Thirty-six

As if they knew what was being planned, the lyrinx attacked from the air that night, dropping rocks on the storehouses and granaries near the port. The defenders were ready, driving the enemy off with a hail of arrows. The next time they attacked, half an hour later, the lyrinx kept higher, The missiles had further to fall and did greater damage, but not a single lyrinx fell.

Nish was at the docks well before dawn, with his list of squads and the vessels they were to embark upon. No one was to move before Flydd gave the word. The clankers, bearing their load of soldiers and injured men, were going to leave at dawn and head east. Twenty leagues inland they would be out of danger, now that Snizort was no more.

A windstorm had come up in the night, with spitting rain and wild gusts that would have made it difficult for the lyrinx to stay aloft. Nish hoped it would abate during the day; it would mean hard sailing for the small vessels and there was little shelter in the narrow waterway.

A messenger came running in. 'Go!' he said, and that was all.

Nish felt a vibration in his head, nearly two thousand clankers drawing on the field at once. The vaguely dizzy, sick feeling faded though it did not pass completely. He supposed it had something to do with touching the tears, all those days ago, and it reminded Nish of his father. For all that the man had become a monster, Nish grieved for his loss. Still, it was for the best. Jal-Nish's suffering was over now.

All day he spent at the waterfront with his lists and schedules, making sure the squads were loaded onto the right vessels. Not until a good half of them had embarked, around two in the afternoon, did any word come from the scrutator. It was the same messenger, and he said the same word again, 'Go!'

Eighty captains opened their sealed orders, their vessels weighed anchor and sailed into the gale, which had intensified during the day. It was blowing directly from the north. Had it been southerly they could not have gone at all, for there was no room for tacking in the narrow sea.

The remaining vessels continued loading all night in driving rain, and an hour after dawn the work was complete. The gangplanks were drawn up. Flydd should have been here hours ago but there was no sign of him.

Nish stood at the rail, hood angled to keep out the worst of the rain, though inevitably much found a way in. Water trickled down his neck. Where was Flydd?

Two hours after dawn the messenger appeared, gave the message a third time, 'Go!' and climbed aboard the neighbouring ship. Nish signalled to the remaining vessels, all save his own. One by one they weighed anchor, pulled themselves out through the breakwater, heeled over in the wind and disappeared south.

Nish watched them go, uneasy. The sea was covered with whitecaps and the air full of blown spume; the gale looked like turning into a full-blown storm. He'd travelled by ship on several occasions and had been seasick each time, but never had he sailed in conditions like this. Next to suffocation in a lightless pit, drowning was the death he feared most.

Fingering his black sword in its sheath, he wondered what to do. Should he try to find out what had happened to the scrutator? He paced another hour; two; three. Flydd did not come. Nish was tempted to go looking for him, though Flydd had given strict orders to remain here. Surely Flydd had gone to see the master, and perhaps the master had not been pleased about the loss of all that coin.

Succumbing to a mad impulse, Nish said to the captain, 'Don't go without me. There's double the gold in it for you,' and raced down the gangplank.

It was a good fifteen minutes' run to the master's mansion and his knee and ankle were troubling him long before he got there. The great brass doors were closed and the door warden would hardly open them for a junior officer in an army that had been eating its head off at the master's expense. On the other hand, the fellow on morning duty now might not have seen him before, so if he could pull it off. . . Nish was not sure he dared. How could one man beat the master of a city and all his guards? But he had cast his lot with the scrutator; he could not fail now.

Drawing his sword, Nish rapped three times on the door with the silver hilt. Wrapping the cloak around his uniform, he pulled his hood over his face. The door was opened a crack.

'Perquisitor Mun-Mun Hlar to see the master, without delay!' he snapped, taking the name of his oldest brother.

The master is still in his bed,' said the door warden. 'Come back in the afternoon.'

