A Man of His Word

by The Complete Series 01-04 (epub)

  He listened to the sailors’ talk; he asked questions; they were happy to answer. They borrowed the master’s charts and spread them out and showed him. The simplest route to Hub was to sail northward through Westerwater to the great Ambly River, which was navigable all the way to Cenmere. But the winds and currents were treacherous that way. Many a fine ship had been hurled onto the lee shores, or swept into the maw of the Nogids. There were always pirates, and the Imperial navy did not patrol much in Westerwater.

  Safer by far was a course to the south of the archipelago, usually to Kith, the Impire’s island stronghold in the Summer Seas. The currents were strong, though, and the winds were fickle. Sailing ships becalmed often turned up years later as desiccated husks being battered by the surf against the rock-bound coast of Zark. Galleys were safer, but they faced dangers, also, and the gale had left Gathmor unsure of Stormdancer’s position. In that situation, in the Summer Seas, the only solution was to head north and make landfall.

  Day after day the air remained as calm as rock, the sea flat as well water. Men’s muscles urged the ship onward, northward, against the southerly current. The more experienced men grew thoughtful. This might not turn out to be one of their better trips, they muttered. Thirst became a large part of Rap’s life. Even the passengers complained at the scanty water ration, and they were not rowing.

  Two men to an oar … but only in emergencies would both men row at once. The other would rest as well as he could, curled up on the baggage under the bench, or be off somewhere else doing work for Gathmor. Rap soon learned to sleep on any surface, in any position, lulled by exhaustion and the surge of the ship, by the hiss of water beyond the hull, by the rhythmic creak of oar against thole pin, and the pulsing susurrus of many men breathing in unison.

  And when it was his turn to row, then stroke merged into stroke, watch into watch, day into night, and all into a fog of pain and burning thirst. A sip of water became a lifelong ambition, one moment’s rest a dream of paradise.

  Whispers told of ships that had died of thirst, of floating coffins filled with skeletons, drifting for years upon the Summer Seas, but after a while even the whispering stopped. No one had breath or spit to waste.

  Especially not the green hand. At first Ballast did far more rowing than his share. Inevitably Rap flagged near the end of his watch, when every moment had become a torment beyond endurance and the next one worse. Then the big man would appear and offer to relieve him a little early. Rap always refused, but always his partner would simply slide into the harder inboard position and row alongside until Rap knew that his own efforts had become mere show and Ballast was doing all the work. Rap, in fact, became a drag on the oar, but he made himself a promise that he would always keep up the pretense, and he never once released his grip before the bosun rang the bell.

  Then came a watch when Ballast did not arrive to relieve him early, and the officers came at the bell. For a brief moment all oars were shipped and Stormdancer drifted, a lonely speck on a limitless ocean, visible only to the Gods. Trusting that They were watching. Captain Gnurr ritually thanked Them for sending him a new mariner and tipped a glass of wine over Rap’s head. The officers shook his blood-soaked hand and the crew cheered. He was very grateful for the wine, because it would conceal any other shameful fluid that might be trickling down his cheeks.

  Little Chicken had been a capable rower from the first, but no one bothered to honor him that way. He had made it look too easy.

  The goblin’s bench was port amidships, whereas Rap sat near the starboard bow, and the line of cabins stood between. Of course Rap’s farsight was not blocked by mere cabins, and he took a mean pleasure in noting that the goblin’s occult talent had not made him blister-proof—but Little Chicken probably enjoyed blisters.

  Rap also knew that the viscount was failing to satisfy his young wife, and that the elderly bishop had the opposite problem with his. And he knew why the handsome young gentleman traveler, Sir Andor, so popular with both crew and passengers, took longer than the others to find his sea legs.

  Andor had not been on board during the worst of the weather. Even in the calm. Sir Andor often pleaded squeamishness and retreated to his cabin. He sometimes even took his meals along with him, which seemed like odd treatment for seasickness.

