‘My dear Sesto!’ Guido cried, and moved forward to press a crystal goblet into his hand. ‘Let us toast to the future! To just rewards! To great conquests!’

  Sesto raised his glass.

  Silent as a shadow, Ymgrawl crossed the quay, drawing his tanning dagger and folding his finger around the deep choil at the back of the blade. He looked up at the Demiurge, and considered the best way in. Along the anchor say, that would be it. A shinny up there, and over the bower anchor into the–

  ‘Looking for something?’

  Ymgrawl turned, bringing his dagger up. But Curcozo and his sailmaker’s mallet were much faster.

  Alberto Long was laughing uproariously at something Handsome Onofre had said. In the wafting, golden light, Sesto tried to remember what that might have been. His head was spinning. Too much wine, though for the life of him, he couldn’t remember his glass being refilled even once.

  He got up, unsteady. Guido’s laughing face loomed at him, then Alberto’s, then Kazuriband’s, then Onofre’s, then Guido’s yet again.

  ‘I feel…’ Sesto began.

  More laughter. Sesto fell on his face and upturned the table.

  Their backsides were sore from the saddle, and dust caked their throats. Luka Silvaro rode around the headland into Aguilas after dark, Casaudor at his side, Captain Duero and his men straggled out behind. The path was dusty and the roadside thickets thrilled with cicadas.

  From the brow of the road, Luka had a good view of the Aguilas harbourside, glittering with lights. Even from this distance, he could make out the faint refrains of tavern music on the hot night wind.

  Something was wrong. He could taste it. He could–

  Down below, in the harbour, there was a sudden bright flash, a huge wash of orange flame. A moment later, the thump of the blast came to him on the air.

  Luka cried out and spurred his tired horse on down the roadway, urging it into a gallop. Behind him, Casaudor and the marine guardsmen did likewise.

  Flames lit up the dockside below him, flames that were suddenly quenched. Luka saw his precious Rumour foundered against the quay, half-sunk. Steam and smoke came boiling out of its underside, flaring white in the evening sky. There were only two ships at the quayside. The Safire, and the ailing Rumour.

  Luka glanced east, and saw the Demiurge making fine sail out of Aguilas Bay, past the anchored Fuega, out into the sound with full sheets, heading towards the setting moons.

  ‘Guido!’ Luka yelled. ‘You bastard! Guido! I’m going to follow you to hell for this! To hell and back!’

  XXII

  A powder charge had been used to hole the Rumour below the waterline. Scuppered, she slumped in the water at an angle, beside the dock. Steam still rose from her hatches. She would not be going anywhere for a good while.

  Luka dismounted, threw his reins to Duero, and walked slowly towards the Rumour, ignoring the commotion and the figures dashing around him. Bells were ringing, and the city guard had been raised. Members of the Reivers company, summoned from taverns and stews, joined their captain to stare in disbelief at the crippled brigantine.

  This was infamy. Guido had surpassed himself. To steal the Demiurge and fly was crime enough, but Guido Lightfinger, knowing his half-brother would come after him, had purposefully wounded the Rumour so she could not sail.

  Luka was shaking with rage, and there was worse to come.

  ‘He hath taken Sesto,’ Ymgrawl said. The gnarled boucaner was clutching a bloody wound on the side of his head.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sesto was aboard the Demiurge,’ Ymgrawl replied. ‘I could not stop him.’

  ‘What happened to you?’ Silvaro asked.

  ‘That bastard Curcozo happened,’ the boucaner said bitterly.

  ‘Silke! Silke!’ Silvaro yelled into the smoky darkness. The master of the Safire appeared, clearly agitated by the night’s events.

  ‘Make the Safire ready to sail. At once, you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, Luka,’ Silke nodded, and began shouting orders to his men.

  ‘You’ll take the Safire after Guido?’ Roque asked.

  ‘It’s a damn fast ship. With luck, I might catch the Demiurge up, despite its lead.’

  ‘And then what?’ Roque asked. ‘The Safire cannot take on a barque that size alone.’

