Curse of the Mistwraith. Janny Wurts

with nerves. ‘Lock him up in the chartroom.’

      The mate narrowed faded eyes and spat. ‘That’s a damned fool place to stow such a dangerous prisoner! D’ye want us all broken? He’s clever enough to escape.’

      ‘Silence!’ The first officer clenched his teeth, sensitive to the eyes that watched from every quarter of the ship. The mate’s complaint was just; but no officer could long maintain command if he backed down before the entire crew. The order would have to stand.

      ‘The prisoner needs a healer,’ the first officer justified firmly. ‘I’ll have him moved and set in irons at the earliest opportunity.’

      The mate grunted, bent and easily lifted the Shadow Master from the deck. ‘What a slight little dog, for all his killer’s reputation,’ he commented. Then, cocky to conceal his apprehension, he sauntered the length of the quarterdeck with the captive slung like a duffel across his shoulder.

      The pair vanished down the companionway, Arithon’s knuckles haplessly banging each rung of the ladder-steep stair. The first officer shut his eyes. The harbour at Port Royal lay over twenty days’ sail on the best winds and fair weather. Every jack tar of Briane’s company would be a rich man, if any of them survived to make port. Impatient, inexperienced and sorely worried, the first officer shouted to the carpenter to hurry his work on the mainmast.

      Night fell before Briane was repaired enough to carry canvas. Clouds had obscured the stars by the time the first officer ordered the ship under way. The bosun relayed his commands, since the mate was too hoarse to make himself heard over the pound of hammers under the forecastle. Bone-weary, the crew swung themselves aloft with appalling lack of agility. Unbrailed canvas billowed from the yards; on deck, sailhands stumbled to man the braces. Sail slammed taut with a crash and a rattle of blocks, and the bow shouldered east through the swell. Staid as a weathered carving, the quartermaster laid Briane on course for Amroth. If the wind held, the ship would reach home only slightly behind the main fleet.

      Relieved to be back under sail, the first officer excused all but six hands under the bosun on watch. Then he called for running lamps to be lit. The cabin boy made rounds with flint and striker. Briane’s routine passed uninterrupted until the flame in the aft lantern flicked out, soundlessly, as if touched by the breath of Dharkaron. Inside the space of a heartbeat the entire ship became locked in darkness as bleak as the void before creation. The rhythm of the joiners’ hammers wavered and died, replaced abruptly by shouting.

      The first officer leaped for the companionway. His boots barely grazed the steps. Half-sliding down the rail, he heard the shrill crash of glass as the panes in the stern window burst. The instant his feet slapped deck, he rammed shoulder-first into the chartroom door. Teak panels exploded into slivers. The first officer carried on into blackness dense as calligrapher’s ink. Sounds of furious struggle issued from the direction of the broken window.

      ‘Stop him!’ The first officer’s shout became a grunt as his ribs bashed the edge of the chart table. He blundered past. A body tripped him. He stumbled, slammed painfully against someone’s elbow, then shoved forward into a battering press of bodies. The hiss of the wake beneath the counter sounded near enough to touch. Spattered by needle-fine droplets of spray, the first officer realized in distress that Arithon might already be half over the sill. Once overboard, the sorcerer could bind illusion, shape shadow and blend invisibly with the waves. No search would find him.

      The first officer dived to intervene, hit a locked mass of men and felt himself dashed brutally aside. Someone cursed. A whirl of unseen motion cut through the drafts from the window. Struck across the chest by a hard, contorted body, the first officer groped blind and two-handedly hooked cloth still damp from the sea. Aware of whom he held, he locked his arms and clung obstinately. His prisoner twisted, wrenching every tendon in his wrists. Flung sidewards into a bulkhead, the first officer gasped. He felt as if he handled a careening maelstrom of fury. A thigh sledge-hammered one wrist, breaking his grasp. Then someone crashed like an axed oak across his chest. Torn loose from the captive, the first officer went down, flattened under a mass of sweaty flesh.

      The battle raged on over his head, marked in darkness by the grunt of drawn breaths and the smack of knuckles, elbows and knees battering into muscle. Nearby, a seaman retched, felled by a kick in the belly. The first officer struggled against the crush to rise. Any blow that connected in that ensorcelled dark had to be ruled by luck. If Arithon’s hands remained bound, force and numbers must ultimately prevail as his guardsmen found grips he could not break.

      ‘Bastard!’ somebody said. Boots scuffled and a fist smacked flesh. Arithon’s resistance abated slightly.

      The first officer regained his feet, when a low, clear voice cut through the strife.

      ‘Let go. Or your fingers will burn to the bone.’

      ‘Don’t listen!’ The first officer pushed forward. ‘The threat’s an illusion.’

      A man screamed in agony, counterpointed by splintering wood. Desperate, the first officer shot a blow in the approximate direction of the speaker. His knuckles cracked into bone. As if cued by the impact, the sorcerer’s web of darkness wavered and lifted.

      Light from the aft-running lamp spilled through the ruptured stern window, touching gilt edges to a litter of glass and smashed furnishings. Arithon hung limp in the arms of three deckhands. Their faces were white and their chests heaved like runners just finished with a marathon. Another man groaned by the chart-locker, hands clenched around a dripping shin; while against the starboard bulkhead the mate stood scowling, his colour high and the pulsebeat angry and fast behind his ripped collar. The first officer avoided the accusation in the older seaman’s eyes. If it was unnatural that a prisoner so recently injured and unconscious should prove capable of such fight, to make an issue of the fact invited trouble.

      Anxious to take charge before the crew recovered enough to talk, the first officer snapped to the moaning crewman, ‘Fetch a light.’

      The man quieted, scuffled to his feet and hastily limped off to find a lantern. As a rustle of returned movement stirred through the beleaguered crew in the chartroom, the first officer pointed to a clear space between the glitter of slivered glass. ‘Set the s’Ffalenn there. And you, find a set of shackles to bind his feet.’

      Seamen jumped to comply. The man returned with the lantern as they lowered Arithon to the deck. Flamelight shot copper reflections across the blood which streaked his cheek and shoulder; dark patches had already soaked into the torn shirt beneath.

      ‘Sir, I warned you. Chartroom’s not secure,’ the mate insisted, low-voiced. ‘Have the sorcerer moved to a safer place.’

      The first officer bristled. ‘When I wish your advice, I’ll ask. You’ll stand guard here until the healer comes. That should not be much longer.’

      But the ship’s healer was yet engaged with the task of removing the broadhead of an enemy arrow from the captain’s lower abdomen. Since he was bound to be occupied for some time yet to come, the mate clamped his jaw and did not belabour the obvious: that Arithon’s presence endangered the ship in far more ways than one. Fear of his sorceries could drive even the staunchest crew to mutiny.

      That moment one of the seamen exclaimed and flung back. The first officer swung in time to see the captive stir and awaken. Eyes the colour of new spring grass opened and fixed on the men who crowded the chartroom. The steep s’Ffalenn features showed no expression, though surely pain alone prevented a second assault with shadow. Briane’s first officer searched his enemy’s face for a sign of human emotion and found no trace.

      ‘You were unwise to try that,’ he said, at a loss for other opening. That the same mother had borne this creature and Amroth’s well-beloved crown prince defied all reasonable credibility.

      Where his Grace, Lysaer, might have won his captors’ sympathy with glib and entertaining satire, Arithon of Karthan refused answer. His gaze never wavered and his manner stayed stark as a carving. The creak of timber and rigging filled an unpleasant silence. Crewmen shifted uneasily until a clink