Imperial Fire

XXIII

Far behind, many miles astern, three shapes broke the flat and empty riverscape.

Vallon waited, measuring their progress. ‘They don’t seem to be gaining on us.’

‘They don’t have to press hard,’ Wulfstan said. ‘The sea’s still a couple of days away.’

By noon the enemy convoy was close enough for the Outlanders to see what they were up against. One of the ships was a four-masted three-decker twice the size of Jifeng. The second had three masts. The third vessel, more like a floating tower than a ship, had no sail at all yet was keeping station without any obvious means of propulsion.

‘I saw ships like that in the south,’ Wayland said. ‘It’s driven by paddle wheels, like the waterwheels in a mill. Some ships have half a dozen or more, each pair connected by axles with pedals sticking out like flat spokes — one set of pedals for each poor sod who has to tread them.’

‘How many soldiers are we facing?’

Wulfstan answered. ‘That four-master alone is probably carrying a hundred soldiers, and they’ll be armed with all kinds of weaponry — heavy crossbows, traction catapults, flame-throwers, incendiary grenades… One sailor I met in Kaifeng said the Chinese navy ain’t quick to grapple with the enemy. Instead they have these long poles hinged at the base and with a spiked hammer at the top. When they get within range, they drop the hammer end onto the enemy ship, holding it at a safe distance while they bombard it.’

‘We might as well give up now.’

‘What the Chinese ain’t got is a counterweight trebuchet. I can land a dozen rocks on their decks before their catapults get in range. Their incendiary ain’t a patch on ours, either. Burns hot, burns fast, but it doesn’t stick and burn to the bone like Greek Fire.’

Vallon turned to the troopers. ‘Reposition the siphon at the stern.’

While they went about their task, he appraised the ship and saw how vulnerable it was to fire — a huge piece of floating kindling. ‘What happened to the hides from the rafts?’

‘Stored below,’ Wulfstan said. ‘Two hundred of them, enough to cover the entire deck.’

‘Do it.’

Evening came and the sun set behind the enemy ships, now only a mile astern. The Outlanders toiled into the night sheathing the junk in hides, draping the stern with two layers. When the skins were in place, they soaked them with water. The slat-and-cotton sails couldn’t be fireproofed and Vallon ordered his men to strike the mainsail and stow it below deck. The moon, only a day off full, shone on the Chinese warships shadowing Jifeng so closely that the Outlanders could hear the beat of drums and shouted messages between the vessels.

‘Why don’t they attack?’ Lucas asked Vallon.

‘Night attacks are risky. I’m going to take a nap. I suggest you do the same.’

‘I’m too tense to sleep.’

Vallon walked off then walked back. ‘I’d like you to stay close to me tomorrow.’

‘I don’t need mollycoddling.’

Vallon laughed. ‘I wasn’t thinking about your protection. I’m getting too old for combat. I’ll feel more secure with a strong and skilled right hand at my side.’

Lucas flushed. ‘Goodnight…’ he said, leaving a word unspoken.

Vallon stopped, his skin prickling. Say it, he prayed. There might not be another chance and if I die tomorrow I’ll quit this world more peacefully knowing that my son acknowledged me as his father.

‘Goodnight, sir.’

Vallon was back on deck in full armour before dawn, the warships still tagging in their wake, moonlight cupped in their sails. What little breeze there was blew from the south, almost at right angles to Jifeng’s progress. The moon was sinking into mist steaming off the river as the sun rose. The vapours soon burned off and the sun struck hot. The current had slowed and was so thick with silt that it resembled soup. Within a day of the sea the river seemed to have become indifferent about reaching it, branches wandering fitfully through a wilderness of reeds. Wayland, appointed sailing master, sought Vallon’s advice.

‘Which channel should we take?’

The river forked around a sand bar, the left-hand channel half the width of the right, less than two hundred yards wide and only navigable for a third of that.

‘Take the narrow stream. We draw less water than the enemy. They won’t be able to get past us without risk of grounding.’

Jifeng nosed into the channel between walls of reeds. The Outlanders waited, sweating in full armour. Vallon moved among them, exhorting them to be of good heart. He paid a brief visit to Qiuylue before taking up position on the stern deck.

Wulfstan shambled out from below, lurching from hold to hold, cowled and clad in heavy, full-length white robes like a member of some diabolical sect. Vallon grabbed him.

‘You’re drunk.’

Wulfstan hiccupped. ‘And you’re scared, but I’ll be sober soon enough.’