  ‘It can and it will,’ Silvaro snapped. ‘I’ll find a way. Roque, with the fury I have inside me right now, I could take the Demiurge with just a longboat and a pistol.’

  Roque raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t doubt it, Luka,’ he said.

  Luka turned away and began to pace, his mind racing. What truly troubled him was not Guido’s treachery – he knew what the man was capable of. The hurt Luka felt was the mystifying betrayal of the sea itself. They had conducted the test, and the sea had judged Guido trustworthy. Had the sea lied, or had Guido found some way to cheat even the rolling, eternal waters? And if the former was true, then the sea and King Death had deserted Luka Silvaro entirely.

  ‘Assemble a company of men-at-arms, under your command,’ Luka said to Casaudor. ‘You’ll come with me aboard the Safire. Roque, take charge of things here. See what you can do to get the marquis’s help in making swift repairs on the Rumour.’

  Roque nodded, though he knew such work would be a serious undertaking. Their beloved Rumour might even be beyond saving.

  ‘I will come with thee,’ Ymgrawl said to Silvaro. It wasn’t a request. It was a statement of intent. ‘I have business with Curcozo.’

  It was another three hours before the Safire cast off and sped away into the night. There was a good wind, and Silke ordered the crew to rig not only the main sail, but also the great lateen, which ran off the long bowsprit.

  Making great speed, the water hissing off her white bows, the Safire shot out into the open sea like an arrow from a longbow.

  The next day was half over when Sesto awoke. His head hurt so badly he hardly dared to move for a few minutes, and when he did, he was sick.

  He was on an unmade bunk in a small, dark cabin. It was cold, and there was such a tang of salt in the air that he didn’t need the motion of the deck and the constant rheumatic creaking of the timbers around him to tell him he was at sea. At least the rolling sensation was real and not just a symptom of his malaise.

  Sesto couldn’t remember where he was or what he was supposed to be–

  Suddenly, it all came back. He rose up, was sick again, and then sat in silence trying to clear his head, a cold sweat on his body. Guido, the dinner aboard the Demiurge…

  He was on the Demiurge now, he knew that at once. Despite the aromas they had in common – salt, tar, smoke, grease – all ships had their own distinct scents. The Safire had a clean, waxy smell with a hint of camphor and linseed. The Rumour had a much more robust odour, a musky flavour of gunpowder, turtle meat and spice, undoubtedly because of the permeating smells of Fahd’s pungent cooking. This was the Demiurge. It stank of dirty bilges, cloves and onions.

  Sesto knew he had been drugged, and supposed he had been kidnapped. His pistol and his sword had gone. But he was not tied up or restrained, and the door to his cabin was not locked.

  He went out into the dark companionway and made his way up onto the deck, his legs automatically compensating for the heavy roll of the deck. There must be quite a swell, Sesto thought.

  On deck, he narrowed his eyes against the harsh light. It was a bright, blustery day, cold, with a great white sky. The grey sea, foam capped, was rolling hard, and the Demiurge was crashing through it, full sailed. There was rain in the air, and Sesto closed his eyes and let it wash his face.

  He looked around. There was no sign of land. Just the raging sea.

  ‘Did you sleep well, master?’

  Sesto turned. Handsome Onofre, ropes across his shoulder, was grinning at him.

  ‘Where is Guido?’ Sesto asked.

  ‘Where a captain should be,’ Onofre said.

  Sesto pushed past the man and walked down the mid-deck. The crew was busy with the sheets, hauling in teams. Whistles blew and orders to haul were barked in relay along the gangs.

  A few men looked at him as he went past.

  Guido was on the poop deck by the wheel. Kazuriband, the helmsman, was easing the heavy wheel by the king-spoke, and Curcozo, the master mate, stood at his captain’s side. They all gazed with some amusement at Sesto as he climbed into view.

  ‘Master Sciortini,’ Guido said, with a mocking half-bow. ‘How nice of you to join us.’

  ‘I don’t believe, sir, I was offered any choice.’

  Guido nodded. ‘True enough.’

  ‘You’ve abandoned Luka,’ Sesto said.

  ‘More than abandoned,’ Curcozo muttered, but did not finish the observation.