  More often than not, the man in Andor’s cabin was Darad. The first time Rap farsaw that transformation, it frightened him, and made him angry. He suspected Andor was threatening him. He toyed with the idea of telling Gathmor and exposing the whole sequential gang. As he calmed down, he saw that a denunciation would be useless. Gathmor would never spy on his passenger and Andor would deny the charge. Rap knew who got believed when the two of them offered conflicting stories.

  Much of the time, therefore, the occupant of Cabin One was a giant jotunn warrior, who did little except lie on his belly and squirm. His back was a mass of blisters, his eye swollen, and the bites on his arm tumescent and oozing. His agony would not improve his attitude toward Rap, but he did not need to suffer that way. He could simply call Andor back in his place and wait until one of the gang summoned him in some place where medical help was available. His innumerable scars showed that he had endured much healing in the past, and that was what he was doing now. Despite what Rap had been told by both Thinal and Sagorn, the five men did care about each other to some extent. Andor was giving Darad a chance to recover from his injuries, just as Andor’s own arm was healing. When the cabal needed its fighter, he would be fit again.

  Two weeks out of Milflor, the danger was extreme. Men were chanting the daily prayers with much greater verve than usual. The air stayed calm, the water barrels were almost dry. Gnurr cut the ration, and men began fainting at the oars—inevitably causing chaos and even injury. The next day the wind rose, but it came out of the north. Stormdancer wallowed and rolled, and the motion made rowing a worse torment than ever. Reluctantly Gathmor was forced to double up the men, two to an oar, and lack of sleep was added to the torture list; as was the salt spray that soaked every garment and bit into sun-scorched skin like acid. Rap suspected that all the men’s efforts were fruitless and the ship was being driven backward. To run before the wind meant dying of thirst before they found Faerie again, if they ever did. They might die of thirst in any case.

  On the sixteenth day the lookout saw smoke ahead. Gnurr himself came around with an extra allotment of water, but it was less than two swallows per man. By nightfall, the peaks of the Nogids were visible from the masthead.

  The ensuing darkness seemed to last a whole lifetime. Rowers given a break would simply fall off the benches and lie where they landed until they were kicked awake to start rowing again. The wind had brought no clouds, and the stars shone bright and beautiful and merciless.

  The next day was worse. The volcanic smoke was no longer in sight, but a fringe of brown islands along the northeast horizon was visible even from the benches. Cruelly, the wind had banked to the northwest, and Stormdancer was unmanageable in a crosswind. Rap had an oar to himself now, for the ordeal was taking its toll on the weaker men. When the fear of death itself could not inspire, then the threat of a beating would not, even if it came from Gathmor.

  Fear worked on passengers, also. Rap’s sole amusement of the whole day was to observe Andor bloodying his pretty hands on an oar. That was double irony, for Darad would be a much better rower. Hard to explain, though.

  All day the islands drifted past. By afternoon, they were visibly drawing away, as the weakened crew lost its battle with the wind.

  When the sun neared the western skyline, Gnurr handed around the last of the water and called for extra prayers. Those might be the last of the prayers, also. Inevitably morning would find Stormdancer out of sight of land, drifting away into the unknown ocean south of the Summer Seas.

  As the prayers ended, the wind seemed to falter. The crew prayed all over again, forcing the words through cracked lips, and gradually—maddeningly slowly—the breeze freshened again and backed to the s
outhwest. Smiles and laughter and cheers appeared among the holy words. The sail was raised, the oars pulled inboard, and soon the ship was dancing landward. The drab hills approached as the sky dimmed, exhausted men lay in heaps, and Gnurr and Gathmor brought out the charts.

  4

  A white bear had its teeth in Rap’s shoulder and was shaking him bodily. He said, “What?” without opening his eyes. Why bother with eyes when there was no light? He knew it was Gathmor.

  But Gathmor did not know that Rap knew that and he continued shaking until he was satisfied that Rap was awake. The ship was plunging and leaping, ropes creaking in a stiffening breeze.