‘What the hell are you wearing?’

Wulfstan eyed his drapes with pride. ‘Asbestos. Hajar al-fatila, the Arabs call it — “wick-stone”, because flame can’t touch it. In these togs I could walk through hell and step out the other side without a scorch.’

‘They’re coming,’ Lucas said.

The drumbeats had quickened. War cries panicked flocks of wildfowl into flight. The four-master bore down on Jifeng, fire-pots glowing on its foredeck and the sun flaring off its iron-sheathed bow.

The first volley of heavy crossbow bolts struck.

‘Everyone take cover,’ Vallon ordered. He dropped below the stern transom with half a dozen other men.

Only the trebuchet team and steersman remained on deck, partly protected by bales and wicker screens. With his good hand, Wulfstan loaded one of the lightest stones into the trebuchet’s sling. In stepping back to check the range and aim, he tripped and fell. Vallon rushed at him.

‘I’ll kill you for this.’

Wulfstan reached up. ‘Give me a hand. This outfit weighs a ton.’

He was wearing armour beneath his fireproof drapes and it took two men to hoist him to his feet. He cracked his knuckles and squinted at the oncoming battleship.

‘Not yet,’ he crooned. ‘Wait for my word.’

A dozen men working the enemy warship’s catapult dragged down on ropes and launched the first missile. It fell well short. Wulfstan reached into the capacious folds of his robe and pulled out a bottle. He unstoppered it with his teeth and drank.

Vallon hefted his sword. ‘Wulfstan, if you survive the battle, I’m going to flog you myself.’

Wulfstan capped the bottle and turned a sleazy leer on the general. ‘Hush. You’re disturbing my concentration.’

Another stone from the enemy catapult splashed into Jifeng’s wake. Wulfstan crouched, assessing the range.

‘Wait… Wait… Launch!’

The throwing arm tilted skywards, the sling extended like a whip and the missile hurtled in a high parabola before crashing onto the warship’s stern deck.

‘Use that one next,’ Wulfstan shouted, pointing with his good hand at another stone.

Five times the team manning the trebuchet dropped stones on the warship before the Chinese catapulters came within range. Vallon flinched as a stone bounced off the deck beside him. The enemy was within a hundred yards, their commander directing teams of crossbowmen who loosed droves of bolts so heavy that they splintered through the two-inch thick transom.

Outnumbered and under-armed, the Outlander archers could only respond with snap shots before ducking back behind cover. Indifferent to the lethal darts, Wulfstan continued calling the shots between slugs of liquor. ‘Load that big bastard,’ he said, pointing at the heaviest stone in the heap.

Two men struggled to lift the boulder and one of them fell dead as he rose, pierced through by a bolt that still had enough energy to bury itself in the mainmast.

The boulder trundled down the stern deck. Gorka sprang forward and threw himself on it before it rolled off. Between him and the other loader they managed to scoop it into the sling,

‘I call this one the cuckoo’s egg,’ Wulfstan said. ‘On account of you wouldn’t want it in your nest.’ He brought down his arm. ‘Release.’

Crouched below the transom, Vallon watched as the throwing arm flicked up then slowed almost to a stop, arrested by its burden. The rope attached to the sling extended lazily before it tautened and the missile launched into space. A lob rather than a hurl. Vallon heard something terminal break on the trebuchet, but his attention was on the little black planet describing a shallow arc extending for no more than a hundred feet before it smashed through the warship’s foredeck with a hollow crack. Another crash as it tumbled through the lower deck

Wulfstan abandoned the trebuchet and crawled over to Vallon. The warship was only fifty feet from grappling and lines of soldiers were jogging onto the foredeck, packing its bow in readiness to board.

Looking along the transom, Vallon tried to encourage his men. ‘Your lives are precious to me, so don’t sell them at discount.’ He addressed the rear. ‘Archers, make every shot count.’

He slid down. Wulfstan offered him his bottle. Vallon batted it away and would have struck the sot if he hadn’t noticed the blood staining Wulfstan’s moustache.

‘You’re wounded.’

Someone shouted. It was Wayland.

‘What?’ Vallon cried.

He couldn’t hear the answer through the hubbub from the Chinese ship. The orderly commands had given way to an anxious caterwauling. He stuck his head up.

‘Hell’s teeth.’

Where only moments earlier the bow of the Chinese battleship had reared above Jifeng’s stern, it now dipped nose heavy, sinking lower. The ship was falling back, taking in water. The soldiers on the foredeck milled in confusion.

