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By Root 2953 0

decided, quite sensibly, to give up, just before the fishing boat found him, there being a point beyond which in any philosophy, fruitless endeavour served no valid purpose. The white-hot wires by which he was operating had turned long ago into fodders of lead. His limbs, barely stirring, answered him rarely and he knew that none of his senses could be relied on, any more than a wrestler’s, who had been punched, continuously, on head and body for a very long time. The final point, the deciding factor was that if he found Chancellor in the next thirty seconds he could do nothing about it, except possibly drag him down to his death. And if Chancellor had to die, let him do it ignorant of this small fiasco, at least.

So, characteristic of an impervious and versatile engine, the ‘Not yet’ became, with logic, ‘Now.’

The lantern found him, because his hair was so bright. The Buchan man in the prow of the big, solid boat said, ‘There’s a loonie there. Bring her round, then.’

They hung over the side, fascinated, while the rowers, swearing, got to work on the oars. ‘It’s a Russ, for sure. Is he deid?’

‘Aye, he’s deid,’ said the owner. ‘But he’s got rings on his fingers.’

‘Then bring him in,’ said the owner’s uncle, impatiently. ‘See’s the lantern, Aikie. Are we far fae the ship?’

‘Na. But the sailing-maister’s in Martin’s boatie. He’ll see us.’

‘Never a bit. Or tell him we’re saving the cargo. If she lifts off the rocks, it’s tint onyway.… He’s no deid.’ It was the voice of regret. A moment later he said, ‘Jesus, did he hear what I said?’

The owner, who had skinned his fingers landing their catch, looked at him without sympathy. ‘I dinna ken. Ye’ll hae tae wait and find out. And then you’ll hae tae set to and mend it. Them that burns their arse has tae sit on the blister.’

There was no possibility, hearing that, that he had arrived either in Paradise or Purgatory, or regions less monotonous. Returning as an act of obedience, as Timothy to Paul, Francis Crawford said, without opening his eyes, ‘I am very deaf in both ears.’

‘It’s no a Russ!’ Aikie said.

‘I hear it’s no a Russ,’ said the owner’s uncle. ‘My lord. But for my sister’s son here ye’d be droont.’

‘On the other hand,’ Lymond said, keeping to a misty but obstinate point, ‘the Courts of Admiralty are extremely strict about stolen cargo.’

There was a long pause, occasioned by shock on the part of his audience and extreme inertia on the part of the swimmer. Then Lymond said, ‘But for one consideration, I shall see to it that no questions are asked.’

For his pains, he was swamped by a full wave of white water, and it was some time before they baled out and set themselves once more to rights, with an exhibition of colourful cursing in the direction of the bemused oarsmen who had neglected their duties. Then the owner, who had evidently achieved some serious thinking, said, ‘And fin ye say, no questions asked, fa might ye be?’

‘A Crawford of Culter,’ Lymond said. ‘And able to do what I say.’

‘And fit are we to do?’ asked the owner’s uncle. Impelled by sudden optimism, he helped the stranger to sit up.

‘Search for two men,’ Lymond said. ‘And bring me them both, or their bodies. Before you unload that cargo.’

‘And if we dinna find them?’ said the owner, a realist.

‘Then I’d advise you,’ said Lymond, ‘to leave the cargo alone. You won’t fox the master.’

‘Na,’ said the owner’s uncle, pulling his lip. He stared at the Crawford of Culter, who had lost a brief, if inevitable, battle, and was now, for the moment, no longer with them. ‘He’s dwined away. Ye mith pit him back far ye got him.’

Aikie said, ‘Fat’s her cargo?’

The owner said, ‘Fae the Emperor o’ Muscovy. They’ll watch it like gleds.’

His uncle said, ‘Culter’s namely. Could he dee it?’

‘Keep the Admiralty off? Like enough. It winna hurt us tae claa his back an’ dee as he wants us. Twa men. Russes likely. And never a mile fae a coo’s tail likely, the callants.… There’s Martin’s boat.’

‘Then wave your bluidy lantern!’ his uncle yelled.

So Buckland brought Lymond back, in the boat owned by the opportune Martin,