expect progress in my absence, Haptman. You can start clearing plots for those families with able-bodied men, and I want the coast surveyed up and down for several leagues and accurate charts made. Hawkwood’s people will help you in that.”
Sequero bowed slightly in his seat. He did not seem unduly burdened by his new responsibilities. Di Souza sat opposite him, his big red face expressionless. He was a noble only by adoption; he could not have hoped for Sequero’s promotion. But he had hoped, all the same.
They lifted the sailcloth wall of Murad’s residence to let air flow in and out. Around the fort the rude huts of the other colonists squatted, some of them lit by camp-fires, others illuminated by the bobbing globes of werelight kindled by those who knew some cantrimy. They were like outsized fireflies hovering fascinated in the darkness, an eldritch sight for the forest moths were circling them. Little flapping planets in erratic orbits about miniature suns, Hawkwood thought, remembering Bardolin’s beliefs.
“They say that Ramusio tramped every road and track in Normannia in his spreading of the faith,” Bardolin said quietly. “But the Saint’s foot never trod this earth. It is a dark continent we have discovered. I wonder if we shall ever bring any light to it save for fire and werelight.”
“And gunfire,” Murad added. “That we have brought also. Where faith does not sustain us, arquebuses will. And the determination of men.”
“Let us hope it is enough,” the old wizard said, and swallowed the last of the wine.
TWELVE
T HERE was a mist in the morning which hung no higher than a man’s waist. It seemed to have seeped out of the very ground, and to those moving about the fort it was as if they were wading through a monochrome sea.
The expedition set off soon after dawn, Murad in the lead with Sergeant Mensurado at his side, followed by Hawkwood, Bardolin and two of the Osprey’s crew, the huge black helmsman Masudi and master’s mate Mihal, a Gabrionese like Hawkwood himself. After them came twelve Hebrian soldiers in half-armour bearing arquebuses and swords, their helmets slung at their hips and clanking as they walked. The expedition sounded like a pedlar’s caravan, Hawkwood thought irritably. He and Bardolin had tried to persuade Murad to leave the heavy body armour behind, but the lean nobleman had refused point-blank. So the sweating soldiers had an extra fifty pounds on their backs.
The remaining score or so of the demi-tercio turned out to see them off, along with most of the colonists. They fired a volley in salute which sent the birds screaming and flapping for miles around and made Bardolin roll his eyes. Then Fort Abeleius was left behind, and the company was alone with the jungle.
They took a bearing with Hawkwood’s bowl-compass, and set off as close as they could to due west. One of the soldiers was detailed to blaze a tree every hundred yards or so, though their path would have been easy to retrace since it looked like the blundering tunnel a stubborn bull might have made in the vegetation.
Slow going, the unceasing noise of hacking cutlasses, men gasping for breath, cursing the rabid undergrowth.
The day spun round, and they sheltered in the lee of the trees as the customary afternoon tempest battered down, making their surroundings into a dripping, sodden, steaming bathhouse. Then they crashed onwards again, nursing their dry gunpowder as though it were gold dust.
They found the rocky flank of the hill they had climbed on their first day, and at Murad’s insistence they climbed it again with an agony of effort. Once at the top they paused to feel the freer air and have a look at a wider world. They divided into pairs and divested each other of the fat leeches which crept up their legs and down the back of their necks, then they started to parallel the contours of the hollow hill, following the line of the ridge round to the north-east, coming up almost to due north. It was a farther hike, but faster since they had no jungle to hack through.
Night came as they were finally on the descent, and they made a rough camp amid the rocks of the ridge, piling up stones into platforms to sleep upon. The mist came down to sour their tongues and bead the rocks, and the soldiers bickered over the lighting of the campfires until Mensurado silenced them. They stood watch three at a time, and it was about the middle of the graveyard watch when Hawkwood was roughly shaken awake by Murad.
“Look, down in the jungle. They’ve just appeared.”
Hawkwood rubbed his swollen eyes and peered out into the noisy darkness below. Hard to see if he concentrated. Better to let his vision unfocus. There: a tiny blur of brightness far off in the night.
“Lights?”
“Yes, and they’re not blasted glow-worms either.”
“How far, do you think?” They were talking in whispers. The sentries were awake and alert, but Murad had woken no one else.
“Hard to say,” the nobleman said. “Six or eight leagues, anyway. They must be above the trees. On the flank of one of these weird hills, perhaps.”
“Above the trees, you say?”
“Keep your voice down. Yes, otherwise how could we see them? I noted no clearings within sight on the way down the ridge.”