by Angus Wells
Kerym flipped a dismissive wrist. “Do they choose, they are allowed to cross the Slammerkin,” he said. “Or they rely on the charity of their fellows, whatever they’ve managed to save.”
I thought they should not be able to save much, and that the charity of the Changed must of necessity be a precarious living. But his mention of the Slammerkin reminded me of Rekyn’s words, and I said, “They go into Ur-Dharbek to join the wild Changed?”
“Yes,” said Kerym, his tone so different I stared at him, hearing something in his voice I did not understand. I felt as I had with Rekyn—that I ventured into some area that was not … I was not sure … proper, or polite to mention. His smile was gone, his face cold: I sensed I had gone too far, though I did not understand why or how. He said, “Enough questions.”
We stood in silence awhile, and then I asked if I might go forrard, to observe our progress from the bow. Kerym responded with a nod, and I quit his company feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
I made my way along the central deck, surreptitiously observing the crew. Save for their great size and their vaguely taurine physiognomy, they seemed to me quite human. They chattered quietly amongst themselves and several smiled at me as I passed. Some, I saw, played the simpler version of kells known as catch-dice, and for some reason that more than anything else rendered them sympathetic. I decided that, did the opportunity arise, I would speak with them.
I had no chance then, however, for no sooner had I reached the foredeck than the wind shifted and Kerym blew his whistle, the piercing note bringing out the sweeps as the oarsmen bent to their duty. I thought then that Kerym’s boasting might contain some element of truth, for the galley swept forward and I tottered an instant as the deck lurched under me. I wondered if the master looked to humble me, clutching at the gunwale as white water foamed around the bow. The foremost rower called, “Take care, master,” in a gruff, kindly voice, and I smiled and waved, regaining my sea legs. I might not have sailed on a galley before, but I was a fisherman’s son and would not grant Kerym the amusement of seeing me fall.
We continued thus until the wind once more picked up and the sail bellied again. Kerym gave some order then, and the two crewmen not engaged on the sweeps set to preparing food. It was plain fare, but filling: fish and rice and hard bread, and everyone on board was passed a tankard brimming with good Cambar ale. I took my ration on the fore-deck, not much wanting to rejoin our captain at the stern. Perhaps I sulked, but also I pondered on all he had said; and what he refused to discuss.
When the meal was done, the sweeps Came out again and we rowed through the afternoon. I watched the coastline pass, seeing villages the twin to my own, once the high column of a keep I thought must be Torbryn, coves and inlets where houses clustered about the shore. There were fishing boats out, but we rode beyond the catch grounds and soon left them behind. The sun westered, the sky to the east a purple pricked through with stars, the moon a butter-yellow crescent. Soon the coast was a shadow, marked by the phosphorescent wash of breaking surf. We ate again (the same fare), and I wondered if Kerym would put in for the night and ride out the dark hours at anchor, but he showed no sign of slowing and after a while sent a crewman to where I stood to advise me I might make my bed at fore or poopdeck.
I went back astern then and found Kerym in better humor.
“I’m sworn to make Ynisvar no later than the morrow’s noon,” he told me, “so we go on through the night. I’ll find my bed now; do you sleep where you will. But stay out of the way, eh?”
I nodded and he passed the tiller to a Changed, disappearing into his little cabin. The night grew chill, and I broke out my cloak. The crew fetched an array of motley garments from beneath their benches, and I saw that three to each side stretched out asleep. Running lights were hung at prow and stern, and in their light I studied the tillerman. He was older than the rest, with hints of gray in the sleek black hair hanging straight about his weathered face. A small clay pipe was clasped between his teeth, the bowl glowing red in the darkness, smoke drifting from between his heavy lips. I thought this an excellent opportunity to satisfy my curiosity and lounged against the taffrail.
“Have you sailed with Kerym long?” I asked.
“Yes, master,” he said.
“How long?” I asked.
He shrugged, the movement like tree trunks shifting, and said, “Since I was old enough, master.”
“I’ve sailed all my life,” I told him. “I’m a fisherman’s son.”
He only nodded, unspeaking. I asked his name, and he answered, “Bors, master.”
