“Of course, admirable,” Murad said absently. He was searching for an opening, a chink in the Inceptine’s bland manner. He saw Sequero and di Souza exchange glances; they knew the nightly game had started again.

“Well, we are in your spiritual charge, Father Ortelius. I am sure I speak for all the soldiers and mariners and common folk aboard when I say we shall rest easier knowing that you are here to shrive us of our sins and to watch over our moral welfare. But tell me: what do you think of the worthy crews who maintain these ships, or indeed of the passengers with whom you have taken ship?”

Ortelius looked at him, his normally urbane countenance twisting with what seemed like a spot of wariness.

“I’m not sure I follow you, my son.”

“Oh come now, Father! Surely you must have noticed that half of Hawkwood’s crew have faces as black as apes. They are heathens—Merduks!”

“Are you sure, my son?” Ortelius had stopped playing with his empty glass and was watching Murad closely, like a fencer waiting for the change of balance that heralded a thrust.

“Why, yes! Some of them are black worshippers of the evil prophet Ahrimuz.”

“Then I must do my humble best to show them the true and righteous path to the Company of the Saints,” Ortelius said sweetly.

But Murad went on as if the priest had not spoken.

“And the passengers, Father. Do you know who they are? I’ll tell you. They are the dregs of our society. They are sorcerers, herbalists, oldwives and even, God save us, mages. Didn’t you know?”

“I—I may have heard something to that effect.”

“Indeed, the very type of folk that the Inceptines have so industriously been ridding Abrusio of for these past weeks. Yet now you take ship with them, you sleep in their midst, and you administer to their so-called spiritual needs. Forgive me for saying so, Father, but I find it difficult to comprehend why a man like you should have taken it upon himself to associate with such fellow travellers. We know the vocation of the Friars Mendicant is to proselytize and convert, to spread the news of the Visions of the First Saint, but surely the Inceptines are rather loftier in the Church’s hierarchy.”

Murad let the unspoken question hang in the air.

“We go where we are sent, Lord Murad. We are all servants, we wearers of the black robe.”

“Ah, so you were sent to join us?”

“No. I have used that word clumsily. You must excuse me.”

“Either you were sent or you were not, Father. Do have some more brandy, by the way.”

Murad poured the cleric more of the Fimbrian whilst his two ensigns looked on like spectators at a gladiatorial contest. Sequero seemed amused and fascinated, but Murad was surprised to see a look of downright terror on di Souza’s face.

“Are you all right, Valdan?” he asked at once. “A touch of seasickness, perhaps?”

The straw-haired officer shook his head. He was like a man going to the gallows.

“As I was saying,” Murad said smoothly, turning to the cleric, “either you were sent, Father, or you came of your own accord. Or someone asked you to join our company.”

Here he stared back at di Souza, reading the young man’s suffused face and letting his last sentence hang in the air.

“I asked him to come!” di Souza blurted out. “It was me, sir—my idea alone. The soldiers wanted a chaplain. I asked Father Ortelius. I thought I did right, sir, upon mine honour!”

Murad glanced around the table. Ortelius was delicately wiping his lips with a napkin, eyes cast down and countenance serene once again. Sequero’s face was wooden, as if he feared to be associated with di Souza’s guilt by his proximity to his brother officer.

Murad laughed. “Well, why did you not say so?” He stood up. “I am sorry to have tried your patience thus these last few days, Father. Please forgive me.” And he bent to kiss the priest’s knuckle.

Ortelius beamed. “That is quite all right, my son.”

“And with this revelation I am afraid I must end our delightful evening, gentlemen. I would like to retire. Good night, Father. I hope you have a pleasant sleep. Sequero, good evening. You will see Father Ortelius to his hammock, I am sure. Ensign di Souza, stay behind a moment, if you please.”

When the other two had left di Souza sat stiffly in his chair with his hands in his lap.

“Talk to me, Ensign,” Murad said softly.

The younger man’s slab-like face was shining with sweat. His skin was red with wine and heat, contrasting vividly with his yellow hair.

“The men did not like the idea of sailing without a chaplain, as I said once before to you sir, I think.”

“Did Mensurado put you up to this?” Murad interrupted.

“No, sir! It was my idea alone.” Had di Souza placed the blame on his sergeant, Mensurado, Murad would have been forced to have the man strappadoed, or perhaps shot. And Mensurado was the most experienced soldier on the ship.

“How well do you know this Ortelius?”

Di Souza’s eyes flickered up and met Murad’s steady glare for a second. He seemed to shrink in his chair.

“Not well, sir. I know he was once on the staff of the Prelate of Hebrion, and is well thought of in the order.”

“And why should such a distinguished cleric take ship with an expedition into the unknown and with such travelling companions, eh?”

Di Souza shrugged helplessly. “He is a priest. It is his job. When he shrove me before we took ship he seemed to know about the voyage. He asked if I was at ease at the thought of undertaking it with no spiritual guide. I was not, sir—I tell the truth. He volunteered to come, but I thought he was only trying to comfort my wretched soul. I did not think he truly meant what he said.”

“You have a lot to learn, Valdan,” Murad said. “Ortelius is a spy in the pay of Himerius the Prelate of Hebrion. He has come along to see what the King is up to, commissioning this expedition, and with such passengers. But no matter. I know him now for what he is, and can deal with him accordingly.”

“Sir! You’re not going to—”

“Shut up, Valdan. You are a stupid young fool. I could have you stripped of rank and put in irons for the rest of the voyage for what you have taken upon yourself to do. But I need you. I will tell you one thing you had best remember, though.”

Murad leaned close until he could smell the brandy on his subordinate’s breath.

“Your loyalty will be to me, and no one else. Not to the Church, not to a priest, not to your own mother. You will look to me for everything. If you do not your career is over, and mayhap your life as well. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” di Souza croaked.

Murad smiled. “I am glad you understand. You are dismissed.”

The ensign got up out of his chair like an arthritic man, saluted and then bolted out of the door. Murad sat down in his own chair and propped his feet on the table. He turned his head to stare out aft at the ship’s wake. No sign of land. The Hebrionese were already out of sight, which meant they were at last truly in the Great Western Ocean.

And no one can touch us, Murad thought. Not kings, not priests, not the machinations of government. Until one of these ships returns, we are alone and no one can find us.

He remembered the log of Tyrenius Cobrian, the dark story of slaughter and madness that it told, and felt a chill of unease.

“Wine!” he called loudly.

When he turned back from his contemplation of the stern windows he found that the wine was already on the table, glowing as red as blood in its decanter with one remaining table lantern burning behind it.

The girl, Griella. She stood in the shadows. He knew her by the absurd breeches she wore, the bob of hair. And the peculiar shine of her eyes which always reminded him of a beast’s seen by torchlight.

Murad was momentarily startled by her silent presence; he had not heard a sound. He poured himself some of the luminous wine.