Garzik ran his eyes over the rack. The names were Merofynian, but he could guess the Rolencian translation. Back home their family healer had a whole wall of herbals. But then Rishardt wasn’t a healer. His job was to sew up injured men and set bones.
Just then, the healthy seven-year slaves headed up the passage, towards the ladder to the middeck. Hearing the Rolencian language, Garzik froze and watched them shuffle past the cabin door.
‘Count yourself lucky,’ the surgeon told him. ‘They’ll be working in the fields, the mines or the ship-yards, up to the necks in freezing cold water. Half of them’ll die of the flux or the lung rot.’ He shut the door and took another drink. ‘If you keep your wits about you, lad, you’ll be a surgeon by the time your service is up.’
The thought of spending seven years at sea, serving Merofynians, horrified Garzik.
Seeing his expression, Rishardt smiled grimly. ‘I saved your life. Show a little gratitude.’
‘Why did you start drinking again?’ Garzik blurted, then flinched, expecting a blow.
But the surgeon glanced to the wine bottle, seemed to forget the question and poured himself another drink.
‘There was a man back home with a drinking problem,’ Garzik said. ‘We put him in a pit and left him there until he’d gone a week without drink. When we hauled him out, he never drank again.’
‘For how long?’
‘What?’
‘For how long did he stop drinking? One season, one year?’
Garzik thought back. They’d put him in the pit summer two years ago and Garzik knew the man had been killed in the Merofynian attack. ‘Until the day he died.’
‘Which was?’
‘Less than two years later,’ Garzik admitted.
‘So you’ve remembered your past. I take it that includes your name?’
Garzik flushed and closed his mouth.
‘Then Wyvern it is. Wynn for short,’ Rishardt told him. ‘Now that you’re my apprentice, I’ll have to teach you Merofynian.’
Garzik nodded and turned away, but the surgeon caught his arm. ‘I might be a drunkard, but I’m no fool and you’re no scribe.’
It was almost word for word what Mitrovan had said. Was he such a bad actor?
Garzik looked down at the hand on his arm.
‘Don’t worry. I’m the last person to ask what you’re running from.’ Rishardt gave Garzik a shove in the right direction. ‘Back to work.’
As the surgeon fired off words, Garzik repeated them, pretending to commit them to memory. But all the time he grappled with the sudden change in his fortune. Their ship was going back to Rolencia.
As much as he wanted to go home, how could he return to Byren empty handed?
While they checked the stores, sailors unloaded Lord Travany’s war booty and the rest of the seven-year-slaves. By midnight, the depleted ship’s stores had been replaced and the vessel pulled away from the dock so another could take her place.
When the kitchen lad delivered a tray of beans and bread, the ship’s surgeon pushed a plate in Garzik’s direction. Continuing to tutor Garzik in the Merofynian language, he poured himself another drink. A second wine bottle was almost empty. Despite this, he was no drunker.
Garzik could not reveal his deception, so he deliberately stumbled over the supposedly foreign words.
Rhishardt chuckled. ‘You’re asleep on your feet. Don’t worry, we’ve got seven years to teach you. Eat up, Wynn. You can bunk down under the bench.’
Grateful as he was for the food, Garzik hardly tasted it. Tired and stunned by the turn of events, he finished his meal and lay down to sleep under the surgeon’s table. Straps hung off the table legs.
He didn’t want to think what they were used for, but of course his mind presented him with the image of an injured sailor, restrained while the surgeon operated on him. Garzik shuddered. He wasn’t brave enough to be a ship’s surgeon. And he wasn’t as good a spy as Mitrovan. Somehow he must work out what to do next.
But he fell asleep before he could.
IT SEEMED LIKE only a moment later that Garzik woke, with sunlight coming through the cabin’s small window and the sensation of the ship cutting through the waves.
He woke with a dream conversation running through his head. He’d been on the battlements at Rolenhold, earnestly telling Byren how he’d sent Mitrovan to infiltrate the king’s inner circle. He’d been trying to convince Byren and Orrade to send him back to Merofynia so he could collect the scribe’s messages for Byren. It all made perfect sense in the dream.
