“There,” Myrtaios said, pointing with one thick forefinger. “You see that line on the horizon to the west?”
“That’s land, is it?”
“That’s Gygonis, the south-eastern shore of it, and if you were at the masthead you’d see the snow on the Andrumenos Mountains. I thank Antimone’s pity the wind didn’t back round sooner, or we’d all be floating on bits of firewood by now, pounded up and down that bastard black-rocked coast. No, rough though it was, it was as good as I could hope for at this time of year. You set sail in winter, you’re thumbing your nose at Phobos, and he’ll stir up the seas against you. Why, if it were not for the fee, I’d have laughed in your face when you hired me.”
“So,” Pasion said patiently, “assuming Phobos has turned his face away, how much farther is there to go?”
Myrtaios grinned, a stale exhalation of garlic. He picked at what teeth he had with one thumbnail’. “Why, we’re past Gygonis, so that’s the worst of it over, and we’ve a good wind now, fair on the quarter. If it’s more than four hundred pasangs to the coast of Artaka, well then I’ll kiss my steersman’s arse. And we can rattle that off in three days, barring storms, shipwreck, and this old bitch under us taking on any more water.”
“Thank you, captain,” Pasion said. “I am obliged to you, and your crew.”
Myrtaios laughed. “You keep your thanks, sell-spear, and make sure my fee stays in the hold where it belongs. Now that’s ballast I’d be happy to carry more often.” He raised his hands as though he were cupping a woman’s breasts. “All those lovely little round bags a’ clinking together, like the gold was talking to you through the leather. You live long enough to need a return trip, and I’m your man!” He stumped off along the deck, laughing with his head back. Pasion belched, put his palm across his mouth, and lurched towards the windward rail.
During the day the wind dropped an octave, and what rags of cloud remained about the sky went with it, off into the west. The fleet bowled along in an almost stately fashion, and as the ships began to behave more like sensible means of transport and less like contrivances of torture, so the men below began to make their way up on deck. Rictus and Gasca climbed up the hatch-ladders and staggered forward to the bows. Here, the salt spray was refreshing as rain, and there was a warmth in the sun which seemed a new and strange thing. They almost fancied they could smell some new scent in the air, as though the senses changed along with the world’s geography.
“We’re running south,” Rictus said. “See the sun setting on our right? The Harukush are behind our heads, and before us—”
“Aye—what’s that out before us, I wonder?” Gasca said. He had a light in his eye which had not been there since they had left Machran, and Rictus was glad to see it.
“The Sea,” Rictus told him. “This is the Tanean we’re floating upon. In the legends, it is said that it was created by Antimone’s salt tears, as she wept to be exiled from heaven. And then the smith-god Gaenion, in pity, reared up the land of Artaka on its far shores and filled it full of spices and fragrances and flowers to comfort her.”
“That’s where we’re going, it seems,” Gasca said. He grinned crookedly. “This land of spices and flowers you speak of—if it’s so damn nice then why did God let the Kufr have it and stick us with the black mountains of the Kush?”
“I think God has other plans for the Macht,” Rictus said.
“I think God has it in for us,” Gasca told him. “He gave us the shithole of the world to fight over, by all accounts, and the best bits He saved up for the damned Kufr. Perhaps our legends have it all wrong and we’re the pimple on this world’s arse, stuck out in the snow-covered rocks, whilst the rest of the crowd have it easy with all the flowers and the spices and such. Ever think of that, philosopher?”
Rictus smiled, but said nothing. He leaned on the wooden bulwark at the bow and watched the bowsprit as it reared up and down, like a willing horse at the canter. He watched the waves come rolling in to be smashed aside by the ship’s stem, and savoured the sight, the smell, the clean salt water on his skin. There was a presentiment upon him, a knowledge that he must remember this time on the wide waters of the world. A gift of the goddess perhaps. Always, her gifts were double-edged. This one gave him a keen delight in the living movement of the ship, and the massive turning of the waters below it. He knew now to make a memory of this, for when it was gone, he would not see it again.