Vallon looked down at Wulfstan. ‘Your last shot did it. Have another bottle.’

Wulfstan coughed blood. ‘I’ve taken my last drink.’

Vallon didn’t have time to find out how badly the Viking was injured. The bow-heavy battleship was steering for shore, making way for the second junk. Wulfstan clawed himself to his feet and leaned on the transom.

‘The ropes fixing the trebuchet’s axle have bust. We might just have time to prime the siphon.’

The brazier was already glowing and Wulfstan positioned it under the oil reservoir. The wind had died and both ships drifted downriver at the same speed, a furlong separating them.

‘Save your arrows,’ Vallon ordered.

A buzz of activity on each side of the enemy junk drew his attention.

‘They’re rigging oars,’ he shouted. ‘Can we do the same?’

Wayland threw up his hands.

‘My brew needs more cooking,’ Wulfstan said through stertorous breaths. ‘Tell your archers to put a crimp in the Chinese advance.’

With more time to aim, the Outlanders’ bowmen launched volley after volley at the rowers. For every man they killed or wounded, another took his place. Vallon couldn’t help but admire their courage and discipline.

‘We’re running low on arrows,’ Gorka cried.

‘Save them for the boarding party.’

The junk was gaining. Under his armour, Vallon was soaked in sweat. He’d ordered his men to take up battle stations not long after dawn and now the sun was almost at its meridian. The tank of Greek Fire clicked on a rising note.

‘How much more time do you need?’

‘I’d say it’s done to a turn. In fact if we wait much longer we’ll blow ourselves up.’

‘How can we slow ourselves?’

Wulfstan wiped blood from his mouth. ‘Drop a makeshift anchor astern.’

Within minutes the soldiers placed two hundredweight of ballast in a net secured with a rope to the mainmast. Six men heaved it over the stern and as soon as it hit bottom it dragged, halving Jifeng’s speed.

Something exploded on her foredeck. Fire broke out and two men howled from their burns. Their companions wrapped them in hides to suffocate the flames.

‘Quicklime,’ Wulfstan said.

The abrupt slowing of Jifeng flat-footed the commander of the junk. The oarsmen tried to back water, but the vessel had too much momentum behind it. Jifeng was almost stationary when the enemy junk slid to within ten yards and Wulfstan opened the valve on the siphon.

Crouched only ten feet away, Vallon felt the singeing heat of the incendiary as it sprayed the junk’s bow. Through the pressurised roar, he heard screams. Next moment he was thrown down as the junk collided with Jifeng’s stern. Globules of Greek Fire sizzled on the wet hides.

Squinting through the smoke, he saw that the incendiary had taken hold on the junk’s bow. Flames ran up shrouds like fiery squirrels. A patch of foresail flashed into flame, fire feeding fire until the junk’s foredeck dissolved in an inferno.

Vallon’s eyebrows charred in the heat. Holding his breath to preserve his lungs, he slashed the anchor rope. Slowly Jifeng separated from the enemy junk, flames six feet high rising from the leather drapes hung over the stern. Wulfstan in his fireproof suit walked into the blaze and cut the hides away. They fell into the river and continued burning. Pockets of flame danced on Jifeng’s deck. The Outlanders swatted them as if they were rats or goblins, only to see them spring back to life.

‘Use sand and vinegar,’ Wulfstan ordered.

When the fires were out, Vallon removed his helmet and splashed water over his scalded brow. The enemy junk was ablaze from bow to midships and its complement of sailors and soldiers had retreated to the stern and were stripping off their armour. Vallon saw figures leaping into the river clutching kegs and planks, anything buoyant.

Wulfstan spat blood. ‘Two down.’

Through the noxious billows of smoke the third ship came churning, froth kicking up from paddle wheels hidden behind a false hull protected by a heavy fender or bulwark. It was the ugliest and most pointless vessel Vallon had ever seen. Where a junk had a bluff bow and low tapering foredeck, this monstrosity had a square tower twenty feet high, its wooden parapet loopholed for archers and crossbowmen. Behind the tower and taking up almost the rest of the hull was a superstructure shaped like a house, with a pitched roof and walls that had no windows, only doors — a dozen of them ten feet high, each one painted with a snarling tiger.

Vallon looked for Wulfstan. ‘What the hell is it?’

