by Tim Stead
She could see that a headland protected the harbour from the north winds, jutting out a good two miles into the sea, and to the south a mole had been built by the simple process of piling rocks and stones in the sea. It stretched out due east for a hundred yards and then bent a little northward, like an arm extended to protect the piers from the ocean, which is exactly what it was.
The wagons did not stop, but rolled on past the docks to the camping grounds that were set aside for traders. Felice could not take her eyes off the ships. They seemed huge, complicated, and yet impossibly small when set against the vastness of the water beyond them. There were so many ropes, beams, rails and men swarming about them. One was unloading, a crane of sorts rigged to the mast lifting boxes and sacks from the hold to the dockside where wagons waited. Another was loading, and she could hear the men calling up from the guts of the ship, and see netted sacks of grain vanishing into it. She wondered how much they could hold, but it was clearly a lot. All of their wagons could unload into one ship and not fill a half of it.
She heard her brother’s name called, and turned to see him jump down from the lead wagon and greet a man who stood outside a dockside tavern which bore a sign announcing that it was named The Red Sail. The stranger seemed an outlandish figure to her. He wore bright red trousers of a fine material, tucked firmly into short black boots, a broad belt of gold cloth, and a loose fitting tunic of blue. A red scarf was tied around his neck, and he wore a cloth hat, black in colour, that concealed his hair. His face was brown, tattooed on one cheek, and fully bearded. A sword with a short, broad blade hung at his side. A gold chain adorned his neck. He was at least ten years older than her brother.
Todric greeted him as a friend, taking his hand and clasping his shoulder, and it was certain that they knew each other. He turned to look for her, and seeing that her wagon was passing called up to her.
“Mouse, come down and meet Captain Pelorus.”
She jumped inexpertly from the wagon, and had to steady herself to avoid falling over, stiff as she was from sitting all day. She wished that he had not called her Mouse in front of the strange man.
The captain looked her up and down, but it was not an unfriendly appraisal. She was a mouse indeed, dressed in browns and blacks as she was, compared with this peacock of a man. He took her hand politely enough and made a small bow.
“Captain Jem Pelorus,” he announced, “master of the Sea Swift, at your service, my lady.”
“I am happy to meet you, Captain,” she responded.
“This is my sister, Jem,” Todric said. “Felice san Marcos Caledon.”
“Which vessel is yours, Captain?”
“Over there,” he pointed with pride, and she saw that it was the largest of all the ships tied up in port, crowned by two masts where the others had only one. It seemed clean and well looked after, and swarmed with busy sailors.
“Forgive me, Captain, I know nothing of ships, but she seems a well tended vessel.”
“That she is, Felice. Will you join me for a glass?” the captain asked, indicating the tavern behind him. Felice studied the place briefly, and thought that it looked rough but cheerful.
“We would be pleased to do so, Jem,” Todric said.
“Should we not stay with the wagons?” she asked.
“The drovers know where to camp,” he replied. “It is but a short walk from here.”
She followed them inside. It was smoky, and the smell of stale beer and unwashed people mingled with more pleasant smells coming from the kitchens. All around her men spoke in raised voices, knives clattered on plates, glasses banged on tables, and business was conducted. A bar counter stretched the length of the far wall and it was to this that Todric and the captain made their way. She followed as best she could in the press of people, but found that she had to push through the crowd, and everyone seemed much larger than herself. She was so much shorter than those around her that she lost sight of her brother and felt a momentary panic. She pushed a man in front of her to move him out of the way and he rounded on her angrily, his hand going to his belt where she could see the handle of a knife.
“Watch who you’re pushing…” the man said, but seeing who it was he leered at her. “Well, little one, what can I do for you?” He reached out a hand to seize her arm, but another hand slapped it away.
“Calm down, Jack,” it was the captain. “Show respect to the lady or you’ll show it to a rope’s end.”
The man backed off, all the confidence suddenly peeled from him.
“Aye, Captain,” he said. “As you say, Captain. Sorry to have troubled you, young lady.”
“Now, Felice,” the captain said, leading her forwards once more, “a glass of wine? They have good southern wines here, full of the taste of the sun. I’m sure you’d enjoy a drop.”
She smiled gratefully at him. “That would be most welcome, Captain.” He guided her to a table where the press of people was less intimidating and sat her down.
“It’s a rough place indeed,” he said to her apologetically, “but there’s not many here would wish you harm. Now we’ll just wait for that brother of yours to buy the wine and then we can begin talking business.”
She looked around her, feeling dazed with all that was new, and then Todric strode into view, three glasses in one hand and a bottle in the other. His eyes glowed with excitement. This was what he was made for, she realised. It was her duty to help him, to do whatever she could to ease his path.
“So what do you have to sell, Captain?” she asked.
2. Yasu
Trading, it seemed to Felice, was a job mostly undertaken in the evenings with a glass of wine or beer in one hand. At least that is how her brother and the captain proceeded. She did not like to drink so much, especially in the company of so many strange men in a tavern, and so she spent her time elsewhere.
