Too far, Thasha told herself. She hid her face in her hands, stalling, thinking with furious speed. “For my life, then,” she said at last. “For my chance to live just a little before I die. Is that so unforgivable?”
“Thasha, once he gets what he wants, he’s going to-”
“Stop!” Thasha shouted. “Damn it, he’s not some animal, running me down. He hasn’t even tried.” She bent and hauled Marila to her feet. “But if he does, I’ll make my own choices. Tell that to Pazel and Neeps. They put you up to this, didn’t they?”
Marila shook her head. “They don’t even know I’m here.”
Thasha laughed in her face. Now that she’d started the words came easier. “Don’t you ever lecture me again. I was locked up in the Lorg School. They call it the Academy of Obedient Daughters, but it was just about turning us into wives-rich wives, powerful wives. The kind nobody ever loves, except for fifteen minutes at a time. Those she-devils they call Sisters, they made us dance like whores. They told us to fake pleasure when we didn’t feel it, ‘the first night, and every night.’ My own father sent me to that place, Marila, to make a suitable present out of me, a plaything for a forty-year-old Black Rag. And then I fell for a boy who’s in love with a fish.”
“Pazel’s in love with you. And Klyst isn’t a fish, she’s a sea-murth.”
“A fish,” Thasha repeated. “And don’t tell me about fighting for our lives. The Red Wolf didn’t mark you, did it? You’re not even one of us.” She jabbed a finger into Marila’s chest. “You think you can tell me who I should want, and why? You don’t know a Gods-damned thing. You’re a peasant.”
Marila stared at her in shock. Thasha wouldn’t have been surprised if she had spat in her face. But instead Marila just walked slowly from the cabin. In the doorway she stopped, and looked at Thasha with a frozen blankness.
“I used to feel sorry that you didn’t have a mother,” she said, “but you had one, all right. Her name was Syrarys.”
The winds were spiteful and weak. There was barely room to maneuver between the rip tide and the cliffs, and the hunger-weakened men had no rest at all between tacks. The loss of the landing party appalled and frightened them. And to top it all, a great dark vulture came and landed on the Goose-Girl, and defiled her-the worst luck imaginable. Just how their luck could sink lower, however, they did not dare to discuss.
Thasha took a turn at the chain-pumps, battling the hidden leak. It felt good to throw herself into mindless work. But down the row of crankshafts she saw Neeps and Marila, pulling together, drenched in sweat. Their eyes passed over her like the eyes of strangers. Thasha made herself look away.
When she emerged midafternoon the land had grown even more rugged and steep, and the mountains that had looked so distant loomed nearer, towering grandly over the cliffs. Thasha could see the rocky point Bolutu had described: one corner of this vast Efaroc Peninsula. Beyond that headland lay the cove called the Jaws of Masalym.
But now their pursuers had closed half the distance. She looked up and saw the new flag the tailor had patched together: the leopard and the rising sun. It clearly made no difference to the ships in pursuit.
The work grew frantic. They tightened backstays and spread more sail. Rose called for topgallants on the spindly foremast, and even stood a team ready to jettison their precious water. The ixchel ran up and down the strained rigging, looking for any sign of failure.
The hunters were within ten miles of their prey when the Chathrand cleared the point. Rose saw Alyash and Fiffengurt exchange looks of relief. Once the ship turned the wind would be with her, helping instead of hindering. And there in the west, like a deep bite out of the towering cliffs, was the cove.
“You can hear the falls already,” said Bolutu. Thasha heard them, a far-off thundering. From the mouth of the cove a white mist rose gleaming in the sun.
“They won’t catch us now, will they, Mr. Fiffengurt?” asked Ibjen.
“No, lad, they won’t,” said Fiffengurt, “especially if the rip tide’s where we think it is. They’ve been sailing on the far side, but they’ll have to cross it if they want to get any closer. That should set ’em back another hour at least. We’ll make your city, all right.”
“Unless Masalym too has come to hate this Olik and his flag,” said Taliktrum. “If that’s the case, we are dead men.” He pointed: all along the cliffs ran dark windows, out of which the black iron fingers of cannon jabbed down at the gulf. Other guns sprouted from towers on the clifftops, and still more from steep-walled forts built on rocks to either side of the cove.
“Friend or foe, Olik spoke the truth about Masalym’s defenses,” said Hercol.
“The guns?” said Ibjen. “They are not the city’s main defense. In fact you could say they’re unnecessary.”
The truth of his statement was soon evident to all. For as they swept west along the shore the Jaws of Masalym opened to their sight. The great cove was a river mouth, well over a mile wide. The cliffs, twice as high as those where the apple trees blossomed, towered over several miles of sand flats littered with driftwood and fallen rock-and then closed in a staggering array of waterfalls. There was a huge central cataract, where enough water to fill a hundred Chathrands poured each second, churning up the white they had seen from afar. On either side of this mighty curtain towered other falls, great in themselves though small beside the giant. Spray billowing from the deeper crevasses suggested still more falls, but into these places they could not yet see.
Atop the cliffs, great stone walls marched to the very edge of the cataract. Behind them, through the windblown spray, Thasha glimpsed towers and domes. Cliff, wall and water: the folk of Masalym lived behind mighty defenses indeed.
“No enemy has ever taken our city,” said Ibjen. “She is impregnable as the Mountain of the Sky Kings, and her people justly proud.”
“She can’t be much of a sea power, though, can she?” said Fiffengurt. “I don’t see a single boat, nor pier to tie it to.”
“There’s no port at all!” cried Alyash. “How in the devil’s belly are we supposed to fix the old ship here?”
“You will see,” said a voice behind them. Thasha turned: Prince Olik was emerging from the No. 4 hatch, assisted by Rose and Fulbreech. He blinked at the light, looking rather frail. He leaned heavily on Fulbreech’s arm.
“Display me to them, sirs,” he said. “They would be fools to attack a vessel under my flag, but we can never rule out the presence of a fool. And the sight of humans, after all, is bound to shock.”
Then he noticed that Ibjen was on his knees. The boy’s head was bowed, and his arms were crossed over his chest. “Oh, come, lad, that is very formal,” said the prince.
“I failed you, Sire,” said Ibjen. “What they said is true. I tried to jump ship and return to my village, not once but twice.”
“Mmm,” said the prince. “This is a grave matter, of course. For what has a man who has not the honor of his word?”
“Nothing, Sire.”
“In my youth I saw men fight tigers in the circus pits, to atone for broken promises to their lord. How does that strike you?”
Some of the nearest sailors laughed. Ibjen looked even more ashamed. “I cannot fight, Sire,” he said. “My mother bade me take the Vow of the Saints-Before-Saints”-he glanced uncomfortably at Thasha-“to carry no weapon, ever, nor to learn the arts of war.”
“And why did she make such a demand of you?” Olik asked. Ibjen looked down at the deck.
“The press gangs? Did she hope that your vow would make the army pass you by?”
Ibjen, shamefaced, gave an unhappy nod.
“It would not have succeeded,” said Olik. Then he touched Ibjen gently on the forehead. “A vow given to a mother is more sacred even than one given to a prince,” he said. “But then again, it was your father who gave you into my service. How could you have faced him, if you had succeeded in abandoning me?”
Miserable, Ibjen lowered his head even farther.