Beneath an Opal Moon, page 13
part #4 of Sunset Warrior Cycle Series
To his left, the coastline was a green-and-brown ripple, distancing itself as the lorcha moved out to sea. “Basta!” he cried, and the lorcha returned to its northeasterly course.
“What did she say?” Moichi had returned to conversation with the Daluzan bostun.
“Say?” The man snorted. “Why, she laughed at me and said, ‘You poor fool. No one can make a bargain with Hellsturm. Once he is given a task to perform, there is no one who can stop him!’ “
“Given a task?” Repeated it because it had been some time since he had heard so much Daluzan. The language had so many nuances, spoken inflections changing the meaning of words which, if written, were constant, that he needed to be certain of what he had heard.
Armazon nodded.
“Hellsturm is working for someone? Who?”
The bos’un shrugged. “I do not know. I am not family. It is a matter strictly for the Seguillas y Oriwara.”
“You mean the seamerchant family?”
He squinted up a Moichi. “Yes, Aufeya’s family. You did not know?”
Moichi shook his head. In any other land, it might have been a strange name. But, he knew, the Daluzan custom divas for two people to combine their names when they were wed. He had, of course, heard of the Seguillas y Oriwara when he was in Corruna. It would have been surprising if he had not. The family was quite wealthy and owned a sizable fleet of merchant ships.
“You have heard of Milhos Seguillas, piloto?”
“Yes. “
“One of the finest men in Corrufla, in all of Dalucia for that matter. Then he had to go and marry the foreigner.” He spat sideways into the creaming sea. “That was his downfall, mark my words well.” He looked at the backs of his hands, strong and blunt and capable, as dark as tanned leather; the sea had made them that way. “Dead now, the senhor is. Dihos make peaceful his soul.”
There was something peculiar in the inflection that made Moichi ask: “How did he die, the Senhor Seguillas?”
“Violently, piloto. He died abominably, if the truth be known. “
“How did it happen?”
Armazon spat again over the side. “lust passing the time, en, piloto? Something to do to wait out the journey.”
“I think you misunderstand, Armazon,” he said seriously. “I wish only to get Aufeya back and to destroy Hellsturrn. Anything you can tell me “
He broke off at the other’s grating guffaw. “Pardon me, piloto, but you are a foreigner, unused to our ways. You wish to destroy this man, Hellsturm. Very admirable, I admit. He is an evil man. But you do not know him. We have a saying in Dalucia, piloto. ‘Easy to say, hard to accomplish.’ You know it, eh? No? Well, now you do.”
“I have seen what Hellsturm can do. He murdered my friend. “
“Ah. “
“I will destroy him.”
“Bravo. Bravo!” Armazon clapped his hands derisively. “You will pardon me, piloto, if I do not join in the celebration just yet, eh? I have a somewhat more pragmatic turn of mind than do you, apparently.”
“You were about to tell me about the Senhor’s death.”
“Ah, yes. So I was. He was murdered in a duel.” He squinted up at Moichi once again, gauging the response to what he had just said. “Oh, yes, I know what you must be thinking. One enters a Daluzan duel as a matter of honor and one accepts, honorably, what Dihos decrees as the outcome. That is part of Daluzan law. It is fixed. A constant. No one may interfere in a Daluzan duel.” His face was a sea of seething emotion, as if the words, like individual bricks, falling from his lips, anticipated the crumbling of some strong wall. His voice became
a hiss of suppressed hate. “I tell you this, piloto, as certain as I am standing on this deck speaking to you now, someone violated that sacred law. Someone interfered.”
Moichi stared at him silently. The man was working himself up into a state of great agitation.
