The Rose of the World (14 page)

In other circumstances, Katla thought, such a display of clownish incompetence might have had her laughing till she cried; but if she tilted her head just a little to the right, she was alarmed to be able to make out individual birds’ nests and plants clinging to the cliff-face looming ever closer on the steerboard side of the ship. She started praying.

As if in answer to this endeavour, the huge key-keeper strode swiftly across the deck, caught up the flailing line, secured it with an expert twist and then made for the stern, where he caught hold of the wildly swinging rudder and began to wrestle it into submission. The ship, as if sensing someone was at last in charge, relinquished its wilful suicide bid and became as submissive as a whipped dog.

Too late.

For a moment the
Rose of Cera
floundered uncertainly, then wind filled her sails and she lurched sideways. There was a terrible, grating din, then a screaming wrench of cracking timbers. Katla, thrown hard against her bonds so that both feet came off the deck, had a clear, brief view of the sea to her right – a boil of surf over reef-rocks, slews of weed and foam – then the ship juddered back the other way and came to a shuddering halt at an awkward, drunken angle, bow-down and shoulder into the waves. From disturbingly close by there came the sound of fraying rope, then a sort of unravelling snap and the next thing she knew, Katla had been thrown painfully clear of the mast and had fetched up with the larboard gunwale wedged into her solar plexus, staring down into a mess of rock and water and wood all swirling together in some unholy brew. For several seconds she could not draw breath; when she did it was with a painful wheeze that bespoke bruised and battered ribs, and possibly a crack or two. But she was free. Even so, it took her a few moments to recover her composure sufficiently to look around and take in the situation.

Things were not looking good for the crew of the
Rose of Cera
. Two men were flailing in the ocean to the seaward side of the vessel, thrashing the water ineffectually with their hands and screaming for aid; but no one else was taking any notice. Another man was lying jammed up against the forward mastfish, clutching his thigh. A splintered spar stuck out of it, and blood was gouting.
That’s three down
, Katla thought with satisfaction. And of Baranguet there was no sign at all. But these small triumphs were immediately displaced by the sight of water erupting through the decking near the bow.

They were holed below the waterline.

‘Mother!’ Katla cried in horror, and levered herself upright. Then she set off for the hatch at an awkward, limping run.

There, she stared wildly down into chaos. Amidst a dark welter of floating cargo and churning foam, the women were shrieking and tearing at their chains. The water was already up to their waists. For some – for Thin Hildi and Kit Farsen, who were short and weak – it would be minutes before the inflow reached their chins . . . For a moment, Katla’s mind became empty with panic then she remembered that it had been the giant whom she had last seen with the keys to their shackles. Legs shaking with pain and nervous energy, she limped towards the stern. No one tried to stop her; indeed, there seemed to be very few men left on board, as far as she could see. Could they have been knocked overboard by the force of the strike? she wondered feverishly, dodging beneath the remnants of the third sail. It seemed too good to be true; as long as the giant hadn’t gone down with them . . .

But there was Casto Agen, sitting rigidly in the stern with the rudder gripped in a deathlock, as if he could not comprehend what had happened and thought if he only held the tiller tightly, he might still steer the ship to safe waters when this small crisis had passed. He stared at Katla blankly when she fetched up in front of him.

‘The keys!’ she shouted, then realised she’d yelled at him in Eyran. ‘Give me the keys!’ she repeated, this time in the Old Tongue; but still he didn’t make any move, either to help or to hinder.

Huffing in frustration, Katla dived for the big man’s belt. Casto Agen jumped to his feet and tried to back away from her, as if he were being attacked by some mad and infuriating insect, but there was nowhere for him to go. She had her hands wrapped around the ring of iron hanging from his left hip, but after a lot of twisting and cursing could find no way of freeing it, so she hauled at his belt, dragging him bodily after her like a recalcitrant bull. Either her adrenalised strength was terrifying or the giant came willingly, but at last they reached the hatch, where Katla turned and mimed the opening of a lock, then pointed urgently down into the hold. ‘Down there, the women. We must set them free.’

Now the big man nodded slowly. As they clambered down the ladder, Katla’s feet met water far sooner than she had expected. She gazed into the gloom at the fluttering white hands, the terrified faces. ‘Katla!’ cried one; and ‘Save me, save me!’

