The Voyages of Trueblood Cay

by Suanne Laqueur

  A beat, then Belmiro offered gelango. Their hands clasped, then forearms. A hand on each shoulder and their brows pressed.

  “Take care of yourself,” Trueblood said. “In all the ways you can.”

  “I will. I’m really sorry.”

  “I’ll get past this. I mean, I’m pissed off right now but at the same time, I don’t want you to suffer.”

  “Well.” Belmiro picked up his head. Tears rimmed his eyes. “That might be the nicest thing anyone ever said to me.”

  With all his heart, Trueblood wished he were a minoro again. He wanted to be ordered around. Wanted a list of back-breaking, labor-intensive tasks as long as his arm and an authoritative presence breathing down his neck, keeping him focused on the ship instead of his problems.

  Well, he was the damn kepten. His crew could give him the side-eye if he threw off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and picked up a hammer or mop, but they couldn’t tell him no.

  “I have things on my mind,” he said to anyone who ventured to ask what he was doing. “I just want to work.”

  Everyone kept their distance. Except the lark, who swooped around, warbling and chattering at him. Pecking holes in the woodwork, which made Trueblood even more irritable.

  When he wasn’t shooing the bird, he mumbled under his breath, having it out with Naria Nyland. The imaginary confrontation was orderly and articulate, with well-argued points and eloquent conclusions, but he was sure when he came face to face with her, he’d go blank. Be reduced to toddler insults and kicking dirt on her shoes. Then end up in jail.

  Who the fuck does she think she is?

  Naria was in Hokosia, so he couldn’t even see her to find out. Instead he walked along the waterfront that night, wondering who he thought he was. He looked up at the hull of the Kaleuche. Neat, trim, shipshape, ready to set sail with an imposter at her helm. A monster trying to sort out the business of gods.

  “I wish you were here, Da,” he said softly.

  Grief like a waterfall in his throat and chest. He squeezed his jaw tight, sucking air through his nose. He started walking again. His heels hit the ground hard, each long leg thrown from the hip, eating up the distance between the wharves and the mariners’ crypt.

  I wish you were here.

  Why aren’t you here?

  You didn’t finish the job. You showed off at the end when things are most likely to go wrong. This is all wrong. It’s not supposed to be this way.

  The stones howled cold beneath his knees as he kneeled in front of his parents’ tomb. Noë’s mysterious devotee had been here—an apple lay beneath her inscription. The letters of her name were dulled with time while the chiseled edges of Ikharus-Lippé True were sharp against Trueblood’s fingertips. Nothing lay beneath his father’s name. His devotee had brought nothing but troubles.

  “Da,” he whispered. The most giant of giantwords. A noun meaning both father, and the steel-hearted courage it took to be a father.

  Why was there no giantword for fatherless son?

  He pressed his forehead and palms against the one he loved most.

  “I wish you were here,” he said. “I need you here. I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t remember what you taught me about this. You just said it was my time to learn of such things. I don’t like what I’m learning and I need to talk to you about it.”

  He breathed over and over, trying to take it in and let it go. His damp eyes rested on the apple. Left by someone who knew Noë well.

  “Who’s going to know me well?” he said. “Who’s going to bring me what I need?”

  Grow up, Pé.

  Everything happens for a reason.

  “This reason can go fuck itself.” He sat still a moment, then he swiped the apple and sent it flying. Both of his hands smacked down on his father. Flat palms at first. Then fists.

  “You said you’d be with me until the end,” he cried, pounding his rage on the one he loved most.

  He let rip, yelling at Ikharus this wasn’t fair. This was all his fault. He did this to him. It was a tantrum but he didn’t care. Nobody was here but ghosts, so he let it out and let it echo off the marble in a spectacular lament to growing up. Until the lament doubled back in an admonishment that ricocheted in his ears.

  Grow up, Pé.

  Grow up, Pé.

  Grow up…

  The night broke open and grief spilled down like rain.

  And because nobody could see, Pelippé Trueblood sank over his knees and wept.

