"Karl Edward Wagner - Undertow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wagner Karl Edward)

Seekers in the Night

ThereтАФhe heard the sound again.
Mavrsal left off his disgruntled contemplation of the
near-empty wine bottle and stealthily came to his feet. The
captain of the Tuab was alone in his cabin, and the hour was late.
For hours the only sounds close at hand had been the slap of
waves on the barnacled bull, the creak of cordage, and the dull
thud of the caravel's aged timbers against the quay. Then had
come a soft footfall, a muffled fumbling among the deck gear
outside his half-open door. Too loud for ratsтАФa thief, then?
Grimly Mavrsal unsheathed his heavy cutlass and caught up a
lantern. He catfooted onto the deck, reflecting bitterly over his
worthless crew. From cook to first mate, they had deserted his
ship a few days before, angered over wages months unpaid. An
unseasonable squall had forced them to jettison most of their
cargo of copper ingots, and the Tuab had limped into the harbor
of Carsultyal with shredded sails, a cracked mainmast, a dozen
new leaks from wrenched timbers, and the rest of her worn
fittings in no better shape. Instead of the expected wealth, the
decimated cargo had brought in barely enough capital to cover
the expense of refitting. Mavrsal argued that until refitted, the
Tuab was unseaworthy, and that once repairs were complete,
another cargo could be found (somehow), and then wages long in
arrears could be paidтАФwith a bonus for patient loyalty. The crew
cared neither for his logic nor his promises and defected amidst
stormy threats.
Had one of them returned to carry out...? Mavrsal hunched
his thick shoulders truculently and hefted the cutlass. The master
of the Tuab had never run from a brawl, much less a sneak thief
or slinking assassin.
Night skies of autumn were bright over Carsultyal, making the
lantern almost unneeded. Mavrsal surveyed the soft shadows of
the caravel's deck, his brown eyes narrowed and alert beneath
shaggy brows. But he heard the low sobbing almost at once, so
there was no need to prowl about the deck.
He strode quickly to the mound of torn sail and rigging at the
far rail. "All right, come out of that!" he rumbled, beckoning with
the tip of his blade to the half-seen figure crouched against the
rail. The sobbing choked into silence. Mavrsal prodded the
canvas with an impatient boot. "Out of there, damn it!" he
repeated.
The canvas gave a wriggle and a pair of sandaled feet backed
out, followed by bare legs and rounded hips that strained against
the bunched fabric of her gown. Mavrsal pursed his lips
thoughtfully as the girl emerged and stood before him. There
were no tears in the eyes that met his gaze. The aristocratic face
was defiant, although the flared nostrils and tightly pressed lips
hinted that her defiance was a mask. Nervous fingers smoothed
the silken gown and adjusted her cloak of dark brown wool.