As if to confirm his judgment, he saw two crew members station themselves unobtrusively near the starboard boat’s davits. Ruiz felt certain that they carried weapons beneath their foul-weather suits; apparently they were waiting for the rest of the crew to arrive before standing to the lifeboat’s falls.
Ruiz fought his way back through the crowds of panicked Immolators; several times he was forced to kick away men and women who clutched at him, babbling prayers.
When he reached the stall, he saw with relief that the others were ready to go, even Dolmaero — though the Guildmaster seemed very unsteady.
“Take off your robes,” Ruiz directed. Under the white robes they all wore brown shipsuits — not too different from the crew’s haphazard uniform. Ruiz retrieved a small plastic splinter gun from a place of concealment — the only long-range weapon he had dared to smuggle past the barge’s security detectors.
“We’ll have to leave most of the dope,” he said regretfully. But he swung one small satchel over his shoulder — perhaps it would be well to carry some form of trade goods.
Then he led the way down to the main deck. Molnekh and Nisa supported Dolmaero between them, and they only fell twice.
He made them wait in the shelter of a companionway while he crept out into the storm. To his great relief, he saw that the lifeboat still hung from its davits. The two crew members waited, their white faces swiveling back and forth inside the hoods of their jackets, as though they could not understand what was delaying the rest of the crew.
Ruiz hefted the splinter gun. It contained a minimum charge; he would have to spend its power frugally.
For some reason he felt a dangerous reluctance to act. The two had done him no harm. Perhaps he’d even played a few friendly hands of kanterip with them. But they stood between him and survival; what real choice did he have?
Ruiz sighed. He steadied his wrist against a pipe. He waited for the pause that came at the end of a roll, and then he put a splinter through both unsuspecting heads.
They dropped unnoticed in the chaos that filled the deck. Ruiz sprang forward and reached the bodies before they could roll to the rail. The two had been armed only with nerve whips, which were useless to Ruiz, but he stripped off their foul-weather gear. He waited for the rail to lift again, and then boosted the bodies over into the sea.
Under the companionway, he thrust the smaller man’s garments at Molnekh. “Put these on.” He donned the other set, then explained his plan. “Molnekh and I will pretend to be guards; Dolmaero and Nisa will board the boat and look like early-arriving crew. When the next group shows up, we’ll take them with us. I’m no sailor; we’ll need their expertise.”
“Will we live through this?” asked Nisa.
He felt oddly cheerful, as if he had returned to familiar, comfortable terrain. “Why not?”
Chapter 2
Five crew came running down the side deck only a moment after Nisa and Dolmaero had gotten settled on the center seat of the lifeboat and wrapped a disguising square of canvas around them. “What shall I do?” whispered Molnekh.
“Nothing, until I tell you.” Ruiz held the splinter gun ready under his oilskins.
Of the five, Ruiz identified only the second mate Gunderd, who steadied the gunwale of the boat while his people boarded, then swung himself in. “Come on,” he shrieked. “She’s going.” Apparently he didn’t recognize Ruiz in the wild darkness.
Ruiz shrugged and climbed in, giving Molnekh a hand up.
Gunderd immediately went to the aft fall and uncleated the line; he gestured at Ruiz to take the forward fall. “When I give the word, lower away smartly,” he called.
One of the crew, a wide-eyed boy, protested. “What about the captain and the rest of the port watch?”
“Too late for them, boy — they’re on the wet side of the number two collision bulkhead. Might be too late for us. Jeric, you get the motor turning.” Gunderd looked at Ruiz. “Ready?”
Ruiz nodded, pulling his hood forward around his face as if to block out the spray, which now blew hard enough to hurt.
Gunderd waited until the barge had rolled her rail under, so that the boat was as far outboard as possible. “Lower away!”
Ruiz let the fall run, and the lifeboat dropped into the sea with a jarring crash. Gunderd and Ruiz jerked the shackles loose and the boat churned away from the crushing steel wall of the barge’s hull.
“Good job, Jeric,” said Gunderd to the crewman at the tiller, who was a tall rawboned man with a scarred face. “Head her off; try to move with the crests — but watch out for cross seas.”
“Aye,” said Jeric, without noticeable enthusiasm or alarm.
Ruiz looked back. The Loracca was already receding into the darkness, her lights dimming. He could no longer hear the screams of the Immolators, and it struck him that the screaming of the wind was a far cleaner sound, easier on the ears.
The lifeboat’s motion was very quick, but she rode the waves buoyantly and little solid water came aboard. They seemed for the moment to be as safe as they could hope to be. He pulled his foul-weather gear tight and settled down beside Molnekh.
Gunderd didn’t discover their identities until dawn painted the wave tops red.
The storm had moderated slightly by then, and the waves were no longer as steep. Gunderd rose from his seat and braced himself against the radio mast for a look around the horizon. When his eyes passed over Ruiz Aw, he jerked in astonishment. “You’re not Drinsle,” he shouted, and drew a nerve lash from his jacket.
“No,” admitted Ruiz. He produced the splinter gun, and then pushed back his hood. “Be calm,” he said.
Gunderd’s mouth dropped open. “Ruiz Aw? Is that you? Where are your Immolator robes?” Another thought struck him. “More to the point, where are Drinsle and Modoc?”
Ruiz shrugged, and glanced aside at the rumbling seas.
Gunderd sat down abruptly, the weight of his amazement apparently too heavy to support. Ruiz held the splinter gun steady. “I’ll have to ask you to throw your lash overboard, Gunderd.”
Gunderd did not immediately respond. “Ruiz Aw. How strange. Are you a pirate, then, and are these your fellow buccaneers?”
Ruiz gestured sharply with his gun. “Pitch the lash, Gunderd. Now.”
“Yes, whatever you say, Ruiz.” Gunderd threw the lash away as if it had grown too hot to hold.
Ruiz was distracted by the face of the seaman Jeric, who watched from his post at the tiller. Jeric’s eyes were incandescent with sudden hatred; had one of the dead crewmen been his special friend? Ruiz decided to disarm Loracca’s survivors.
“Molnekh,” he said, “search them carefully — and stay out of my line of fire. Keep their knives; all the other dangerous stuff goes overboard.”
Molnekh moved nimbly aft, and in a moment his clever conjuror’s fingers had picked them clean. Several lashes, a brass knuckleduster, and an antique iron cestus splashed into the sea. From Einduix the cook, Molnekh took a small flute of some silvery metal, decorated with delicate carvings. He held it up questioningly.
“Let me see,” said Ruiz. Molnekh tossed it to him, and Ruiz examined it. It seemed harmless, unequipped with hidden weaponry. The carvings appeared to be of bosomy mermaids with lasciviously arch expressions. Ruiz tossed it back to the cook, who gave him a smile of gratitude.
Molnekh came back with a handful of clasp knives.
Ruiz considered how best to deal with the crew. If they were to survive, they would need each other, and besides, he’d have to sleep sometime. “I mean you no harm. I’m sorry about the others, but there was no time for discussion.”