  ‘My half-brother and I do not get on, Sesto. I thought it best that we broke our arrangements and went our separate ways.’

  ‘You thought that once he’d given you a ship and a crew.’

  Guido looked scornfully at Sesto. ‘Do you expect me to feel guilty? I’m a pirate. This is what we do.’

  ‘And what exactly is it that we’re doing?’ Sesto asked.

  ‘We’re heading home.’

  ‘To Sartosa.’

  ‘No, Sesto. Not Sartosa. To your home. To Luccini.’

  Sesto smiled and shook his head. ‘To claim the reward from my father.’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘For a task you have not completed.’

  Guido grinned. ‘The prince needn’t know that. Not until he’s paid us and we’re long gone.’

  ‘I must be missing something,’ said Sesto. ‘I know you need me to pull off this shameful deceit. But you must realise I’ll not support your story for a moment.’

  ‘But of course. Unfortunately, by the time we reach Luccini, you will be very ill. So ill, you will not be able to talk. Your father will be relieved just to have you back alive. Onofre is very handy with philtres and poisons, as you found out last night. Your malady will be very convincing.’

  ‘Luka will come after you,’ Sesto said.

  ‘No, I don’t believe he will.’

  Sesto stared at Guido for a moment, then turned away and left the poop deck. Shaking and ill, he wandered the Demiurge’s upper decks for over an hour, contemplating his options. More than once he considered hurling himself into the breaking seas to rob the vile Guido of his winning card. But Sesto didn’t want to die. And, for all Guido had said, he was sure Luka would come. Not for him, but for revenge. Luka would want Guido dead for this.

  Sesto decided to bide his time and see what fate brought. It would be a week at least before they reached the Tilean mainland. In that time, things might change. Sesto might even get his hands on a blade and slide it between Guido’s ribs.

  He was standing at the mainhead rail beneath the cracking canvas of the foremast, gazing out into the grey chop and the rain, when he noticed a figure curled up miserably beside the bower anchor.

  ‘Belissi?’

  The old carpenter wriggled over and peered up at him. ‘Master Sesto, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Manann’s sake, Belissi,’ Sesto said. ‘I thought you were Luka’s man. I never imagined that you’d throw your lot in with this gang of rogues.’

  ‘Oh, you mistake me, sir,’ Belissi said. ‘I am not a part of this. Not at all, as King Death is my witness. I was working on the hatch coamings until late last night, and laid myself down to sleep where I was, so that I could take up my tools again first thing. When I woke, I found we were at sea. Imagine my consternation. That bastard Curcozo found me, and he and Alberto Long were all for slicing my gizzard and tossing me over the rail, but Guido said not to. He said I could live if I swore to him and plied my trade. There’s still many fixings to be done to this old barque.’

  ‘You poor fellow. We’re prisoners both, it seems.’

  Belissi nodded. ‘Aye, sir, but not for long I fancy.’

  Sesto realised the old carpenter was distressed, and not just because of his situation as an unwilling crewman in Guido Lightfinger’s company. He was fearful and despairing.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sesto asked.

  ‘I mean we have put to sea, young sir. Put to sea from the mainland and I have not made my customary offering. She will be angry for that, you see.’

  ‘Who will?’ Sesto asked, dreading the answer he knew he was about to hear.

  ‘Mother mine,’ said Belissi. ‘I have not made my offering to soothe her. She will be coming. Coming for me and all the souls of this doomed barque.’

  Sesto went and found Handsome Onofre, and demanded a jug of rum. Onofre, faintly amused and assuming Sesto wished to drown his sorrows, produced one from the stores. Sesto returned to the mainrail head and plied the one-legged carpenter with the sweet liquor to calm his nerves.

  ‘Can you not fashion another leg of wood now and make your offering?’

  Belissi shook his head. ‘Too late now, sir, too late. Mother mine is quick to anger.’

  They sat for an hour or so, passing the jug back and forth, though Sesto took only the smallest sips. Belissi became quite drunk, but at least he seemed to relax.

  The wind took up more furiously, and the Demiurge lurched and juddered massively as she scaled the heaving waves. Sesto heard a cry.