Clasping his chest with his hooked left arm, Wulfstan lurched up. ‘Those doors are hatches and boarding ramps hinged at the bottom. Behind each tiger half a dozen men are waiting for the ship to come alongside. When it does, they drop the hatches and as soon as the ramps hit our side-rail, over they pour.’

‘Can you turn the siphon on them?’

‘I emptied the tank. I’ve got only one barrel left and there ain’t time to cook it.’

The paddle-wheeler took an erratic course, scooting like an aquatic insect well wide of Jifeng’s starboard side and holding position while its invisible commander weighed up the opposition and calculated how and when to attack. The absence of any visible threat unnerved the Outlanders and they drifted back to Jifeng’s port side, putting maximum distance between themselves and the hidden enemy.

Vallon stood at the starboard rail and bellowed at his troops. ‘Why are you hanging back like maidens at their first dance? You’re not virgins. They’re not demons. They’re soldiers the same as you, and they’ve seen us destroy two ships and kill dozens of their comrades.’ He lashed a hand at Josselin. ‘Two squads to form up in line with me. One squad of archers at the rear.’

The Outlanders shuffled into formation. Lucas approached Vallon. ‘Where do you want me to stand?’

‘My left ankle is weak. On that side if you would.’

Lucas took up position, breathing in deep but controlled gasps. Vallon glanced at him and all the fetters around his heart broke. In one quick movement he embraced Lucas. ‘Whatever our fate, I want you to know how proud I am to have my son standing at my side.’

‘I wouldn’t choose to stand anywhere else. I’ve found my place, even though the journey has been painful.’

‘How can I ease your pain? Tell me. We don’t have much time.’

Lucas hunched his shoulders. ‘Your sword. Every time I see it, it reminds me of that night.’

Vallon hissed. ‘Of course. I should have thought of it myself.’ He began to turn. ‘Josselin, fetch me another — ’

Lucas pulled him back. ‘I don’t mean now. Not with the enemy about to attack.’

Vallon turned to face the foe. ‘You’re an excellent swordsman but you lack combat experience. Here’s my last lesson. Killing is a mortal sin, to be avoided unless absolutely necessary. But when there’s no other resort, killing is all that matters. Nothing must intervene between intention and execution — not thought, anger or conscience. The soldier who kills without hesitation will triumph nine times out of ten. Kill your enemy and leave God to do the judging.

For all that the paddle-wheeler had the grace of a privy, it was surprisingly nimble, able to change direction within its own length. It fell behind Jifeng before putting on a burst of speed that brought it level, only twenty feet separating the two ships. Vallon looked along his line of soldiers and was dismayed to see how flimsy it was.

Wulfstan staggered up. ‘I’ve got an idea. Use Fire Drug.’

‘How? We don’t have time to light it. Even if we had, it will probably blow us up.’

‘Leave that to me.’

Vallon’s eyes darted. ‘Someone fetch the barrel of Fire Drug.’

A trooper ran below and returned with the barrel. ‘Wrap it in a net and tie it to my hook,’ Wulfstan said.

While a soldier lashed the barrel to his claw, Wulfstan picked up the last keg of Greek Fire. ‘That’s the problem of having only one hand. Someone else will have to pour it over me and set it alight.’

Vallon gaped. ‘Wulfstan!’

The Viking touched a small blood-rimmed hole in his asbestos suit. ‘A bolt has stuck me through the vitals. I’m going to die whatever happens, so I might as well make my death count.’

Vallon swallowed. He looked around and his eye fell on Gorka. ‘Do as he says.’

‘Sir, I can’t.’

‘That’s a direct order. Soak his suit with Greek Fire and stand ready to ignite it.’

While Gorka was pouring the incendiary over Wulfstan, the paddle-wheeler nudged closer. A dozen crossbowmen sprang up on the bow castle and triggered darts, dropping three Outlanders where they stood.

Wulfstan coughed up a gobbet of blood and tissue. ‘As soon as they grapple, I’ll run for the stern hatch. Have your archers clear the way.’

Vallon swung round. ‘Hear that? Concentrate your aim on the two stern hatches.’

The paddle-wheeler sidled into boarding range. Vallon cleared his throat. ‘You know what I’m going to say next so you might as well say it for me.’

The Outlanders struck their shields with their sword hilts. ‘Here or in the hereafter!’