On the first evening they had gone back to the camp after only a single bottle split between the three of them, but Todric had promised to return later in the evening, and she did not go with him. Instead she stayed in the tents, unpacked her clothes and opened the small wooden box that she had brought with her. It contained three books and a modest sum of silver coin that she had amassed over the last two years working for her father. She intended to use it to purchase trade goods on her own behalf, and also to buy clothes and trinkets that caught her eye.
So she sat and read, and early in the evening she put out the candle and slept.
In the morning Todric was in his bed, but not inclined to rise. Some of the drovers confirmed that it had been well past midnight when he returned to the tents. Felice left him to recover his wits and walked into the town. It was a fine day, and warm in spite of the breeze that blew in off the sea. She walked down the strand road that passed by the docks and the ships, already waking to the day with some crews on deck, and the smell of cooked food coming ashore from others.
She passed the tavern at which they had stopped the previous night, but it was closed and barred against the brightness and industry of the morning. At the end of the strand there was a small shop with tables outside under a wooden frame. Plants had been grown over the frame so that they formed a shaded area, and a couple of people were sitting out in this pleasant spot, sipping at drinks and eating.
Felice sat at a table and looked out at the view, which was both amazing and at the same time very dull. The ocean was flat and featureless, laid out before her like some blank paper awaiting a scribe, and yet it was the very vastness that held her attention. She had never imagined anything so large, and they said that other lands lay beyond it. How far could you sail, she wondered, if you just set a course to the east and held it, night and day, until something appeared before you?
“Ima, would you like something to drink?”
She looked up and saw that an old man had approached her. Well, not exactly old, she conceded, but probably older than her father. He had grey hair, tied back behind his head in the eastern fashion, a grey moustache, and wor
e a plain white tunic. He was smiling in a welcoming manner. Clearly he was the proprietor.
“Jaro,” she said. “Hot and sweet.”
“And something to eat?”
“I have breakfasted already today, thank you.”
“A small cake, perhaps, to go with the jaro. I find that it goes well, and we have in those little almond cakes that are made to a Samaran recipe. They say the do-Regana herself is fond of them.”
She recognised a sales pitch when she heard one, but the idea of an almond cake was new to her.
“They are small?” she asked.
“Very small, Ima, and such good value. Only two copper coins.”
“I will have one with the jaro,” she said.
“I will bring it at once,” he said and vanished back into the kitchens.
She was unused to the formal address: ‘Ima’. It was what people called you when they did not know you or your station in life, a respectful confession of ignorance. In The Scar she was always know, always spoken to by people who knew who she was.
The jaro and the cake arrived. It was larger than she had expected, and looked quite plain, but she tried it, biting a small corner off, cupping her hand beneath it to catch any crumbs. It was delicious. The sweetness and the nuts went well together, and the flavours complemented the darker flavour of the jaro.
She looked around her with a mercenary eye. This place was small, but well positioned. When the taverns were closed this was the obvious spot to have breakfast, to look at the ships, to enjoy the sea. She guessed that all his trade was in the morning, and that he did better in the summer, though she could see some chairs and tables inside, and perhaps room for more. There was a chimney, too, so perhaps it was a cosy and equally profitable business in winter.
Her eye was drawn to a movement, and she saw that one of the other customers was pointing out to sea. She looked, and saw that what had been an empty ocean was now occupied. A ship under sail, the huge white sheet of canvas bowed by the morning breeze, was heading directly towards them. Although it was still perhaps a mile from shore the strand erupted with movement too, as the more alert among the boatmen scrambled for their boats, and with a rushing noise they launched themselves into the water, splashing aboard their tiny vessels and bending their backs to the oars, four men to each boat, as they raced out to sea.
In the distance she saw the ships sail come down, and the tiny figure of a man in the bow hurl half a dozen red balls into the sea ahead of the vessel.
“They are boat buoys.”
She looked up and saw that the proprietor was standing next to her again.
“And what are they for?” she asked.
“The captain of that ship thinks he needs…” she could see him counting, “six boats to pull him into dock, or at least that’s what he’s willing to pay for. The boats race for the buoys, and the ones that pick them up get the job. They’ll take ropes from the ship and pull her to shore.”
She nodded. It made a kind of sense. The men who were alert and could row quickly would get the buoys. It ensured that the captain got competent oarsmen to tow him in. She watched for the next half hour as the boats recovered their prizes, swapped them for ropes, and pulled the ship in. Each boat, as it came into the shallows was met by a couple of men from the shore, who took the rope and finished the job of easing the ship against the dock. It was all quickly done, and the vessel came to rest with the lightest of bumps against the wooden pier.
Satisfied that she had seen what interested her she paid for her jaro and walked back along the strand. She turned inland up a wide, paved road that seemed busy, and came to another street, parallel to the strand, on which there seemed to be a market of some sort. She wandered along the stalls, looking at the goods and the prices, but not buying, and in a while came to a place where the stalls gave way to shops, more grand in what they sold and how they sold it. The prices were higher, too, but there seemed no shortage of customers in spite of this, or perhaps because of it.
