I watched the torment in his face. And he watched it in mine as he replied, "Don't think so, Bowman. Too far to walk. Besides, I'm getting a nibble."
He got the nibble, but I caught the fish. It was the same damned shark. What was the matter with that thing? Couldn't it learn?
Dragon rocked gently on quiet swells. A breeze whispered in the trees surrounding the cove. We kept catching that sand shark and throwing it back, and not saying much, while the sun dribbled down to the horizon behind
X
Toke, Lank Tor, and I clambered up to the poop. The crew gathered on the maindeck, their eyes on the Old Man's cabin door. The sun had not yet cleared the hills to the east.
"Tide's going to turn soon," Toke observed.
"Uhm," I grunted.
Lank Tor shuffled nervously. The blood-eagerness in him seemed tempered by something else this morning. Had the changes began to reach even him?
Colgrave came forth.
The crew gasped.
Tor, Toke, and I leaned over the poop rail to see why.
He wore old, battered, plain clothing. It was the sort a merchant captain down on his luck might wear. There wasn't a bit of color or polish on him.
A new Colgrave confronted us. I was not sure I liked it. It made me uneasy, as if the man's style of dress were the root of our failures and successes.
He ignored everybody till he had reached the poop and surveyed his surroundings. Then, "Make sail, First Officer. North along the coast, two points to seaward. They're watching. Let them think we're bound for North Cape."
Toke and Tor went to get anchor and sails up. I stood beside Colgrave, searching the shore for this morning's watchers.
He said, "We'll keep this heading till we're out of sight of land. Then we'll come round and run south. We'll stay in the deep water."
I shuddered. We were not deepwater sailors. Though hardly any of us had set foot on dry land in years, we did not want to let it out of sight. Few of us had been sailors before fate shanghaied us onto this devil ship.
And deep water meant heavier seas. Seas meant seasickness. My stomach was in bad enough shape, having had no rum.
"What then?" I asked.
"Portsmouth, Bowman."
"The wizard wins? Dragon runs to his beck? We do his murders for him?"
"I don't know, Bowman. He's the crux. He's the answer. Whatever happens, it'll revolve around him. He's in Portsmouth. We'll take our questions to him."
There was uncertainty in Colgrave's voice. He, the megalithic will round which my universe turned, no longer knew what he was doing. He just knew that something had to be done.
"But Portsmouth? You're sure?"
"He's there. Somewhere. Masquerading as something else. We'll find him." There was no doubt in him now. He had selected a course. Nothing would turn him aside.
I could not fathom Colgrave's thinking. He wanted to take Dragon into the very den of our enemies? Just to confront that sorcerer again? It was pure madness.
No one had ever accused Colgrave of being sane. And only the once had he come out loser.
We sailed north. We turned and ran south once Tor could no longer discern land from the maintop. A steady breeze scooted us along. By nightfall, according to Toke, we had come back south of the southernmost tip of Freyland. But Colgrave did not alter course till next morning. Several hours after dawn he ordered a change to a heading due east.
He shifted course a point this way, a point that as we sailed along. He had Toke and Tor put on or take off canvas.
A plan was shaping in his twisted mind.
Time lumbered along. The sun set, and it rose. Tension built up till we were all ready to snap. Tempers flared. Some of the old hatred returned. We were not very tolerant of one another. The sun set again. I had seen Colgrave's matchless dead reckoning before. I was not overwhelmed when he brought Dragon into the mouth of the Silverbind Estuary with the same accuracy I showed in speeding a shaft to its target.
We were all dismayed. To a man we had hoped that he would change his mind, or that something would change it for him.
We had not seen one ship during our time at sea.
They had taken our false trail for true. The fleet had cleared Portsmouth only that morning, heading north in hopes of catching us in the wild seas between Freyland and Cape Blood. The only vessels we saw now, as we eased along the nighted Itaskian coast, were fishing boats drawn up on the beaches for the night.
Watchfires burned along the Estuary's north shore. They winked at us as if secretly blessing our surreptitious passage.
Those winks conveyed messages. A steady flow were coming from the north. Fat Poppo tried reading them, but the Itaskians had changed their codes since he had been in their navy. No one noticed our little caravel creeping along through the moonless night.
The lights of Portsmouth appeared on our starboard bow. Little bells tinkled over the water ahead. Then Poppo softly announced that he had spotted the first channelmarker buoy. Its bell pinged happily in the gentle swell.
Colgrave sent Tor to the forecastle to watch the markers.
He meant to try the impossible. He meant to take Dragon up the channel by starlight.
Colgrave's confidence in his destiny was justified. Dragon was surely a favored charity of the gods that night. The breeze was absolutely perfect for creeping from one bellbuoy to the next. The current did not bother us at all. We penetrated the harbor basin two hours after midnight. Perfect timing. The city was asleep. Colgrave warped Dragon in to a wharf with a precise beauty that only a sailor could appreciate.
Fear had that ship by the guts. I was so rattled that I don't think I could have hit an elephant at ten paces. But there I was on the forecastle, ready to cover the landing party.
Priest, Barley, and the Trolledyngjan jumped to the wharf. They searched the darkness for enemies. Mica and the Kid jumped. Others threw them mooring lines. They made fast in minutes. The gangplank went down for the first time in anyone's memory. Toke and Tor started ushering the men ashore. Tor made sure they were armed. Some did not want to go. I was one. I had not set foot on any land in so long that I could not remember what it was like.... And this was the country of my birth. This was the land of my crimes. This land loved me no more, nor wanted its sacred soil defiled by the tread of my murderer's feet....
Nor did I want to do any sorcerer's bloodletting.
Colgrave beckoned. I had to go. 1 relaxed my grip on my bow, descended to the maindeck, crossed to the gangplank.
Only the Old Man and I remained aboard. Toke and Tor were trying to maintain order on the wharf. Some of the men were trying to get back to the ship, to escape stable footing and everything that land meant. Others had fallen to their knees and were kissing the paving stones. Some, like Barley, just stood and shook.
"I don't want to return, either, Bowman," Colgrave whispered. "My very being whines and pules. But I'm going. Now march."
The old fire was in his eyes. I marched.
He had not changed clothing. He still wore rags and tatters. Following me down the gangplank, he looped a piece of cloth across his features the way they do in the deserts of Hammad al Nakir.
Colgrave's presence made the difference. The men forgot their emotions. Toke quickly arranged them in a column of fours.
A late drunk staggered out of the darkness. "Shay...." he mumbled. "What're.... Who're...." He almost tripped over me and Colgrave.
He was an old man young. A beggar, by his look, and a cripple. He had only one arm, and one leg barely functioned. He reeked of cheap, sour wine. He stumbled against me again. I caught him.
"Thanks, buddy," he mumbled. His breath was foul.
My god, I thought. This could be me if I keep on the grog.... I forced honesty. I was looking at what I had been when I had committed my murders, and most of the time since. All I could see was ugliness. The drunk stared at me. His eyes grew larger and larger. He glanced over the crew, peered at the Old Man.