Only twelve feet separated Vallon from the snarling tigers. Ten feet… eight…

The hatches swung open and clattered onto Jifeng’s rail. Down each ramp surged a file of soldiers wielding poleaxes and swords. Before the first one leaped onto the deck, Vallon registered his soldiers on each side dropping under a hail of bolts from the tower, Gorka holding a lamp to Wulfstan’s robes and — Vallon could hardly credit his eyes — Hauk Eiriksson and his Vikings in the forefront of the assault.

Vallon pointed his sword. ‘Traitor! Villain!’

He had no more time to consider Hauk’s treachery. The first wave of soldiers leaped onto the deck. First to confront him was a Chinese infantryman swinging a poleaxe. Vallon ducked under the blade and skewered his attacker from groin to chest. Before the man had fallen he’d withdrawn the sword and was looking for the next target. From the corner of his eye he saw Wulfstan erupt in a ball of flame and greasy black smoke. The human torch ran across the deck and paused at the rail before climbing onto the ramp. Two soldiers tumbled backwards to get out the way of the frightful apparition, and Wulfstan disappeared into the paddle-wheeler’s hull.

Vallon was embroiled in a mêlée. He sidestepped a soldier wielding a halberd and slashed down at the junction of the man’s head and shoulder. The space occupied by the dead man filled with Rorik, the giant Viking who’d defied all natural law by recovering from a gangrenous leg back in Turkestan. Vallon led him left, led him right, right again, and when the man didn’t know which way to move next, Vallon killed him with a quick thrust to his heart.

Jumping back, Vallon saw Lucas hard-pressed by two swordsmen. He dealt with one of them with one stroke and the other sprang away in search of easier opposition. Lucas’s mouth twisted.

‘Hot and heavy work.’

‘Stay close.’

One sweeping glance told Vallon that the battle was lost. Knots of Chinese infantry had closed around his Outlanders, cutting them down one by one. He saw Hauk kill Josselin the centurion, a gentle man who’d always dealt courteously with the Vikings.

‘You’ll pay for that in hell,’ Vallon shouted.

Hauk heard him. ‘I’m saving you until last.’

Vallon didn’t have time to respond. Two more men assailed him and he forgot his own injunction, so enraged that he cut the sword arms off both enemies with a single stroke. Lucas had drifted away and Vallon sprang towards him. ‘Back to back.’

A mob of soldiers forced them to give ground. Vallon thrust, swung and hacked, but for every man he killed another two stood ready to fill the space. His suspect left ankle gave way and he buckled.

‘Father!’

Vallon regained his feet. ‘Don’t worry about me.’ He fended off another attack, knowing that the next or the one after that would be the end.

‘Behind you!’ someone shouted.

Swinging round, Vallon turned headfirst into the path of a mace that smashed into his helmet. The world went white and then black.

He was sprawled on the deck, trying to regain control of his limbs when a hand wrenched the helmet off his head and he found himself looking into the smiling face of Hauk Eiriksson.

The Viking’s voice seemed to reach him from far away. ‘We never bade each other a proper farewell, Vallon the Far-Farer.’

Vallon coughed. ‘I said goodbye to you two or three times, and always you returned like a cur in want of a master.’

‘Not this time,’ Hauk said. He raised his sword. ‘So close to the grave, so far from heaven.’

Vallon was dimly aware of the clash of arms continuing around him. ‘If Lucas is alive, spare him. Spare Qiuylue.’

‘I’m on commission and can’t afford to be lenient. Lucas will join you in hell. As for your tart, we’ll use her tonight and discard her in the morning. When we’ve finished with her, no man will want to come near her again.’

‘Why so much hatred?’ Vallon groaned. ‘After all we did for you. After everything we went through together.’

Hauk stood and drew back his sword. ‘Do a proud man a favour that’s to your own advantage and you make an enemy for life.’

Vallon saw the sword fall. Everything dissolved in a roaring red light, a hurricane that smashed the universe into pieces and sent them pinwheeling into a black vortex.

From very far away Vallon heard shouting, one voice closer and more insistent than the others. Something was pulling at his hand. He blinked and saw a smoke-blackened face. It was Lucas, dragging him out from under a dead weight. He struggled free and managed to kneel. It was Hauk’s body that had fallen onto him, a jagged piece of timber sticking out of the back of the Viking’s head. Vallon used his sword to lever himself upright. The paddle-wheeler was drifting apart from Jifeng in a cloud of fumes, most of its superstructure blown open.

The explosion had taken the fight out of the Chinese. They tried to leap back onto their vessel, offering no resistance to the Outlanders, who followed up raining blows like tired drunks. The gap between the two ships was growing and many of the enemy soldiers fell short, their armour pulling them straight under.