She was growing hungry again by the time she had tired of inspecting the shops and their goods. She felt that she had learned from them, which was good if she was to be of some use to her father.
She walked back to the strand and back in the direction of the tents, but on a whim stopped by a man who was selling food from a counter that he had set up in front of the ships. It was spiced meat skewered on sticks and heated over a fire; simple fare, but it smelled good and so she bought three sticks and sat on a packing case while she ate it.
She was just finishing her meal when one of the drovers walked up to her.
“Miss Felice,” the man said, a slight reproach in his voice, “I’ve been looking for you all over the town.”
“You have found me, Michael,” she replied, declining to be contrite. “What is it?”
“Your brother sends a message. He will be dining aboard Captain Pelorus’s ship this evening and asks that you attend. An hour before sunset is the time.”
She was pleased. She had wanted to go aboard the ship, but was not certain that it was polite to ask. Now she would see it anyway.
“You may tell my brother that I will attend at the time and place,” she said.
The man went away and she found herself alone again, sitting opposite the tavern where they had first met the captain. It was open now, and although not crowded, there were a number of sailors eating and drinking in groups outside in the sun, and she listened to their conversations, wondering if she would hear tales of far lands, stories of great storms at sea.
She was disappointed. Their talk was mostly of beer and fighting, the relative merits of officers over them, and women in different ports. It seemed that each man strove to outdo the others in terms of the strength of their beer, the cruelty of their officers and the viciousness of their fights, although they disagreed as to what was the greatest virtue in a woman. They were all uniformly boastful, though.
She walked back to the street lined with shops and after a short while found the place she was looking for. It was a cool, dim place, and the shop keeper was a woman with a back as straight as a pine tree and immaculate clothes. She entered the shop and emerged some time later with a parcel wrapped in brown cloth which she took back to the tents in the camp ground.
When the sun stood low over the plateau to the west she emerged from the tents again, and this time the drovers stopped and stared at her. Gone were the browns and greens that were her accustomed camouflage. She wore a dark blue dress of the best quality, with a spray of tiny white embroidered flowers cascading over the left shoulder and flowing all the way down to the hem. It was a fine piece of work, and caught the evening light wonderfully on the threads of silk woven in with the cotton. She strode out of the camp grounds and down the road, arriving at the gangplank of the Sea Swift at the appointed hour. There were two men stood on the pier by the foot of the plank. One of them stepped forward when she approached. He was dressed in a fashion that reminded her of the captain, all colour and show, but he was younger and although his manner and accent was eastern he had a northern face and blue eyes beneath dark hair and a tanned brow.
“Karana,” the man said. “How may we serve you?”
She laughed. The man bristled slightly.
“Do no be offended,” she said. “I am the trader Felice Caledon, brother to Todric and daughter to Marcos. I am to dine with the captain tonight.”
The man bowed slightly and smiled. “Then I am indeed fortunate. My name is Yan Forest, and I am mate aboard this ship. I am also to share the captain’s hospitality this evening. May I escort you to the cabin?”
At least his manners were refined. She allowed him to lead her up the plank, which was too narrow for them to walk side by side, and then to take her arm and cross the ship’s broad deck and descend what seemed an extraordinarily grand stairway that let down into the captain’s cabin. Again she was surprised at the size and opulence of the space she entered. It was a little larger than the largest room in their home b
ack at the Scar, and well decorated with rugs and tapestries. The centre of the room was dominated by a great table of some dark wood laid with four places and lit by two great lamps that hung from the ceiling above. Everything looked to be of the finest quality.
Captain Pelorus and Todric were standing by the rear of the cabin, next to a great window that stood open and gave onto a view of the ocean and sky; all tinged a faint peach colour by the sun that was setting in the opposite direction. Both were already equipped with glasses, and Felice suppressed a frown.
“I haven’t seen that before,” Todric said.
Felice ignored him and smiled at the captain.
“What pleasant accommodations you have here, Captain.”
“It is kind of you to say so, Miss Felice, but when we are at sea this space is used by all my officers. My home in Pek is more comfortable, and should you visit me there I would be pleased to show you.”
Pek. What a thought; to travel the world and see new places. A week ago the thought would not have been attractive, but now she had seen the sea, been aboard an ocean going ship, and had acquaintances who lived in distant cities. Her anxiety had subsided. If all travel was like this it was something that she might enjoy.
The pleasantries being observed they sat down to eat, and were treated to a procession of exotic foods. The captain had excelled himself, or at least his cook had done so, and when the third dish was brought out Felice was beginning to wonder how many there would be.
“This is something special,” the captain said. “It is made with a spice that grows wild to the west of Pek, in the hills that lie at the back of the plains. The farmers in that part of the world gather it in the summer and dry it. They eat many of their foods dressed with it. I wanted to see if you thought there was a market for it here.”