Nish caught him by his frilly shirt-front and jerked him forwards. 'I'm Perquistor Hlar,' he snarled. 'I've come all the way from the Council of Scrutators with an urgent message for the master. I demand admittance, at once.' He put the blade of his sword against the lackey's neck.

The man collapsed like a punctured bladder. 'At once,' he said, bobbing and puffing. 'Follow me, Perquisitor, surr.'

Nish accompanied him up the steps, prodding the door warden every so often to remind him that perquisitors were ruthless fellows. For everyone's sake, he must not falter now. Flydd had a plan but Nish did not know what it was. If this lout got in the way, too bad for him.

Outside the master's doors, inlaid with rosewood and gilt, the door warden hesitated, then raised his hand to knock.

Nish whacked him over the buttocks with the flat of the sword. 'Just open it. I'll announce myself.'

Giving him a terrified glance, the door warden lifted the latch and went in. Nish followed, treading on his heels. Easing the door shut with his foot, he bolted it. He could not risk anyone coming to investigate.

Raising his fist, he struck the door warden on the back of the head in the way he'd been taught in his defence training, long ago. The man crumpled to the floor. Nish went around a couple of corners into a bedchamber the size of a small mansion, with tables, chairs and divans enough to furnish a house. At the further end, by a crackling fire, stood an eight-post bed the size of a clanker.

The master was sitting up in bed, facing the other way, reading a set of dispatches. A red wallet lay on the covers. Even from halfway down the room Nish recognised it as a Council of Scrutators message wallet. Flydd's secret had been exposed.

Scampering to the wall, he fleeted along until he was behind the head of the bed and drew his sword. Nish took a deep breath, slid around the bedpost and put his sword to the master's throat. 'Where is the scrutator?' he hissed.

The master looked up calmly. 'I'm not going to tell you, Cryl-Nish Hlar. Your father is dead and you are an outcast condemned by the scrutators. Put down your sword.'

Nish had expected the master to be a blustering coward who would do anything to save his own neck. For a second, the defiance threw him. Well, damn him; the fate of the world might rest on Nish getting the scrutator out alive. The master was a villain; let him take his chances.

He flicked the sword at the master's face. The man threw up his arms and Nish slashed the tip of the sword across his wrist, severing an artery. Blood spurted right across the bed. The master gasped then caught the wrist in his other hand and pressed hard with his thumb. The flow dropped to a trickle, and stopped.

The violence sickened Nish but there was no alternative. He pressed his blade to the man's throat. 'You may survive that, but not the jugular. Well?'

 The master was a quick thinker and a pragmatic man. He's downstairs, in my cells. I have the keys here.' With his elbow he indicated a hook on the wall. 'I'll take you.' 'At once,' said Nish, snatching the keys. 'And remember, I'm a condemned criminal with nothing to lose. I don't care if you live or die. Nor, I suspect, do the scrutators, since your profits come at the expense of theirs.'

They went down the master's personal staircase and along to the cells, a row of small rooms with solid wooden doors. 'Take the keys,' said Nish. 'Open the door.'

'My wrist . . .' grimaced the master.

'If you're quick you won't bleed to death.' Nish put his sword to the man's throat again.

The master let go his wrist and grabbed the ring of keys. Blood spurted, though not as far as before. He forced a key into the lock, tried to turn it but let go and grabbed hold of his wrist. Blood dripped from his fingers.

Nish turned the key one way. Nothing happened. He turned it the other and the lock clicked. He kicked the door open, still covering the master with his sword, though the man was now crouched on the floor, trying to stem the flow. His thumb kept slipping on his red wrist.

'Come out, you bloody old fool,' Nish said. 'There's not much time.'

The scrutator came out into the light. He looked as if he had been beaten, though he was not cowed. 'What the blazes are you doing here? I gave you your orders.' 'A situation arose that they didn't cover. Do you know the way out?'

'Haven't a clue,' said Flydd.

Nish prodded the master with his sword. 'Show us to the stables. Better hurry; you're looking faint. You must have lost quite a lot of blood.'

