Kushiel's Mercy

lord!” Kratos’ voice, harsh and coughing. He flung a sodden bed-linen sheet over my shoulders. “Drape yourself and her highness. Cover your mouths.”
    I obeyed gratefully, then saw he hadn’t one for himself. “What about you?”
    Kratos shook his head. “No time.”
    It was a piece of madness. Sailors dashed, hurling buckets, but they’d done their job too well. The entire ship was ablaze. The sails were on fire, and our progress was faltering.
    We’d won our way past the blockade, but we hadn’t cleared the mole.
    High overhead, one of the yardarms gave way, crashing to the deck in flurry of fiery sparks. Someone cried out in agonizing pain. Sparks landed and sizzled on the damp linen wrapped around us. The ship wallowed, flaming.
    And behind us, looming through the smoke and flames, the Carthaginian war-ship that had dogged our wake passed the blockade and continued its pursuit.
    “To the landing-boat, men!” Deimos’ voice roared. “To oars!”
    They came, staggering, soot-blackened and singed. Not all of them. There were at least seven Cytheran sailors who didn’t survive that desperate gambit. Those who did worked with frantic hands, undoing the knots that held the landing-boat, lowering it into the water.
    Two held it in place with grappling poles. Others clambered over the railing, dropping into the smaller vessel. The first to gain his feet reached up, gesturing to me.
    “Ready?” I didn’t wait for Sidonie’s answer, but swung her over the railing, lowering her.
    The sailor below caught and steadied her. Kratos’ linen sheet slipped from my shoulders.
    I felt a blast of heat against my back. Deimos was already in the boat, ordering his men to the benches.
    “Go!” Kratos shouted, shielding me.
    “You first, old man!” I stooped and caught him under the knee in a wrestling move he’d taught me himself, heaving him unceremoniously over the railing. There were shouts below from the men who broke his fall. The sailors holding the landing-boat in place with grappling poles grimaced. I vaulted the railing and let myself drop. One of them followed suit.
    The other didn’t. The flames had caught him.
    “Go!” Deimos shouted. “Go, go, go !”
    They were good men, Ptolemy Solon’s men. They bent their backs to the oars, churning the grey waters to a frenzy. Behind us, the wreck of the ship foundered and burned, throwing off sparks of fire and burning matter. The Carthaginian war-ship was forced to give it a wide berth.
    Before us, a scant twenty yards away, lay the mole and the fortress.
    “Go, go, go !” Deimos chanted.
    I wanted to reach Sidonie, but I didn’t dare. There was an open bench near me. I slid into it and grasped the oar shaft. I bent my back with the others, dipping and hauling for all I was worth. The light landing-boat shot across the choppy waters.
    The massive trireme bore down on us, its sails full-bellied, propelled by three banks of oars.
    From the fortress on the mole came a resonant thrumming sound. Amílcar’s defenders were loosing the great catapults. The first missile, a boulder large enough that two men’s arms couldn’t have circled it, passed low over our heads and landed behind our stern. A geyser of water shot up.
    “Row, lads!” Deimos shouted. “ Row , damn you!”
    We doubled our efforts.
    I’d taken a shift the night we’d rowed to Kapporeth, Joscelin, Phèdre, and I, following the stars. And I’d pulled my weight on a Vralian ship during the storm that led to a shipwreck.
    Those had been long, grueling affairs. This was short and urgent. Life or death would be decided in a matter of yards. The wood of the oar shaft felt hot beneath my hands, burning from the friction of my skin.
    We surged past the fortress.
    The catapults thrummed and thudded.
    But not against us. Amílcar’s defenders were well-armed and determined. They might not know who we were, but they knew Carthage was against us. They loosed a barrage against our lone pursuer. At least one missile struck true. The Carthaginian ship slowed, taking on water.
    “Keep going,” Deimos said grimly. “Row!”
    The port grew closer. We were well inside the mole. I spared a glance over my shoulder and saw the wounded Carthaginian ship beginning to founder. I whispered a prayer of thanks to Blessed Elua.
    Our pace slowed as we drew into the harbor.
    Amílcar.
    Even in the midst of terror and urgency, it made me feel strange seeing it again. I’d seen it as a child. It was here