The Voyage of the Unquiet Ice by Andrew McGahan Page B

– but of indignation and outrage.
    Vincente lifted a calming hand. ‘This is indeed all terrible enough, my Lord and Majesties, but now we come to the crux of the matter. At no point during the attack did the enemy show themselves – except, that is, at the very final moment. For at the last a vessel was sighted fleeing the scene, witnessed firsthand by myself and one other.
    And it was a vessel such as has never been seen before, a vessel that represents a challenge to all the knowledge we posses of shipbuilding and seafaring – and hence a challenge to the very basis of our authority and rule. For it was a boat that moved more swiftly than any I have ever beheld, yet without sail, and without oars.’
    And then he described in detail the boat that he and Dow had seen that night, black and long and sleek, moving so surely through the water, its deck lined with white-faced, dark-clad men. The rising tide of anger about the hall seemed to falter; puzzled frowns appeared, and the murmur that rose now was one of confusion. A boat that moved without oar or sail?
    A bluff, loud voice rang out. ‘Captain Vincente!’ Attention turned to the speaker, who had risen from his seat in one of the sections closest to the Sea Lord’s dais. ‘Will you yield the floor, sir?’
    Vincente studied the interjector, then, with some reluctance, it seemed to Dow, he bowed. ‘Of course, Your Majesty.’
    It was one of the kings, Dow realised belatedly; but which king, and of which kingdom? Fidel came to his aid, leaning forward to whisper in Dow’s ear. ‘Carrasco of the Ingot, King of Valdez.’
    â€˜My thanks, Captain,’ the king intoned, inclining his head briefly. He was a heavy-bellied man with a pale face, double chinned and thick lipped, and yet with a look of ready, alert cunning about him. ‘And my congratulations to you on your lucky escape from these dreadful events you describe – and who should be more grateful for it than I, for does not my own youngest nephew serve as a junior lieutenant upon your ship?’
    With a many-ringed hand he indicated a figure sitting at his side, a smiling youth who rose and bowed before sitting again. Dow straightened, shocked, even as the realisation came that he should have expected this, for he’d been given enough clues. It was, of course, Diego.
    â€˜Yet indeed,’ Carrasco continued, ‘it is because my nephew was also witness to the events at Stone Port that I must speak now, for, disturbingly, his report is at variance somewhat with yours.’
    A digestive murmur arose about the hall, a recognition, maybe, of battle lines being drawn.
    Vincente was unruffled. ‘Variance? Your nephew, I understand, did not even see the boat in question.’
    â€˜No. Only you saw this mysterious boat. You … and one other. Nevertheless, your own testimony states that the boat was steering south through the channel when you saw it, and yet my nephew reports that the tide too was flowing south that night, and so would have carried any boat along with it, whether it had oars or a sail or nothing at all. Is it not correct, Captain Vincente, that this channel we speak of – the famous Rip of New Island – is known in particular for its swift currents?’
    Dow could feel a protest rising hotly to his lips, but Fidel rested a restraining hand on his shoulder, and, anyway, Vincente’s reply was itself prompt. ‘Your Majesty, I understand your doubts. But no one who saw what I saw that night would make the mistake of thinking the boat in question was merely drifting with the current.’
    â€˜Such is your opinion,’ commented the king coldly. ‘Yours, and one other’s. But where, I wonder, is this one other?’
    Vincente smiled. ‘As Your Majesty has no doubt already heard, I have him here. My Lord and Allied Kings, may I present Dow Amber, of New Island.’
    And now the mutters that