And, once he was awake, it still made sense.
A weight lifted from his shoulders. This was how he could redeem himself. As the go-between for Mitrovan, who would do the actual spying, since he was so much better at it.
Now all that remained was to escape the ship when they returned to Port Marchand.
For the rest of the voyage, he made himself useful. The surgeon was not a demanding master and he never drank so much that he passed out. But Garzik had to watch himself. Despite the wine, Rishardt was observant. If the surgeon realised Garzik spoke Merofynian, he’d be quick to anger.
And, to his surprise, Garzik discovered he didn’t want to disappoint the surgeon.
SIX DAYS LATER, Garzik stood on the middeck watching the Rolencian headlands slide past, his heart racing with excitement. Soon he would be back home. Then he’d hunt up a certain pie shop girl and see if she had news of Byren. Even if she didn’t, he knew how Orrade thought. His brother would have taken Byren into the foot-hills of the Dividing Range, those same foot-hills where Captain Blackwing had taught them both to hunt.
A smile tugged at his mouth as he imagined Byren and Orrade’s surprise when he walked into camp. Even better, how their eyes would widen when he told them about Mitrovan. The hard part would be convincing Byren to let him travel back to Merofynia as the scribe’s contact, but he had all his arguments marshalled.
Relief filled his chest and his throat grew tight with emotion. To be home, to be amongst friends, but best of all, the chance to redeem himself in Byren’s eyes.
A noise made him turn to find the kitchen boy behind him.
‘You’re wanted,’ Arolt told him.
Garzik followed the lad below. Arolt led him past the surgeon’s cabin to another door.
Garzik peered in. It was dark and smelled of onions. ‘Surgeon Rishardt’s in here?’
The words had barely left his lips, when the lad shoved him between the shoulders and slammed the door. Garzik collapsed on his knees amidst bags of stores. The door swung shut, leaving him in darkness, and he heard the bolt slide home.
Fool, he should have seen this coming. Of course they’d expect him to try and escape, and they’d take measure to prevent it. Orrade would never have fallen for such a simple trick. Fury burned him.
Shins stinging, he spun around and pressed his face to the tiny sliver of light and fresh air coming through a crack in the door.
‘Arolt, let me out,’ he pleaded. ‘Arolt?’
‘What, and get a beating?’
‘Tell them you couldn’t find me. I’ll hide and slip overboard, swim for it.’ It would be icy cold, but he was a strong swimmer and Captain Blackwing had taught him what to do if he fell through the ice on a lake. ‘I don’t belong here. Please, Arolt?’
‘You think I wanted to be the cook’s bum-boy?’ the lad demanded, emotion making his voice vibrate. ‘I was a cabinet-maker’s apprentice when they grabbed me. This is where the cook shuts me up when we return to Port Mero.’
‘Tell you what.’ Garzik pressed his face to the gap. ‘Let me out and I’ll take you with me. Your Rolencian is good. You can finish your apprenticeship.’
Nothing.
‘Arolt? It’s busy on the wharf. Easy to disappear.’
Nothing.
‘Arolt?’
He knelt listening. With the creak and pitch of the ship it was hard to tell if anyone was on the other side of the door.
�
�Arolt?’
‘He’s gone, Wynn,’ the surgeon said. ‘I knew first chance you got, you’d try to escape. You’re angry with me now, but if you were free, you’d slip over the side, join the Rolencian resistance and get yourself killed. One day you’ll thank me for this.’
Fury bubbled up inside Garzik. ‘I’m not like you. I’m not going to hide in a bottle. Whatever it takes, I’m going to redeem myself!’
Silence.
‘You hear me?’
No answer.
Garzik retreated to sit on a sack that, by the feel of it, contained potatoes. He cursed his bad luck.
Then he cursed his too-ready tongue. He should never have accused the surgeon of hiding in a bottle. He couldn’t afford to make an enemy of Rishardt.
He should have anticipated this trick.
Now how would he serve Byren?
Frustration churned in his gut.
