They were at close quarters now, both ships almost dead in the water and shrouded by a gagging envelope of gunsmoke. Grapples flew out from the Rumour, and poles reached to their extremities as the vessels, great and small, wrapped one another in a tight embrace of battle.

  The Rumour and the Butcher Ship came side to side, stem to stern. Just before their fenders crashed and grated against each other, Sheerglas fired a final retort and stove in the enemy’s hull in six places just above the line of flotation.

  Screaming, the Reivers began to mob and charge across onto the barque. They scrambled across boarding planks, clambered over nets, or swung out on yard ends. Ferocious hand-to-hand fighting broke out along the barque’s starboard rail.

  Sesto saw Silvaro storm across, and Casaudor and Benuto too. Even Tende had left the tiller and was leaping across the deep gap between the fighting ships, his Ebonian war-axe lofted in his hand. The caliver and swivel gun men, along the Rumour’s battered side, blasted away at the heads of the enemy crewmen.

  Sesto grabbed hold of a boarding line in the thick of the mayhem and steeled himself to go over.

  Ymgrawl grabbed at him. ‘Are thee mad? Thou stays here!’

  ‘The devil you say!’ Sesto cursed, kicking the lean boucaner’s hands away. ‘I have a debt to pay!’

  Pushing off, Sesto swung over onto the barque.

  XVI

  The Reivers had made it look so damned easy.

  Sesto hadn’t counted for the sheer drop between hulls that yawned below him, or the effort such a swing involved. Nor had he realised how hard it would be to hold on to a rope. When, more by luck than judgement, he landed hard on the barque’s deck, he was almost impressed with himself, and privately swore that he’d never do such a thing again.

  Abruptly, he had more pressing matters to deal with. A member of the rival crew – a howling, bearded thug dressed in red leather – charged at him, swinging a cut-less.

  Badly balanced after his landing and all but falling over, Sesto tried to pull out the grand flintlock Silvaro had given him.

  He got it free, but before he could actually fire it, the enemy cut-less dashed it to the deck.

  The brute in the red leather kicked Sesto over and swung up his curved blade to finish him.

  Then he fell over, hard, blood bubbling out of a neat little hole in his forehead.

  Sesto lowered his ornate Arabyan piece. It had proved its worth, to him, at least.

  Silvaro, Roque and Casaudor, with a gang of Reivers, had almost fought their way down the mid-deck to the barque’s wheel when the tide of battle turned, decisively at last.

  It had been hard slugging and brute blading all the way along. The decks were plashy with spilled blood, and Roque and Silvaro were both covered in bloody scratches and gashes, their shirts shredded. Casaudor, somehow, was untouched, though his coat was stained with the gore of others.

  Then they heard the rolling thunder of guns. They saw the flash and fizz beyond the port rail and felt the wet deck beneath them shudder and protest.

  The Safire had stormed out of the inlet, having deliberately hung back to allow the enemy to pass clear. Now it came in, fast as an arrow, sheets fully fat, giving out cannonade after cannonade from its starboard guns.

  It sped up along the barque’s port side, firing and flashing and adding to the smoking fog.

  No man could argue with the situation. The great barque was vanquished.

  The Reivers had won.

  ‘You pretended?’ Luka Silvaro hissed. He was incredulous.

  ‘We did. It seemed to be the thing… I mean to say, it worked.’

  ‘It worked. Did it?’

  ‘Yes, sir…’

  They stood in the barque’s master cabin. The air was still filmy with smoke, and blood and water dripped down from between the deck boards above. Luka stood at one end with Roque and Sesto. At the other, under the blown-out window lights, a powder-burned and bleeding man sat in a chair he had been forced into.

  ‘By what name was this barque known?’

  ‘It is the Demiurge, lord.’

  ‘And by what name are you known?’

  ‘I am Pieter Pieters, of Bretonnia born. I was master mate of this craft. My captain was Henri the Little, also known as Bearded John. I saw you kill him in the tiller house, lord. I saw your sword sever his neck not fifteen minutes past.’

  ‘So I did. His blood stains my shirt. And his neck-bone put a dink in my favourite shamshir.’ Luka’s voice was full of boiling threat. ‘Bearded John I know. And the Demiurge, consort to the Kymera, the vessel of Red Henri of Breton.’