“I’m Daviot,” I returned, to which he nodded again.
He seemed, to say the least, disinclined to converse with me, but I refused to be put off. “Where are you from?” I asked.
“Durbrecht, master,” he said.
“I go there,” I said. “To the College of the Rememberers.”
He nodded. Whether he was unimpressed or uninterested or intent on his duty, I could not tell: his features remained impassive. I am ashamed to admit I thought him distinctly bovine in his placid acceptance. I thought of a cow chewing the cud, instinctively flicking its tail at the swarming flies represented by my attempts to engage him in conversation. “I love the sea,” I declared. “Do you?”
He offered no response, as if the question were without meaning. I asked, “Do you enjoy life on the Seahorse!”
His wide eyes narrowed a fraction, as though he struggled to comprehend the inquiry, as though enjoyment were a concept beyond his understanding. Finally he shrugged, still silent.
I opted for bold measures. “What do you know of Ur-Dharbek?” I demanded. “Your people live free there, I’m told.”
That did produce a reaction, albeit fleetingly, for he hid it swift. I saw his eyes widen, then narrow again, and his teeth clenched tighter on his pipe, the tobacco glowing fierce a moment as he sucked in a sharp breath.
“Nothing, master,” he said.
There was a finality in his tone that denied all opportunity for further questions on that particular subject, and for all my curiosity I could not but recognize it was closed—which of course fueled my interest the more.
“Nothing at all?” I asked, unwilling yet to give up.
“No, master,” he said. And added, “Nothing at all.”
I sighed and tried another tack: “Why do you call me master? I’m not your master.”
“You’re a Trueman,” he said.
“And all Truemen are called master?” I asked.
“Yes, master,” he said.
“Are there many of your people in Durbrecht?” I asked. He said, “Yes, master.”
I saw that I should not get far with Bors; certainly not find answers to my many questions. I wondered if that was a trait of his taurine kind, or of the Changed in general; or if he hid things. Surely he knew more of Ur-Dharbek than he admitted, and no less surely refused to speak of it. I gave up: it seemed a fruitless exercise to question him further. I said, “I think I’ll sleep now,” and he said, “Yes, master,” so I gathered up my bag and carried it to the foredeck, where I rolled myself in my cloak, the bag for a pillow, and fell asleep to the slap of water against the bow. I dreamed of sailing forever on a galley manned by silent Changed, whose only answer, whenever I spoke, was “Yes, master.”
We sighted Ynisvar before noon. It was a place larger than Cambar, which made it the largest place I had ever seen, spread in a semicircle around a gentle bay. Shallow headlands like the lowered horns of a bull ran down to a wide sand beach on which fishing boats were grounded; beyond, houses climbed the slopes, clustering about the keep that dominated the heights. Kerym brought the Seahorse in through the shallows to a jetty, and we moored.
I thought I should go ashore, but Kerym told me he would halt only long enough to take his new passenger on board, and so I waited on the foredeck as the midday meal was prepared and passed out. Kerym, it appeared, ate on shore, for it was some time before he reappeared, accompanied by a
small crowd that gathered on the jetty as a young man of about my own age said his farewells. He was a little smaller than me, and reddish-haired, with a dramatically freckled face that looked torn between excitement and trepidation. His clothes, I noticed, were similar to my own, though he wore no dagger. When he came on board, I saw instantly that he was no sailor.
Kerym introduced us. The newcomer’s name was Pyrdon. I took him forrard as we cast off, watching his ruddy face turn pale as the galley backed and swung about.
“I’ve not much experience of boats,” he announced.
I nodded sagely, feeling immediately superior, and told him, “You’ll find your sea legs soon enough.”
The Fend was calm, only a gentle swell running, but as we rowed from the bay Pyrdon’s face grew so ashen, it seemed every freckle glowed red as a pox sore. He clutched the gunwale, his knuckles white, and I felt amused until he groaned, “Oh, in the God’s name, why could I not go horseback?”