Chapter Six
GARZIK HAD NO idea how long it took, but eventually the thin stream of light intensified as someone came up the passage with a lantern. Desperately hungry, he’d just eaten a raw potato, and now he regretted it. The unpleasant feel of the dirty skin remained on his lips. Grit still crunched between his teeth.
From the pitch and roll of the ship, they were well out to sea and any chance of escape was long gone.
Some warrior he’d turned out to be.
The door swung open, lantern light speared into his eyes, making made him flinch.
A thick-fingered hand reached in and dragged him to his feet. ‘Bring beans, an’ onions. Come.’
He’d been expecting the kitchen lad or the ship’s surgeon; certainly not the cook. The man was big, beefy and impatient. His Rolencian was minimal and Garzik knew from the bruises on Arolt’s face that the cook let his hands do the talking.
Since there was no point arguing, Garzik found a sack of beans and onions and followed the man along to the galley, where a meal bubbled away.
Immediately, his stomach knotted with hunger.
The cook slit the bag’s stitching and upended the beans into a pot, then he gestured to the chopping board. ‘Onions.’ He imitated dicing.
‘Isn’t that Arolt’s job?’ Garzik dared to ask.
An open hand caught the side of his head, knocking him into a bench and bruising his ribs. Ear burning, head ringing, he picked up the knife. For a heartbeat he imagined driving it through the cook’s chest.
The man grinned and beckoned him.
Garzik turned away to the chopping board. Soon onion-induced tears streamed from his eyes. Trapped in the galley, he could not escape the cooking smells and his stomach contracted painfully.
He kept expecting Arolt to return from running an errand, but there was no sign of the lad. The longer it went on, the more worried he became. But with the reminder of his stinging ear and sore ribs every time he breathed, he wasn’t about to ask after Arolt. He’d prepared enough meals while hunting with Captain Blackwing not to disgrace himself in the galley. Once the onions were done, he handed the chopping board to the cook, who tipped the contents into the pot.
Garzik licked his lips. ‘Uh, I really have to pee.’
The cook used the knife to gesture for him to go. ‘Back quick, or...’ He mimed what he’d do and Garzik instinctively covered himself.
Not sure why he had been demoted to kitchen lad, Garzik went along the passage to relieve himself. On his way back, he spotted the surgeon, who must have been watching for him.
Rishardt beckoned from the doorway of his cabin and Garzik hurried over to join him. They both ducked inside.
‘What happened to Arolt? Did the cook hurt –’
‘Arolt jumped ship in Rolencia,’ the surgeon told him. ‘You’re the kitchen lad until we can find another one. Whatever you do, don’t anger the cook. He killed the lad before Arolt with one blow, just lashed out and cracked his skull.’
Garzik shuddered.
‘Don’t worry. He knows he’ll have to deal with me, if he hurts you.’
‘Why...’ Garzik began, recalling how rude he’d been to the surgeon last time they spoke. ‘Why –’
‘Help a seven-year-slave?’ Rishardt shrugged. ‘I might be a drunken sot living amongst men who act like beasts, but that doesn’t mean I have to sink to their level.’
In that moment the surgeon reminded Garzik of Captain Blackwing. A surge of fellow feeling surprised him. Neither of them could ever go home. Garzik’s home no longer existed. As for Rishardt, a powerful noble would ruin his family if he returned. No wonder he drank. One rash act had changed his life. Talk about being led around by your prick. Still...
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did.’
The surgeon blinked in surprise.
Loud, raucous laughter reached them from the lower middeck where the men-at-arms slept and ate. They both stiffened, responding to the underlying threat.
‘That’s Lord Neirn’s honour guard. Watch out for them,’ Rishardt warned. ‘They’re full of hubris and contemptuous of anyone who isn’t a warrior. In that, they’re like their lord. Travany wants him for an ally. He wants this so much Trafyn serves as Neirn’s squire.’ He saw Garzik did not understand. ‘Trafyn is his youngest son, he –’
‘Boy!’ the cook bellowed.
‘Go. And keep your head down.’
Garzik went.
Preparing food for the whole crew, a lord and his squires and his men-at-arms in a tiny galley required organisation and timing. The cook kept Garzik on his toes.