  He cried his heart in two. He reached inside his shirt and rubbed a palm in a circle over his scarred chest. The tender skin broke open and bled, which made him rub harder. The pain was something to sink his teeth into. The pain was pulling him out the other side. And not gently either.

  Enough.

  The silvery voice in his head was female. The same voice that chanted hold the bond when Trueblood was learning to separate from the twins. Back then, the words touched him like a mother’s gentle hand. Now, it was still a maternal hand, but it was having none of his horseshit.

  I said, enough.

  His face stung as she, whoever she was, gave him a good yank and a shake and another slap.

  Put your ass on that ship, put that ring on your finger and GROW UP.

  “All right,” he said. “All right. I will. Just give me a fucking min—”

  A sudden noise made his bones jump in his skin and his breath suck back into his throat. He flicked his narrowed gaze hard from side to side.

  Fen il-Kheir stood in the shadows of the crypt, holding the flung apple.

  No telling how long he’d been there but his expression—somewhere between contempt and horror—told Trueblood he saw the whole spectacle.

  Breathing hard, drawing the bloody heel of his hand across his eyes, Trueblood got to his feet. Instead of a rock, he threw his words. And this time, he aimed for the heart.

  “What the fuck are you staring at, man?”

  Since his moonstone was confiscated, Fen had been coming to the crypt to practice walking. The pews and rails and columns gave him plenty to lean on. The late hour ensured privacy.

  When Trueblood came in, Fen’s first reaction was to be annoyed at the interruption. He was in no shape to quickly skulk away, so he backed into a recessed alcove and went statue-still. This wouldn’t be long. The kepten would light a candle, leave a flower, pass a moment of silence and leave.

  But he stayed. This wasn’t a token payment of respects, this was a man trying to withdraw emotional currency from a vault forever closed to him. At first, Fen was embarrassed by the feverish muttering. But as it grew in volume and despair, the chagrin morphed to a strange affinity. When an apple went flying between two columns and Trueblood’s voice echoed off tombs—“You said you’d always be with me!”—Fen nearly died. He recognized the lament. He had one just like it in his heart. Wearing slightly different clothes but the same bones beneath flayed skin:

  Where did you go?

  Why did you forsake me?

  Why did you abandon me?

  Don’t you love me anymore?

  A seed of revelation put a tentative root in the rocky soil of Fen’s heart.

  He and Trueblood weren’t so different.

  The Horselord was accurate in saying Fen had always done things the hard way.

  He could try another way.

  He could pay witness to Trueblood’s grief and show he understood. He could give something to the future instead of taking revenge on the past.

  He could if he wanted to.

  If he were willing.

  He took a few slow, silent steps. He braced a shoulder against a column and bent to pick up the apple. Righting himself, his rings clattered against stone. Trueblood whipped his head around and saw him.

  Shit.

  As they stared, Fen frantically tried
to take the tiny root and its one fragile leaf and put it into an overture. I’m sorry seemed a good place to start, and he was about to say it when Trueblood spoke first.

  “What the fuck are you staring at, man?”

  The emphasized word cut deep. After Trueblood stormed out, Fen dropped the apple, picked up the implied insult and used its sharp edge to sever all his fascination to this fucking sailor.

  The fascination was back as soon as he saw Trueblood smile at breakfast.

  From the Most Private Journal of Kepten Pelippé Trueblood Cay

  These are things I know.

  My father raised me to be the goodness in the world that the Nye trees no longer make.

  Sex can be bought and sold, but gelang has no price. And I want something priceless.

  I am still angry and disappointed in Naria. She came home last night, and I went to her and told her how I felt. She apologized and I accepted. This morning, I went back and forgave her. I have to. I don’t want that unsettled business on my ship because I don’t know if this is my first voyage or my last.

  Voyages that begin on ill-will rarely improve. Arguments unsettled or grudges held get tossed into the hold and spoil.

  My father pressed the point not to leave port angry. “When Truvos sailed off with Nydirsil chained behind, he was pissed. And look what happened.”