There was a puddle on the floor next to him. The master nodded and stumbled down the corridor. By the time they had negotiated several more flights of stairs and long passages, he was weaving from side to side.

'I don't think he's got much left in him,' said Flydd.

'Blood or courage?'

'Either.’

'How far?' Nish said to the master, 'Just around the corner,' he whispered.

They emerged in the stables. 'Can you ride bareback, Nish?' Flydd said.

'If I have to.'

They mounted two sleepy horses. The master collapsed into the straw. Nish urged his horse towards the stable doors, stopping on the way to kick the side of a manger where a sta-bleboy lay sleeping. 'Open the doors!' Nish roared.

The boy ran to comply. 'Your master lies back there, bleeding.' Nish pointed with his sword. 'Attend to him before he dies.'

He kicked his horse into the rainy night. Flydd followed. Five minutes later, by the time the alert had been raised, they were weighing anchor.

The wind was blowing even harder now, a fierce gale. 'Are you sure it's safe to go out?' Nish said as they headed for the entrance. The Sea of Thurkad was a mess of white. Waves could no longer be seen, just white, driven foam.

'Been out in worse,' said the captain. 'Not by much, mind you, but for double the payment, we'll dare it.'

Flydd's head jerked around and he gave Nish a hard stare. Nish smiled blandly back. 'I thought your life was worth it. Was I right, or was I wrong?'

'For all you knew,' hissed Flydd, 'being taken prisoner might have been part of my plan.'

'You just can't admit you've been bested.'

After a long pause, Flydd said, 'I thought I was done for. You're a tough sod, Nish.'

'I was taught by the best.'

'Don't let it become a habit.'

The vessel passed between the arms of the breakwater. The blast heeled them over till the gunwale practically touched the water. The captain brought the ship around, the current caught her, the wind kicked her in the stern and she turned down the channel under just a rag of sail. 'If the wind comes up any further,' the captain said, 'even that'll be too much, and we'll have to sail on bare poles.’

'At least we're in no danger from the lyrinx,' said Nish. 'There's nothing can harm us tonight, save wind and rocks.' 'How far till we reach the Sea of Mists?' 'About twenty leagues. Four or five hours at the rate we're going. But there are a few things to worry about before we get there.’

'Like what?'

'The Pinch,' said Flydd, dashing spray out of his eyes. It burst over the bows with every plunge of the boat, smacking them in the faces.

'What's that?'

'Ahead, the sea narrows till you could practically shoot an arrow from one side to the other. The current is fast there, as fast as you've ever gone. It requires a strong hand on the tiller and the right kind of wind, or none at all, to get through. You don't recover from your mistakes in the Pinch.'

'How do you come back?' Nish wondered.

'They all ask that,' chuckled the captain mirthlessly. 'They pull us through. Windmills and cables. No boat can sail against this current.'

'Pull you through? I'd like to see that.' 'You'd fill your breeches,' said the captain. 'Now get out of my way. I've got work to do.'

Nish went to the rail but it was too dangerous to stand there. He leaned against the wall of the captain's cabin, where there was a modicum of shelter from the wind and rain, quietly going over the past hours. He'd surprised himself, dominating the master in that violent, ruthless way. It wasn't like him at all. More like his father, in fact. And most shocking of all, he realised now that he'd enjoyed it.

The wind screamed, the spray flew, the iron cliffs raced past. Nish never understood how the captain could see to navigate his way between them, but somehow he did. The Pinch was a league long and they roared through it in ten minutes. The crescent of the waning moon came out through racing clouds; the cliffs disappeared; the current slackened. They were out of the Sea of Thurkad into the Karama Malama, where the waves were mast high. The little vessel rolled like a cradle in the wind.

Nish groped his way below, into the reeking dark, and found an empty hammock, though he could not sleep. The ship's timbers, strained to the limit, shrieked and groaned. The hammock swayed through the same arc as the rolling vessel, before jerking back the other way. The landlubber soldiers were already spewing their guts into the bilge. Soon Nish was doing the same. The smell was abominable.

