"You are not well, lady," he murmured.

"I can keep nothing down. It is a pa.s.sing thing."

"Does anyone else know?""My maid will have guessed." Jemilla caressed her stomach through the thick, loose robe. "It is hardly noticeable as yet, but my flow has been-"

"All right, all right! I don't want to hear about your woman's mechanisms!" Like most men, Abeleyn knew little and cared less about that particular subject. It was bad luck to couple with a woman at that time, an offence against G.o.d. That was as far as he cared to enquire.

"You're sure it's mine, Jemilla?" he demanded in a low voice, taking her by the arms.

Her eyes filled with tears. "Yes, sire." She bent her head and began to sob quietly.

"Saint's teeth! Where is that blasted cart? Dry your eyes, woman, for G.o.d's sake!"

The covered carriage came trundling along the street and Abeleyn hailed it.

"Will you be all right?" he asked as he helped her inside. He had never seen her weep before and it disconcerted him.

"Yes, sire, I will be fine. But I cannot-I cannot perform the same services that I have undertaken up until now."

Abeleyn coloured. "Never mind that. We'll get you back to Hebrion by sea. You won't be climbing the Malvennors in your state. There are a few things I must arrange. You will be looked after, Jemilla."

"Sire, I have to say-I want to keep this child. I will not have it . . . disposed of."

Abeleyn stiffened. For a second he bore an uncanny resemblance to his severe, rigidly pious father.

"That is one notion that never entered my mind, Jemilla. As I said, you will be looked after, and the child also."

"Thank you, sire. I never doubted it."

He closed the door and the carriage sped away to the palace where she had a suite of her own. He followed its departure with a grim set to his mouth.

A b.a.s.t.a.r.d child, and not by some strumpet either. By a lady from a n.o.ble house. That could cause problems. He would have to be careful.

"Anything wrong?" Mark asked when Abeleyn rejoined him.

"No. Women's inquisitiveness. I sent her on her way."

"A handsome woman, if rather on the mature side."

"Yes. She's a widow."

"And n.o.bly born," Mark noted unsmilingly.

Abeleyn gave him a piercing look. "Not n.o.bly enough, cousin, believe me. Not n.o.bly enough. Order some more wine, will you? I'm as dry as a summer lane."

I N the closed carriage, the lady Jemilla's face was bright and hard, the tears dried. The carriage was well-sprung, the motion easy, for which she was grateful. She had never borne a child full-term before.

She was not entirely sure about what awaited her. But that was not important.He had believed her-that was the main thing. What would he do now? What prospects had a b.a.s.t.a.r.d son of Hebrion's king? It remained to be seen. She did not like the way Abeleyn was so friendly with Mark of Astarac. As a bachelor he might secretly welcome a son, even one from the wrong side of the blanket, but were he to marry and make an Astaran princess his queen . . .

It was not Abeleyn's child, of course; it was Richard Hawkwood's. And it would be a boy-she could feel it in her marrow. But Hawkwood was no doubt dead by now, fathoms deep in the waters of some unending ocean. And even if he were not, he was not n.o.bly born. He must never know that he had a son.

No, this child of hers would grow up a king's son, and one day she would see that he claimed what he was owed. He would not be cheated of his birthright, and when he claimed it his mother would be there to guide him.

TWENTY-THREE.

T HEY found Billerand halfway through the middle watch, down in the cable tiers in the fore part of the hold. He had gone below to check on the eight-inch cables that served the anchors. The boy Mateo had been with him; of his body there was no trace. The soldiers said they had heard nothing.

A file of arquebusiers fired a volley as what remained of his corpse was slipped over the side in recognition of the soldier he had once been, then they went back to their posts, in fours now instead of pairs, and with lanterns burning throughout the hold to try and keep the shadows at bay.

Hawkwood and Murad spent what was left of the night drinking good brandy in the n.o.bleman's quarters and racking their tired brains for something to do, some course of action that would help. Hawkwood even suggested asking Ortelius for aid, but Murad vetoed him. Bad enough that the priest seemed to be winning more and more influence among the soldiers and the sailors, but for the ship's officers to go running to him for help was intolerable.

Bardolin joined them, bad news written all over his face.

"Ortelius is addressing a meeting of sorts on the gundeck," he told them.

"The gundeck!" Murad exclaimed.

"Yes. It would seem he has made it his mission to win over the poor lost souls of the Dweomer-folk to his way of thinking. There are many of the soldiers there, and some of the mariners too."

