“What about farther south? Across the ice.”
The sailor’s chains rattled as he reclined in his seat, a deeper caution creeping into his gaze. “Once. Had a captain a bit touched in the head, convinced there was some old pirate treasure buried south of the Shelf. Never found it and the daft old sod froze to death on the journey back, along with four others.”
At Hilemore’s nod Clay pulled his book of sketches from the pocket of his duster, filled with his inexpert but legible drawings of what he could remember from the vision contained in the White’s blood. He flipped pages until he came to the image of the great spike rising from the ice, placing it in front of the sailor, who peered at it in evident bafflement.
“Guess you never saw this on your travels,” Clay observed.
The sailor gave a despondent groan and shook his head, slumping back in his seat. “Nah. Meaning you got no use for me, right?”
“Right.” Clay retrieved the book and turned to Hilemore. “The major’s got another dozen or so might fit the bill . . .”
“Saw the mountain though,” Scrimshine broke in.
“What mountain?” Hilemore asked him.
“The peak in the background of that scribbling. That’s Mount Reygnar. Named for some old god or other by the first Mandinorians to make it to the Shelf. I only ever saw it at a distance, right enough.”
“But you can guide us there?” Hilemore asked.
“Surely. But truth be told, it don’t take much guiding. Only high ground for miles around. Moor up at Kraghurst Station then keep true on a south-south-west heading for sixty miles, you’ll see it soon enough. That’s the easy part, Skipper.” He gave another gap-toothed smile, this one possessing some real humour. “Hard part is getting anywhere near Kraghurst in the first place. But you got me for that.” He turned his smile on Clay. “Right?”
“The debt between us is long settled,” Hilemore told Steelfine, watching the Islander cross his thick arms as he lowered his head in stern contemplation. “You should feel no obligation to join me in this.”
They were in the armoury, the thick walls offering protection against prying ears. Steelfine’s bulk took up most of the space, obliging Chief Bozware to squeeze himself into the gap between rifle racks. His agreement had been offered without hesitation. If anything, he seemed a little aggrieved it had taken Hilemore so long to approach him. “We’d be at the bottom of the Strait if not for you, Captain,” he said with a shrug. “Far as I’m concerned, you set the course and I’ll make sure we’ll get there.”
Steelfine was another matter. The fortunes of war had seen him rise higher in the ranks than a seaman of his station could normally expect, except after a lifetime of service. Hilemore was asking him to give up a great deal. In fact there was a small corner of Hilemore’s heart that hoped the Islander would march straight to the captain and report his crime. The man had repaid Hilemore several times over for saving his life during that first near-fatal meeting with Zenida, but it appeared some debts were never settled.
“Twelve,” Steelfine said after a long moment’s consideration. “Perhaps fifteen if their mates persuade them. Mr. Talmant and the juniors too, of course.”
Hilemore swallowed a sigh of equal parts relief and regret. He wanted to ask Steelfine if he was sure about his choice but knew it would be taken as a stain on his Island honour.
“Talmant and the other lads aren’t part of this,” Hilemore said. “I’ll not blight their future, assuming they have one.” He turned to the Chief. “You’ll speak to Dr. Weygrand?”
Bozware shook his head. “He won’t come, sir. Not with patients still in need of his care.”
“Very well. We’ll need a short delay to get properly organised. Tell the captain there’s a problem with the engines, something minor but it’ll take until tomorrow to fix.”
“Might be better to sabotage them. Stop him coming after us.”
“No. I’ve no desire to leave this ship marooned here.” He rested a hand on the bulkhead, feeling the thrum of the auxiliary engines turning over as Bozware’s stokers prepared for the impending voyage. Of all the ships he had sailed on he knew he would miss the Viable the most. “She’ll have a hard enough time being left in Trumane’s care as it is.”
He pulled his watch from his tunic, the two men following suit and synchronising the time on his mark. “The operation commences at four hours past midnight, gentlemen. To your tasks, if you please.”
Hilemore spent the rest of the day going about his duties with typical efficiency and ignoring the nervous winks or grins offered by Steelfine’s chosen co-conspirators. He left the surreptitious gathering of arms and provisions to the Islander and, aware of Trumane’s continually watchful eye, confined his first act of outright mutiny to retrieving two-thirds of the ship’s product from the safe. Luckily, the captain’s distrust hadn’t extended to relieving him of the keys. He briefly considered taking all of the Red but decided there was a possibility, however faint, that Trumane might find a Blood-blessed at another port. Once you’ve decided your course you can never falter. Another of his grandfather’s lessons popping into his head as he regarded the contents of the safe, wondering what the old man would have made of this. Mutineer and now thief. Hanging will be too good for me.
He found the Chief waiting at the port rail with Zenida and her daughter. Akina seemed unusually cheerful, her usual scowl replaced by a bright-eyed excitement and she fairly bounced on tip-toe as the first boat was lowered over the side. Steelfine had ensured the night watch consisted entirely of his trusted crewmen, numbering sixteen men in total, mostly riflemen and stokers. They were further aided by Dr. Weygrand, who, despite refusing to join them, had contrived to add a soporific to the captain’s nightly dose of medicine.
“Doc says he’ll be dead to the world for at least eight hours,” Bozware reported. “Even if there’s another who raises the alarm, I doubt there’s a man aboard with the heart to fire on us, sir.”
Hilemore nodded and glanced over the rail to confirm the first boat was now in the water. “Captain,” he said, handing Zenida a small draw-string oilskin bag containing a good supply of their stolen product. “I would prefer no fatalities, if possible.”
She nodded and paused to kneel and embrace her daughter, speaking in soft Varestian. “Stay with the grease-rat.”
Hilemore swung himself over the rail and began to climb down, making the boat without undue difficulty and taking up the oars. Zenida joined him a moment later, taking the tiller whilst he began to propel them towards the dark bulk of the Superior. Behind them came the clinking of chains through the davits as Steelfine’s party lowered three more boats over the side. Hilemore concentrated on rowing the boat, working oars with a smooth, even rhythm to avoid tell-tale splashes, the squeal of the rowlocks muffled by a liberal application of grease and canvas. Zenida kept mostly to the shadows cast by the other ships at harbour, steering through the curving cliff-like hulls for several long minutes. Finally, she nodded for Hilemore to halt alongside an Alebond Commodities freighter some fifty yards from the Superior’s anchorage.
“We could get closer,” Hilemore whispered, judging the remaining distance too great for his liking.
“Too risky.” Zenida stood up and began to strip. Hilemore expected her to stop at her underthings and found himself instinctively averting his gaze when instead she removed every scrap of clothing. “It’ll just slow me down,” she said, crouching to retrieve the bag of product. “Besides, I’ve noticed men are often reluctant to shoot a naked woman.”