by James Gurley
“Without understanding their plans I cannot know, but I suspect that they believe, as do I, that you have powers you have not yet tapped. We are Watchers, reluctant to interfere. The Cabal has no such qualms. You are Terran and do not share our reluctance. They suspect you would interfere with their goals, whatever they may be.”
“How can I interfere with something I don’t understand?” Tad’s frustration was mounting. “I’m just a boy!”
“More than that, I believe.”
“I’m a leaf blown by cross winds. I have no direction.”
“Your heart will lead you.”
“My heart is broken!” he shouted, “Sundered by friend and foe alike.”
“Your friends seek only to help you.”
“Help me what—kill? I realize now I could have killed that man as easily as swatting a fly.” He hung his head and let his tears flow. “I’m frightened.”
Simios placed his arm around Tad’s shoulders. “I know. Come. Let us leave this place.”
The next day brimmed with preparations for his voyage and Tad had no time to reflect on the traumatic events of the previous night. He refused to let his mind wander that dark path. Simios secured Tad a berth on a freighter with the knowledge that he would have to lend a hand to the crew for passage. Having never before been on a ship, Tad was not looking forward to a long sea voyage. Sea Hawk might prefer a deck under his feet, but farm bred Tad de Silva preferred solid soil.
Simios’s search of the Library had shed little light on the mysteries of the Sanctuary or of the organization known as the Blood Cabal. He promised Tad that he would undertake further explorations of the underground chamber under the auspices of his Plin brethren, but would withhold their findings from the Regents’ attention until necessary.
Faced with a looming deadline, Arias set a rapid pace for Tad’s training in self-defense and marksmanship and Tad, eager to take his mind off more unpleasant thoughts, forced himself to pay close attention. The physicality of the exercises did take his mind off his impending departure. Arias, though rotund, had the supple strength of a man twice his size and half his girth. Once, and once only, did Tad manage to take Arias to the mat. Seeing his smug expression at his accomplishment, Arias promptly caught Tad unaware and sent him hurtling across the floor where he landed hard, a bitter lesson in humility.
Theliolis seemed genuinely upset at the news of Tad’s leaving. The two had grown close over the last few months. He assured Tad that there were powers yet untapped deep within his mind that he could rely upon if faced with grave danger.
“But beware,” the Mage mentor declared solemnly, “You are a fire, flickering now but awaiting the chance to rage.” Tears formed in the Plin’s eyes as he bid his farewell.
As the hour of departure approached, Tad left the Watchers’ Tower against Simios’s advice and wandered aimlessly about the city. If any eyes followed him, he did not notice or care. The sounds, the smells and the people were blurs that raced past without his recognition. His steps led him to the city gates, and for a brief wild moment, he considered fleeing into the Waste alone and unburdened by food or water and making his way somehow to his uncle’s farm rather than face the unappealing alternative of a sea voyage.
However, he knew he could not postpone the inevitable. As he walked alone to the docks, carrying his small bag of belongings in an ironic parody of his triumphant entrance into the city, he felt he would rather die than board the ship, had rather his unseen secret enemies strike him down and be done with it, but then shuddered at how close they had come. His destiny lay elsewhere. His stomach ached, not from lack of food or indigestion; it ached with the dull throbbing that came with the brutal realization of just what he had lost. His failings were almost too numerous to number.
First, Sira had left him for Janith Hokum. His tersely worded message to her from the Watchers’ Tower stating that he must leave Delphi had brought an equally short reply explaining she could not meet him because she and Janith were taking in a play. He had exploded bitterly at her reply until he realized it was probably for the best. He had rationalized his coldness to her as the need to avoid involving her in his battle with the Council of Regents, which would only expose her to unnecessary risk. Driving her away, he could not complain when she distanced herself from him as well. He had nothing to offer her except a share of his humiliation and shame.
Secondly, the Council, acting swiftly and without preamble, had removed him from his place beside the king for his association with known rebels and the Watchers had, at least in public, unceremoniously abandoned him without a word.
Third, the Cabal wished him dead, had attempted to kill him three times, and he did not even know why they sought his death.