Vallon riddled his ears. The screams of men being burned alive carried from the hull of the paddle-wheeler. He looked around at the carnage on his own deck and saw Lucas. He held out his hands and both men fell wordless into each other’s arms, tears mingling on their sooty and blood-spattered faces.

Vallon broke the clinch and stood holding Lucas at arm’s length. ‘You called me “Father”.’

‘Look to the fires,’ Gorka shouted.

A dozen flames had taken hold and would probably have devoured the ship if it hadn’t been sheathed in hides. When the last blaze had been extinguished, Vallon looked at the paddle-wheeler blazing in their wake.

‘God keep you, Wulfstan. You gave yourself a funeral any Viking would have been proud of.’

He turned with heavy heart to count his other casualties. The toll robbed him of any satisfaction in his victory. Seventeen dead. He looked around, still fuddled by the explosion.

‘Where’s Wayland?’

‘Over here,’ Aiken called.

Wayland sat propped against the port side, holding his upper arm. A dart from a repeating crossbow was lodged in it.

Vallon breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God it’s not worse.’

Hero looked up. ‘It’s poisoned.’

Vallon didn’t take it in. ‘Poison? What poison?’

Wayland’s grin was a rictus. ‘The fatal kind.’ He removed his hand to show viscous black blood leaking from the wound.

From a state of fogged consciousness Vallon was hurled into a reality too stark to bear. ‘Can’t you do anything? What about water? Try bleeding him. Keep him moving.’ He reached down to lift Wayland to his feet.

‘Don’t,’ Wayland said

‘Where does it afflict you?’

Wayland’s breath came in rapid gasps. ‘It feels like an icy hand is squeezing my heart.’

‘No,’ Vallon cried. ‘You’re not going to die.’ He dropped to his knees and clasped Wayland to his chest.

‘I’m sorry,’ Hero said. ‘There’s nothing I can do.’

Vallon watched Wayland die by degrees, the blood draining from his face and his eyes dulling over. Close as he was, Vallon couldn’t make out Wayland’s words except the last — ‘Syth’, delivered on an expiring note of love, guilt and sorrow.

His head arched back and his body convulsed before relaxing into death.

Hero stood wet-eyed but composed and pronounced the Te Deum. Lucas sobbed openly and the other Outlanders looked on bereft. Vallon cradled Wayland’s head against his chest and raised grief-sodden eyes.

‘Leave me alone with him.’

He rocked Wayland’s corpse as if lulling a child to sleep. ‘Not you, Wayland. Everybody else, but not you. You shone like the sun, with a light I thought could never be extinguished. On our first journey I came to look on you as a son, so talented and so contrary. And then you found my real son and on the day he called me father you slip into the void. Oh Wayland. What will I tell Syth?’

The surviving Outlanders committed the bodies of their comrades to the sea where it turned from muddy yellow to clear blue. The sun’s dying rays spread like a golden fan over the receding coast. After the last rites, Vallon stood alone at the rail. He unsheathed his sword for the last time, looked at it for a few moments, then hurled it end over end. It disappeared into the ocean with hardly a splash.

The last of the Outlanders stood on the foredeck. Vallon hobbled over.

Hero held out a compass. ‘Do you recognise this?’

‘Oh yes. The south-pointing mysterious direction-finder that made me turn in my tracks when we met all those years ago. If I’d known then where it would lead me, I would have ridden on.’

‘It doesn’t dictate fate,’ Hero said. ‘All it does is show directions. You have to decide which one to take.’

Vallon screwed a knuckle into his eye. ‘Wayland has shown us the way. South, then west. Back home.’

‘This breeze is carrying us east,’ Lucas said.

‘What lies out there?’ Gorka asked.

‘If we continue east, we’ll come to Korea,’ Aiken said. ‘Beyond that is an island called Nippon. “The land where the sun rises”.’

‘Sir.’

Vallon turned. Everyone turned. Qiuylue had come on deck dressed as Vallon had first seen her, wearing a gown decorated with cranes and pines — symbols of longevity and fidelity. She had made up her face and arranged her hair in the conch style.

She walked towards the stern. Nobody else moved.

‘Qiuylue?’

She turned at the stern rail, faced him, brought her hands together and bowed.

‘Someone stop her!’ Vallon shouted.

The nearest man was still feet away when she gathered the folds of her gown, stepped onto the transom, spread her arms like a bird taking flight and jumped.