‘There’s more,’ Brand interrupted. ‘Again, I can’t be certain, and I didn’t see for myself, but on two separate occasions I heard that much of Orindale had been destroyed. And if what Gilmour told me is true, I would bet ten Twinmoons of my life that it was Mark Jenkins using the Larion spell table.’
Gita emptied a jug into her tankard, then gestured for Sharr to pass her another. ‘Orindale in ruins. Our families and friends lost in the wreckage,’ she murmured.
‘Rumour also has it that much of the merchant fleet was destroyed,’ Brand added.
‘And the occupation army recalled to Malakasia, except for Oaklen, who doesn’t take orders from anyone in the Eastlands. So he’s marching to Orindale, rallying every last footsore grunt he can find between Estrad and the northern Blackstones.’ Gita stared into her tankard for a few moments. No one in the room interrupted her thoughts; some took the opportunity to light their pipes and the small room filled quickly with the heady aroma of Falkan tobacco. It was a welcome change from the stench of ashes and soot.
Gita shook her head slightly. Still staring into her beer, she whispered to herself, ‘Oaklen riding for Orindale. The capital in ruins. Milled bark. A merchant carrack…’ Her voice trailed off.
Sharr watched her, waiting for the inevitable order.
Brand asked, ‘Sharr, is there a place north of here where this band of terrorists might pilot a launch into deep water?’
‘You think they’re getting picked up?’ he answered without taking his eyes off Gita.
‘I do,’ Brand said. ‘They’re either finished here, or they have another day or two of surprises waiting for us, but they’ll run, and that boat is their ticket home. Especially if those three hanging across town are spies. The others won’t linger here much longer.’
‘There’s no way for them to know if their comrades talked,’ Markus added.
‘Exactly,’ Brand finished his beer. ‘So what do you think? Is there someplace they might have stashed a boat or two? Some point from which they can run like rutting madmen for a deep water pick-up?’
Sharr didn’t answer.
Gita stood up. ‘All of you!’
The room went silent.
‘All of you, tonight, pass the word: I want us packed and ready to ride in three days. I’ll need mounted dispatchers, one from each company, here by dawn. We have to get word to anyone still on their way up here that we have taken eastern Falkan… or, rather, it was handed to us. There’s nothing left for us to do in Capehill. We can rally the rest of the Resistance on the way. I want two riders from every squad assigned directly to me as a special mounted platoon. There’s no telling how many farms and ranches we’ll pass on the way. I want everyone to know that Capehill is free, that the port here is open, and that trade has been re-established, minus Prince Malagon’s take from every single load and transaction. We need food and supplies running into this town on a schedule as predictable as the tides. Every farmer on the plains has a winter stash somewhere, something the occupation army doesn’t know about. We’ll have them load up their wagons; let them know they’ll be well paid, but they’re needed up here, now.’
‘Where are we going, ma’am?’ Markus asked.
‘We’re going to Orindale,’ Gita said, ‘but you’re not coming, Markus.’
‘Orindale?’ Sharr raised an eyebrow. ‘Ma’am, there’s an entire division of soldiers stationed at Orindale, not to mention the Seron.’
‘Not to hear Brand tell it,’ Gita said, ‘not any more.’
‘It’s true,’ Brand said. ‘Word across the Central Plain is that they were all taken, loaded onto ships; every Malakasian navy vessel afloat on the Ravenian Sea is making for the Northern Archipelago and the Northeast Channel.’
‘And no officer resisted?’ Sharr looked askance at Gita.
‘Like I said, Mark Jenkins is a powerful and dangerous man.’
Gita paced alongside the table, back and forth, talking aloud to the floor. ‘That has to be why Oaklen is recalling the Ronan occupation forces. There’s no one minding the store. The old fart must have shat his leggings when he heard those ships sailed north-’
‘Or when he read the dispatch ordering him home to Pellia,’ Brand added.
‘So what?’ Sharr pressed. ‘We’ll ride to Orindale, securing shipping and farming agreements along the way? And then what? We battle General Oaklen and whomever he has left in the Eastlands?’
‘If the people of Orindale haven’t already done it for us, Sharr, yes we do,’ Gita said. ‘But, like Markus, you’re not coming.’
‘Why not?’ Markus asked.
She stopped pacing. ‘Because you, Sharr and Brand have another assignment.’
Despite his growing weariness, Sharr Becklen stood straight. ‘What assignment, ma’am?’
‘You’re to sink that carrack,’ she said determinedly, the light of battle in her eyes.
KEDGING OFF
‘Do you think Mark is in Pellia yet?’ Brexan asked Gilmour. Through the wispy fog they could see the coastal forests of Malakasia, the tall trees standing silent sentry. At slack tide, the winds had died and an eerie silence crept over the narrow channel Captain Ford and his remaining crewmembers were charting through the archipelago. With nothing but a few stripes of breakwater between them and the shoreline, Brexan worried that hard aground on a muddy shoal, the Morning Star – looking more like a shipwreck than a seaworthy vessel – would be reported by a passing military patrol or a fishing trawler.
As if reading her mind, the captain ordered the Malakasian colours run up the halyard; that ruse might buy them a few avens. Eventually, though, someone would wonder what a brig-sloop was doing working its way through the sandbars, atolls and mud flats off the northeast coast.
The deck canted to starboard. Gilmour hung onto the rail in an effort to maintain his balance. ‘No,’ he said, ‘Mark had a few days’ head start, but we were able to come up the coast fast and I don’t believe he’ll be much further than the initial tacks through the Northeast Channel.’
‘So we may reach Pellia before he does?’
Watching the process the captain called kedging off, Gilmour shrugged. ‘That depends on how long we spend dragging ourselves through these shallows.’
Brexan agreed. ‘It doesn’t look like the quickest route, does it?’
‘We need to be a bit luckier than we were this morning,’ he said.
‘That’s not very heartening.’ Brexan had been on deck when the brig-sloop ran aground. She was sure it hadn’t been Captain Ford’s fault – the Morning Star had been tacking towards a narrow channel between an island and a jumble of rocks Marrin had spotted from aloft. There had appeared to be enough draft for the brig-sloop to pass, even with the receding tide, but just as the captain was bringing the bow about, the topgallants – they were the only sheets he would permit Marrin to set – had caught a vagrant gust from the southeast. Under normal conditions, it would have been nothing, but arriving when it did, just as they were tacking northeast, the rogue breeze had shoved the Morning Star just far enough for her bow to catch in the shallows.
An aven later, the tide was out, the rocks Marrin had seen were above the surface and the narrow passage between them and the island was looking a hair’s-breadth too thin for the brig-sloop. Once off the sandbar, Captain Ford would have only one chance to thread the needle.
Brexan watched as Garec and Marrin rowed the ship’s launch into deeper water, looking comically like a crew in search of a ship as they sat on either side of the Morning Star’s anchor. The great metal claw had been lowered gingerly from the cathead and now rested against the bench. It dragged a length of hawser from the capstan to the channel between the island and the rock formation. ‘I wonder why he doesn’t wait for the tide to come back in,’ Brexan mused.
Gilmour pointed towards the shore; though there was not a building to be seen, it was still risky being within hailing distance of Malakasia, especially while immobile. ‘I don’t think Captain Ford likes having his ship stuck in the mud, Brexan,’ he said, ‘and I don’t know if he needs more water than we have now to work his way through that little passage.’