"I'll get Sequero to break up their little party," Murad said, beginning to rise from his chair.

"No, Lord Murad, I beg you do not. It can only do harm. Most of your men are still at their posts, and the majority of your sailors, Captain, but I noticed one of your ship's officers, Velasca. He was there with the rest."

"Velasca?" Hawkwood exploded. "The mutinous dog!"

"It would seem," Murad drawled, "that our subordinates are evolving minds of their own. Have some brandy, Mage. And take that thing out of the front of your robe for the Saint's sake. I have seen familiars before."

Bardolin released the imp. It hopped on to the table and sniffed at the neck of the brandy decanter, then grinned as Murad chucked it gently under the chin.

"Good luck, an imp aboard ship," Hawkwood said quietly."Yes," Bardolin said. "I remember Billerand telling me once, back in Abrusio."

There was a heavy silence. Hawkwood downed his brandy as though it were water. "What have you found out?" he asked the wizard at last, eyes watering from the strong spirit.

"I have been doing some reading. On werewolves. My collection of thaumaturgical works is pitifully inadequate-my home was ransacked ere we left Hebrion-and I have had to be discreet in enquiring as to whether any of the other pa.s.sengers have similar works in their possession, you understand. But according to what meagre researches I have been able to carry out, shifters do not like confinement of two kinds. Gregory of Touron reckons that the longer the man who is the shifter retains his human form, the more violent the actions of the beast once he transforms. Hence if shifters do not intend to run entirely amok once in animal form, they must change back and forth regularly, even if the beast form only lies motionless. It is like lancing a boil. The pus must be let out occasionally. The beast must breathe."

"What's the other form of confinement?" Murad asked impatiently.

"That is simple. Any prolonged period of incarceration in close quarters, such as a house, a cave-"

"Or a ship," Hawkwood interrupted.

"Just so, Captain."

"Brilliant," Murad said caustically, flourishing his gla.s.s. "What good do these priceless nuggets do us, old man?"

"They tell us that this shifter is suffering on two counts. First because he is in the confined s.p.a.ce of a ship, and second because he cannot change back and forth with the frequency he might desire. And so the pressure builds up, and the frustration."

"You're hoping he will make a mistake, lose control," Hawkwood said.

"Yes. He has been very careful so far. He has murdered our weather-worker and left us becalmed, thinking perhaps that will be enough. But the wind has struck up again and still the ship is pointed west, so he strikes again-at a ship's officer this time. He is starting to sow the seeds of panic."

"They know it was a shifter that killed Pernicus," Murad said, his eyes two slits in his white-skinned face.

"It's hard to say who are the most terrified, the soldiers or the pa.s.sengers."

"He hopes to ignite a mutiny, perhaps," Hawkwood said thoughtfully.

"Yes. There is one other thing Gregory tells us, however. It is that the shifter who has recently killed is not sated-quite the reverse, in fact. Often he finds he must kill again and again, especially when he is in these confined conditions I have mentioned. He loses more control with every murder until in the end the rational part of him recedes and the mindless beast gains control."

"Which perhaps is what happened to the shifter aboard the Faulcon," Hawkwood put in.

"Yes, I am afraid so."

"The Faulcon did not carry a complement of Hebrian soldiers, nor arquebuses with iron bullets," Murad said stoutly. "No, this thing is becoming afraid, is my guess. If the wizard is correct then the shifter is beginning to succ.u.mb to his more b.e.s.t.i.a.l impulses. It may work to our advantage."

"And in the meantime we await another death?" Hawkwood asked."Yes, Captain, I think we do," Bardolin said.

"I don't think much of your strategy, Mage. It is like that of the sheep as the wolf closes in."

"I can think of nothing else."

"There is no mark, no sign by which the beasts can be recognized in human form?"

"Some old wives say there is something odd about the eyes. They are often strange-looking, not quite human."

"That's not much to go on."

"It is all I have."

"Where will he strike next, do you think?" Murad asked.

"I think it will be at what he perceives to be the centre of resistance and the source of authority. I think that next he will strike at one of those sitting about this table."

Murad and Hawkwood stared blankly at one another. Finally the scarred n.o.bleman managed a strangled laugh.

"You have a sure way of ruining good brandy, Mage. It might be vinegar in my mouth."