  ‘The same, lord.’ Pieters coughed up a good deal of blood and fell slackly back in the chair.

  Silvaro paced forward and dragged the dying man up by the hair. ‘And you say this is… pretence?’

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘You pretended to be the Butcher Ship?’

  Pieters leaned forward and set his elbows on his knees. ‘It was easy enough. The whole of the sea fears the Butcher Ship. We clad us up in red and set a chemical lamp at our bows for effect. Every port we came to gave us vittals with no argument. We ruled the Labyrinth and the Littoral with fear. They were terrified of us. Reputation is everything.’

  ‘It is indeed,’ said Silvaro. ‘So what do you know of the real Butcher? Is it Henri?’

  ‘It is, sir.’

  ‘The Kymera is the Butcher Ship?’

  ‘It is, sir.’

  ‘Do you know how that might be?’

  Pieters dropped his head. ‘It was the end of last season, shortly before we were due to return to Sartosa. We were a company of four – the Kymera, the Demiurge, the Alastor and the Diadem. One day, Henri sighted a Tilean treasure ship, returning from Lustria or mayhap Araby or mayhap the dark continent of the south, heading across the Bay of Tilea at great speed, and gave chase. All of us were soon outdistanced by both Henri’s powerful galleon and the fleeing prey – which was moving with unnatural speed. We never saw Henri again, though we expected him to turn back for us once he’d made his kill… or the treasure ship had escaped.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘What? Nothing! Henri never came back. What terror or toxin he found on that treasure ship, I cannot say. It was like unto a magic ship, a daemon-cursed mast, running against the laws of nature across the sea. Henri was a fool to chase it, and a greater fool to touch it. What it has made him, I dread to think.’

  ‘Though you were happy to live off his new reputation,’ Silvaro sneered.

  ‘It was a living until you came along,’ Pieters said.

  Silvaro turned away.

  ‘One thing I must ask,’ Pieters said. ‘When you came for us, you flew the jolie rouge. Does that mark still stand now?’

  ‘I forgot about that,’ Luka Silvaro said, turning back. His shamshir whistled as it slid through the air. Pieters’s head bounced heavily off the deck boards.

  ‘Yes, it bloody does still stand,’ said Silvaro and strode out of the cabin.

  XVII

  At some damnable hour of the pre-dawn – so late and yet so early that gods of the sky and sprites of the pit alike had taken to their beds – a chamberlain woke Juan Narciso, the Marquis of Aguilas.

  The marquis, a loose-tempered man in his forty-fifth year, was about to order the man beaten for rousing him, when he heard the bell towers of the city below the Palacio ringing all of a frenzy.

  ‘What?’ he coughed. ‘What is it?’

  ‘My lord,’ bowed the chamberlain. ‘Sails, my lord, sails have entered the bay.’

  Juan Narciso closed his eyes, sighed a silent prayer, and said, ‘Fetch my robes.’

  Aguilas was the southernmost of the old port cities on the eastern flank of mainland Estalia. Sea trade had been its primary industry for centuries, and its deep harbour had seen a busy traffic of treasure ships, merchantmen, privateers and warships over the years. But its relationship with the oceans went deeper than that: it was the birthplace of ships. The shipbuilding docks and dry-yards of Aguilas were a womb where many ships of the Estalian navy had been conceived and brought to term. Not for nothing was the standard of the city-state emblazoned with a full-sailed barque and two leaping dolphins.

  The late summer dawn was pumice grey when the marquis and his retinue arrived at the wharf. Behind them, the great city climbed away up the slopes of the bay: the sea quarters, the market places, the higher streets of the old town, the refined districts where the gentry lived, all the way up to the crown of the volcanic plug where the Palacio sat, lowering across the bay. The church bells were still ringing their alarms, and most citizens had taken to their cellars, or begun to flee up into the hills and olive groves of the Del Campo. Some, however, inquisitive even in the face of death, had gathered at the dockside. They bowed as the marquis’s men shouldered a path through them.

  The harbour waters were empty, and had been so for many months, since the start of the curse. Only the Fuega sat at anchor, pugnacious and regal.

