The Third Golden Age of Science Fiction MEGAPACK ™: Poul Anderson. Poul Anderson
trail. They were all Umlotuan blues, he noticed, a cutthroat gang if ever he saw one but silent and well disciplined. It was shrewd to take only the mercenary warriors along; they had no patriotic interest in what happened to Achaera, and their reckless courage was legendary.
A burly one-eyed officer came up and saluted. “All set, sir,” he reported.
“Good,” nodded Shorzon. “Captain Imazu, this is our guide, Captain Corun.”
“The raider, eh?” Imazu chuckled and shook hands in the manner of the barbarians. “Well, we could hardly have a better one, I’m sure. Glad to know you, Corun.”
The pirate murmured polite phrases. But he decided that Imazu was a likeable chap and wondered what had led him to take service under anyone with Shorzon’s reputation.
They went aboard. “The Sea of Demons lies due north,” said Shorzon. “Is that the right way to sail?”
“For the time being,” nodded Corun. “When we get closer, I’ll be able to tell you more exactly.”
“Then you may as well wash and rest,” said Chryseis. “You need both.” Her smile was soft in the flickering red light.
Corun entered the cabin. It was divided into three compartments—apparently Imazu slept with his men, or perhaps on deck as many men preferred. His own tiny room was clean, sparsely furnished with a bunk and a washbowl. He cleaned himself eagerly and put on the fresh tunic laid out for him.
When he came back on deck the ship was already under way. A strong south wind was blowing, filling the dark sail, and the Briseia surged forward under its thrust. The phosphorescence shone around her hull and out on the rolling waters. Behind, the land faded into the night.
He’d certainly been given no chance to escape, he thought. Barring miracles, he had to go through with it now—at least until they reached the Sea of Demons, after which anything might happen.
He shivered a little, wondering darkly whether he had done right, wondering what their mission was and what the world’s fate was to be as a result of it.
Chryseis slipped quietly up to stand beside him. The erinye crouched down nearby, his baleful eyes never leaving the man.
“Outward bound,” she said, and laughter was gay in her voice.
He said nothing, but stared ahead into the night.
“You’d better sleep, Corun,” she said. “You’re tired now, and you’ll need all your strength later.” She laid a hand on his arm, and laughed aloud. “It will be an interesting voyage, to say the least.”
Rather! he thought with wry humor. It occurred to him that the trip might even have its pleasant aspects.
“Goodnight, Corun,” she said and left him.
Presently, he went back to his room. Sleep was long in coming and uneasy when it did arrive.
III
When he came out on deck in the early morning, there was only a gray emptiness of waters out to the gray horizon. They must have left the whole Achaeran archipelago well behind them and be somewhere in the Zurian Sea now.
There was a smell of rain in the air, and the ship ran swiftly before a keening wind over long white-maned rollers. Corun let the tang of salt and moisture and kelp, the huge restless vista of bounding waves, the creak and thrum of the ship and the thundering surge of the ocean, swell luxuriously up within him, the simple animal joy of being at home. The sea was his home now, he realized vaguely; he had been on it so long that it was his natural environment—his, as much as that of the laridae wheeling on white wings in the cloud-flying heavens.
He looked over the watch. It seemed to be well handled—the sailors knew their business. There were armored guards at bow and stern, and the rest—clad in the plain loincloth of ordinary seamen the world over—were standing by the sail, swabbing the decks, making minor repairs and otherwise occupying themselves. Those off duty were lounging or sleeping well out of the watch’s way. The helmsman kept his eye on the compass and held the tiller with a practiced hand—good, good.
Captain Imazu padded up to him on bare feet. The Umlotuan wore helmet and corselet, had a sword at his side, and carried the whip of authority in one gnarled blue hand. His scarred, one-eyed face cracked in a smile. “Good morning to you, Captain Corun,” he said politely. The Conahurian nodded with an amiability he had not felt for a long time. “The ship is well handled,” he said.
“Thanks. I’m about the only Uthlotuan who’s ever skippered anything bigger than a war-canoe, I suppose, but I was in the Achaeran fleet for a long time.” Again the hideous but disarming smile. “I nearly met you professionally once or twice before, but you always showed us a clean pair of heels. Judging from what happened to ships that did have the misfortune to overhaul you, I’m just as glad of it.” He gestured to the tiny galley below the poop deck. “How about some breakfast?”
* * * *
Over food, which was better than most to be had aboard ship, they fell into professional talk. Like all captains, Imazu was profoundly interested in the old and seemingly insoluble problem of finding an accurate position. “Dead reckoning just won’t do,” he complained. “Men’s estimates always differ, no matter how good they may be. There isn’t even a decent map to be had anywhere.”
Corun mentioned the efforts of theorists in Achaera, Conahur, and other civilized states to use the Heaven-Fire’s altitude to determine position north and south of a given line. Imazu was aware of their work, but regarded it as of little practical value. “You just don’t see it often enough,” he objected. “And most of the crew would consider it the worst sort of impiety to go aiming an instrument at it. That’s one reason, I suppose, why Shorzon shipped only Umlotuans. We don’t worship the Heaven-Fire—our gods all live below the clouds.” He cut himself a huge quid of liangzi and stuffed it into his capacious mouth. “Anyway, it doesn’t give you east and west position.”
“The philosophers who think the world is round say we could solve that problem by making an accurate timepiece,” said Corun.
“I know. But it’s a lot of gas, if you ask me. A sand-glass or a water-clock can only tell time so close and no closer, and those mechanical gadgets they’ve built are worse yet. I knew an old skipper from Norriki once who kept a joss in his cabin and got his position in dreams from it. Only had one wreck in his life.” Imazu grinned. “Of course, he drowned then.”
“Look,” said Corun suddenly, “do you know where the hell we’re going, and why?”
“To the Sea of Demons is all they told me. No reason given.” Imazu studied Corun with his sharp black eye. “You don’t know either, eh? I’ve a notion that most of us won’t live to find out.”
“I’m surprised that any crew could be made to go there without a mutiny.”
“This gang of bully boys is only frightened of Shorzon and his witch granddaughter. They—” Imazu shut up. Looking around, Corun saw the two approaching.
In the morning light, Chryseis did not seem the luring devil-woman of the night. She moved with easy grace across the rolling deck, the wind blowing her tunic and her long black hair in careless billows, and there was a girlish joy and eagerness in her. The pirate’s heart stumbled and began to race.
She chattered gaily of nothing while she and the old man ate. Shorzon remained silent until he was through, then said curtly to the two men: “Come into the cabin with us.”
They filled Corun’s tiny room, sitting on bunk and floor. Shorzon said slowly, “We may as well begin now to learn what you know, Corun. What is the truth about your voyage to the Xanthi?”
“It was several seasons ago,” replied the corsair. “I got the thought you seem to have had, that possibly I could enlist their help against my enemies.” He smiled mirthlessly. “I learned better.”
“What do we know of them, exactly?”