  “This farsight of yours, lad. What’s your range?”

  “’Bout half a league, sir.” Stupid question—why couldn’t it have waited till morning?

  “Thank the Gods! Come along, then.”

  Grumpily Rap rose and followed, stumbling aft over the sleeping men, but being gentler than the mate, who had no choice but just to walk on them in the dark. No one complained very loudly.

  By the steering oar stood the master, old and battered, a proud vessel listing in a killer storm. But Gnurr was a jotunn; he would not go down without a fight. Mundane vision would hardly discern him, were it not for his silver hair, fluttering in the dark like a captive bird. The helmsman was almost invisible, and only two white-bandaged hands nearby defined the silent figure of Andor.

  “You may save us all, lad, if you really have got farsight.” Gathmor opened a case and pulled out a roll of vellum. “You’ve heard of the anthropophagi?” His voice was a dry croak.

  “Aye, sir.” Rap peered all around. Even to the west, the horizon was barely visible, and forward his eyes could only just make out the humped shapes of hills against the sky. His farsight could not reach those—he sensed nothing out there except waves breaking on a reef to starboard.

  “We’re still in danger. We’re on a lee shore in a rising gale. We must find water before morning, and the natives are hostile.”

  “They really eat people, sir?” Rap had to force the words from his parched mouth. He was becoming more interested, less sleepy, but he had a pounding headache and he felt oddly fragile and unreal. He was shivering, and so were the others, fevered by the endless thirst.

  “Yes. Now look here.” Gathmor peered at his chart. He raised it almost to the end of his nose. Then he lowered it and seemed to slump back against the rail. “Evil take it! I can’t even see well enough to show you.”

  “I can see it, sir.”

  “You can read?”

  The mate’s surprise was both insulting and oddly flattering. “Aye, sir.”

  Gathmor muttered what sounded like a prayer of thanks. “Well, look at this, then, if you really can.” He thrust the chart at Rap. “We’re approaching the channel between Inkralip and Uzinip, or so we think.”

  “Aye, sir.” Rap was wondering foggily why Andor had gone away. It was Sagorn standing there in the dark, listening—erect and intent, holding tight to the rail. His sparse white hair blew free, like the captain’s. Only Rap had noticed him.

  “Well, man—look at the chart!” The mate was starting to sound urgent, perhaps even desperate. He must know about the reef to starboard.

  “I am looking, sir.” Rap had not tried to unroll the scroll in that wind. “I’ve found Uzinip … Orphanlover Shoal … that’s the surf over there, sir?” He pointed.

  Gathmor’s fist closed on Rap’s shirt and twisted, hauling him closer, almost nose to nose. “You trying to tell me you can read a rolled chart in pitch darkness?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  There was a stunned pause. Then Rap was restored to vertical and also thumped hard on a painfully burned, salt-scabbed shoulder. He staggered weakly and grabbed the rail for support.

  “Right, faun. You may save us yet. Follow the channel. It branches. Veer to port—keep left, that is. Several small islands … Fort Emshandar … can you see it?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Water, sailor! There’s water there. There’s Imperial soldiers there. The Gods have brought us to the only Imperial outpost in this stretch of the Nogids. Can you get us to the fort?”

  Rap nodded, remembered it was dark, and said, “Aye, sir.” Then he yawned, which seemed to make his headache worse. The channel looked like a tiny wormhole, but he didn’t know much about charts. If Gathmor thought it was wide enough, likely it was. Fort Emshandar was on the far side of Uzinip, facing a much wider strait.

  “You see where the chart says ‘village’?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “That’s the anthropophagi, except this chart’s old, so they may have moved by now.”

  Instantly Andor stood in Sagorn’s place. “Not probable! There’s little water in these parts. The settlements will still be by the streams.” That was Andor’s voice and Sagorn’s thinking, of course.

  Gathmor growled angrily into the darkness, not seeing that the old sage had already replaced Andor again.

