“Yes, I do.”

“What about the Grace of God?” Hawkwood asked suddenly. “Could her disappearance be the result of some kind of sabotage also?”

“Perhaps. Who can say?”

Hawkwood cursed bitterly.

“If the caravel is lost, Captain, don’t you want to find out how or why? And who it was that destroyed your ship and killed your crew?” Murad’s voice was low, but as hard as frost.

“Not at the expense of this ship and the lives of her company,” Hawkwood said.

“That may not be necessary, if we are vigilant enough. We have been warned by the fate of the previous ships; we need not go the same way.”

“Then how do we track this thing down? You heard Bardolin—there is no telling which man on this ship is the shifter.”

“Perhaps the priest can tell. I have heard it rumoured that the clergy can somehow sniff out these things.”

“No,” Bardolin put in quickly. “That is a fallacy. The only way to weed out a shifter is to wait until it changes and be ready for it.”

“What makes it change?” Hawkwood asked. “You said it was rational after a fashion, even in its beast form.”

“Yes. And I also said it is impulsive, uncontrollable. But if we turn back it will, I believe, have got what it wants and may not find the need to shift again. On the other hand, if we announce that we are sticking to our course it may feel forced to persuade us otherwise.”

“Excellent,” Murad said. “There you are, Captain. We must continue westwards if we want to hunt this thing out into the open.”

“Continue westwards!” Hawkwood laughed. “We are not continuing anywhere at the moment. The sails are as slack as a beggar’s purse. The ship is becalmed.”

“There must be something we can do,” Murad said irritably. “Bardolin, you are supposed to be a mage. Can’t you whistle up a wind?”

“A mage is master of only four of the Seven Disciplines,” Bardolin replied. “Weather-working is not one of mine.”

“What about the other passengers? They’re mages and witches to a man, else they would not be here. Surely one of them could do something?”

Bardolin smiled wryly. “Pernicus was the only one gifted in that particular field. Perhaps you should ask Brother Ortelius to pray for a wind, my lord.”

“Do not be insolent,” Murad snapped.

“I only point out that the dregs of Ramusian society have suddenly become sought-after in a crisis.”

“Only because one of those dregs jeopardizes the entire ship’s safety with his own accursed brand of hellish sorcery,” Murad said icily. “Set a thief to catch a thief, it is said.”

Bardolin’s eyes glinted in his old-soldier face. “I will catch your thief for you, then, but I will not do it for nothing.”

“Aha! Here’s the rub. And what would you like in way of payment, Mage?”

“I will let you know that at the appropriate time. For now, let us just say that you will owe me a favour.”

“The damn thing isn’t caught yet,” Hawkwood said quietly. “Worry about obligations after we have its head on a pike.”

“Well said, Captain,” Murad agreed. “And here”—he threw the rutter into Hawkwood’s lap—“peruse that at your leisure. It may be of use.”

“I doubt it. We are far off our course, Murad. The rutter is no longer any use to me. From now on, unless we regain our former latitude—which is well-nigh impossible without a Dweomer wind—we are sailing uncharted seas. From what you have told me, it seems that the Faulcon never came this far south. My intent now is to set a course due west, parallel to our old one. There is no point in trying to beat up towards our former latitude.”

“What if we miss the Western Continent altogether and sail to the south of it?” Murad asked.

“If it is even half the size of Normannia it will be there on this latitude. In any case, to try and sail back north would be almost suicidal, as I told you before we enlisted Pernicus’ services.”

Murad shrugged. “It is all one to me, so long as we sight land in the end and are in a fit state to walk ashore.”

“Let me worry about that. Your concern is this beast that haunts the ship.”

B Y the end of the morning watch the guns had been run back in and the rumour had circulated round the ship like a fast-spreading pestilence: Pernicus had been murdered by a stowaway spy, and the murderer lurked aboard, unknown. The carrack began to take on some of the aspects of a besieged fortress, with soldiers everywhere asking people their business, the crew armed and the ship’s officers barking orders left and right. The patched-up boats were swung out from the yardarms and crews of sailors began hauling the carrack westwards, out of the doldrums; a killing labour in the stock-still heat of the day.

In the midst of the militant uneasiness the last of the storm’s damage was rectified and the ship began to look more like her old self, with new timber about the sterncastle and waist and new cable sent up to the tops. But the sails remained flaccid and empty, and the surface of the sea was as obstinately flat as the surface of a green mirror, whilst the sun glared down out of a cloudless sky.

It was in the foretop that Bardolin and Griella finally found the peace to speak without being overheard. They sat in the low-walled platform with the bulk of the topmast at their backs and a spider tracery of rigging all about them.

Still red-faced from clambering up the shrouds in this heat, Bardolin released the imp. With a squeak of pleasure it darted around the top, gazing down at the deck far below and peering out at the haze-dim horizon.

“You’ve heard, I suppose?” Bardolin asked curtly.

“About Pernicus? Yes. Why would anyone have done such a thing? He was a harmless enough little man.” Griella was dressed in her habitual breeches and a thin linen shirt that Bardolin suspected was a cast-off of Murad’s. Fragments of lace clung to its neck and she had rolled the voluminous sleeves up to her elbows, exposing brown forearms with tiny golden hairs freckling them.

“He was killed by a shifter, Griella,” the mage said in a flinthard voice.

The pale eyes widened until he could see the strange yellow-golden circle around the pupils. “Bardolin! Are you sure?”

“I have seen shifters kill before, remember.”

She stared at him. Her mouth opened. Finally she said:

“But you don’t think—you do! You think it was me!”

“Not you, but the beast that inhabits you.”

The eyes flared; the yellow grew in them until they were scarcely human any longer. “We are the same, the beast and I, and I tell you that it was not I who slew Pernicus.”

“Are you expecting me to believe there are two shifters on board this ship?”

“There must be, or else you are mistaken. Maybe someone killed him in such a way as to make it look as though it was done by a beast.”

“I am not a fool, Griella. I warned you about this many times. Now it has happened.”

“I did not do it! Please, Bardolin, you must believe me!”

The glow in the eyes had retreated and there was only the light of the pitiless sun setting the tears in them afire. She was a small girl again, tugging at his knee. The imp looked on, aghast.

“Why should I?” Bardolin said harshly, though he longed to take her in his arms, to say that he did, to make it all right.

“Is there nothing I can do to convince you?”

“What could you do, Griella?”

“I could let you see into my mind, the way you did before when I was about to change into the beast and you stopped me. You saw into me then, Bardolin. You can do it again.”

“I—”

He was not so sure of himself now. He had thought to extract a confession from her, but he had not considered beyond that. He knew he would never have turned her over to Murad—there would have been some bargain made, some deal done. But now he no longer knew what to do.

Because he did believe her.

“Let me see your eyes, Griella. Look at me.”