"Be prepared," Bardolin insisted. "Do not let yourselves be found alone at any time, and always carry a weapon that will bite its black flesh."

T HE carrack sailed on with its twin cargoes of fear and discontent. Velasca, Hawkwood noted, was slow to obey orders and seemed perpetually ill at ease, even when the splendid north-easter continued steadily, breezing in over the starboard quarter and propelling the ship along at a good six knots. Two leagues run off with every two turns of the gla.s.s, one hundred and forty-four sea miles with every full day of sailing. And west, always due west. The carrack's beakhead bisected the sinking disc of every flaming sunset as though it meant to sail into its very heart. Hawkwood loved his ship more than ever then, as she responded to his attentions, his cajolings, his lashing on of sail after sail. She seemed unaffected by the feelings on board, and leapt over the waves like a willing horse scenting home in the air ahead.

2nd day of Endorion, year of the Saint 551.

Wind north-east, fresh and steady. Course due west. Speed six knots with the breeze on the starboard quarter.

Courses, topsails and bonnets.

Six weeks out of Abrusio harbour, by my estimate over eight hundred leagues west of North Cape in the Hebrionese, on the approximate lat.i.tude of Gabrion, which we will follow until we find land in the west.

In the forenoon watch Lord Murad had three soldiers strappadoed from the main yardarm for insubordination. As I write they are being attended on the gundeck by Brother Ortelius and some of the oldwives aboard. Strange bedfellows.

Hawkwood looked over the entry, frowning, then shrugged as he sat and dipped his quill in the inkwellagain.

In the five days since First Mate Billerand and Ship's Boy Mateo were lost there have been no further deaths on board, though the mood of the ship's company has not improved. I have had words with Acting First Mate Velasca; it seems he is not happy with our course and the voyage as a whole. I told him that I expect to sight land within three weeks, which seemed to improve his temper and that of the crew. The soldiers, however, are growing more restless by the day, and despite the efforts of Murad's junior officers, they refuse to man their posts down in the hold.

There is something down there, they say, and they will only guard working parties hauling up provisions.

Billerand is sorely missed.

Hawkwood rubbed his tired eyes as the flickering table lantern played over the pages of his log. On the desk by the lantern Bardolin's imp squatted cross-legged and watched the scrawling quill with fascination. The little creature was covered with ink; it seemed to love daubing itself with it.

On a chair by the door of the cabin his master slumped, asleep. The mage had an iron spike loosely gripped in one hand and his head had fallen forward on to his chest. He was snoring softly.

They had taken Bardolin's advice to heart. None of them remained alone any more, especially at night.

If Hawkwood paused to listen, he could hear the creak and groan of the ship's timbers, the rush and hiss of the sea as the carrack's bow went up and down, the voices of men on the deck above his head. And from the other side of the thin bulkhead, dark moans and thumps from Murad's cabin. He was not alone either. He had the girl in there with him, Griella.

It was late. Hawkwood felt he had neglected the log; he felt he should pad out the bald entries more fully, leave something for posterity perhaps. The thought made him smile wryly. Perhaps some fisherman might find it one day, grasped in his skeletal hand.

He looked again at the last sentence he had written, and his face fell.

Billerand is sorely missed.

Aye. He had not truly realized how much he had depended on the bald, mustachioed ex-soldier. He and Julius Albak had been the two indomitable pillars aboard ship. Good shipmates, fine friends.

Now they were both gone, Julius at the hands of the Inceptines-they had killed him, no matter that it was a marine's arquebus which had stopped his heart-and Billerand under the muzzle of a werewolf.

Hawkwood felt strangely alone. On him rested the entire responsibility for the expedition, especially if the Grace of G.o.d had foundered, which he was beginning to believe had happened. He and he alone could point the Osprey's beakhead in the right direction.

The knowledge weighed on him sorely. He had told Velasca that three weeks would see landfall, but that had been a mere sop to the man's fear. Hawkwood had no idea how long they had to go before the fabled Western Continent would loom up out of the horizon.

He heard the ship's bell struck twice. Two bells in the middle watch, an hour past midnight. He would take a last sniff of air up on deck, check the trim of the sails and then retire to his bunk.

He placed a sea cloak over the gently snoring Bardolin and went to the door. The imp chirrupedwheedlingly at him and he turned.

"What is it, little one?"

With a bound, it launched itself off the desktop and landed on his shoulder. It nuzzled his ear, and he laughed.