  “Never mind, then,” the mate said. “We’ll creep by them, wherever they are. But it’s narrow. This back door’s not recommended but we have no choice. We’ll have to sneak in quietly and make the fort before they know. Otherwise we’ll be caught in the narrows and there’ll be faun pie for breakfast. Coming out, we’ll have a clear run to the north. All right?”

  “Aye, sir. How close to the Orphanlover did you want to go, sir? We seem to be drifting that way.”

  Gathmor blasphemed.

  Rap yawned and yawned. If he sat down, he would be asleep at once, so he lounged against the rail between the master and the first mate and he gave the orders. That would have been funny, had anyone felt like laughing. He told them when Stormdancer was entering the channel, and then the sail was lowered and oars were put to use. Winds in narrow passes, he was told, were not predictable. Gathmor put on his sixteen most skilled rowers, with oar blades and thole pins muffled. Out of all the rest of the crew, very few could even stand up, and among them only Ballast and Little Chicken would be capable of using weapons. If the anthropophagi attacked, they would find the larder door unguarded.

  Only Rap noticed as Andor and Sagorn alternated in the darkness. The wily old scholar had contributed no more ideas.

  The channel twisted to the right. It was much wider than it had looked on the chart. At first Stormdancer showed a dangerous desire to drift ashore in the crosswind, and Rap had to learn that he must make the crew row the ship this way, to make the scenery move at an angle that way. He held the chart in his hand, still rolled, slowly turning it to keep the picture the right way up. Then another bend brought calmer air and the ship began to behave more like a horse would.

  His head drooped, his knees quivered. He forced himself to straighten up. This was much easier than driving a wagon down the hill in Krasnegar, but it was not easy enough to do in his sleep.

  “There’s a village over there!” The chart was correct so far. He wasn’t sure that Gathmor could even see him pointing. There were no stars. The night was about as black as night could be.

  “Ssh! Sound travels over water.”

  “Aye, sir,” Rap said quietly. “We’re getting too close this side, sir.” The high walls of the valley had muffled the storm that would be battering the open sea by now, but ripples ahead must mean wind.

  The mate leaned on the steering oar. “Current. You’re doing great, lad.”

  “This can’t be easy for you,” Rap said, with sudden insight.

  “Easy? Easy?” The jotunn’s whisper was bitter. “Steering my ship in the dark through the Nogids with a landlubber mongrel pup as pilot? I’d rather pull out my toenails. I mean that. Every nail. Slowly.”

  “I’m sure you would, sir. A little bit to the left, sir.”

  Gathmor shuddered and muttered, “Two points to port.” He leaned on the oar.

  The old captain had stretched out at Rap’s feet, too weak to stand longer. He was either asleep or unconscious.

  The silent progress was
uncanny. Even within the ship, there was hardly a sound from the rowers. Perhaps these men had experience in sneaking around in the dark in boats, but it would be unwise to ask. They did not even have the coxswain piping the stroke for them. Likely they could hear the drumbeat in Rap’s head—it felt loud enough to waken the anthropophagi.

  Waves splashed on the shore, and the wind stirred trees on the higher slopes, but that was all. Stormdancer was going to pass very close to the village. A dog started to bark, and Rap quieted it—all part of the service. A man coughed on the shore. Nothing Rap could do about coughs. He wished he could cure headaches, though. His.

  And his farsight was starting to play tricks, surely? “How much water does the ship need, sir?”

  “Draft? About half a fathom is all.”

  “That’s all right then.”

  Gathmor groaned. “You can see through water, too?”

  “Aye, sir. At least two fathoms here.”

  Water … drinking water … fresh water … Gods be with us …

  “Where are we, lad?” Nerves crackled in the mate’s voice.

  “Just rounding Uzinip.”

  A moment later Stormdancer began to move uneasily in a stronger swell. Surf boomed somewhere ahead, and she came sweeping out of the narrow pass, turning the corner at an angle Rap had not expected, borne by the current into a strait whose far side he could not sense—it might be Zark, for all he knew.