  It came from the foretop castle. The lookout there was singing loudly. ‘Sail! Sail at the close reach!’

  There was activity on the poop deck, and orders shouted that Sesto could not hear above the buffet of the wind. He got up and looked out, but could resolve nothing in the spray and the chop. The distance was a boiling grey torrent, masked in haze.

  ‘Here,’ Belissi said, pulling himself upright and offering Sesto a small brass spyglass from his tool sack. Sesto extended the instrument and stared out into the murk.

  And there it was, just above the line of the horizon.

  A massive black ship.

  XXIII

  Night settled uneasily about Aguilas town. A full day had passed since the Safire’s nocturnal departure. Putting all concerns about Luka, Guido and their bloody chase into destiny out of his mind – for he knew it was now far beyond his power to influence – Roque had settled to furious industry. Three hours of the morning he had spent in a meeting with the master shipwrights, Captain Hernan, and officers of the marquis’s court, negotiating the urgent repairs to the Rumour. The marquis declined to involve himself personally, but Hernan was not backwards in conveying his excellency’s displeasure.

  ‘Pirates cheating pirates, back-stabbing one another. This is exactly what we expect from ungoverned scum like you,’ Hernan announced. ‘You fight and feud, and betray each other, and behave like sewer rats. The marquis believes he should not have become involved with you, despite your letters and seals. Aguilas has provided labour and material in good faith, and now that effort is overturned. It is an offence.’

  Roque had been tempted to ask the captain if he thought Luka a good swordsman, but he bit his tongue. Silvaro bested you, he wanted to say, and I am a much finer fencer than he. Shall we duel to settle this?

  He forced himself to act with the diplomacy he knew Luka would have expected from him. He apologised and apologised again, reaffirming the Reivers’ single-minded intention to seek out and destroy the Butcher Ship. Eventually, Hernan was assuaged, possibly because Luka had been smart enough to leave a true-blooded, articulate Estalian like Roque behind to seek appeasement. By noon, the work to lift, pump and repair the Rumour had begun.

  At dusk, Roque left the harbour. The work was to continue around the clock, the dock gangs labouring by lamplight. Roque left Benuto in charge, and walked up through the old town with Tende.

  ‘Where are we going?’ the Ebonian asked.

  ‘For a quiet drink,’ Roque replied.

  They stopped at a dining house in the high old town, and shared a dish of rice and shrimp and a bottle of musket. Around them, along the quiet narrow streets, stood the whitewashed haciendas and walled gardens of the grandees. Orange trees hung heavy with fruit and filled the air with their scent.

  ‘I’m cursed,’ Roque said after a long silence. ‘Reyno’s daemon touch… it is in me and won’t let me go.’

  ‘I know,’ said Tende. ‘I expected as much. Do you want me to kill you? I know several painless ways.’

  Roque shook his head. ‘No, no, old friend. But I thank you for the offer. Listen to me now. The curse of the Butcher Ship is in me, irrevocably. In my blood, my dreams, my soul. I am damned. Sooner or later, it will come out and consume me.’

  Tende nodded. ‘King Death will have a place for you at his high table, Roque.’

  ‘Yes, I think he might,’ Roque smiled. ‘But before that great day dawns, I yet have a connection. A daemon-link to the Butcher Ship we seek.’

  Tende shrugged his massive black shoulders and sank a cup of musket. ‘You do, you do.’

  Roque sat back and folded his arms. ‘Well, I could just wait for my doom to overcome me…’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or… use that link. Use my curse. If I am connected to the Butcher Ship through its infectious magick, surely I should be able to employ that fact to our benefit?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Tende asked, guardedly.

  ‘We need to find it. Hunt it down. When Luka returns… and I have no doubt he will return… we will have just scant weeks to locate our quarry before the season ends and the winter sets in. I want to turn the curse that is in me back on itself. I want to divine where the Butcher Ship is.’

  Tende breathed out and shook his head. ‘You’re talking about powerful voudon, the very worst black magicks. I can’t do that for you, Roque. I know that’s why you asked me here, but I simply can’t.’