Morning came, but he was too seasick to notice it. Hours later he staggered up on deck, where Flydd and the captain were talking anxiously. 'What's the matter?' asked Nish.

'We want to go east,' said Flydd, but the wind's driving us south and west, and there's nothing we can do about it.'

'What lies to the west?'

'Just wild sea for a hundred leagues—'

'And the Reefs of Karints,' said the captain.

'Where are all the other ships?'

'Safely in the port of Hardlar, I hope.'

'So we're all alone.'.

No one answered. Flydd jerked his thumb in the direction of the hold. Nish went below, where he discovered that a soldier had thrown up green bile in his hammock. Nish turned the hammock over, his stomach groaning as loudly as the ship's timbers, and crawled into it.

Finally, in the middle of the day, in spite of the reek of vomit, he slept. He slept all through that day and woke after midnight, not that he could tell, then slept again. It had been weeks since he'd had a full night's rest.

He was woken by cries and an almighty crash that spun him full circle in his hammock. The other occupants of the hold were not as lucky. He heard thuds and groans. Another crash, not so loud, made everyone cry out. Nish fell out of the hammock onto someone, who groaned. Picking the man up, Nash stood on shaky legs and made for the ladder Crash, crash, crash. It sounded as if the ship were beating itself to death. He made the deck, which was tilted at the angle of a slippery-dip. They had run full tilt onto a rocky reef in the night, and it was all that was keeping the ship from going to the bottom.

Huge waves broke in a curving line from one side of the reef to the other. Each breaker lifted the ship and drove it fur ther onto the spine of the rocks, wedging the timbers apart. After each wave, the vessel was lower in the water. On the seaward side, the sailors had managed to launch a boat. Half a dozen jumped in, took the oars and clawed at the water. The boat moved out into the wind and was driven away. Nish soon lost sight of it in the towering waves. He peered over the side. Men were struggling in the water and being crushed between the boat and the reef. 'Scrutator!' he yelled.

No answer. 'Scrutator? Flydd?'

He put his head down into the hold and screamed Flydd's name. No answer from there either. Nish was about to go down when he saw him, clinging to the shrouds at the stern, Nish ran that way. 'What's the matter?'

'The reef seemed to come up out of the water,' said the scrutator. 'Got a prize bang on the head. I'm all right.' 'Where are we?'

'Middle of bloody nowhere.' 'Any chance of the other boats rescuing us?' 'They wouldn't know where to look.' 'Hadn't we better try and get the people in the hold out?' 'They'll have a better death down there,' said the scrutator, watching an enormous wave moving towards them. 'Look at the sea pounding at the reef. It'll tear us to pieces.' 'I'll just go down for my sword.' It was his most precious possession. 'I won't be a—' The stern was tossed up on the wave, lifting them into the air, then the whole vessel was thrust sideways. When they came down, there was nothing under them but water.

It was nearly as perishing as the sea at Tiksi. Nish, a poor swimmer and prone to panic, thrashed at the water. Something thumped him in the ear. 'Stop, you fool,' screamed the scrutator. 'Hang onto this.'

It was a plank or rib torn from the boat. Nish threw his arms around it. The scrutator turned on his side and kicked. The next wave pulled them out, away from the rocks. Flydd paddled furiously towards a streak of white and caught a current, which carried them through a gap in the reef.

The water was desperately cold — so cold that, no matter how hard Nish fought it, the will to survive began to slip away. Flydd tied him to the beam and kept slapping his face till he roused.

Nish endured as best he could. The rest of the night, long or short, was a daze. Near dawn, he realised that the pounding was not his heart, but surf breaking on a shore. The waves carried them in and dumped them, tearing Nish away from the plank. The water rolled him over and over, before depositing him halfway up a gritty beach.

Flydd got him up, and Nish had enough strength to crawl up out of the surf zone and flop down in the sand. That was all he could do.