“Yet,” said Cabot, “the beacon was lit, and those who set the trap are gone. There is thus an exit from this place.”
“Perhaps with small boats, with rafts, or such,” I said, “but then one is defenseless on Thassa, perhaps a thousand pasangs from land, perhaps more.”
I supposed, if Lord Nishida and the tarnsman were right, that a mother ship at the edge of the Vine Sea might have dispatched a small party to the derelict. What puzzled me was that such a ship had not been seen, even from the high watch. Perhaps, unlit, it had approached at night and set a small crew about the business of the lamp. Or perhaps we had enemies amongst us, forewarned, from months ago, even from Brundisium, or the northern forests, who would fail to report such a sighting. Had helmsmen failed to keep the charted course? The Vine Sea moves, like a vast garden in the sea, but perhaps it had not moved as much as had been thought.
“Think, Callias,” said Cabot. “Few bodies, on any derelict, have been found.”
“Most would have sought some sort of flight from the Vine Sea,” I said.
“I think so,” he said, “and certainly as supplies of fresh water grew scarce.”
“Much treasure was left behind,” I said.
“Perhaps,” said he, “much was taken, as well.”
“Would men not return for the rest?” I asked.
“It seems likely they failed to reach land,” he said.
“Then,” I said, “the Vine Sea is victorious, in the end.”
“The lighters of the beacon have come and gone,” he said.
“Why would they not loot the derelicts?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” said he, “some things interest them more, and, too, there is little hurry about such matters.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Our mariners, and armsmen,” he said, “have spent days here, accumulating treasure.”
“So?” I said.
“Would it not cost blood to deny them their gold?” asked Cabot.
I remembered the mutiny.
“I think so,” I said.
“Lord Nishida thinks we are being held in place,” he said, “whilst a fleet is moving toward us.”
“There is no escape from here,” I said, and I swept my hand toward the horizon.
“Clearly some have failed to escape,” said Cabot.
“There is no hope,” I said.
“Consider the derelicts you have seen,” said Cabot. “None is larger than a medium-class galley, and none is oared.”
“True,” I said. It seemed so to me, at any rate, from what I had seen.
“And the ships are merchant ships, apparently, and, one supposes, would be crewed accordingly, with complements sufficient to the vessel, and perhaps little beyond that.”
“So?” I said.
“I see no large ships here,” said Cabot. “A large ship, with many in the crew, could work the vines, even over days, or weeks, cutting a path. Too, a large ship, with the force of the wind in her sails, might tear herself loose.”
“I find that hard to believe,” I said.
“A fresh wind,” he said, “might clear the air.”
I noted, again, the perfume of the garden, so sweet, pervasive, and heavy. I wondered if it did not have its role to play in this strange place. I could see two other derelicts from where I stood, smothered in flowers. “The flowers are beautiful,” I said.
“And perhaps deadly,” said Cabot.
“A slow poison?” I said.
“Let us hope not,” he said.
Two men had thrown themselves from the bulwarks of the great ship, screaming, into the vines below.
Men had looted one another’s sea chests openly, and then died in the corridors and companionways.
Two warriors of the Pani, which groups had not participated in the looting, had slain one another, which, given the custom of their discipline, was unthinkable.
“We cannot wait here indefinitely,” said Cabot.
“We must try to break free?” I said.
“Why has it not been attempted?” asked Cabot.
“The looting, the danger?” I said.
“The looting was done, days ago,” said Cabot, “at least of the ships conveniently accessible.”
“The flowers?” I said.
“I think so,” said Cabot.
“They are beautiful,” I said.
“Yes,” said Cabot. “They are beautiful.” He then went to the rail, and lowered himself to the waiting ship’s boat, and I followed him.
Chapter Fourteen
Oars snapped, and the small galley, the large glistening body rising under it, tipped fearfully to port.
She was one of the six nested galleys, normally housed in the hull of the great ship.
Water poured over the bulwarks. I stood at the oar which I shared with a fellow from Turmus, Licinius Lysias.
The large body, rolling beside us in the water, was almost as large as the galley itself. It turned away from us suddenly, its arched spine high above the water, and buffeted the galley which lay to starboard. There a fellow, cursing, jabbed down at it with a spear. There was a snort of pain and the large form was gone. The blade of the spear was awash with blood.
That would bring the sharks lurking beneath the vines, which extended some yard or two beneath the water.
Our galley, and the other, rocked back to an even keel.
All six galleys were forward of the great ship, like a mountain behind us. From each galley there looped two stout ropes back to the ship.
Before us was a cloud of small ship’s boats, filled with oarsmen and armsmen, attacking the vines.
The sails of the great ship behind us hung loose, scarcely stirring.
Looking back I could see a tarn against the bright sky.
Eleven days now we had been at the oars.
With tarns we were muchly advantaged. Without them small boats would have had to scout the Vine Sea to find its nearest edge. It had not been visible from the foremast. Oddly enough we had had a considerable change in course, in seeking open water. Some said that the Vine Sea had shifted in its restlessness, extending its blossomed tentacles, and that what had been nearest was no longer nearest, and that a new tortuous route must be now devised before one might reach the open sea, but others said that sails had been seen afar, and it was that, and that alone, which had dictated our new course.
Two spare oars were set in place to starboard, and we transferred two oars, as well, from port to starboard, one of which was manned by myself and Licinius Lysias. I could see the galley to starboard, some yards away. It was captained by Seremides. I recalled my mates of the Metioche. He had returned none to the great ship. Our galley was captained by the warrior Pertinax, a friend, it seemed, of the commander of the tarn cavalry, Tarl Cabot. This Pertinax, with some others, was a student of the taciturn swordsman, Nodachi, of whom I knew little. I had seen him at the time of the mutiny. I had also seen him at times on the open deck, sitting cross-legged, immobile, staring forward, for long periods, an Ahn or two at a time. And then, sometimes, he would rise to his feet, remove his two curved blades from his sash, and engage unseen opponents. I thought him insane, but I would not have cared to meet him in the business of war.
“Pull, pull!” screamed Seremides, and I saw his knotted rope fall, again and again, amongst his oarsmen. I did not care for this. How was it that they did not rise up, did not object? They were not slaves, chained to their benches. They were free men. Why did they not rise up and attack him? Because, I supposed, he was Seremides. He may have wanted to be attacked, for it was long since his sword had tasted blood. It may have been thirsty for that sudden, bright, exhilarating draught. The thick ropes jerked tight, leading back to the great ship. He should coordinate his efforts with the draw of the companion galley, ours. Was he so importunate and impatient, or was he, rather, anxious to intimidate our captain, Pertinax, the friend of Tarl Cabot? Certainly there were few whom the sword of Seremides, former master of the Taurentians, could not render diffident and complaisant. All feared him, save perhaps Tarl Cabot. Seremides had requisitioned me for his crew, but Cabot had assigned me to that of his friend, Pertinax. Again and again, to my right, across the yards between the galleys, the rope fell. I am not sure that I would have accepted the blows of Seremides. And that, I supposed, was why he had requested that I be assigned to him, that I might rise up, attack him, and then be slain for insubordination. Well would he have been within the rights of his captaincy. Discipline demands that one endure and obey, but it is not always easy to do. I supposed I would have accepted the blows. Yes, I would have accepted the blows. I guessed that Seremides, who knew my fear of him, knew that, but, still, he would have derived some satisfaction in their administration. He had little to fear, given his sword, and his standing with Lord Okimoto.