“This is how I know, piloto. I knew Milhos Seguillas well, very well I might even say. We sailed together on many a prosperous voyage, not all the time as master and bos’un, if you catch my meaning. Aboard ship, well, piloto, who am I to tell you? The tenets of the sea are much different than those held on land, eh? Restrictions are lifted, prohibitions vanish like so much mist, eh? Eh? Here one is free to be oneself. The chains of class and wealth ne’er apply. That was the kind of man Milhos Seguillas was. He was a high lord who cared more for the sea and those loyal to it than all the silver in the world.” He squinted up at Moichi. “She is a cruel mistress, the sea, eh, piloto? We both know that. She is harsh and unforgiving but like a lover she cradles those who are faithful to her. You think that superstitious nonsense?” He hawked and spat, clearidg his throat, as if from the clotted emotion spilling out. “Listen to me well, piloto. Milhos Seguillas was an expert swordsman. Expert! He would not have been killed so quickly in a duel unless ” He paused, his mouth hanging open, as if he felt himself on a precipice and in voicing this hidden knowledge he had begun to fear his own words. “He was poisoned, piloto. Poisoned just before the duel began. I saw the body. I know. A substance few know of, derived from a plant indigenous to a region far to the northwest. But Daluzans, they have little contact with poisons.”
“But for Senhor Seguillas to be poisoned in such a manner this could not possibly be accomplished by his opponent,” Moichi pointed out.
“Precisely, piloto. You have cut directly to the heart of the matter. Senhor Seguillas’ foe has a cunning accomplice. One so fantastically clever that the Senhor never even suspected.”
“What are you saying, Armazon?”
“lust this, piloto. Senhor Seguillas was poisoned by his wife!”
“My God, man, do you have any proof of this?”
“Proof, piloto? Aye. Proof enough. Not such that would prick the interest of a magistrate. But, I’ll warrant, enough to satisfy me. I knew Senhor Seguillas. And I know his wife.”
“Does Aufeya know anything of this matter?”
“Not a bit, piloto. Leastwise, not from these lips. I’ve breathed nought to a soul save yourself.”
“Then why have you told me?”
“You said you wished to save Aufeya, piloto. Well and good. You are not Daluzan. You are not blood. You can go where others, constrained perhaps by the conventions of the land, cannot. You must help Aufeya and Senhor Seguillas. You must avenge his death. Kill Aufeya’s mother!”
Moichi looked away from those blue eyes, burning with a manic passion. Thick cumulus were building themselves low on the horizon ahead of them to the northeast. Their tops were pure white but, as they continued to mount, he caught a glimpse of their dark undersides. Storm clouds. A squall was forming. It was far off, too distant to be an immediate threat, for the wind had not yet changed. But the gulls to port were already beginning to wheel, crying, toward the high shore.
He stared into those blue eyes. “I can promise you no such thing, Armazon. Aufeya is my concern, not her mother or her dead father.”
The bos’un’s eyes blazed and he trembled with rage. “Cobarde!” Spittle flew from his glistening lips. “You meddle in matters over which you have no understanding. You are an outlander! What is Dalucia to you? Less than nothing.” He laughed grimly. ”Ah, for you! Save yourself the misery, piloto. Throw yourself overboard before you reach Corruna. Let the sea take care of you for you look death in the face and you do not even know it!” He went away from Moichi in a rush, leaping for’ard, swinging around the mainmast, almost colliding with Chiisai as she came aft, before disappearing into the for’ard hatch.
Chiisai came up from the position she had taken near the bow soon after they had set sail. All the day, she had stayed there, studying the configuration of the shoreline, constantly checking it against the detailed maps aboard the lorcha.
“We are making exceptional time, Moichi,” she said making no mention of the altercation with Armazon. She pointed to port. “See there, already we are near the coast city of Singtao. “
There, where she pointed, he could see the cinnabar smudge of the urban sprawl, far smaller than mighty Sha’angh’sei but important in its own right. The city’s color was no illusion of the light for it was here that the famed red clay was exported to the world of man. It was the finest in all the world, and
artisans, no matter where they resided, insisted upon using it. The light was peculiar now because the vast bank of squall cumulus had not lowered entirely and the sun, caught behind it, nevertheless managed to fight through the underside so that the sea was illuminated by what sailors called the trail of the Oruborus, brilliant as molten metal where the rays hit it, as deep and brooding as iron everywhere else. Above the storm, the sky was a peculiar canary yellow fading to a cold dense gray.
