Pelippé Trueblood sighed in his dreams.
Easy is your middle name, Fen thought. Your mother died but you had the arms of your father. Your father died but your crew is your family. Raj and Lejo would kill for you. Naria toyed with your desire and I bet she feels like shit about it. Even if you were nothing but a job to Belmiro, I bet he misses you.
Going below to his cabin, the kheiron wondered, Who misses me?
His charm? Sure. Sitting around in humos, hobbled and wing-clipped. Both missing and resenting him.
His father? Imagining his father looking out a window of the pavilion and wondering about Fen was something out of a child’s storybook. Idealistic and beautiful, but fiction.
He sat on his long bed, staring at the smooth pillow. Remembering apples once left for him by a slim, red-haired queen in an embroidered dress of green velvet.
“Fenros,” Noë Treeblood said. “You’re home. We missed you.”
He gulped down the last bit of kyrrh tea. It was stone-cold and bitter but he needed every drop of its oblivion.
Fen’s shaky constitution finally picked a cabin it could tolerate. The hunk of precious kyrrh now lived on his little bedside table.
“It’s yours,” Trueblood said when the kheiron protested. “The Altyns gave it to you. Besides, a little goes a long way.”
This was true. You didn’t cut kyrrh with a knife, you shaved it with a razor. Fen experimented and found a flake in a mug of hot water, first thing in the morning, got him through the day. So did rubbing a bit of the resin beneath the heels of his hands, then binding the little stones tight to his wrists. Repeating the remedies at night allowed him a thin but restful sleep.
He would never like being at sea. He gradually got used to the rise and fall of the horizon before him but it was never pleasant. As he felt better, his eyes opened to the ship and saw she was magnificent. From the Tree of Life motifs carved on her doors to the star finials on every curtain rod. The choreography of sailing had a majestic beauty. The crew worked as seamlessly as any kheiron legion. Discipline was tight and Fen admired Lejo’s handling of the minoros. These under-sixteens were a rambunctious but lovable gang. Especially Melki, who appointed himself Fen’s aide-de-camp and brought a mug of hot water to his cabin every morning and evening.
Stomach primed with kyrrh, Fen joined the crew in their daily workout—a torturous circuit around the ship that would’ve made Sevri il-Kheir’s eyes glitter.
Fen held even in upper body strength, but his legs weren’t up for sprinting the Kaleuche’s miles of stairwells. Yet. His pride set its teeth and narrowed its gaze on the sailor called Sixten. That lad was fast. He was the guy to beat.
Walking the Kaleuche from top to bottom was an arduous journey, both physically and mentally. By the time Fen made his way down to the ship’s lowest level and did his self-assigned laps up and down the keel line, he forgot the way back to the top.
Lost for the umpteenth time, he asked a minoro which way to go.
“It’s quickest if you take the shortcut through this hold,” the boy said. “Straight through, out the other side and you’ll see a staircase. It’ll take you to the half-deck, then you can take the starboard stairs to the weatherdeck.”
“Starboard is left?”
“Right.”
“Got it. What’s your name again?”
“Niro.” He headed off, calling back over his shoulder, “Straight through the hold and up.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” a voice called out. So authoritative and commanding, Fen whipped around and nearly saluted.
Trueblood?
He’d only seen the mariner this angry twice before—once in the grotto when he threw a rock at Fen, and then in the crypt when he threw an apple. Now the formidable Kepten Trueblood came striding down the long corridor, throwing each leg out from the hip. Eating up the length of the ship in four loping steps, reminding Fen this was a man descended from giants.
“What did you just tell him?” Trueblood said, walking straight past Fen and backing Niro against the wall.
“The way to go, Kep.”
“Which way?”
Niro gulped. “D-down there, around and up the—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
The boy balked, as if to make a run for it. Trueblood was faster.
“No, you don’t. Hold still. Look me in the eye. Which way did you tell him to go?”
“I forgot, Kep. Honest, I forgot.”