  I and Fen il-Kheir are the next chapter in the Truviad.

  Fen il-Kheir suffered horribly, and suffered on a ship.

  He dreads this voyage.

  He is viciously proud and will never admit his dread.

  Loss of pride can make or break a man. I’m sure it’s the same with half-men.

  The kheiron is beautiful to me. His face and body in my eyes, his story in my heart—these are beautiful things.

  I don’t hate him. I don’t particularly like him right now. I must tell the truth and say I’m a little afraid of him.

  I will not be cruel to him.

  This ship does not punish mistakes. It only punishes disrespect. If I disrespect Fen il-Kheir, the entire voyage will be punished.

  I don’t have to like him to be decent to him.

  I will do my part. I’ll wear Fen’s ringos, but I will not flaunt the wearing in Fen’s face nor permit any sailor on the Kaleuche to do so.

  If Fen wishes to be one of the crew, he is welcome. If he wishes to do nothing, I’ll continue doing my job and doing it well. Not announcing my excellence. Not strutting afterward.

  This, I know, is what my father would’ve done.

  This, I know, is the True Way.

  But here is one more thing I know: when I sleep in the kepten’s bed on the Kaleuche, it will be with someone I love. I will sleep there with a gelangos or not sleep there at all.

  If this wasn’t the True Way before, it is now.

  One lingering problem nagged at the Kaleuche’s new kepten: the Truviad gave them no map, no directions, route or clues as to what they were supposed to actually do now.

  “We just put a kheiron onboard and go?” he asked.

  “Why are you asking me?” Raj said.

  “You’re the pilot.”

  Raj pointed at his brother. “This is his department.”

  “The kheiron unto the mariner as a map unto a lost land,” Lejo said.

  “Thank you. That’s helpful.” Trueblood pulled at a plait. He had stubbornly slow-growing hair, but his braids finally reached his shoulders now. He’d started tying the front ones behind his head, the way his father had. One or two always fell out and got in his eyes.

  “I say business as usual,” he said. “We have contracts to honor, cargo is waiting for us and our partners have been incredibly patient and gracious. We take the usual route.” His finger touched down on the map spread on the table. “Up to Minosaros. Around Hokosia. Up to Altynai, weather permitting. Then home.”

  Abrakam nodded agreement. “Will you open the ship to new crew before we leave?”

  Trueblood chewed his bottom lip. He’d forgotten the age-old tradition of inviting youngsters to climb the Cay’s main mast and, if successful, join the crew.

  “I’m leaning toward no,” he said. “Not this year. First, we’re still learning to safely handle the rigging. Second, to have a guarding kheiron for the climbers is insensitive to our guest.” He held up the finger that bore Fen’s ring and raised his eyebrows. “Am I right?”

  “For sure,” Raj said.

  “Agreed,” Lejo said.

  “Don’t kiss my ass,” Trueblood said. “If I’m wrong, say so.”

  “It’s fine to be wrong,” Lejo said. “Just never be in doubt.”

  “Will you be keeping the Minosaros leg to just Zeuxis?” Abrakam asked.

  “Yes,” Trueblood said.

  The centaur grunted.

  “What’s on your mind, Abe?”

  Abrakam set a finger on the city of Aybar. “You have other cargo you could pick up here,” he said, his gaze intent on Trueblood.

  The gaze traveled around the circle, thoughts of the last cache of Nye within each pair of eyes.

  “I’ll fetch that cargo when Nyland asks me to,” Trueblood said. “Let me get one voyage under my belt and see what happens with the kheiron.”

  “Fair enough, lad.”

  “It’s a month to Zeuxis. I and Fen could end up killing each other before we even get there.”

  “Or bedding each other,” Raj said.

  Trueblood turned to Abrakam. “When was the last time a mariner keel-hauled one of his crew?”

  The centaur pulled his beard gravely. “I’d have to look it up, lad.”

  “Please do.”