His nostrils dilated and he scented. “It is coming now,” he told her. “And quickly.” As if to underscore his words, there came a deep but distant rumble of thunder, echoing across the sea. He looked to port. All the gulls were gone now, having sought the safety of the shore. For us, too, Moichi thought.
“Un buque!” The piercing call of the lookout vibrated in the air. A ship.
“Donde?” He called.
“Adelante!”
He gazed straight ahead. For a moment he saw nothing but the heaving sea, made dark and dull by the confluence of the flying thunderheads. They were very close now. Then he oriented and saw the triangular sail emerging from out of the cloud bank which now seemed to dip right into the heaving water. Whitecaps were appearing with alarming rapidity.
“Cudl clase de buque?” He called to the lookout. These were unfamiliar waters to him. Better to rely on the Daluzans here.
“Momento, pilots!”
The wind, gusting erratically, was plucking at the canvas with intensity as the storm approached; the rigging sang its mournful tune. Normally he would have called for them to strike canvas. But some sixth sense, born to him upon the sea, caused him to delay. He wanted a positive identification first. He swung abruptly around as a particularly strong gust threatened to turn them. ”Firme! Firme, hijo!” This to the helmsman, who he knew was young.
“Do you not think we should make for shore?” Chiisai said.
“Not yet.” Moichi had turned back, was listening for the lookout’s identification. “Hellsturrn already has a sizable head start on us. We cannot afford to let him build on that advantage. He has outrun the storm, I have little doubt. We must weather it.”
“I have felt the force of the storms here in the northwest.”
She was, of course, speaking in relation to her home, Amano-mori. Moichi thought of Sha’angh’sei being in the south, which it was in relation to the rest of the continent of man. “And that was in a sea-going threemaster. Do you think ?”
But Moichi had signaled her to silence. He was concentrating.
“A lorcha!” The lookout’s cry came. “Daluz’!”
“One of theirs,” Chiisai said.
“Vigilarse cuidadosamente!” he cried to the lookout. Watch it closely. Because there was something not quite right. He turned to the helmsman. “A babor! Aprisa!” Quickly now! The lorcha swung to port, heading in toward the shoreline. Moichi, after a brief glance into the shrouds, kept his gaze fixed on the other vessel.
“What’s the matter?” Chiisai asked.
He ignored her, calling, “Rohja! Don’ estd?”
A young sailor working at midships called for a man to replace him, scrambled aft. “Piloto.” He was tall with a broad chest and muscular arms. His face was long and thin, dominated by the dark brooding eyes of a predator. He was dressed in a white cotton shirt, dark trousers and a purple headband. An exceptionally functional outfit.
“What do you make of that?” Moichi said, pointing to the oncoming ship.
The sailor peered ahead. “A lorcha.”
“The design is Daluzan. That is not the same thing.” He continued to peer ahead but the low light was making sightings difficult. “Strange sail,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Just that I have never seen a Daluzan vessel with black canvas before. Perhaps you should ask Armazon.”
“I am asking you, Rohja,” Gaze flicking from the oncoming craft to the cumulus behind it. Flash of lightning, blue-white upon the mirror of the sea. The other lorcha had altered course but it could be heading into shore as was Moichi’s vessel. He kept their course, heading in, but his head was full of the calculation of vectors; he needed no instrumentation for this.
“I think they mean to intercept us, piloto.”
“They may just be heading in to shore, as we are,” Moichi pointed out.
“The angle isn’t right.”
“Tell me, Rohja, would Senhora Seguillas y Oriwara send a ship after her daughter?”
“Not likely, piloto. No one knew where we were bound or
even that we had gone until after we had set sail.”
Rohja was increasingly agitated but Moichi remained calm.
“The lorcha is primarily a merchant vessel, is it not? Correct me if I am wrong.” It appeared now as if the other lorcha would reach them before the storm did.