Away to the bows, a great tide gurgled and billowed. The hole to the hull must be substantial, Katla realised with a chill. They would all go down, shackled and free alike, if she didn’t act immediately. She turned an anguished face up to the big Istrian. ‘Help me,’ she begged. ‘Unlock their chains.’

Casto Agen glanced briefly, once, above him and seeing no vengeful officer there, nodded once and pressed past Katla, jumping down into the chaos with a great splash which sent a wake writhing through the entire hold, drenching many of the women as it passed. Katla dived in, paddled swiftly into the midst of the hold and there trod water.

‘Katla!’ her mother called, and there was Bera Rolfsen, bearing up Thin Hildi as best she could, so that the little girl’s face was just clear of the ever-rising water. Beside her, Kitten Soronsen’s hair floated around her like a great golden collar. Her mouth and eyes were stretched wide in panic.

Casto Agen waded up to her and handed her the keys without a word. She grabbed them out of his hand before he could change his mind. ‘Lift them up for me,’ she shouted. ‘Keep them out of the water.’

The big man nodded silently and took hold of Bera Rolfsen and Thin Hildi in a bear’s grip. Thin Hildi grimaced and waved her arms around in panic, calling on Feya, Sur and the goblin-queen of Hall Spring, of whom Katla had never heard. But then, Hildi always had been a bit strange in the head, she thought as she dived.

Underwater, it was hard to see through the miasma of swirling filth. Even before the raiders had resurrected this tub for its current mission, the accumulated grime must have lain everywhere in the hold: a combination of flaking rotten timber, years of disuse and the traces of ancient cargoes, many of which – judging by the vile crustings she had had far too long to examine in the gloom of this voyage – had been human in origin. The Istrians had built an empire on slavery, on the exploitation of the hill peoples of the southern mountains, the Wandering Folk, and any other poor bastards who could not defend themselves against its might and wealth. Katla cursed them all silently as she fought the burning in her lungs and eyes and sought to locate the lock which held Thin Hildi’s shackles. Groping blindly, her fingers closed on it at last. It took a few infuriating seconds to fit key to lock, then there was a satisfying release of pressure and the bolt fell away.

Casto Agen ushered the freed women up the ladder to safety, then waded back and stood before a dripping Katla awaiting instruction. It was like having a well-trained but rather slow-witted sheepdog at your command. She indicated Fat Breta and watched as he made his way across to her, then dived again.

The inherently complacent laziness of Istrian slavers meant that they bothered to make only one type of key and lock to secure their captives – such a simple affair that one key fitted all the shackles. With the water rising moment by moment it was just as well. Katla released the women one by one by one, though with a glint of the eye pinpointing her position, she deliberately left Kitten Soronsen to last.

By the time she surfaced beside Kitten, the water was up to her chin and she glared at Katla in outraged reproach. Tears were dripping from the corners of her eyes and slipping silently into the tide; which was just adding to the problem, as far as Katla could see. It was unfair, but she could not help grinning. ‘Now then, Kitten—’ she started; but ‘Get me out of here, fox-bitch!’ seethed the blonde girl furiously.

‘You ought to be more polite than that, considering the situation,’ Katla said softly.‘I might just leave you here. Who’d know?’ She regarded her with narrow eyes. ‘Or care?’

Kitten Soronsen’s mouth became a long, hard line against which the water lapped gently. Katla regarded her with her head on one side and waited. When the tide began to ripple into her nostrils, the blonde girl yelped and thrashed, which made things worse. Katla sighed. ‘I don’t like you, Kitten, and I never have. You’re a bully, a malicious gossip and a sharp-tongued witch. But I might have a hard time living with the knowledge that I left you here to drown.’ Katla thought about this for a long moment, during which Kitten Soronsen rained the worst imprecations she could think of down on her head. ‘You know,’ said Katla at last, with the words ‘heathen troll-whore’ ringing in her ears, ‘others might judge me harshly, but I think I could probably learn to live with myself . . .’

As she turned to swim away, she heard the outraged gulp of air Kitten took in for a final farewell tirade and knew that however much she wished to, she couldn’t do it. Katla had never regarded herself as someone with a conscience, or a charitable heart; but to leave her to drown just meant that the Istrians would have taken yet another Rockfall life. With a sigh, she made a last dive with the key in her hand, and released Kitten from her shackles.