Banished from Delphi. Harsh words when Tad said them to himself and an even harsher deed. He was not even certain Sira knew why he was leaving the city. He had half hoped to see her standing on the dock with a tear in her eye and a look of regret on her face, but she had not shown up. Not knowing what he could afford to say or whom he could trust, he had not discussed any of the recent events with her. For all she knew, he was a traitor to the king as the Council claimed. He hoped she knew him better than that, trusted him just a little, but he had given her little reason to do so. Simios had assured him he would speak with her when possible to explain what he could of the situation, but even this did not lift Tad’s heavy heart.
He watched wistfully as the last warm light of Corycia glistened off the Black Tower, the colorful pennants flapping mockingly in the breeze. Melaina was below the southern horizon and Cleodora’s blue orb had yet to peek above the sea’s eastern horizon. With a flash, the Black Tower, symbolic of all Delphi stood for, melted into the jumble of shadows that was mythical Delphi, as unreachable and as tenuous as the early evening mist surrounding the ship. He sighed and turned from the sight of the city that had rejected him.
He recalled his entrance into Delphi by Caravan so many centuries ago, or so it seemed though only eight months had passed. Had he ever been as naïve and as full of trust as he was that day, a bumpkin fresh off the farm eager to make a name for himself in the city of myths? If so, he knew he would never be that way again. What had King Karal said in his oracular vision—a friend would betray him. Had that happened already or was that something else he had to look forward to, another notch in his soul?
Tad stared seaward at the decrepit ship waiting for him at the dock like a floating tomb, rocking gently on the waves. The ship, Holden’s Spur, was a blocky, wooden merchant ship from the Outer Islands, little more than a floating pile of rotting wood, two masts and a hold full of rice and grain. She leaked like a sieve and stank of pitch, tar and stagnant bilge water. He had bought passage on her with the last of his silver coins and a promise to the ship’s captain, an old man named Hess Marcus, to work off his meals as a member of the crew.
The urge to cast one last glance at Delphi weighed heavily on him, but he resisted. Better to begin the painful process of forgetting now rather than later. He faced the darkness like an omen of things to come. Would he set foot in Delphi once more? Would his journey bring solace as well as being fruitful? The Veil was coming: This much was certain. If a means to defeat it or defend against it existed, he would search it out. Perhaps in doing so, he would find answers to his most pressing questions—who were the Blood Cabal and were they responsible for the attempts on his life; and was the entire Council of Regents responsible for framing him for treason?
As Tad walked up the gangplank to the ship waiting to carry him from all he knew and loved, he wondered if his dreams were ever really more than nightmares. Everyone expected great things from him, depended on him, but inside he knew he was just a sixteen-year-old boy whose only qualification for the tough job ahead was that events had transpired to place him here at this moment in time, alive and relatively unscathed when others might have died. If luck was a weapon, then he was armed with an abundance of it.
Now, he would have to trus
t in that luck to bring him back to the woman he loved and the land in which he was born.
PART 2
22
BANISHED
Two days at sea and Tad was miserable beyond description. The first night and day, though the sea was calm, he had vomited over the rail until his guts ached and his mouth tasted of bitter bile. The captain had assured that him he would become accustomed to the roll of the ship and had advised him not to watch the twin masts swing like trapeze artists in the sky. The first had not happened, and he was too exhausted to look up at the masts anyway.
“Grub’s waitin’,” the First Mate sang out harshly. Tad turned and glared at him. The First Mate was a native of Maris, one of the Outer Islands, a tall, dark-skinned, unfriendly man with curly red hair and a weathered tattoo of a crescent moon above one eye. His furrowed face could not hide his resentment for the ship’s only passenger. He swung down off rail to the deck with an ease that so far eluded Tad. “Get it ‘fore the cook tosses it to the fish.”
Though he felt little like eating, Tad awkwardly descended the steps to the small smoke-filled galley. The ungainly roll of the ship, even in a light sea, forced him to cling to the railing. Three faces turned to look at him. Two, he knew.