  The day they set sail, Trueblood could taste Fen’s fear.

  The kheiron feared the open water. The ship itself. The motion. The unknown and the memory.

  All who sailed feared these things. They’d be unwise not to.

  But what Fen feared most, Trueblood realized, was having to walk aboard the ship.

  In front of the gathered multitudes, including his charm and his father, the queen and her vicreĝos, Fen il-Kheir would walk in humos to board the Kaleuche.

  “I have an idea,” Trueblood said to Abrakam. “If you’re willing.”

  The crew had all boarded. Fen stood with his charm, a casual shoulder leaning into a stack of crates and his body held stiller than a statue. He’d dressed in the whites of the Kaleuche without protest and his calves were shod in new black boots. Hands thrust in the pockets of his breeches and chin lifted, he was splendid.

  And scared shitless.

  A cheer went up and the throng parted, letting Abrakam through. Trueblood rode on the centaur’s back, hands resting easy on his thighs, or reaching down to touch hands of children and women. Abrakam made his easy way through the crowd to where the Finches gathered around their leader.

  “Will you honor me by riding, Fenros?” the centaur asked.

  Fen blinked slowly. His deep blue gaze swiveled to Trueblood, who inched forward on Abrakam’s broad back, then looked away to wave at the cheering citizenry of Valtourel.

  “The honor is mine,” Fen said quietly. He turned one last time to his flock, offering gelango and pressing his brow to theirs. Abrakam took that time to tuck three of his legs beneath him and brake one foreleg on its hoof. Now Fen had only to take two steps, which were disguised by the length and breadth of the centaur. He put a hand on Trueblood’s shoulder and swung a leg over.

  “Thank you,” he said gruffly.

  “Smile, for fuck’s sake,” Trueblood said through his grinning teeth. “No one will notice your legs if you get that pissy look off your face.”

  Fen closed a quick hand around Trueblood’s coat as Abrakam rocked up to four hooves. “You know, I shit on your feet once. I’ll do it again.”

  “I laughed it off onc
e. I’ll do it again.”

  So Pelippé Trueblood Cay and Fen il-Kheir boarded the Kaleuche as equals, riding on the back of Abrakam Centauros.

  The mariner wasn’t certain all the ill-will was left behind on the wharf, but whatever came onboard was wrapped in the cloak of one shitty joke, cushioning the sharpest edges.

  It was the best job he could do.

  The immensity of the Kaleuche made Fen dizzy.

  “I know giants built it,” he said to Abrakam. “But it’s so…big.”

  Every word he knew for big, plus the words than meant bigger than big, all shook their heads and declared they weren’t up to the task of describing the Kaleuche.

  Gazing up at the main mast, wider around than the arms of four men could reach and stretching to the sky until it blurred, Fen felt a little sick. Thinking of the impending launch, that horrible rock, roll, pitch and yaw, the sickness swelled into a panic.

  I can’t do this. Within his skull, the frantic thought ran around in circles, clawing at the walls and banging fists on closed doors. Ready to chew a limb off to get out of the trap.

  I can’t do this. Not again. I can’t. I swore never again. Don’t make me do this.

  Abrakam put a hand on Fen’s shoulder. “Fenros, may I speak frankly?”

  Fen clenched his teeth and nodded.

  “I’ll never know half of what you suffered when you were a foalboy,” Abrakam said. “But I do know some of it took place on a ship.”

  Fen bit the inside of his lower lip to keep the nausea back. He nodded again.

  “Nobody wants you to suffer,” the centaur said. “Not I, not the kepten, not the crew.”

  Fen tried a shaking breath. Then another. He had no reason to doubt the centaur’s word, but all he could believe was the dark, filthy hold where he’d been chained up with hundreds of others. The constant up and down, side to side movement filling the cramped space with screaming and vomit and shit and more screaming.

  Until it filled with dead bodies.

  He still had time to make a run for it. Trueblood could keep the fucking ring and Fen could throw himself over the side. Swim to shore and screw the consequences.