Faith is, often I think, overrated.
Faith in people is guaranteed to disappoint, sooner or later; people are fallible, me more so than most. Faith in things is necessary, as anybody who has ever stepped down onto the top rung of a ladder can say—but it's dangerous, anybody who has seen a man fall from a ladder where the rung has broken beneath his feet to shatter himself on the stones far below can attest. Faith in magic is as reliable as magic is.
And faith in the Holy?
I wish I knew.—Gray
Gray was hungry.
Not for food—he had eaten but a few hours ago, and never much cared what he ate, as long as it filled his belly—but for . . . something.
Revenge?
Possibly. Blood, certainly. And most particularly, to be rid of that annoying boy, who carried himself as though he were a knight.
The coast grew before him, as the Marienios led the Wellesley toward it. Rocky and inhospitable, the only question was how soon the Johansen on the Wellesley would drop anchor. Close enough, he hoped, for the onager and catapult crews to cover a retreat, if one was necessary. Then again, staving in the hull or running the ship aground would make the ships even more useless than ones too far off would be.
Well, that was not the only question—the other question was how long it would take for those two slow slaggards of excuses for ships that DuPuy had foisted on them to catch up.
He would have rather been on the Wellesley, of course. By now, he was sure that Lieutenant Gordon Cooper would have the marines ready to go ashore, and presumably his counterparts on the Winfrew and Cooperman were doing the same—certainly true on the Cooperman. While Gray didn't think much of the marine lieutenant on that sad excuse for a ship, he had been impressed with Fotheringay. It wouldn't have bothered Gray for a moment if Lieutenant de Ros happened to break his neck going down the ladder, leaving Fotheringay fully in charge.
I'm wondering if that would occur to Fotheringay, the Khan said.
Stranger things had happened. A good sergeant wouldn't much care, other than in a personal sort of way, whether or not he liked his officers, but incompetence was another matter entirely, and this all was going to be difficult enough as it was. You couldn't mount an invasion with two hundred men—but a raid was another matter, even if the only purpose of the raid was to establish a temporary beachhead, to make sure that the knights had a way to get back to the ships.
Interesting that de Ros had sent Fotheringay ahead in the Cooperman's launch to discuss the details with Gray, and while it was probably more than time for Fotheringay to be getting back to the Cooperman, it probably made as much sense for him to be taking his ease on the poop deck of the Marienios, puffing away at his pipe—easier and probably safer to drop the launch, and let Fotheringay signal the Cooperman where to drop anchor, just in case its idiot master couldn't read the Wellesley's signal flags in the darkness.
Of course, it was entirely possible that Fotheringay's time would have been better spent supervising the final preparations of de Ros's marines, and even more possible that de Ros didn't want any more criticism—most likely implicit criticism, but Gray wouldn't have been surprised if Fotheringay spoke above his station—from the sergeant who had been forced upon him as to how sorry a state that was.
He shook his head. If it went wrong, it would be his problem, but there was nothing that Gray could do about it—leave it to the marines.
Be interesting to see what they would find. The Turks that Bear had found—granted, with the boy Niko's help—were from a village not too far from the coast, and they reported as least the direction that the captors had taken the people of their village.
Had Nadide been one of their villagers? Hard to say. Niko seemed to be sure of it, but the boy seemed utterly sure of everything of late, after all, and that didn't mean much, other than that he was overreaching himself, something that seemed to amuse Bear, for some reason.
"Nervous, Joshua?" Cully had joined him at the bow. Thankfully, he had left the boy below; Gray didn't have any particular desire to talk to him.
"Of course not." Gray shook his head. "You think we'll find what we're looking for here?"
"Possibly." He shrugged. "The only reason that I think perhaps not is that nobody's tried to stop us, so far."
Gray snorted, and gestured toward the shoreline. "Plenty of places to do that between here and Bear's friend's village, or what's left of it." Marching their company of marines up into the back country might have been a wiser choice, but Gray had vetoed that idea—you couldn't do that without drawing a lot of attention, and while leaving them on the beach to be prepared to cover a retreat had its own risks, he liked the idea of being able to get in and out, as quickly as possible.
See what they could see, talk to who they could talk to—and if they could find out where the villagers had been taken, that might, just might, lead them to whoever it was who was creating the new live swords.
Possibly. And if not here, then somewhere else.
"Hmmmm . . ." Cully hitched at his—two swords?
He caught Gray's glance, and smiled. "Always good to have a spare sword around, just in case." His face sobered. "And a spare knight or would-be knight, or two, as well, come to think of it."
And who shall be the spare, expendable knight, this time? Gray didn't ask. As irritating as he often found Cully, he knew what the answer to that was: Cully himself.