  On the dockside and along the wide harbour wall, detachments of the city and marine guards had assembled, and the culverins had been primed.

  As Juan Narciso approached, he heard the occasional rattle of armoured men held to attention, the flap of the banners, the snort and stomp of reined-in horses. He smelled gunpowder and fear.

  Captain Duero of the marine guard approached and saluted. ‘We are set to repel, excellency.’

  Narciso nodded. He swallowed. ‘Is it…?’

  Duero shook his head. ‘I cannot say, excellency. Captain Hernan awaits signal to slip anchor and meet them.’

  ‘Hold the signal,’ Narciso said. ‘A spyglass?’

  One was brought. The Marquis of Aguilas trained it out beyond the harbour mouth, beyond the lips of the fortified seawalls. A glimpse of those reassured him. Aguilas was a city of war as much as it was a city of trade. Its sturdy defences had withstood many a raid and several notable sieges by the fleets of Araby.

  There, far out, like phantoms in the deep water of the sound, he saw the ships. Two of them. A great barque with a smaller consort ship, a brigantine, perhaps. They had slackened their sheets and seemed unwilling to venture in towards the harbour and the range of the city’s cannons.

  ‘Are they known?’ Narciso asked.

  Duero shook his head again. ‘Their names and brands cannot be read from this distance, excellency, though I’d make them as Tilean vessels. Should we raise a signal from the breakwater wall?’

  ‘If they’re in no hurry to come in,’ said Narciso, ‘I’m in no hurry to greet them. Gods, but I wish we knew them.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, my lord marquis,’ a voice called from back down the quay. ‘Begging your pardon, but I think I know them.’

  Narciso turned. A young man, Tilean by his accent, had pushed to the front of the gaggle of citizens held back by the marquis’s bodyguards. The man made a bow when he saw Narciso notice him.

  ‘Bring him here!’ the lord of Aguilas ordered.

  Two heavy troopers in comb morion helms grabbed the young man and pulled him up along the flagstones into their lord’s presence. The young man bowed again. His clothes were fine, Narciso noted, but he was shabby and he smelled unwashed. There was a neglected air to him.

  ‘Look at me,’ Narciso ordered. ‘These ships. You know them, do you?’

  ‘I believe I do, excellency,’ the young man said. He spoke Estalian well – very well, Narciso had to admit. In fact, despite his Tilean twang, the young man spoke it as well as one of the finely-educated courtiers of Tilea. He had schooling in diplomatic convention and manners.

  ‘Then tell me,’ Narciso said.

  ‘The barque, excellency, is named the Demiurge. The brigantine is called the Rumour.’

  ‘Indeed…’

  ‘My lord!’ hissed Duero. ‘Those are known pirate vessels, both!’

  ‘And how do you know that?’ Narciso asked the young man.

  ‘Because their master told me so, excellency,’ the young man said gently.

  ‘You admit to consorting with pirates?’ Narciso asked.

  ‘No, my lord. But I admit to this–’ The young man reached in under his coat. Immediately, Duero struck him to the ground. The guard captain roughly searched the young man’s clothing.

  ‘A weapon?’ Narciso asked.

  ‘No. No, excellency. Just this.’ Duero held out a fold of parchment.

  ‘If you’d but let me explain,’ the young man said.

  Narciso shook open the papers and read them. ‘Letters of marque and reprisal. Signed by the Prince of Luccini.’

  ‘Yes, my lord marquis,’ said the young man. ‘May I get up?’

  Narciso nodded.

  ‘His highness the prince has charged those vessels with a task that I imagine will meet with your lordship’s full approval. We require supply and, more particularly, the craftsmanship of your famed dockyards. It was considered foolhardy to simply sail into your harbour and face the misguided wrath of your guns. A more discreet approach was deemed to be in order.’

  ‘I see. By whom?’

  ‘My master, Luka Silvaro.’

  ‘That rogue? Could he not come here himself?’

  ‘I did,’ a voice from the crowd said. ‘But I fancied the Marquis of Aguilas might just hang me without asking questions.’

  At a sharp nod from Duero, twenty musketeers turned and trained their primed weapons on the crowd, which ebbed back in dismay.