I remembered my own equestrian experience then and felt abashed. I asked if he could ride, and he nodded and mumbled an affirmative as if such accomplishment were as natural as my own familiarity with the sea. Then he gasped and emptied his belly overboard. I felt immediately sorry for him and brought him a cup of water. “Perhaps Kerym has some remedy,” I said, and, left the unfortunate Pyrdon draped over the forecastle as I made my way to the stern. In any event, Kerym had no such nostrum and expressed only a supercilious amusement at Pyrdon’s plight, advising me to warn him that he had best avoid fouling the Seahorse’s deck. His attitude did nothing to improve my opinion of him, and I returned to the bow wearing an irritated scowl.
“Perhaps we’ll have time to find a herbalist in Madbry,” I suggested, to which Pyrdon answered mournfully, “Madbry’s a day or more distant.”
I was impressed that he owned such knowledge and set to questioning him about his origins, which served to distract his mind somewhat from the—to me—smooth motion of the galley.
His recitation was punctuated with groans and frequent pauses as he hung his head over the side, but I gathered that he was a season older than me, the second son of a tanner, from a town some leagues inland called Sterbek. He took his familiarity with horses as casually as I took mine with boats, and assured me that had he known what a sea voyage was like, he would have endeavored to persuade his father to gift him a horse and made his own way to Durbrecht. That his family could afford so generous a gift suggested he enjoyed a wealth unknown to my parents, and I forbore to elaborate on my humbler background. Pyrdon scarcely noticed, being far more concerned with his misery, but despite his discomfort I thought him a cheerful enough fellow, whose company I should likely enjoy when his seasickness was passed.
Sadly, it did not. Indeed, for the remainder of the voyage to Madbry he continued unwell, swearing that once we reached our destination he would never again set foot on a boat of any kind. I did what I could to ease his suffering, but that was not much, and by the time we sighted Madbry he was gaunt for lack of sustenance and bringing up a clear bile from his empty stomach.
Madbry hove in sight early on the morning of our third day at sea. It was large as Ynisvar, but lay on the jut of a headland, the buildings climbing the steep flanks of the promontory to the aeldor’s tower. The keep was outlined stark by the new-risen sun, like a finger pointing accusingly at the sky. The wind was brisk, slapping waves against the mole we rounded to find the calmer waters of the harbor, and as we approached I went to Kerym.
“Shall there be chance to find a herbalist?” I asked. “Pyrdon’s in some need of a cure.”
“I’ll not delay.” Kerym’s eyes remained fixed on the harbor wall, gauging our speed against the run of the tide. I did not like him, but I had to admit he was a skilled captain. “And Cleton comes now.”
I had not realized he knew the names of his passengers in advance. I looked toward the town and saw a veritable procession descending from the keep. I gasped and said, “He lives in the keep?”
“Thought you all Rememberers were fishermen or tanners?” he returned, and chuckled. “Cleton’s third son to the aeldor Brython.”
It had not occurred to me an aeldor’s son might become Mnemonikos, and I wondered briefly how one so elevated would find my company. But that was not my immediate concern. I said, “Still, save Pyrdon’s found a remedy, he’ll likely vomit his way to Durbrecht.”
Kerym shrugged as if this was a matter of no concern; I refused to leave it. I said, “Surely we might wait so long as it takes to find a herbman.”
Kerym shouted an order that reversed the sweeps, slowing us as he brought the tiller over, the Seahorse drifting neat to the wharf. Bors and the other older Changed leaped ashore with the mooring lines. Kerym nodded his satisfaction and answered me, “Durbrecht by Ennas Day, I swore. I’ve a sizable wager riding on it.”
That seemed to me a piss-poor reason for Pyrdon’s continued suffering, and I had to restrain myself from expressing my opinion of our captain. I mastered my anger, however, and instead said, as calmly as I was able, “He’s eaten nothing since he came aboard. He’s heaving dry now, and ere long he’ll bring up blood. He could die. How shall they take that in Durbrecht? And when word gets back to Sterbek?”
Kerym’s face darkened at that and he tugged at his short beard, his dark eyes fixing me with a furious glare. I would not be quelled but met his gaze until he looked away and muttered, “Very well. Do you go find a herbalist, then. But quick, mark you! And do I lose my wager—”
If he completed his threat I did not hear it, for I was already gone from the poop and running for the gangplank, calling over my shoulder to Pyrdon that I went to find him a cure.