“Captain,” he said with a nod toward Hess Marcus, captain of Holden’s Spur. Captain Marcus was Tad’s height and round of belly, but his upper arms spoke of great strength from pulling ropes and fighting the ship’s wheel.
The other, a youth barely older than Tad, grinned. His yellowed teeth were crooked and uneven, giving him a severe overbite. “You’re the new bilge rat,” he hissed.
“I suppose,” Tad answered, uneasy at the youth’s belligerent tone, a tone he had adopted when he first set eyes on Tad heaving his guts over the rail.
“Well, just remember your place, city boy. I was bilge rat afore you. Now I’m your better.” He laughed and slapped the table.
“Now take it easy on the lad, Hamish.” The third man, ship’s carpenter and all-round sailor, was the only Saddir in the crew. He wore his hair shorn short rather than long like most Saddir and dark tattoos festooned one arm. “I hear he was the king’s lap dog. It must be a mighty long drop from lap dog to bilge rat.”
All three burst into riotous laughter. Tad turned to leave and ran into the First Mate’s chest. He shoved Tad backwards violently.
“Eat, I said, then go below and check the lashings on the cargo. If any break loose, the Cap’n’ll have my hide and I’ll have yours.”
Tad stood his ground. “I’m not hungry.”
“Eat now or starve ‘til breakfast. There’ll be no snacking, city boy.”
Tad nodded. “I’ll check the cargo.” The First stepped aside. As Tad left the galley, he heard more laughter behind his back. It didn’t bother him. What was a little good-natured humor at his expense? It seemed that even God found delight in torturing him by dangling Sira and his dream of making a place in the world in front of him like a baby’s bauble over its crib, and then yanking it away just as his fingers caressed them.
The cargo hold was awash with dirty seawater. It shimmered with a layer of oil and pitch and stank like a sewer causing uncomfortable rumblings in his belly. At any other time, he would have been reluctant to enter it, but now it was just another challenge to endure. He held his breath as he sloshed through the muck to check on the pallets of grain resting on a low platform jutting barely above the water level. Forced at last to breathe, he grimaced at the foul odor and the unidentifiable things floating in the water. Fleeting shadows squirmed in the dark corners—rats, he hoped. The ropes holding the cargo were tight enough, but two barrels of fresh water needed lashing to a bulkhead. After manhandling them into position and securing them tightly with ropes, he searched until he found the handle of the bilge pump.
He began pumping the awkward handles meant for two operators and after a time noticed the water level slowly lowering. Encouraged, he pumped more vigorously, venting his anger and frustration on the pump handle. After an hour, his arms ached, but the water had dropped by seven or eight centimeters. He felt a sense of accomplishment until he saw the half-dozen trickles of water pouring in between the hull planking.
“Filthy death trap,” he muttered and sat down on a small keg.
“She’s a good ship,” a voice said behind him. He turned to see a short fat man holding out a piece of bread. “I’m Sasja, the cook. Most call me Cookie.” He held out the bread. “I made you a sandwich—fresh roasted sea skimmer and grilled onions with a dab of mustard. Don’t tell the Cap’n.”
Tad eyed the proffered sandwich, felt his empty stomach rumble, and decided that he could ill afford to starve on his journey. He took it. “Thanks, Cookie.”
Cookie’s smile revealed several missing teeth. “Holden’s Spur ain’t too bad a ship, just old, like me. The crew will bitch and moan and will likely come down hard on you at first. Stand your ground, except with the First Mate. Jes Krauther, he’s just plain mean. It’s best to say ‘aye, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ to him.”
“I paid for my passage, but I agreed to work for my meals,” Tad answered.
“Well, while we’re at sea, all hands work. This ain’t no passenger ship. We’re shorthanded as it is. If you work hard, the Cap’n will see you get ship’s wages. He’s hard but fair.”
Cookie eyed the water sluicing in through the cracks between the planking. “She leaks a might.”
Tad laughed. “It’s a wonder she floats. Do you have any caulking material?”
“There’s a mallet and awl in the tool room and some old rags in a box. Dip them in pitch and hammer them into the cracks. Hammer easy,” he cautioned. “You don’t want to bust open her belly.”
