‘Well, why didn't you just say so, man! Gods!’
Jenoso's grip tightened so hard on his wax tablet he felt his hot fingertips pressing into it. ‘Sir! The matter at hand…!’
‘What's the matter with the hand dealt to us here is that we're throwin’ in our hand. Looks like the Empire's got all the ports in the fist of her hand so we're pushin’ off!’
The harbour-assessor's knotted brows hurt. ‘I'm sorry…?’
‘So am I. Cast off!’
‘What — me?’
‘Why? Are you enlisting?’ He gestured aside, ‘Cast off!’
‘Aw, no, Captain! Please!’ someone pleaded. ‘Soliel's mercy, sir! We want water, food…’
‘What you want is a chance to desert! Now move!’
‘Sir…’ Jenoso called, ‘Sir!’
‘Yes? You still here?’
‘Sadly so.’
A fey laugh from the captain. ‘That's the spirit, lad.’
Sailors, barefoot, dressed in ragged trousers and shirts climbed over the sides to slide down the mooring ropes. Jenoso pointed. ‘Wait. You can't do that — wait. Mooring and unmooring at a whim! You owe fees — docking, launch crews must be paid…’
‘Tell you what,’ the captain announced, ‘here's a down-payment,’ and he tossed something, a small ball of some kind.
In his panic, Jenoso dropped his tablet to catch the dark ball. He juggled it in his hands, staring. ‘What is this?’ he fairly squeaked.
‘It's what you think it is.’
Jenoso froze, the ball, or ovoid, held at arm's length. His mouth gaped but no sound emerged.
‘Raise sails!’ the captain ordered, ‘we've a seaward breeze. It's less than the gas passed from a countessa during a reception, but it'll do.’
Canvas and ropes rasped, feet pounded the deck. Jenoso remained frozen. His arms ached.
‘Farewell to all these bureaucracy-choked lands!’ The captain bellowed. ‘A curse upon all you assessors and collectors and all you state-run bandits! May you choke in Hood's craw! Goodbye to all fees, tithes, taxes, bills and levies! Damn you all to the darker side of the Abyss!’
The sails caught the weak breeze. Sailors struggled to push off with poles. The captain continued his rant. Unavoidably, this strange activity attracted the attention of the harbour guard and a detachment marched down to investigate. Its sergeant found the harbour-assessor white-faced, arms quivering, a death-grip on an object in his hands. The sergeant gently pulled it from him to study it. ‘Stamp of the Imperial Arsenal,’ he said musingly.
‘Is it…’ the harbour-assessor stammered, weak-voiced, ‘is it…’
‘It's just a smoker,’ the sergeant said, tossing it hand to hand. He raised his chin to the ship easing into the bay. ‘Who was that?’
‘The Ragstopper^ Jenoso gasped as he flexed and massaged his hands together. Peering down he saw that his tablet had slipped neatly through a gap in the dock slats to drop into the harbour. He pressed his hot hands to his face and fought an urge to cry.
The Ragstopper, you say? Well, we'll be waiting for him. No matter where he puts in — we'll be waiting for him.’
The seas were climbing and heavy clouds prefaced a squall, but Yathengar stamped his staff to the deck of the Forlorn regardless, calling assembly of the ritual participants. Ho sat at the stern with Su and Devaleth; the Wickan witch perfectly miserable in the rough weather and the Korelan sea-mage perfectly at ease.
The participants, some twenty-three, not including Yath, shuffled together and again Ho was struck by the sad spectacle. We look like a collection of village idiots, all of us. Hair hacked and badly shaved, dressed in rags scrounged on the ship — all old clothing and sandals and such thrown overboard. Some men even shaved their body hair. Those pale are sun-burned. The skin of all is raw, cracked and bleeding from repeated scrubbing. You'd think plague had broken out on board. Yet it's working — that and having left the islands far behind. I can feel my powers returning. They are there; I just have to dare to reach for them.
The participants arranged themselves in rows before Yath, Seven Cities priest and mage. Ho, of course, had researched ritual magics to a degree far greater than most scholarly mages and Su, he knew, must also be familiar with its demands. Wickan warlocks and witches employed it regularly. Devaleth, he imagined, must also be conversant — Ruse was infamous for the complexity of its rituals.
And none of them had elected to participate. Was this the mere product of personal dislike of Yath, or was there more here — a deeper suspicion, or healthy dread, of the consequences for any participant should things go wrong? Maybe both.
It began well enough. Ho detected only the most negligible interference from the presence of any lingering traces of Otataral. Around the sitting, concentrating mages, the mundane sailing of the vessel continued. The Avowed crew shortened the sails and secured everything against the coming storm. Blues was at the stern-tiller with Treat while Fingers sat beside them propped up against the side. The skies darkened, the thick low clouds churning. Ho wanted to call it all off, but he understood that time was pressing. Events were converging on Quon. A cusp of a kind was approaching during which they must act or thereafter lose any chance of influencing its outcome.
He studied his own rasped-raw palms and the soles of his feet, his bloodied nails cut short by a knife — and all self-inflicted! Was there a metaphor here of some kind for the pursuits of him and his companions? If so, it was not a pleasant one.
Mouthings pulled his attention to Grief — Blues — at the stern tiller along with Treat and Dim. The man's eyes were on Yath, his lips moving as he followed along in the invocation, nodding to himself at Yath's choices in his groundwork for the merging to come. Ho straightened, amazed — the man's a mage! Yes, one of us indeed!
‘You're a mage as well,’ he said to Blues.
The man shared a glance with Fingers, a sardonic smile raised one edge of his lips. ‘Don't spread it around. Fingers and I like to surprise people with it.’
‘What Warren, may I ask?’
A shrug. ‘D'riss.’
So, the Paths of the earth. A Warren very appropriate to their researches in the Pit. Was this how the man was able to so shrug off what happened to him there? Yet had he? He also, Ho noted, was not participating in the ritual. But Blues and his fellow Avowed now fought the heavy tiller arm, swinging it hard over. Devaleth stood, studied the waves surging towards them like slate towers.
‘Shorten the sails further,’ she called to Blues. ‘Now.’
Blues did not waste time thinking or reacting, he merely nodded to Treat who ran to relay the order. ‘We're much too damned light,’ the woman grumbled under her breath. ‘Should've taken on more ballast at the Pit…’
‘More Otataral?’ Ho asked of her, mockingly.
As an answer the sea-mage gestured ahead. ‘This will kill us just as surely.’
Icy spray slashed Ho's face. He wiped it away. ‘Then let's hope Yath succeeds.’
The Mare mage was now the only person standing unaided on the deck. Everyone else was sitting or clung to ropes or the sides. She stood with her feet widely spread, her hands clasped at her back. She looked down to Ho. ‘You and I both know it'll take all day to bring everyone into harmony for the casting. A wave could swamp us any time before then.’
‘Then you best help us,’ Su said, her dark face wrinkling up in a smile.
Devaleth raised her eyes to the clouded sky, muttered curses to her self in Korelan. Ho thought he heard echoes of the old Malazan accents in the language. ‘Oh, very well,’ she hissed in Talian. She took the tiller arm, pushed at Blues. ‘Let go, you damned oaf.’ He shot an uncertain glance to Ho who gave his assent. Taking a deep breath, he and Dim relinquished the arm to Devaleth's control. Immediately the Forlorn steadied, its progress smoothing. She pushed the arm with just the finger and thumb of one hand and the prow fairly leapt to meet an oncoming wave. ‘Too light,’ the woman muttered, distastefully.