By the time the first pot was ready to serve, Garzik was no longer hungry. He’d gone past hunger. Instead, he felt faint; and sounds echoed strangely in his head.
No seven-year-slaves this trip. The ship carried Rolencian treasures and a dozen elite men-at-arms, lord Neirn’s honour guard. A lowly kitchen boy was beneath their notice, as Garzik discovered when he served up their meal. Several of the honour guard were seasick, but the rest devoured their dinner. Then there was the crew to feed.
Eventually, the cook sent Garzik to deliver a more elaborate meal to the captain’s cabin, where a youth no older than himself took the tray at the door.
While the squire looked the food over with a frown, Garzik glanced past him to the table where Lord Neirn sat opposite the captain. He was in the prime of life, with only a touch of silver at his temples. And there was another squire, a little older than the first. Either of them could have been Lord Travany’s youngest son.
‘Tell cook he’ll have to do better,’ the squire told Garzik. ‘And bring wine. A crisp Merofynian white. Neirn hates crude Rolencian reds.’
Since he’d spoken Merofynian, Garzik summoned a confused look and used the one Merofynian word, he’d ‘learned’ so far. ‘What?’
The youth cursed in Merofynian, then switched to Rolencian, repeating himself. ‘...and don’t say there’s no white wine. This is my father’s ship. I know he keeps a good wine cellar.’
‘Trafyn, what’s the delay?’ the second squire came over. Taller than both of them and well dressed, he didn’t even bother to acknowledge Garzik.
‘Just a stupid seven-year-slave, Isfyl,’ Trafyn told him, then switched to Rolencian. ‘Don’t stand about. Bring the wine and the rest of the food.’
This meant several more trips, as the spicy beans were not to Lord Neirn’s liking. After Garzik had delivered an alternative dish, whipped up by the cursing cook, he had to stand in the doorway while the two squires served Lord Neirn and the captain. He knew the ship’s captain well enough now to realise this was another lord the captain considered a prick, and a dangerous one at that.
Neirn twice returned wine bottles, demanding a better vintage. It worried Garzik; he suspected the uncorked bottles would find their way to the surgeon’s cabin. All the while Neirn boasted of his prowess on the battlefield and his cunning as a commander. According to him, Rolencia had been an easy conquest.
‘...and the women. Such beauties. Worth every scratch. In fact, the more they fought
the better!’ He reached down to cup himself. ‘I swear I had a different one every night and sowed a bastard in every last one of them. It was a feast of Rolencian cunny.’ He grinned and gestured to Isfyl. ‘This one managed three in a row. Even Traf dipped his wick and came up smiling!’
Fury washed through Garzik. His sister had been at home when the Merofynians captured the family estate. Elina would have fought, but she was fine-boned. No matter how fierce her will, she was no match for a man’s strength. Had she been left with a Merofynian bastard in her belly? His father would turn her out.
Lucky for her, Orrade was the new lord.
But even that thought could not make him smile. If he’d had a knife and the opportunity, he would have gelded Neirn and his squires.
Poor Elina. Did she still live? He found himself wishing selfishly that she did. Even if it meant she bore a bastard. At least Piro hadn’t suffered before she died. He hoped.
‘The spoils of war,’ the captain agreed. ‘What of the king’s missing sons? Any news?’
Garzik looked up swiftly, forgetting that he wasn’t supposed to understand Merofynian. No one noticed. They were all watching Neirn.
‘Not yet.’ He waved his fork dismissively. ‘But their days are numbered. We’ve offered a reward that would make a farmer rich as a merchant markiz. Someone will reveal their hiding place.’
He’s wrong. Rolencia would never betray Byren, Garzik thought. Then he remembered Feo. A man like him might betray Byren for a fortune. It all depended on whether he hated Merofynians more than he loved luxury.
When the conversation moved on to the voyage and the problem of Utland raiders, who were particularly bad this year, Garzik stopped listening. Instead, he watched the food disappear, stomach cramping with hunger.
What Neirn did not eat was taken from the table and devoured by his two squires. Isfyl had first pick, leaving Trafyn with the leftovers.
The King's Man (The Chronicles of King Rolen's Kin) Page 6