You could fault Cully for a lot of things, but not that. It wasn't just a matter of a lack of cowardice—it was something much more cold-blooded.
"Very well," Cully said. "We've got marines to set up to cover our retreat, if retreat is necessary. We've got enough provisions for a couple of days, at least, save for water—and we can find water. We've Ercam as a guide, and his elder son as a spare guide, just in case."
"If we have them, where are they?"
"Below, spending a few moments with their family; they can be last up. I've had some words with Salim about them, by the way."
"You thought the Abdullahs would . . . interfere with the women?"
"No, not really—but I'm not sure about some of the hired-ons, and I wanted Salim to understand that the family is his responsibility. Probably should have put them aboard the Wellesley—but it's a bit late for that, now.
"As I was saying, before you started complaining, we've got Sigerson, to at least smell out the wizard—if we find him—and his manservant, who seems a capable sort, all in all, and probably the best substitute for a burro we've available. And the rest of the gear." He pointed down, as though toward their quarters, where Bear was presumably finishing packing up what they would carry with them. "Money for bribes, and the usual things one needs to live off the land."
"And your point would be?"
"That's easy." Cully's mouth quirked into a frown. "What am I missing?"
Were they teacher and student again, or was Cully just talking to pass the time? "Horses, for one," Gray said.
Cully nodded. "Certainly. I'd love to have some silent horses, ones that could be reliably counted on to be swum ashore—might make faster progress that way. I think going on foot makes sense." He grinned. "Should we turn around and go back and see if they've been breeding these silent, swimming horses back on Rodhos?"
Despite himself, Gray returned the smile. "If you think we could find some? Do let's."
"Why, Joshua, you've learned how to smile. You should try the expression out more often—I think it's hurting your face."
"I'm not sure where that came from, either." His hand fell to the hilt of the Khan.
I'm sure. The prospect of killing always made me smile, back when I had a mouth to smile with.
No, it wasn't that.
Cully stamped his foot three times on the deck, then looked up at Gray's look of surprise. "Well, I thought it was about time that the others joined us, and it's faster than sending for them."
It was, at that.
It was only a few minutes later that the rest of the party was on deck with them. That they all had rucksacks on their backs didn't make them look all the same, of course; they were each different.
Bear, of course, was as even of voice and manner as usual, and if that wasn't in its own way so reassuring, Gray would have been irritated. Both of the Turks were obviously scared—Gray wouldn't have been surprised if they quickly abandoned the knights as soon as they hit the beach.
Or maybe not. Their family was aboard. Hostages? That depended on your way of looking at things. Gray wouldn't hurt the children or the wives for the sins of the father and brother, but they didn't have to know that. They were being more than well enough paid for the risks they were taking, although they should have been willing to take any sort of risks as a matter of honor.
Then again, honor wasn't something you could count on, most of the time.
Sigerson had his usual amused expression pasted to his face, and his manservant his usual lack of any expression at all.
The boy, well, he looked scared, but he was a boy, after all, and you could hardly blame him for that, and he certainly had ample reason to be. This wasn't probably a good time to remind him that somebody who wielded a Red Sword was more than likely hellbound, after all, despite the temptation.
Yes, yes, of course you could repent. But Gray, for one, couldn't sincerely repent of his joining of his soul with the cursed Khan. It was the way that he could best serve the Crown, after all, and while there were men who would put their own interests ahead of their duty, Gray devoutly hoped that none of them were of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon.
Cully? You could never tell about Cully, but . . .
And . . . wait.
At first, Gray thought it was a seagull dropping down out of the sky.
But it wasn't. It was a bird, though, larger than a seagull. A crow? No—a raven. A raven, at sea?
It swooped down out of the sky and landed on the deck just a few feet in front of him, and in a blink, it was Black.
"Black?"
"Yes." He swallowed, hard.
Not the same as Gray had seen him before. He still wore his presumptuous imitation of a knight's robes, but the robes were bloody, tattered, and torn.
Which wasn't the worst of it. His right arm was covered with blood, and hung limply at his side, and his face was battered. His left hand was pressed tightly against his middle, as though trying to hold his guts in.
Probably the worst of it was his expression. The eyes were wide, the jaw trembling, and for some reason the whole effect was to remind Gray of a frightened, beaten little boy that he had known long ago, a boy standing before an Order knight, on the verge of collapsing in terror.
"Help me, Gray," he said. "Please."
Bear had shouldered his rucksack, and bounced up and down a few times, rewarded by a smile from Niko, who just stood watching, trying hard not to seem as amused as he obviously was.
Bear just grinned. "I'm much more concerned with making sure that the straps fit tightly and properly on my shoulders than I am in not looking foolish in front of you, young sir knight."
The boy spread his hands. "No offense—oh, very well: it did look strange."