“Which way?”
Fen’s insides caved in, as if under the weight of the dressing-down. “Kepten, it’s all right, he just—”
Without turning around, Trueblood held up a silencing hand and Fen’s voice backed off.
“Answer your commander.”
“I told him to go through the hold,” Niro said between gulping breaths.
“And then you walked away.”
Niro was crying now. “Aye, Kep.”
“What’s the rule about that? Look at me.”
“You don’t cut through the holds alone. You make sure someone sees you come out the other side.”
“Why?”
“Be… Because… I forgot.”
“We’re in the Gullet. What’s it full of?”
“Rogue waves, Kep.”
“And what can happen when the ship catches a rogue wave?”
“The hold doors can slide shut and bolt from the outside.”
“And if you’re in there alone?”
“No one would know.”
Trueblood crossed his arms. “I thought you forgot.”
“Kep, I’m sorry. I didn’t…” Niro bit his lip, balled his fists and stared down at his boots.
“You did. Go wait in my study.”
The boy’s answer was practically invisible. “Aye, Kep.”
Only when the sound of his footsteps faded off did Fen speak. “I’m sorry.”
“You did nothing wrong.”
“What will you do to him?”
“Refresh his memory.” A wry smile played around his mouth. “Second hiding I’ve doled out this week. My command lasted all of a month before I had to start thrashing people. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”
“You don’t have to,” Fen said.
Trueblood sucked his teeth and the smile faded. “What did you do when one of your charm disobeyed an order? Give them sweets?”
Fen felt his temper flare. “My finches don’t disobey orders.”
“Because you recruit them right out of the legions,” Trueblood said. “You get them pre-disciplined. I’m training boys, and if I don’t discipline the little things, I can’t control the big things. This was a little thing that could’ve been a big problem.”
“Why?”
“Because you were about to walk through the longest hold in the ship on rough seas,” Trueblood said, his voice rising. “Trapped inside is the last fucking place I want you. I’ve got eight thousand things to do and it might be hours before anyone noticed you were missing. Another couple hours before I could find you.”
He stopped, his expression confused, as if the words had leaped out without permission. He shook his head hard. “The rule is, don’t cut through the holds unless someone can watch you out the other side. Especially on the rough seas. Do you understand?”
Fen flicked his eyes to the ceiling and muttered, “Aye, Kep.” He was half a head shorter than Trueblood, but he wouldn’t be talked down to. He’d been liberating slave markets in Sanpago before this wharf rat was out of diapers.
The rat stepped closer, his gaze dangerously benign. “I wouldn’t wish what happened to you on my worst enemy. I don’t consider you a friend, but if you were trapped somewhere onboard, I’d take the ship apart to find you.”
“Is this where I give thanks?”
“I d
on’t want your thanks but I want it clear. You can mouth off when it’s just I and you alone, but don’t ever disrespect me in front of my crew. I know where to put your not-so-finest moments.”
Teeth set tight and eyes narrowed, Fen raised and lowered his chin a hair.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to hand someone their ass.” Trueblood took only a few steps before turning back. “And one other thing you need to get straight. Starboard is right. Port is left.”
“Right.”
Shaking his head again, Trueblood walked off.
Fen’s battle with seasickness made remembering windward and leeward easy. Other terms went in his port ear and out the starboard. Every shipboard direction had its own name and godsdamn, sailors were touchy about their correct usage. Forward was toward the bow. Aft meant toward the stern. You didn’t go downstairs, you went below deck. The sails and rigging weren’t up there, they were aloft. Sailors under the age of sixteen were called minoros. Those sixteen to twenty-one were majoros. At twenty-one, you became maristo—a mariner.
A few specialized roles had their own giantword title. Calvo, for example, was kvartermastisto, the quartermaster. Young Sixten was the ŝnuromastisto, the rope master.
“Ŝnuromastisto,” Fen said, laughing. “Sounds like you’re in charge of sneering.”