She received no word of thanks; nor did she expect one. Indeed, as they swam towards the bright square of sky marking their exit into the outside world, Kitten’s flailing foot caught Katla sharply on the side of the head. It might not have been entirely deliberate, but Katla knew she had made herself yet another enemy.

Out on deck, blinking in the too-bright light, it was clear their troubles were not over. The women huddled together, looking sodden and large-eyed: elation at being released from their shackles below decks had soon ebbed away at the full realisation of their current plight. The shore – marked by rearing cliffs and surf spraying off the jagged reef – was only a hundred yards away; but the
Rose of Cera
would never make it across that short distance, even if she weren’t wedged tight on the rock which had holed her, for water was gushing like a geyser now near her bows and the tilt of the deck promised an imminent demise.

There was no sign of any of the raiders, other than the big man, Casto Agen, who stood beyond the group of Eyrans, looking bemused. And the shipmaker, Morten Danson, was gone, too. As were the ship’s skiffs.

Katla groaned.

‘What now?’ demanded Kitten Soronsen, clearly spoiling for a fight.

Swimming seemed their only option: but even if they managed to cross the expanse of choppy sea between ship and land in their weakened state, they would surely be dashed to pieces on the reef . . .

Kitten followed Katla’s gaze towards the violent interaction of waves and rocks that constituted the shore, then back again. ‘You can’t be serious.’

Katla shrugged. ‘It looks like sink or swim to me.’ She left Kitten staring aghast at the unwelcoming coastline, then staggered across the rocking deck to where her mother stood with her arm around a sobbing Thin Hildi.

‘There’s no one left,’ Bera said, her face a study in dour resignation. ‘They took the ship’s boats and rowed away.’

‘So much for the rest of their precious cargo,’ Katla said bitterly.

‘I think they were more concerned for their precious lives,’ her mother returned. ‘And who can blame them?’

Katla scanned the vessel for anything they could create some sort of makeshift craft from; but she knew even as she did so that it was pointless. Even if they lashed a raft together from the decking and lines, the
Rose of Cera
wouldn’t last that long.

‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to swim for it,’ she said miserably, trying to keep her voice down.

‘Swim?’ shrieked Thin Hildi, who already appeared as limp and sodden as a drowned rat.

And now they all started crying out in consternation and turning horrified faces to Katla. Kitten Soronsen strode into the midst of the gathering, her hair plastered down her back, her eyes flashing. ‘These women have already been through too much, Katla Aransen. How can you possibly expect them to swim through that?’ She pointed dramatically in the direction of the reef. ‘They’re too weak: they’ll drown.’

‘Well, stay here and drown, then!’ Katla cried furiously. She limped over to the gunwale and stared down. Even to seaward, the water looked dark and troubled, ready to swallow them all; and landward looked far worse.

Kitten turned to the wailing women. ‘I shall stay here and await rescue,’ she declared. ‘There are bound to be other vessels coming past. One of them will surely stop to take us aboard. Feya would surely not abandon her own; no, nor Sur either.’

‘Neither Feya nor Sur gave much thought to us when we tried to defend our own at Rockfall,’ Bera Rolfsen said grimly. ‘And as for other vessels sailing by!’ She laughed. ‘The southerners are hardly well known for their seamanship, or indeed their mercy; and we are too far from home to hope for an Eyran ship.’ She clenched her jaw. ‘It seems my daughter has the right of it and we shall have to gain our salvation by our own actions. I cannot say I much care for the idea of swimming to shore; but I do not see that we have any alternative.’

‘No!’ Magla Felinsen, usually one of the more robust of the Rockfall women, collapsed in a heap and began to sob wildly. ‘I c–caaaan’t . . . I can’t swim!’

Bera and Katla exchanged stricken glances.

Kitten knelt by Magla’s side and looked up at them accusingly. ‘You see,’ she said triumphantly. ‘It’s just not possible. Magla will die if you make her swim—’

At this, Magla gave out a banshee howl that had Casto Agen making the superstitious sign of Falla’s eye and glancing fearfully around.