He shrugged into his own rucksack, and accepted Bear's help in adjusting the straps. A fisherboy, of necessity, was used to long hours and hard work, perhaps even more so than a peasant, as difficult as that was to imagine. But a more-than-one day march across country, a rucksack on his back, was a different thing entirely, and it was good that Niko's newfound confidence—at least, that's what it appeared to be—hadn't degenerated into an unwillingness to listen. Bear would have corrected him on the issue, as a matter of duty—but he was just as happy not to.
"Now," Bear said, "you try it."
"Jumping up and down?"
"Please."
He did. The straps were a little loose for Bear's tastes—more than what was required to make it possible to discard the rucksack quickly—but after some work on the straps, and more bouncing up and down by Niko, they met with Bear's approval.
Niko started at a triple thumping from the deck above. "It's just Cully, getting impatient."
Niko frowned. "I think I'm supposed to say something more."
"Eh?"
He shook his head. "Just a—"
"—code that Cully worked out with you? One for 'yes,' two for 'no,' three for 'more'?" Bear grinned. "Ah, yes—it's been a long time since I learned novice usages. Very well, Sir Niko—what is the more that you should say now?"
"That we should get going, perhaps?"
Bear grinned. "That will do. You'd better go get Ercam and Melik."
"Yes, Sir David."
His own pack shouldered, Bear gathered up his swords and followed Niko into the passageway, then climbed up the ladder to the deck while Niko continued on toward where the refugees were billeted in a stern compartment.
Cully and Gray were waiting for them, and Sigerson, his valet, and Niko, the two Turks in tow, were only a few moments behind.
"Shouldn't be long now," Cully said. The Wellesley was already down just one sail on each of the masts, and those had been heavily reefed. Bear couldn't see well enough from here to know if the topmen were all aloft, but their Abdullah counterparts here were, and he expected that they were.
The Abdullahs and the rest of the crew seemed to be making a point to keep the bow deck clear. Even the lookout, that Milos boy that Niko apparently had some grievance with, perched high in the foremast, kept his gaze fixed firmly on the water and land before them, although Samir Abdullah, taking the wheel himself, had apparently gone to some trouble to follow the Wellesley's course in.
The bird spread its wings widely, beating them madly against the air as it struggled to make it to the deck, and not splash into the water.
It succeeded, and with a final flurry of wings, landed, hard on the deck, skittering forward a few feet until it—
—changed.
For a moment, Bear didn't recognize the man.
He was still large and blocky, vaguely peasant-looking in the face and shoulders, particularly. But all of the elegance was gone—his shirt hung on him in bloody tatters; a cut on his right cheek had gone to the bone, and the blood oozing from a dozen wounds spoke of far more serious damage.
If any of it could be believed.
Wolf took a staggering step forward, and fell to his knees; he would have fallen face-first on the deck if he hadn't stopped himself by putting out an arm.
Wolf looked up at Bear. All of the serenity and confidence that Bear had seen in his face was gone, washed away in blood and agony.
There was nothing in that face save pain and despair.
"Help me, Bear," Wolf said. "Please."
The Wise, battered and bloody, knelt before Cully in supplication. He, she—it didn't look like Her, not this time. Nor had it manifested itself in some sort of idealized form of Cully himself.
It had, for whatever reason, chosen Sir Bedivere, precisely as Cully had seen him the last time, so many years ago: the fletching of an arrow just barely projecting from his chest, what was left of his left arm from the elbow down hanging by a tendon and a scrap of skin, his usually preposterously well-combed beard all askew and drenched in his own blood and vomit. And, as it had been at Bedivere's death, the coat of arms on his tabard was intact, the only part of his clothing or armor that had been untouched in his battle with the traitors.
The eyes, though, they were not the same. They had been, and always would be, sharp in Cully's memory, a fierceness and joy in Bedivere's eyes, a ghost of which had persisted even when those eyes had gone all dull and lifeless. Bedivere had gone to his death knowing that he had died in service of his Order, and his King, and he had laid himself down with joy as much as with pain.
These eyes had none of that joy, though all of the pain. If anything, they reminded him of a deer he had once brought down in his long-lost Woode, and he found his hand going to his belt for the dagger that he would have used to give an animal the blow of grace.
But, of course, the dagger wasn't there. Nor, of course, was Bedivere.
"Help me, Cully," the image of Bedivere said, its voice a horrible, liquid rasp. "Please."
It was Grandfather, again, of course. Or, more accurately, it looked like Grandfather—but not the healthy, vibrant man that Niko would always remember, but something more like the murdered body that he had seen on the shore at home, back when he had a home.
It had fooled Niko before—but it wouldn't this time, not again. Niko didn't like to be fooled.
"Help me, Niko," the lying image said. "Please."