I sprang to the wharf and studied the buildings that faced the harbor. I saw warehouses and taverns, but no sign to indicate a herbalist, so I began to run toward the closest alehouse, thinking to secure directions there. It stood on the corner of the avenue leading up to the keep, and as I drew close, the procession I had seen emerged from between the buildings. There were about a score of riders, led by a black-bearded man whose fine clothes told me he was the aeldor Brython. On his right, the side on which the tavern lay, rode a young man with yellow hair wearing tunic and breeks not unlike my own, but of better cut and finer material. My headlong passage brought me almost into collision with his startled horse, and he mouthed a curse as the animal skittered, ears flattened. Instantly two riders, their plaid and the swords they carried marking them for members of the war-band, urged their mounts forward, straight at me. I thought them likely to ride me down, or beat me with the flats of their blades, and veered away, seeking refuge, an arm raised in defense.
Brython called them to a halt, reining in. “He came off the galley,” he said, and fastened eyes of a startlingly pale blue on my face. “What’s about, lad, that you come in such haste?”
“Forgive me, my lord.” I shaped a sketchy bow. “I’ve a friend sick on board, and I’d find a herbman.”
“A seasick sailor?” It was the yellow-haired young man who spoke. “What manner of vessel am I committed to?”
This, I realized, must be Cleton. I said, “Not a sailor,” and wondered if I should add “my lord.” I decided not: we should, after all, be fellow students soon enough. “His name is Pyrdon,” I explained, “and he’s Durbrecht-bound, like me.”
“Ah, a kindred Mnemonikos-elect.” I saw that Cleton’s eyes were the same pale hue as his father’s, which made them seem cold and distant until he smiled. “Then best a remedy be found instanter. Mathyn, do you go swift to the keep and have Naern prepare a nostrum. Bring it to us on the boat, if you will.”
A soldier swung his horse around and galloped back the way they had come. Cleton returned his eyes to me and said, “So …”
He frowned an inquiry, and I said, “Daviot.”
“So, Daviot, do you come introduce me to our captain? I, by the way, am Cleton.”
He reached down from his saddle, and we clasped hands. I fell into step beside him
as the column walked on toward the Seahorse. Kerym stood fidgeting by the gangplank, but neither Cleton nor his father appeared in any great hurry, reining in and dismounting as Kerym flourished a deep bow and bade them the day’s greetings.
Brython returned the salutation and said, “A man’s gone to bring a remedy for your sick passenger, captain, so you’re delayed awhile.”
Kerym nodded, glancing irritably at me. Cleton caught his look and said calmly, “You’d not deliver a sick man to Durbrecht, would you, captain?”
Kerym reddened somewhat and shook his head vigorously, mouthing unctuous denial. I enjoyed his discomfort, and decided that I should like Cleton, did he continue in this manner. I saw that although his clothes were grander, he carried no more baggage than I, and that himself, waving away Kerym’s offer of a crewman for porter with the pronouncement that he was now merely one more Mnemonikos-elect, no different to his companions Daviot and Pyrdon.
The statement seemed to me designed to put Kerym in his place and simultaneously elevate me. I grinned, and then caught Cleton’s eye as he winked and grinned the wider.
We waited there, Brython engaging Kerym in conversation as Cleton questioned me, much as I had interrogated Pyrdon. He was an easy fellow to talk with, putting me at my ease so that I soon felt there was no barrier between us, despite the very different circumstances of our births.
Before long Mathyn returned with the herbman’s potion and his instructions as to its use. Brython insisted, politely but with no argument brooked, that Kerym wait while Pyrdon swallow the vile-smelling concoction, and our hasty captain was forced to curb his impatience as Cleton and I tended our unfortunate companion. Cleton himself administered the draught, wondering aloud if he should not require a measure before we reached our destination. In point of fact, he was an excellent sailor, as at home on the waves as I, and I realized he pretended for Pyrdon’s sake. I liked him better by the moment.
In a while Pyrdon declared himself somewhat recovered. Certainly he regained a measure of his color and took a few mouthfuls of ale, and Cleton said his final farewells, and Kerym was at last permitted to depart.
