And they were clear of it, stepping past a line of the bank guards with drawn blades to a platform at the seawall’s edge. Pyk stood by a small white table, a jug and cup forgotten at her side and a long bronze spyglass pressed to her eye. Out in the deep water beyond the harbor’s edge the tall sails of the blockade stood as they had for weeks, their sails struck. But beyond them, three much smaller curves of white showed against the western water. Small sails in low ships. Cithrin squinted, trying to make out what they were by force of will.
“Pyk,” she said. “What’s happening?”
“The mad bastards took their island,” the Yemmu said. “Look at that. Look at that.”
“I can’t see anything,” she said. Pyk grunted and handed her the spyglass.
It took her a moment to find anything more than waves on the water. The first ship that came into focus was one of the roundships. Its deck was awash with men. She could see the flash of drawn swords, though there seemed to be no fighting. In the crow’s nest, a pack of sailors pointed crossbows to the west. Cithrin followed the water until she found the little sails. They belonged to small galleys with single, triangular sails and no more than a dozen oars. Beside the roundships, the three ships looked like little more than rafts. The flags that flew from their masts had a crest that Cithrin didn’t recognize.
“Who are they?” she said. “What are they doing?”
“You’ll recall there was some mad bastard organizing the pirates into a fleet?” Pyk said. “That appears to be him.”
“Does he know that he’s got three tiny little ships going against ten Antean roundships?” Cithrin asked. “Because it seems someone hasn’t mentioned the fact to him.”
Yardem cleared his throat. “Wind’s against the roundships,” the Tralgu rumbled. “The galleys are outmatched, but they’ll only have to face one ship at a time. Until the wind shifts, anyway.”
“And after that?” Cithrin asked.
“More then,” he said.
The first of the galleys drew close to the roundship. Seeing them side by side, the folly of the attackers seemed to pass into madness. The men in the galley stood with raised shields while the Antean sailors rained arrows and crossbow bolts and barrels down on them. Boarding the roundship from the galley’s low deck would be like climbing a cliff under attack with a force twice their size waiting at the top to slaughter them. The galley’s oars shifted, and the little ship darted forward. An obscure movement in the center of the galley caught Cithrin’s attention. Four men rushed toward the galley’s prow with what looked like spears with strange, curving blades instead of points. The galley shifted and turned, seeming almost to dance in the water. One of the spearmen fell back, dropping his odd spear, but the other three found their way under the roundship’s stern. They reached up, sawing wildly. The sailors on the roundship’s deck swarmed like ants with a kicked hill.
A roar like thunder came from the city, rising up all around her at once. And then as quickly as it had come in, the galley reversed oars and pulled away from its enemy. Pyk’s laughter cut through the cacophony. Cithrin took the spyglass from her eye and was astonished to see her notary capering and making rude gestures with both of her hands. On the piers below the seawall, the makeshift fleet of Porte Oliva was putting out to sea: fishing boats and trading ships that had been trapped in port, guide boats.
“Yardem,” Cithrin shouted. “What happened? I don’t understand.”
The Tralgu held out his wide palm, and Cithrin handed over the spyglass. Yardem stepped forward, frowning. Cithrin waited for what seemed like hours, looking from Yardem to the ships on the water. The two other galleys seemed to be advancing on the second of the roundships. The ship that the first galley had approached was turning now, shifting in the wind. The two galleys darted in toward the second roundship and Yardem chuckled.
“What?” Cithrin demanded, tugging on Yardem’s arm.
“They’re cutting the rigging and breaking the rudders,” Yardem said, turning to look away from the ships to the coast stretching out east of the city. “They’ll be adrift.” A moment later, he made a low chuffing sound that it took Cithrin a moment to recognize as laughter.
“What?” she asked.
“Permission to gather the company guard, miss? Tides being what they are, I expect our Antean friends will be running aground before nightfall. Wouldn’t mind being there to meet them.”
The great roundship lay on the beach, its masts at an angle to land and water. Two others stood out to sea, the current turning them slowly and at random. The wind had shifted, coming in from the sea, carrying the scent of brine and smoke. On the western horizon, the setting sun painted the sky red and gold. Two dozen Antean sailors stood in the surf, waves washing up around their knees. They wore scowls and carried long knives hardly shorter than swords.
Facing them on the shore were the company guard of the Medean bank along with half a dozen queensmen. A larger troop of queensmen was riding the coast, waiting for the next ships to run aground. Yardem stood near the front of the crowd. Anyone who didn’t know him better would have thought he was bored. Cithrin knew better. She sat a brown gelding she’d taken from the stables.
“Stand your ground, men,” an old Firstblood called to the Antean sailors. He had a grey beard and a thick, powerful build. Yardem looked over to her, and Cithrin nodded him on. His ears flicked once and he stepped forward.
“Hoy, Antea,” he shouted, his voice throbbing with a power she’d rarely heard in it before. “Name’s Yardem Hane. Second to Captain Marcus Wester. We’ve come as escort, to take you back to the governor. We can fight first if you’d like.”
“Hane?” the bearded man said. “I know your name. You’re the bank girl’s tool.”
“Yes,” the Tralgu said, drawing his sword as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“That’s her!” someone shouted, and with no other warning, the Antean sailors charged up out of the water. Yardem shouted out a signal call and the company guards shifted to meet the enemy charge with an air of calm. The bearded commander was shouting now too, trying to call his men back into order, but it was too late. The sailors and the guard came together in a clump, bodies slamming against bodies, blades clashing against blades. Cithrin watched, ready to take flight if the need arose, but fairly certain that it would not. The queensmen held the side, seeing to it that none of the sailors escaped in the chaos while Yardem and his guards—her guards—drove the attackers back into the water. The Anteans broke off, falling back. There were fewer of them now by a third. So far as she could see, none of hers were hurt.
“We can try that again if you’d like,” Yardem called out. “We’ve got no other plans for the evening.”
“Will you vouch for our safety?”
“No,” Yardem said.
“I will,” Cithrin called out. “These are my guard, and they’ll take my word. Throw down your weapons and take the chain, and I’ll see you safely to the governor. All of you. What comes after that is between you and him.”
The bearded man spat. “I suppose I can’t ask better than that,” he called back. “Men! Throw down your blades.”
“She’ll kill us!” one of the sailors shouted.
“If she wanted to do that, we’d be dead,” the bearded commander said, wading up out of the surf. He drew a short ceremonial sword from his side and took it by the blade. Cithrin turned her mount toward him and walked it forward. Yardem shadowed the Antean, his expression blank and calm.
“I offer you our surrender,” the bearded man said.