“I prefer master of snoring,” Sixten said. “After rope, I’m an expert sleeper.”
The sailors fell into bed at night. The days started early and were crammed with work. Fen learned the Kaleuche ran so efficiently because her crew was given a ripozo, an hour’s rest after midday dinner. Sometimes two hours after a particularly arduous morning, or if the crew were being rewarded. If the crew fucked up, ripozo was forfeited. Those were bad days.
In good weather, the sailors rested on deck. In rain or cold, cabin doors closed, or crew ambled into the aftercastle to grab a chair in the great sitting room.
The literacy onboard astounded Fen. The majority of crew could read and write, or were learning how. Books were everywhere on the ship and the evening story hour was the highlight of the long day.
While the shelves in Abrakam’s cabin appealed to Fen, his stomach wasn’t a fan of reading at sea. He spent the ripozo doing nothing, off in one of the little secret places on the ship he was staking out. He took some bits of stale bread and fed the lark, trying to get her to eat from his hand, the way Lejo could. She’d come close to Fen to peck at the crumbs, but shied away from his extended fingers.
His hideouts never stayed secret long.
“Here you are,” Trueblood said, out of nowhere, making Fen jump in his skin.
“Shit,” he said, breadcrumbs flying out of his hand.
“Sorry.”
“You’re always sneaking up on me.”
“I don’t sneak.” Trueblood waved an irritated hand at the lark, who was pecking at the wall. “Héjo, knock off putting holes in my ship. Ŝuo. Go see Fen, he has food.”
The bird flew out of his range and landed on the toe of Fen’s boot. He brushed the crumbs off his shirt toward her. “What do you want?”
“Me or the bird?”
“You.”
“Nothing.”
“Well, do you mind?”
“What?”
“Every time I go somewhere to be alone, you turn up.”
Trueblood leaned down a little. “Kheiron, there’s nowhere on this ship you can hide where I won’t find you.”
Fen stared back a long moment. “Challenge accepted.”
The game was on and soon it was the entire crew versus the kepten, as everyone tipped Fen off to good hiding places. When the kheiron vanished at ripozo, every sailor went mum and Trueblood was on his own to track Fen down.
He never failed.
“Fuck you,” Fen muttered when Trueblood peeked around the foremast.
“You suck,” when he was located behind the rain barrels.
“Come on, man,” he said, laughing as Trueblood pulled him out of a longboat.
The kepten admitted Fen had stealth and declared the contest a draw. When the novelty wore off, Fen continued to seek out his favorite hideaways during ripozo. Engrossed and anticipatory, he fed the lark or the gulls, always listening for the distinctive cadence of boots on the decking and a three-word greeting.
“Here you are.”
You found me, Fen thought.
Trueblood took the helm to bring the Kaleuche into port at Zeuxis. The harbor was deep enough to accommodate her hull, but navigating the rocky shoreline was tricky. If something went wrong, the responsibility lay with the kepten.
This, Fen learned, was the True Way.
“The place has vastly improved since we were kids,” Raj said.
“You should’ve seen it when I was a kid,” Fen said.
Lejo Ĝemelos could pack a novel into one word and its sequel into his eyes. He glanced at Fen and said, “Here?”
His expression went on to ask, This is the place you were brought to by slave ship when you were a foalboy of twelve? This is the place you were sold?
Fen nodded. “Here.”
The city, once a mangy feral den of drugs, prostitution and slavery, now hummed with industry, law and order. She proudly wore her seal as the administrative seat of Sanpago, the region annexed by Nyland after Tehvan’s War. She had no elected vicreĝo yet, but one day, one of their burgeoning Council of Mothers would have a throne in the great hall at Valtourel.
Raj chuckled under his breath. “Remember the breakneck schedule we’d have here?”
“It’s kind of unforgettable,” Trueblood said. To Fen, he continued, “My father got in and out as fast as humanly possible. The minoros were curfewed to the teeth. Everyone hauled ass offloading and loading cargo, racing against the tide.”