  ‘Who said that? Show yourself, pirate!’

  ‘Would you shoot down your own citizens, excellency?’ the young man asked.

  ‘To find that blackguard? Yes!’ Narciso snarled.

  ‘No wonder, then, that he has hidden himself,’ the young man said. ‘Two things you should know, sir, before you give your captain-at-arms the order to fire. One, the marque has charged Luka Silvaro to hunt and destroy the Butcher Ship, against pardon for his crimes.’

  ‘And the second thing?’ asked the Marquis of Aguilas.

  ‘You should know that I am Giordano Paolo, sixth and youngest son of the Prince of Luccini.’

  ‘Why in Manann’s name didn’t you tell me before?’ Luka growled.

  ‘There was no need,’ Sesto replied.

  ‘No need?’

  ‘No need at all.’

  They were in an apartment in the palacio, Sesto sitting on a bench overlooking a courtyard garden where songbirds trilled and fluttered, Luka pacing behind him.

  ‘I thought you were some courtier, some diplomat sent… dammit! You should have told me!’

  ‘Why?’ asked Sesto.

  ‘Because! Because it puts pressure on me! Guarding the life of the prince’s own blood!’

  ‘You were under pressure before. To keep me alive. It doesn’t matter what blood runs in my veins. With me dead, you’ll never get your pardon, even if you scupper the Butcher.’

  Luka Silvaro stopped pacing. ‘True enough, I suppose.’ He looked at Sesto. ‘So what do I call you now, princeling?’

  ‘Sesto,’ Sesto replied. ‘There’s no reason the crew should know.’

  Silvaro shrugged and nodded.

  It had taken them a week and a half to limp up the Littoral from the engagement at Angel’s Bar. Both the Rumour and, especially, the Demiurge, were badly wounded. Casaudor and Benuto had argued that the great barque should be left behind, especially seeing as Silvaro had executed every man jack of its crew according to the code of the jolie rouge.

  Roque had supported Silvaro’s notion that they could use every ship they could find. The Demiurge was a fighting man-at-arms, and full-crewed and gunned, could menace anything on the seas. As they needed to find a friendly port to repair the Rumour anyway, it seemed only fit to skeleton-crew the Demiurge and bring it along. With the Safire, the trio would make a handsome pack to hunt the Butcher Ship to its doom.

  And so they had limped up the mainland coast, the Safire running protection for the two crippled vessels. Aguilas had been decided upon early as the only viable port of call. There, they might be repaired, re-victualled, and the Demiurge recrewed. It was the only harbour they could reach in decent time that could furnish the services they needed.

  Providing, of course, that Aguilas was receptive.

  That had been why, two days out, Silvaro and Sesto had switched to the Safire and sailed in to an uninhabited bay three leagues south of the Aquilas Bay, to enter the city on foot and broker the agreement.

  ‘They may still hang us,’ Luka said.

  ‘They may,’ Sesto replied. ‘Well, you certainly. They would not dare hang me. What, and risk my father’s reprisal fleet?’

  Luka grinned. ‘You’re learning the selfish streak of a true pirate, Sesto, you know that?’

  ‘Must be the company I’ve been keeping.’

  They took a glass of wine each and walked up to a terrace that overlooked the harbour bay. Below, signalled in, the Demiurge and the Rumour had both come into dock. Out in the sound, the distant shape of the Safire was now turning inwards with the wind. It was a bright day, softly lit by a golden Estalian sun, now the dawn vapours had gone.

  ‘Just one other ship down there,’ Sesto pointed. ‘An Estalian man-o-war.’

  ‘The Fuega. Yes, I saw it,’ Luka replied. ‘A grand old dame of the sea, an Estalian galleon, forty-gunned, mean as a bludgeon. I saw her straining in the harbour there, keen to slip out and take us on. Ah, the times I’ve tangled with old ladies like that! The backbone of the Estalian navy, the scourge of pirate men. Slow and fat, like a dowager duchess, heavy on the turn, but packed full of spite and thunder. Those close gun decks, tight spaced. They can do a wonder of hurt. That’s why men of my inclination switched to smaller, faster craft like the Rumour. Why fight what you can outrun?’