JandolAnganol had seen to it that the wooden palace had no weapons with which to defend itself. But the rocks extending out to sea from the Linien Rock meant that any considerable vessel like the Union had to sail between the Rock and the headland, and there lay the defender’s chance. GortorLanstatet had reinforced his working party on the beach with phagors. Two large cannon from the Vajabhar Prayer’s quarterdeck had been winched ashore and were now being manhandled onto the headland, where they would command the bay.
ScufBar and another serving man came up with a stretcher to carry the injured woman back to the safety of the palace and apply iced bandages to her wounds.
Leaving the queen’s side, TolramKetinet ran to help position the cannon. He saw the danger of their situation. Apart from the phagors and a few unarmed helpers, the defending forces at Gravabagalinien numbered only his complement of thirteen who had come with him from Ordelay. The two Sibornalese ships now closing on the bay each contained possibly fifty well-armed fighting men.
Pasharatid’s Union was turning, to present itself broadside-on to the coast.
Heaving at the ropes, the men tried to get the second cannon into place.
Confronting the queen with folded arms, CaraBansity said, ‘Madam, I gave the king good advice which was ill taken. Let me now offer you a similar dose and hope for a kindlier reception. You and your ladies should saddle up hoxneys and ride inland, making no delay.’
Her face lit with a sad smile. ‘I’m glad of your concern, Bardol. You go. Return to your wife. This place has become my home. You know Gravabagalinien is said to be the residence of the ancient ghosts of those who were killed in a battle long ago. I would rather join those shades than leave.’
He nodded. ‘So it may be. I shall stay too, ma’am, in that case.’
Something in her expression showed him she was pleased by what he said. On impulse, she asked, ‘What do you make of this misalliance between our friend Rushven and the Uskuti lady — an admiral, no less?’
‘She keeps quiet, but that does not reassure me. It might be safer to pack those two off. There’s always more than an arm up a Sibornalese sleeve. We must use our cunning, ma’am — there’s little enough else on our side.’
‘She appears genuinely devoted to my ex-chancellor.’
‘If so, she has deserted the Sibornalese cause, ma’am. And that may give this man Pasharatid another reason for coming ashore. Pack her off, for everybody’s safety.’
At sea, smoke billowed, concealing all but the sails of the Union. A moment later, explosions were heard.
The shots landed in the water at the foot of a low cliff. With a second salvo, the marksmen would be more accurate. Evidently the lookout had sighted the manoeuvring of the cannon on shore.
But the shots proved to be no more than warnings. The Union swung to port and began sailing straight towards the little bay.
The queen stood alone, her long hair, still unbound from the night, streaming in the wind. There was a sense in which she was prepared to die. It might be the best way of resolving her troubles. She was — to her dismay — not prepared to accept TolramKetinet, an honest but insensitive man. She was vexed with herself for putting herself under emotional obligation to him. The truth was, his body, his caresses of the night, had merely roused in her an intense longing for Jan. She felt lonelier than before.
Moreover, she divined with melancholy detachment Jan’s loneliness. That she might have assuaged, had she herself been more mature.
Out to sea, monsoon rain created gulfs of darkness and slanting light. Showers burned across the waters. The clouds loomed lower. Good Hope was almost lost in murk. And the sea itself — MyrdemInggala looked, and saw that her familiars were choking the waves. What she had mistaken for choppiness was the ferment of their bodies. The rain drove in at speed and dashed itself against her face.
Next second, everyone was struggling through a heavy downpour.
The cannon stuck, its wheels spun in mud. A man fell on his knees, cursing. Everyone cursed and bellowed. The fusee in its perforated tin would be doused if the downpour continued.
Hope of placing the cannon effectively was now dead. The wind veered with the storm. The Union was blown towards the bay.
As the ship drew level with the Linien Rock, the dolphins acted. They moved in formation, retinue and regiment. The entrance to the bay was barred by their bodies.
Sailors in the Union, half-blinded by rain, shouted and pointed at the teeming backs beneath their hulls. It was as if the ship ran across black shining cobbles. The dolphins wedged their bodies solid against the timbers. The Union slowed, groaning.
Screaming with excitement MyrdemInggala forgot her sorrows and ran down to the water. She clapped her hands, shrieked encouragement at her agents. Sand and salt splashed over her calves, rushing beneath her dress. She plunged forward in the undertow. Even TolramKetinet hesitated to follow. The ship loomed over her and the rain lashed down.
One of her familiars reared out of the water as if he had expected her coming, seizing the fabric of her dress in his mouth. She recognised him as a senior member of the inner court, and spoke his name. In his medley of calls was an urgent message she could recognise: stay away, or gigantic things — she could not determine what — would seize her. Something far off in the deeps had her scent.
Even the queen of queens was frightened by the news. She retreated, guided by the familiar all the way. As she reached the sand, clutching her soaked dress, he sank away below the foam.
The Union lay only a few ship’s lengths from where the queen and her followers stood. Between beach and carrack were dolphins, both courts and regiment, packed tight. Through the driving torrents, the queen recognised the commanding figure of Io Pasharatid — and he had recognised her.
He stood tall and sinister on the streaming deck, swart-bearded, canvas jacket open to the rain, cap pitched over his eyes. He looked at her and then he acted.
In his fist was a spear. Climbing onto the rail of the ship, clutching the shrouds with one hand, he leaned forward and stabbed down repeatedly into the water. With every stab, crimson spurted up the blade of the weapon. The waters became lashed with foam. Pasharatid stabbed again and again.
To superstitious mariners, the dolphin is a sacred creature. Ally of the spirits of the deep, it can do no wrong in sailors’ eyes. Harm it and one places one’s own life in jeopardy.
Pasharatid was surrounded by furious mariners. The spear was wrestled from his hand and thrown away. The watchers ashore saw him borne fighting to the deck until his soldiers rushed in and pulled him free. The scrimmage continued for a while. The queen’s familiars had successfully barred the way to Gravabagalinien.
The rainstorm was at its height. The waves rose higher, crashing up the beach with splendid fury. The queen screamed her victory, looking in her dishevelment much like her dead mother, the wild Shannana, until TolramKetinet dragged her back, in fear that she would hurl herself into the water again.
Lightning flashed in the storm’s belly and then struck with following thunder. Cloud shifted like blown sheet, outlining the Good Hope suddenly in silver water. It stood off a third of a mile or less from its companion ship, as its crew fought to keep it offshore.
A line of dolphins streamed from the bay and could be seen heading beyond the Good Hope as if summoned by something there.
The sea convulsed. It boiled about the Lorajan vessel. Men ashore swore afterwards that the water boiled. The convulsion grew, with glimpses of things churning. Then a mass rose from the water, shook waves from its head, rose, still rose, till it towered above the masts of the Good Hope. It had eyes. It had a great lantern jaw and whiskers that writhed like eels. More of it came out of the sea in thick scaled coils, thicker than a man’s torso. The storm was its element.