“Calvo was especially enchanting in Zeuxis,” Raj said.
“What do you mean, was?” Trueblood said. “Bit of advice, Fen: stay out of the quartermaster’s way today.”
“I do that every day, but thanks. What’s the curfew situation like now?”
“Minoros need to be accompanied. Majoros are free to come and go but all the same, sticking with a mate isn’t a bad idea.”
Fen hesitated. “I have one or two things to do in the city, and…” He trailed off because Trueblood was looking like Fen announced he had an orgy to attend. “What are you staring at?”
The kepten shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Anyway, I’ll be going alone.”
“Suit yourself.”
A beat of silence where Fen felt more explanation was needed. Trueblood had a funny little habit of looking for him and the convoluted streets of Zeuxis were a far cry from the ship’s bolt holes.
“I’m going to the orphanage west of the marketplace,” he said. “It’s the safe house my charm used when we went on raids. Since I’m here, I’d like to say hello to some people, see the children and explain what’s happening.”
“For sure.” The kepten’s expression was narrow and intent as they approached the harbor, the spin of the wheel in his large hands deft and confident.
“So that’s where I’ll be.”
“All right.”
Feeling dismissed, Fen turned to go. He was halfway down the stairs of the afterdeck when the kepten called to him.
“Héjo, Fen, one thing? You’ve been at sea a month. It’ll feel strange walking on land. If you keep stumbling for no reason, or it seems like the ground is moving, that’s normal.”
“Thanks.”
“Stupid question, but do you have a knife or something?”
“Two.”
“Good. Your boots have an inside sheath for blades.”
“How handy.”
Trueblood smiled, eclipsing the sun. “We think of everything.”
The ground was not only moving, i
t seemed to deliberately dodge Fen’s footsteps. He cursed under his breath as he stumbled for the third time, colliding with a cheerful cheese vendor.
“Héjo, sailor,” she said, laughing and shoving him off her. “Bring me flowers first.”
He made it to the orphanage without falling on his face, barely. In the scrap of muddy grass, a giantsblood romped with a half-dozen children hanging from his limbs.
“Fenros,” he bellowed. “Save me.”
Fen grinned. “You’re on your own, Boru.”
The giant planted a foot and dragged his other leg with its two clutching passengers. Step and drag, step and drag to the gate, where he thrust an immense hand toward Fen. “Salu, salu, my one.”
Unlike Trueblood’s neat plaits, Boru’s hair had been left alone to wind into rough, tangled ropes that reached the backs of his knees. His gold eyes were streaked with black and their tiger-like gaze swept from Fen’s head to his boots.
“This is a new look for you,” he finally said.
“It’s a long sad story,” Fen said. “And don’t you have enough of those here?”
Boru freed a hand to flip the gate’s latch. “You’re always beautiful to me, kheiron. Come in, come in.”
More of the orphanage’s staff were traipsing out the front doors, calling Fen’s name. A mixed bag of men, centaurs and giantsbled, they’d started the operation with a single tent and built it into a sprawling, two-story haven. Fen shook hands and let his cheeks be kissed silly, glad to see his constituents but saddened to note familiar faces in the crowd of children. Some of them were rescued by his charm years ago, yet they were still here. No family to contact, connect or claim them.
The laughing chatter faded to the edges of Fen’s mind. Through the middle, Alon fell away from him, down into the gnarled, bony hands of the dead Nye trees.
What if they don’t want me anymore?
Fen shook his head hard and now his gaze fell on another familiar face. A little boy far from the crush, sitting alone in the muddy yard.
Instead of falling away, memory now came rushing at Fen like an enraged bull. He’d rescued this lad on the charm’s last raid into Arcodolori. Busting through the upstairs window of a brothel, taking part of the wall with him, Fen scared the life out of a customer. Literally. The bastard’s throat was slashed before the broken glass stopped tinkling to the floor.
The Voyages of Trueblood Cay Page 25
