“Remember you are boss,” he told Pshawri, “Make them like it or lump it—and keep to windward of me.”
Pshawri, his new-healed forehead wound still pink, nodded fiercely and went to take up his command. Above the salt cliff the eastern sky was ominously red with sunrise, while glooms of night still lingered in the west. The east wind blew strongly.
From Flotsam’s stern the Mouser surveyed the busy harbor and his fleet of fishing boats turned warships. Truly, they were a weird sight, their decks which had so recently been piled with fish now bristling with pikes and various impromptu weapons such as he’d seen Groniger’s men shoulder yesterday.
Some of them had lashed huge ceremonial spears (bronze-pointed timbers, really) to their bowsprits—for use as rams, he supposed, the Fates be kind to ‘em! While others had bent on red and black sails, to indicate bloody and baleful intentions, he guessed—the soberest fisherman was a potential pirate, that was sure. Three were half wreathed in fishnets—protection against arrow fire? The two largest craft were commanded by Dwone and Zwaaken, his sub-admirals, if that could be credited. He shook his head.
If only he had time to get his thoughts straight! But ever since he’d awakened events (and his own unpredictable impulses) had been rushing, nay, stampeding him. Yesterday, he’d managed to lead Cif and the other three women safely out of the quaking and stinking cave-tunnels (he glanced toward Darkfire—it was still venting into the red sky a thick column of black smoke, which the east wind blew west) only to discover that they’d spent an unconscionable time underground and it was already evening. After seeing to Rill’s hand, badly burned by the Loki-torch, they’d had to hurry back to Salthaven for conferences with all and sundry—hardly time to compare notes with Cif on the whole cavern experience….
And now he had to break off to help Mikkidu instruct the six Rimeland replacements for the thieves they’d lost to Sea Hawk—how to man the sweeps and so forth.
And that was no sooner done (matter of a few low-voiced instructions to Mikkidu, chiefly) than here came Cif climbing ahoard, followed by Rill, Hilsa, and Mother Grum—all of them save for the last in sailorly trousers and jackets with knives at their belts. Rill’s right arm was in a sling.
“Here we are, yours to command, captain,” Cif said brightly.
“Dear councilwoman.” the Mouser answered, his heart sinking, “Flotsam can’t sail into possible battle with women aboard, especially—” He let a meaningful look serve for “—whores and witches.”
“Then we’li man Sprite and follow you after,” she told him, not at all downcast. “Or rather range ahead to be the first to sight the Sunwise Mingols—you know Sprite’s a fast sailer. Yes, perhaps that’s best, a women’s fighting-ship for soldieresses.”
The Mouser submitted to the inevitable with what grace he could muster. Rill and Hilsa beamed. Cif touched his arm commiseratingly.
“I’m glad you agreed,” she said. “I’d already loaned Sprite to three other women.” But then her face grew serious as she lowered her voice to say. “There is a matter that troubles me you should know. We were going to bring god Loki aboard in a firepot, as yesterday he traveled in Rill’s torch—”
“Can’t have fire aboard a ship going into battle,” the Mouser responded automatically. “Besides, look how Rill got burned.”
“But this morning, for the first time in over a year, we found the fire in the Flame Den unaccountably gone out,” Cif finished. “We sifted the ashes. There was not a spark.”
“Well,” said the Mouser thoughtfully, “perhaps yesterday at the great rock face after he flamed so high the god temporarily shifted his dwelling to the mountain’s fiery heart. See how she smokes!” And he pointed toward Darkfire, where the black column going off westward was thicker.
“Yes, but we don’t have him at hand that way,” Cif objected troubledly.
“Well, at any rate he’s still on the Island,” the Mouser told her. “And in a sense, I’m sure, on Flotsam too,” he added, remembering (it made his fire-stung fingers smart anew) the black torch-end he still had in his pouch. That was another thing, he told himself, that wanted thinking about….
But just then Dwone came sailing close by to report the Rime fleet ready for action and hardly to be held back. The Mouser had perforce to get Flotsam underway, hoisting what sail she could carry for the beat against the wind, and setting his thieves and their green replacements to sweeping while Ourph beat time, so that she’d be able to keep ahead of the handier fishing craft.
There were cheers from the shore and the other ships and for a short while the Mouser was able to bask in self-satisfaction at Flotsam moving out so bravely at the head of the fleet, and his crew so well disciplined, and (he could see) Pshawri handling Sea Hawk nicely enough, and Cif standing beside him, glowing-eyed—and himself a veritable admiral, no less, by Mog!
But then the thoughts which he hadn’t had time to straighten all day began to cark him again. Above all else he realized that there was something altogether foolhardy, in fact utterly ridiculous, about them all setting sail so confidently with only one hare-brained plan of action, on nothing more than the crackling word of a fire, the whisper of burning twigs. Still he had a compelling feeling in his bones that they were doing the right thing and nothing could harm them, and he would peradventure find the Mingol fleet and that another wonderful inspiration would come to him at the last minute….
At that moment his eye lit on Mikkidu sweeping with considerable style in the bowmost steerside position and he came to a decision.
“Ourph, take the tiller and take her out,” he directed. “Call time to the sweeps.
“My dear, I must leave you for a brief space,” he told Cif. Then taking the last Mingol with him, he went forward and said in a gruff voice to Mikkidu, “Come with me to my cabin. A conference. Gib will replace you here,” and then hurried below with his now apprehensive-eyed lieutenant past the wondering glances of the women.
Facing Mikkidu across the table in the low-ceilinged cabin (one good thing about having a short captain and still shorter crew, it occurred to him) he eyed his subordinate mercilessly and said, “Lieutenant, I made a speech to the Rime Islers in their council hall night before last that had them cheering me at the end. You were there. What did I say?”
Mikkidu writhed. “Oh, captain,” he protested, blushing, “how can pou expect—”
“Now none of that stuff about it being so wonderful you can’t remember—or other weaseling out,” the Mouser cut him short. “Pretend the ship’s in a tempest and her safety depends on you giving me a square answer. Gods, haven’t I taught you yet that no man of mine ever got hurt from me by telling me the truth?”
Mikkidu digested that with a great gulp and then surrendered. “Oh captain,” he said, “I did a terrible thing. That night when I was following you from the docks to the council hall and you were with the two ladies, I bought a drink from a street vendor and gulped it down while you weren’t looking. It didn’t taste strong at all, I swear it, but it must have had a tremendous delayed kick, for when you jumped on the table and started to talk, I blacked out—my word upon it! When I came to you were saying something about Groniger and Afreyt leading out half the Rimelanders to reinforce Captain Fafhrd and the rest of us sailing out to entice the Sun Mingols into a great whirlpool, and everybody was cheering like mad—and so of course I cheered too, just as if I’d heard everything that they had.”
“You can swear to the truth of that?” the Mouser asked in a terrible voice.
Mikkidu nodded miserably.
The Mouser came swiftly around the table and embraced him and kissed him on his quivering cheek. “There’s a good lieutenant,” he said most warmly, clapping him on the back. “Now go, good Mikkidu, and invite the lady Cif attend me here. Then make yourself useful on deck in any way your shrewdness may suggest. Don’t stand now in a daze. Get at it, man.”
By the time Cif arrived (not long) he had decided on his approach to her.
“Dear Cif,” he said without preamble, coming to her. “I have a confession to make to you,” and then he told her quite humbly but clearly and succinctly the truth about his “wonderful words”—that he simply hadn’t heard one of them. When he was done he added, “So you can see not even my vanity is involved—whatever it was, it was Loki’s speech, not mine—so do you now tell me truth about it, sparing me nothing.”