‘Stalwick’s gone!’ Sharr cried, looking about him wildly.
‘Gone? What? How can he be-?’ He peered into the little cabin. The cot was empty. ‘But where-?’
Brand pushed past him and took the helm. ‘Go ahead,’ he said to Sharr, who rolled and lashed the tarp, opening the cabin to the elements. Dawn whitened the horizon. ‘Right, listen,’ he ordered, ‘when we jibe, we’ve got to let the main out. We’ve been on this broad reach, so we don’t have to let it far, and for rut’s sake, wait until I tell you!’
Markus rubbed his eyes, muttering, ‘I don’t- What’s happening? Where-?’
‘Markus!’ Sharr cried, making him jump, ‘watch me, man. When I shout to Brand, you bring that spanker over. Keep it parallel with the main boom. Understand?’
‘But I don’t-’
‘That rope there, the pin’s aft on the port side. Come on, Markus, it’s not that big a sheet.’ Sharr moved out towards the bowsprit.
Markus hurried over to Brand, saying, ‘What are we rutting doing?’
‘I think we’re turning around,’ he said. ‘I think that’s what jibing is, or coming about or whatever he calls it.’ Sharr was halfway out the bowsprit now, already over open water. Rather than being chased by towering swells as they had been the previous day, now the Missing Daughter faced ranks of rolling waves, splashing over the bow, threatening to wash Sharr all the way to the Northern Forest.
‘But why? How do we know Stalwick is back there?’
Brand pointed at the deck: the dory was gone.
‘Unholy rutting mothers!’ Markus untied the spanker, keeping the line tight as ordered and watching Sharr for the sign to bring it over the transom. ‘Demonshit, what did he do? Where is he, Brand? He can’t be out alone in that thing – we’ve got to find him!’
‘He’s there.’ Brand pointed over the transom.
‘Great gods of the Northern Forest.’ Markus stood in mute amazement, looking at the carrack in the distance, running north, perhaps a thousand paces off their stern. She was impossibly tall, and massive, and with her sails filled and billowing, looked more like an unchained sea monster than a ship. Between the two vessels, rolling dangerously in the swells, Stalwick Rees rowed furiously, careening from trough to trough. He was dressed as a Malakasian soldier.
Stunned, Markus let go the spanker line, slashing a bloody gash across his palm as the little sheet ripped free, its miniature yard swinging wide to port.
‘Markus!’ Sharr screamed from the bowsprit. He plunged beneath another wave, but came up, still loosening the forward sheet and shouting, ‘Get that rutting line, Markus! Gods cook your mother’s arse, don’t let it run out of the tackle; you’ll never get it back through. Grab it!’
Markus dived for the spanker yard, caught it and pulled back over the transom, then fell on slippery deck and hit his head. He cursed Stalwick’s entire family as he crawled on hands and knees to the transom and tugged the rigging line tight with bloody fingers.
Once it was secure, he called to Brand, ‘How did he get away?’
‘We were sleeping, you and I were, anyway. I’m not sure what he did to Sharr, used some kind of spell, I guess. I don’t know; I thought he was dead.’
Markus watched impotently as Stalwick rowed further and further away.
Sharr unfurled the bowsprit, then hauled on its rig and belayed it. The sail fluttered uselessly as he shouted, ‘Get ready!’ and made his way to the junction of his spinnaker rig and the spar, where he steadied himself while wrestling with the knots. At last he cried, ‘All right, Brand, bring us about! Crank her over!’
At first, nothing happened. But as the Missing Daughter turned, Markus felt a light tugging on the rig line in his hand: they were catching the wind.
He watched Stalwick stand precariously astride the bench, waving frantically for the carrack’s forward watch. The great ship loomed over the rowboat and it seemed certain that Stalwick would be crushed beneath her hull, no one on board any the wiser to his one-man assault.
‘Get out of there, you bloody fool!’ he cried.
The carrack furled her topsails, then her mains.
The spanker pulled taut. Markus hauled it parallel with the main beam, watching Brand who was watching Sharr, still aloft, but shouting orders.
Stalwick waved at a sailor, who waved back.
‘No,’ Markus whispered, ‘wait, we’re coming.’
A rope ladder was lowered off the port bow. Stalwick reached for it, slipped and fell into his little boat, then took the ladder again with both hands. As he clung there, the rowboat thudded along the carrack’s hull, then floated away.
The Missing Daughter found the wind and her bow came around slowly. A massive swell rolled over the port beam, knocking Markus to the deck, and the bowsprit filled with a noise like a muffled thunderclap. The old trawler made way, staring down a Malakasian carrack twenty times her size.
Stalwick Rees reached the top of the rope ladder and disappeared over the rail, into Malakasian custody.
Aloft, Sharr was still shouting, ‘You’ve got to feel for it, Brand. Back and forth a bit, feel for the wind and watch the swells, they’ll show you!’ As the bowsprit caught the wind he screamed, ‘That’s it! Well done, old man, well done! ‘ And with both hands clasped around a length of hemp, Sharr jumped.
The spinnaker rig spun with a humming sound like the drone on a bellamir as Sharr dropped to the foredeck, landing lightly as his secret sail, a vast billowing sheet, unfurled. It was attached with a clever array of looped lines, so all Sharr needed to do was unlash the uppermost and then leap into the morning. The massive sail was a magnificently stained and patched quilt, but it caught the wind, filled with a noisy snap and dragged the Missing Daughter towards the carrack.
‘Woo hoo!’ Sharr jigged like a madman, ‘now we’re running, boys! Did you see that?’
‘Grand.’ Markus frowned. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘Ram her?’ Brand suggested.
‘Good gods, no,’ Sharr said, ‘that tub wouldn’t even feel us. We have to get on board, maybe get below. The holding cells will be down several levels. If we can break out, one of us might be able to get to her rudder, maybe disable the fat bitch from the inside.’
‘Why do you think he did it?’ Brand asked, giving up the helm.
‘I think he saw it yesterday,’ Sharr said, his cheery mood dissolving.
‘Saw it?’
‘The future. I think he saw himself doing whatever it is he’s doing over there right now.’
‘He’s in manacles right now,’ Brand said, ‘or bent over the rail taking a beating.’
‘Let’s hope not,’ Markus said. ‘He’s no threat.’
‘They don’t care. They’ll see through that uniform he’s wearing – where’d he get that, anyway?’
‘Guilty,’ Sharr said. ‘I brought one for each of us, figured we might need them.’
‘Should we put them on now?’ Markus checked out beyond the spinnaker. They were closing fast on the carrack.
‘Too late,’ Sharr said, ‘they’ve seen us.’
Brand went below, returning with another brace of throwing knives. ‘We’ll never get on board with bows, rapiers or swords, but if there’s going to be a fight, we might be able to keep one or two of these hidden, at least until we’re all on deck together.’
‘There’re two hundred soldiers and sailors on the ship, Brand.’ Sharr looked sceptically at the double-edged blades.
‘So what?’ Brand shoved two more knives into his own belt, then handed two to Markus. ‘So we don’t fight at all? We let them-’
‘Wait,’ Markus cut him off, ‘look there. What’s that?’
‘Pissing demons!’ Sharr balanced on the transom and squinted. ‘One of her sails is on fire.’
‘And there goes another!’ Brand pointed high in the carrack’s rigging.
‘Stalwick,’ Markus whispered. The North Sea had been a dirge of muted greys for two days. The unexpected smear of orange, brightening the horizon, had Markus transfixed. ‘He glimpsed the future, an image of himself…’ His voice trailed off.
‘Setting that thing on fire?’ Brand said, ‘killing himself out here?’