“That is true, piloto. But I must point out that is so only on short voyages around Daluzan waters. For a trip along the coast” he shook his head “it is far too small a vessel to be in the least practical. You would not be able to load enough cargo to make the voyage worthwhile.”
That, of course, was the point; the anomaly of the other lorcha: it was coming on far too fast to be carrying any kind of load. He called sharply to the helmsman, “Recobrarse el curve!”
The man spun the wheel as sailors leapt to the rigging and the lorcha swept to starboard, then righted itself. They were now moving out at a tangent, away from the shore, into the full face of the storm. The wind howled, just below gate level, and the sky was a grey mass, low and roiling like steam from a kettle. The horizon to the northeast had disappeared into a kind of continuous blur as rain slanted violently down.
“You have been of much help, Rohja,” Moichi said. “Now go and fetch Armazon from belowdecks. We shall surely need him. “
The man left the aft deck immediately. In a moment, the bos’un appeared with Rohja just behind him. Both were armed with straight narrow-bladed swords.
“Not Daluzan, then,” Chiisai said.
“If they are not, we shall see very soon now. ” Moichi moved back along the deck until he was standing next to the helmsman. “Listen to me closely now, hijo, and move this vessel as I speak. Immediately, do you understand? Each moment is vitas and any delay may undo us.”
“I understand, piloto.”
“Good. “
The other lorcha halt altered its course away from shore. It was close now, tacking away from the wind so that it could cut across their bow and intercept them.
”Hijo,” Moichi said. “Steer us directly for them.”
“Piloto?” The man was starred.
“Do as I say, Oruborus take you!” Moichi barked. “Head for him now!”
Armazon rushed aft with Robja in his wake as he discerned
their course. The lorcha swung in an arc, directly for the other vessel.
“Are you mad?” Ammazon cried. “With all sail and in this gale we shall surely destroy each other. Sheer off!”
Moichi ignored him, addressing Rohja instead. “Will the canvas take the strain?”
Rohja glanced upward. “Yes, piloto. There is no problem from rips “
Moichi heard his tentative tone. “But “
“But there may be some danger of capsizing. With all sail if the storm caught us dead on, we would go over and down like a stone.”
“He is right, piloto!” Armazon brandished the sword. “Either way, it is suicide! Sheer off, devilfish take your eyes!”
The helmsman was sweating and Moichi mummured reassuringly to him, “Firme, hills. Firme.”
They were heading directly at the oncoming lorcha, the fierce wind propelling them dizzyingly across the waves. They were coming up on it with appalling swiftness, the storm front just behind. It was gaining on the other ship.
Fittings creaked as the canvas strained in the bucking wind and men scrambled constantly to keep the sheets at their proper angle. They were making all speed.
But Moichi’s gaze had swung away from the other lorcha. He watched the rising of the squall, calculating distances and speed, the vectors coming together. It was going to be very close.
Dimly he heard Chiisai call his name. He fumed, saw Armazon, sword gleaming, mounting the short companionway to the raised aft deck.
“Get away from there, piloto! Leave the helm. You will kill us all in your madness’”
“Chiisai,” Moichi said softly so that she could hear. “Stand just here, on the other side of the helmsman. See that we stay bow on to the other ship no matter which way he twists. Stand off this deck, bos’un,” he said, moving forward as he un-sheathed his own sword. “You have a job to do. I want the men armed in the event we are boarded. See to it!”
“I shall see to your death first, piloto!” He swung wildly at Moichi, who slid his upper torso away from the blow and at the same time, sent a vicious two-handed slash obliquely across the other’s blade. It sheared through like a stalk of ripe wheat. Moichi stepped up, sheathing his sword, and let fly a
balled fist into the bos’un’s face. His arms flung out wide, Armazon plummeted backward onto the main deck. There he lay, stunned.
“Rohja,” Moichi called, “see that he is all right. Then make certain the men are armed. I want no surprises. Quick y, now. There is little time!”
He returned to the helm, saw that they were still dead on.
“Good,” he murmured. “Very good.”
The other lorcha was now quite close. So close, in fact, that he could see the individual men manning it. “What ?”