Tad chewed on the sandwich. To his surprise, the sea skimmer, a small, colorful fish that preferred skimming the surface, was delicious. He smiled. “Good grub.”
“The Cap’n sees to it, or else the crew would mutiny. Not much else to look forward to on a ship like this.”
“I’ll start sealing leaks. If Krauther comes to you looking for me, tell him I jumped overboard.”
Cookie smiled. “That’s the spirit, lad! You’ll do.”
Tad finished his sandwich and gathered up the materials he needed for caulking. As Cookie warned, the wood was rotten and worm-eaten. He hammered gently, but slowly. One by one, he managed to seal a dozen or so leaks. How many more lay out of sight behind cargo or below the water line, he couldn’t guess, but at least the hold looked more seaworthy. Exhausted and filthy, he stripped to the waist, sat on a crate to rest, and admired his work. A few moments later, Hamish slid down the ladder, saw Tad, and snorted.
“Goofing off already,” he said sneering.
Tad remained where he was. “I pumped the bilge and sealed the leaks. I’m taking a break.”
Hamish came over to him and balled up his fists. He stood five centimeters taller than Tad but was much slimmer, almost gaunt. “I say when you take a break, Rat.”
“Look. I don’t want any trouble,” Tad said, trying to placate the youth. “Give me a minute to catch my breath and I’ll do whatever you want done.”
“You’ll do it alright,” Hamish said and lashed out at Tad with his right fist.
Tad ducked the first blow. The second glanced off his shoulder. “I don’t want to fight you, Hamish,” he warned as he stood and faced the youth, “but I will if you force me.”
Hamish laughed. “Lap dog gonna hurt me, huh?”
He lunged at Tad. Tad turned quickly and hit Hamish with balled fists in the center of his back as he fell past. Infuriated, Hamish charged wildly. Tad knocked aside his first blow and jabbed him in the ribs. Hamish gasped with pain, and then tied to kick Tad’s legs from beneath him. Tad jumped over the swinging leg, hooked his right leg beneath Hamish’s outstretched one, and pulled him to the floor. Hamish came up spitting bilge water, smiled wickedly, and pulled out a knife.
“I’ll cut you up,” he threatened while brandishing the blade.
>
Tad’s training under the Watcher Arias sprang to his mind. Each move the Plin had laboriously drilled into him flowed through him. Without conscious thought, he quickly stepped up to Hamish inside the boy’s reach, hooked a leg behind him, grasped the knife-wielding arm, and pushed him backwards. The pressure on Hamish’s back and arm forced him to cry out in pain.
“Drop the knife!” Tad ordered.
When Hamish refused, Tad bent his arm farther back. “Don’t force me to cripple you.”
“I give!” Hamish yelled and sobbed in pain. He released the knife. Tad let him drop into the water with a splash.
“Don’t try that again,” he warned. “Another second and I would have broken your back.”
“Small loss.”
He turned to see First Mate Krauther standing at the foot of the ladder, a cocked pistol in his hand.
“I don’t much like the kid, but I wouldn’t let you kill him. I need him.” He eased the hammer down and slid the pistol back into his broad belt. “That was pretty good. Who taught you?”
Tad saw no reason to lie. “The Plin.”
Krauther arched an eyebrow. “Not many earn their trust.”
Tad shrugged.
Krauther turned to Hamish. “Consider yourself lucky. If this lad worked with the Plin, he might just see fit to turn you into a toad.”
Hamish stared at Tad with fear in his eyes. He got up and walked backwards to the ladder. Tad picked up his knife.
“Here,” he said, and threw the knife at Hamish. Hamish’s eyes widened in fear as the knife embedded deep into the wooden post beside Hamish’s head. “You might need it,” Tad finished. Hamish grabbed the knife and sprinted up the stairs.
“He’ll show you some respect from now on.” Krauther eyed the bilge and the fresh repairs. “Nice start, but don’t get too cocky. Next time ask me first. I would have had you start in the aft anchor chain locker. The extra water there is slowing us down.”
