A moment later the captain flung open the cabin door and barrelled into the passageway, bellowing a call for his First Mate. His boots thumped like fists hammering a wall as he made for the galley.
The cabin's door creaked back and forth on its hinges.
The treasurer's mouth opened and closed, then opened again. 'What choice?' he whispered to no-one in particular.
'Not yours to make,' Elan drawled.
The noble swung to him. 'Not mine? And who else, if not the man entrusted with the Aren treasury—'
'Is that what it's officially called, then? How about Pormqual's ill-gotten loot? Those seals on the crates below have the High Fist's sigil on them, not the Imperial sceptre—'
And so you have been in the hold, Salk Elan? Interesting.
'To lay hands upon those crates is punishable by death,' the treasurer hissed.
Elan sneered his disgust. 'You're doing the dirty work of a thief, so what does that make you?'
The noble went white. In silence he rose and, using his hands to steady himself as the ship pitched, made his way across the small room, then out into the passageway.
Salk Elan glanced at Kalam. 'So, my reluctant friend, what do you make of this captain of ours?'
'Nothing I'd share with you,' Kalam rumbled.
'Your constant efforts to avoid me have been childish.'
'Well, it's either that or I kill you outright.'
'How unpleasant of you, Kalam, after all the efforts I have made on your behalf.'
The assassin rose. 'Rest assured I'll repay the debt, Salk Elan.'
'You could do that with your company alone – intelligent conversation aboard this ship is proving hard to come by.'
'I'll spare a thought in sympathy,' Kalam said, heading to the cabin door.
'You wrong me, Kalam. I am not your enemy. Indeed, we two are much alike.'
The assassin paused in the portalway. 'If you're seeking friendship between us, Salk Elan, you've just taken a long step back with that observation.' He stepped out into the passage and made his way forward.
He emerged onto the main deck and found himself in the midst of furious activity. Gear was being battened down, sailors checking the rigging and others taking in sail. It was past the tenth bell and the night sky was solid clouds, not a star showing.
The captain reeled down to Kalam's side. 'What did I tell you? Lost its polish!'
A squall was coming – the assassin could feel it in the wind that now swirled as if the air had nowhere to go.
'From the south,' the captain laughed, clapping Kalam on the shoulder. 'We'll turn on the hunters, aye, won't we just! Storm-jibbed and marines crowding the forecastle, we'll ram 'em down their throats! Hood take these smirking stalkers – we'll see how long their grins last with a short sword jabbing 'em in the face, hey?' He leaned close, the wine sour on his breath. 'Look to your daggers, man, it'll be a night for close work, aye, won't it just.' His face spasmed suddenly and he jerked away, began screaming at his crew.
The assassin stared after him. Perhaps I'm not being paranoid, after all. The man's afflicted with something.
The deck heeled as they came hard about. The storm's wind arrived at the same time, lifting Ragstopper to run before it on stiff, shortened sails. Lanterns shuttered and the crew settling into their tasks, they plunged on, northward.
A sea battle in a raging storm, and the captain expects the marines to board the enemy craft, to stand on a pitching, wave-whipped deck and take the fight to the pirates. This is beyond audacious.
Two large figures appeared from behind, flanking the assassin. Kalam grimaced. Both of the treasurer's bodyguards had been incapacitated by seasickness since the first day, and neither looked in any condition to be able to do anything except puke his guts out on the assassin's boots, yet they stood their ground, hands on weapons.
'Master wishes to speak with you,' one of them growled.
'Too bad,' Kalam growled back.
'Now.'
'Or what, you kill me with your breath? Master can speak with corpses, can he?'
'Master commands—'
'If he wants to talk, he can come here. Otherwise, like I said, too bad.'
The two tribesmen retreated.
Kalam moved forward, past the main mast, to where the two squads of marines crouched low before the forecastle. The assassin had weathered more than his share of squalls while serving in the Imperial campaigns, in galleys, transports and triremes, on three oceans and half a dozen seas. This storm was – thus far at least – comparatively tame. The marines were grim-faced, as would be expected before an engagement, but otherwise laconic as they readied their assault crossbows in the blunted glow of a shuttered lantern.
