“Their magic, yes.” The nobleman seemed deep in thought. “Do you realize that Ortelius is a spy, sent to observe the voyage for his master the Prelate of Hebrion?”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“It will be bad enough that our crew are half-Merduk and our passengers a parcel of sorcerers. Now we are to use sorcery to propel the very ship itself.”
“Surely the voyage comes under the King’s protection. The Prelate would not dare-”
“It is the colony I am thinking of. It is a new Hebrian province we will be seeking to establish in the west, Hawkwood, but if the Prelate of Hebrion sets his face against it, it may become simply a place of exile for undesirables.”
Hawkwood laughed at that. “I can see it now: Murad, lord of witches and thieves.”
“And Hawkwood, admiral of prison hulks,” Murad countered.
They glared at one another, tension sizzling in the air between them.
“It is your decision to make,” Hawkwood said stiffly at last. “But as master of the Osprey I feel bound to tell you that if we do not use sorcery to fill our sails then we will be drinking our own piss ere we sight land.”
“I will think on it a while,” Murad told him, and moved towards the door.
“One more thing,” Hawkwood said, feeling reckless.
“Yes?”
“That fellow Bardolin. He asked me to have a word with you about the girl Griella.”
Murad spun on his heel. “What about her?”
“I suppose he wants you to leave her alone. Perhaps she does not relish your attentions, my lord.”
Before Hawkwood could even flinch, Murad’s poniard was naked and shining at his throat.
“My affairs of the heart are not a basis for discussion, Captain, at any time.”
Hawkwood’s eyes were aflame. “The passengers are my responsibility, along with the running of the ship.”
“What’s the matter, Captain? Are you jealous? Have you lost your taste for boys, perhaps?”
The poniard broke the skin.
“I do not hold with rape, Murad,” Hawkwood said steadily. “Bardolin is rumoured to be a mage, not a man to cross lightly.”
“Neither am I, Captain.” The blade left Hawkwood’s throat, was scabbarded again. “Find this weather-worker, and let him ply his trade,” Murad said casually. “We can’t let a man like our good priest end up drinking his own piss.”
“What will you tell him?”
“Nothing. He is worn-looking, don’t you think? Maybe he has a streak of madness in him induced by the strain of the past days. It would be a shame were something to happen to him ere we sight land.”
Hawkwood said nothing, but rubbed his throat where the poniard tip had pricked it.
Pernicus was a small man, red-haired and weak-eyed. His nose was long enough to overhang his upper lip and he was as pale as parchment, a bruise on his high forehead lingering evidence of the passage of the storm.
He stood on the quarterdeck as though it were the scaffold, licking dry lips and glancing at Hawkwood and Murad like a dog searching for its master. Hawkwood smiled reassuringly at him.
“Come, Master Pernicus. Show us your skill.”
The waist was crowded with people. Most of the passengers had learned of what was happening and had dragged themselves out of the fetid gundeck. Bardolin was there, as stern as a sergeant-at-arms, and beside him was Griella. Most of the ship’s crew were in the shrouds or were standing ready at the lifts and braces, waiting to trim the yards when the wind appeared. Soldiers lined the forecastle and the gangways, slow-match lit and sending ribands of smoke out to hang in the limpid air. Sequero and di Souza had their swords drawn.
But at the forefront of them all, at the foot of the quarterdeck ladder, stood Ortelius, his eyes fixed on the diminutive weather-worker above. His face was skull-like in the harsh sunlight, his eyes two deep glitters in sunken sockets.
“Get to it, man!” Murad barked impatiently. Pernicus jumped like a frog, and there was a rattle of laughter from the soldiers on the forecastle. Then silence again as the two ensigns glared round and sergeant Mensurado administered a discreet kick. The sails flapped idly overhead and the ship was motionless under the blazing sun, like an insect impaled upon a pin. Pernicus closed his eyes.
Minutes went past, and the soldiers stirred restlessly. Three bells in the afternoon watch was struck, the ship’s bell as loud as a gunshot in the quiet. Pernicus’ lips moved silently.
The main topsail swayed and flapped once, twice. Hawkwood thought he felt the faintest zephyr on his cheek, though it might have been his hopeful imagination. Pernicus spoke at last, in a choked murmur:
“It is hard. There is nothing to work with for leagues, but I think I have found it. Yes. I think it will do.”
“It had better,” Murad said in a low, ominous voice.
The sun was unrelenting. It baked the decks and made tar drip from the rigging on to those below, spotting the painfully bright armour of the soldiers. Finally Pernicus sighed and rubbed his eyes. He turned to face Hawkwood.
“I have done it, Captain. You shall have your wind. It is on its way.”
Then he left the quarterdeck, gaped at by those who had never seen a weather-worker perform before, and went below.
“Is that it?” Murad snapped. “I’ll have the little mountebank flogged up and down the ship.”
“Wait,” Hawkwood said.
“Nothing happened, Captain.”
“Wait, damn you!”
The crowd in the waist was already dispersing, buzzing with talk. The soldiers were filing down off the gangways, beating out their slow-match on the ship’s rail and guffawing at their own jokes. Ortelius remained motionless, as did Bardolin.
A breeze ruffled Hawkwood’s hair and made the sails crack and fill.
“Ready, lads!” he called to the crew, who were waiting patiently at their stations.
The light faded. The ship’s company looked up as one to see outrider clouds moving across the face of the sun. The surface of the sea to the south-east of the ship wrinkled like folded silk.
“Here she comes. Steady on the braces. Tiller there, course nor’-nor’-west.”
“Aye, sir.”
The breeze strengthened, and suddenly the sails were full and straining, the masts creaking as they took the strain. The carrack tilted and her bow dipped as the wind took her on the stern. She began to move, slowly at first and then picking up speed.
“Brace that foresail round, you damned fools! You’re spilling the wind. Velasca, more men to the foremast. And set bonnets on the courses.”
“Aye, sir!”
“We’re moving!” someone shouted from the waist, and as the carrack began to slide swiftly through the water the passengers broke out into laughter and cheers. “Good old Pernicus!”
“Leadsman to the forechains!” Hawkwood shouted, grinning. “Let’s see what she’s doing.”
The carrack was alive again, no longer the stranded, battered creature she had been in the past days. Hawkwood experienced a jet of sheer joy as he felt the ship stirring under his feet and saw her wake beginning to foam astern.
“So we have our wind,” Murad said, sounding a little bemused. “I have never seen anything like it, I must say.”
“I have,” said Brother Ortelius. He had climbed up to the quarterdeck, his face like granite. “May God forgive you both-and that wretched creature of Dweomer-for what you have done here today.”
“Easy, Father-” Hawkwood began.
“Brother Ortelius,” Murad said coldly, “you will kindly refrain from making comments which might be construed as detrimental to the morale of the ship’s company. If you have opinions you may seek to air them in private with either myself or the captain; otherwise you will keep them to yourself. You are not well, obviously. I would not like to have to confine a man of your dignity to his hammock, but I will if need be. Good day, sir.”
Ortelius looked as though a blood vessel might burst. His face went scarlet and his mouth worked soundlessly. Some of Hawkwood’s crew turned aside to hide their exultant smiles.