"Maybe. I never met whoever was paying Captain Margrave, so I wouldn't know."
Wylde grinned mirthlessly. "I have an ear for truth and falsehood as well as an eye for it. Please don't lie to me, again, or I may be forced to change my conversational style to something less companionable. You can hang if you want, or throw yourself upon young Dass' mercy…"
"I can hear another 'or' coming, Cap'n," Crowe said, dropping the pretence. "You can take it that I'm all ears."
"Or you can prove yourself useful."
Crowe shrugged. "I've always tried to be useful to employers. That's where the profit is."
Wylde turned the papers around so that Crowe could read them. Crowe tried not to show any reaction. "Where is it, Crowe? The charts show you as having come to, well, not far from our current position. Does this mean the Isle is close?"
"Yes and no," Crowe said at last.
"Continue."
Crowe rose and went to the ports that were set into the rear wall. He opened one, and pointed back at the thick black clouds that roiled on the horizon. "You see that, Captain?" he handed Wylde a spyglass from the desk.
Wylde looked through it. "See what? All I see is the Stormwall."
"That's what I mean. The Isle of the Star is beyond that."
Farrow's brows knitted in confusion. "But, Sir, I were always taught that the Stormwall couldn't be passed, not by any ship e'er built."
Wylde nodded slowly. "That's correct, Mister Farrow. It cannot." He smiled at Crowe. "And yet it would appear that the Belle managed it."
Crowe shook his head. "Believe me, the Belle was the exception."
"Why? What was so special about the Belle, Mr Crowe, that she was able to navigate the way to the Isle?"
"Nothing," Crowe said with a sudden cocky grin. "Maybe it was us fantastic crewmen, eh?"
"Then perhaps you can pull off the same trick for us."
"I couldn't, no. Only a magician could, and, to be honest, you don't want to be using magic around the Isle of the Star. Or so I've heard."
Wylde hesitated, then handed Crowe the relevant books. "You can write as well as read?"
"Just about."
"What I need is your Captain's navigational notes decoded into plain speaking, and help for my navigator to plot a course to the Isle. We'll return to Allantia and pick up whoever or whatever we might need, then begin a new voyage."
Crowe realised that Wylde had him against a wall but it took him only a few moments to realise what he had to do.
"I can try and give your navigator the help he'll need. But you won't find anything. However, if you will allow me to return to my cot I can retrieve my notes and begin right away."
"Return here in half an hour," Wylde said, nodding to the mercenaries, so that they would let Crowe past. "And then you can show me the route to the star."
When the mercenaries had escorted Crowe out, Wylde put his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. He looked across at Farrow. "What think you, Mister Farrow?"
"If the Isle is truly beyond the Stormwall… No ship ever built could sail there."
"The Stormwall… Impassable by the stoutest timbers, by sail, by oars… But what of magic, eh? What of sorcery?
"Sorcery?" Farrow sounded nervous. Like most sailors Wylde had known, he was deeply superstitious.
"Nature magic, or elemental," Wylde suggested. "Maybe one of those — or some mixture — could have done something to let the Belle through. Transported them there, or made a hole in the Stormwall, or… something." Wylde stood, straightening his lapels. "We don't have anyone with those talents aboard, sadly. But there will be magicians for hire in Allantia."
"And Crowe, sir?"
"Keep Dass away from him. Just in case. As far as the other men are concerned, Kord is exactly who he says he is, and Dass is understandably mistaken."
"Aye, sir."
Alone once more — or at least left to his own devices as the crew worked all around — Crowe looked around for a means of escape from what was surely going to be the carriage to his death. The Vigilant mustered double the crew the Belle had, by his judgement. As if the weight of numbers wasn't bad enough, there were warriors on board. Mercenaries, rather than Royal or Faith troops, but they'd still know one end of a sword from the other. The two who had accompanied him kept at a discreet distance, lurking by the companionway, watching him. They stayed close enough to keep him in sight, but not so close that they could see much of what he was doing. Crowe knew that the trick was to not appear furtive. Every man in a ship's crew knew his own job, and only the officers could change that. Only the officers were likely to notice that a man was doing something he wasn't meant to, especially if that man was new.
There was a voice in Crowe's head, hissing one phrase over and over: "Protect the Isle." It wasn't like a voice he imagined, but a real one, belonging to someone or something outside of himself. Unlike an imagined voice, he couldn't ignore it or silence it, but had to try to endure it
"Protect the Isle," it repeated firmly. "Protect the Isle." He could endure it, or obey it. Barely realising he was doing it, he insinuated himself into the gaps between busy crewmen. One pair, then another, and suddenly the line of sight between the two mercenaries and himself was broken. He ducked into a passageway down to the hold.
A couple of boys of no more than ten or eleven years were in the hold when he arrived, but he sent them off to get something to eat. Then he set about moving the barrels of oil and alcohol that were stored there. Pitch was used for waterproofing the hull, and there were buckets of it against a bulkhead. Next, he loaded a small crossbow and then led a slow fuse from the barrels. It was about ten minutes' worth of fuse, and he used flint and tinder from his belongings to light it. "Protect the Isle," the voice in his head said soothingly.
That done, he returned to the deck, and walked up behind the mercenaries.
"Looking for me, mates?"
They glared at him. A few minutes later, they returned him to the Captain's day room.
"Fast work," Wylde said, pleased. He held out a hand for the translations.
Crowe remained motionless and silent for a moment. "No work."
"I'm sorry?" Wylde glanced at the mercenary, who's eyes brightened slightly, becoming more alert.
"The code isn't the one I'm used to. I can't translate it."
Wylde sighed. "I told you about being lied to, Mr Crowe." He motioned to the mercenary guard. Both men kept their hands near their short swords. "Tell me why you're lying — is it because you want to keep the island's treasures for yourself?"
Crowe laughed bitterly. "No, Captain, it's not that." Wylde looked puzzled. "It's just that I can't let anyone try."
"Why not?"
"Protect the Isle," someone was saying.
Crowe shook his head. "You'd never believe me if I told you."
The burning fuse reached the oil and alcohol barrels. They exploded and the entire ship lurched. Spray erupted from the waterline on the larboard side, drenching the men on deck.
Everything in the day room juddered, candles falling onto charts and setting them alight. It was all the distraction he needed as Crowe pulled the small crossbow from under his notes and let loose. The bolt charged through Wylde's belly and out through the back of his chair.
Before Wylde's mercenaries were able to draw their swords, Crowe hit one in the face with the grip of the crossbow. He heard teeth and bone splinter as the man staggered back. Crowe drew a dagger from the first man's belt, and rammed the blade into the other man's gut. He wrenched it up under the ribcage, and the man fell onto the desk. Crowe spun, slamming the dagger into the chest of the man with the broken nose and teeth.