Dark Heart tms-3

by Tina Daniell

  Outside, Patric and Strathcoe were waiting next to their horses. Gilon had saddled Cinnamon for Kitiara. A pack mule stood patiently with Patric's great trunk strapped to its back. Strathcoe, his weapons in obvious display, marched about importantly, tying and rearranging bundles. His main audience was Caramon, who had finally woken and now stared in awe at this mountain of a man.

  Solemnly Patric shook Gilon's hand, then Caramon's, before mounting. Kitiara nodded at her stepfather, then ruffled Caramon's hair before getting on Cinnamon. When she looked back she saw Caramon waving extravagantly, the sun glinting off his golden hair. Behind him, Raistlin stood in the doorway, still as a statue.

  Kitiara had one last thing she wanted to do before leaving. She asked Patric and Strathcoe to wait at the town square while she spurred Cinnamon to Aureleen's. Her friend cried when she heard the news, but recovered rather quickly.

  "A nobleman! Wait until I tell my mother. I always told her she underestimated you," Aureleen said teasingly. "Is he handsome?"

  Kitiara found herself blushing as she nodded yes. "I have a feeling this is the sort of adventure even you might like," she teased her friend back. The two young women hugged. "You can write me care of the Alwiths of Gwynned," Kit called out over her shoulder as she climbed down to her horse.

  By midmorning they were on one of the roads that led north from Solace through flat farm fields. They had to ride north and a little east to avoid the highest points of the Kharolis Mountains and reach the bay where Patric's ship waited.

  At first Kitiara felt a little dazed with the speed of events, but by late afternoon she had settled into the rhythm of the journey and was thoroughly enjoying herself. The three of them were companionable travelers. More than that, at last she had escaped from Solace and its humdrum routines. And they were heading north-north, the direction in which her father was last seen heading.

  After passing through croplands, they reached rolling green hills, then steeper terrain as they crossed the tail end of the Kharolis mountains on the way to the coast. There were only a few small communities, and these they skirted, because, as Patric said, he was done with traveling and anxious to start home. From other wayfarers they heard reports of a two-headed troll, who was terrorizing the region, but they saw nothing of the beast.

  Each day, an hour or two before they camped for the night, Strathcoe would leave Patric and Kit, returning with a hare or some other wild game that he prepared for their evening meal. His cooking was surprisingly good. After dinner she and Patric would usually sit arm in arm and talk, enjoying the attentive audience provided by Strathcoe.

  Under the starry sky, Kitiara often wondered if the passionate kiss she and Patric had shared that night at Crystalmir Lake would be repeated and pursued further, but strangely, it never was. Strathcoe was never far from the two of them. And like her father, Patric could outlast her with his tales. More than once she woke in the morning without remembering having fallen asleep.

  Five days after leaving Solace they neared the bay where Patric's sloop waited. From a rocky promontory they caught their first glimpse of the Straits of Schallsea. Kitiara had never seen such a large body of water, blue and white-capped, extending as far as the eyes could see.

  They followed the coastline west for another day before coming to the edge of the bay where they spotted the ship, the Silver Gar, anchored offshore with sails furled around her three masts. Strathcoe pulled a large brass whistle from one of their bags and blew a long high note on it to announce their coming. Colorful flags signaled from the forecastle that they had been seen.

  As they approached the ship, sailors hanging from the riggings shouted out a lusty cheer in Patric's honor. Clearly he's a popular lord, thought Kitiara. Many of the men cried out Strathcoe's name as well, she noted. Movement below deck, along the sides of the ship, drew her attention. Poking their horned heads out through some of the shore-side portholes, minotaurs also watched the travelers' arrival. These bestial slaves would pull the oars when the winds were still.

  Already several of them had been winched down in a boat to row to shore and bring Patric and the others back. Kit noticed a barge on the beach that would be used to transport the horses to the ship.

  When they finally climbed on board, Kitiara also noticed a group of elegantly dressed men and women sitting to one side of the deck. They alone did not greet the new arrivals, although the expressions on their faces indicated that they were relieved to be nearing departure.

  "We take some passengers along," explained Patric to Kitiara. "It defrays expenses and helps maintain good relations between my father's estate and nearby lands."

  Just then a man strode toward them, moving gracefully with the roll of the ship. He was dressed in leather and braid, and wore a close-fitting striped cap. His face was dominated by a formidable hooked nose and a merry grin. He looked like a man who could be counted on in a fight, thought Kit, but she noticed he carried no weapons. Instead a compass and a looking scope hung from his belt. This was obviously the captain of the Silver Gar.

  "Greetings, Patric and Strathcoe," he boomed out, vigorously shaking hands with each of them in turn. Then his eyes took in Kitiara. "And who is this beautiful young lady?"

  "Kitiara Uth Matar," she announced, stepping forward to take his hand.

  "My betrothed," Patric added smoothly, ignoring the frown Kit sent his way.

  Rather than shake her hand, the captain bowed deeply at the waist and kissed it.

  A look of wonderment came over Kit's face. The captain's manners were as good as his master's, although Kitiara had the impression steel lay beneath his velvety exterior.

  "La Cava," he said flamboyantly as he straightened up. "At your service, m'lady." His eyes registered some delayed impulse. "Uth Matar?" he asked.

  Kitiara nodded eagerly. "Perhaps you have heard of my father," she said quickly, "Gregor Uth Matar. His reputation is known far and wide…"

  "As?" asked La Cava, letting go of her hand but keeping his eyes on her face.

  "As?" Kitiara repeated, puzzled.

  "Why, his reputation as what?" asked La Cava evenly.

  "Oh," said Kitiara, flustered. "As a great soldier of fortune. An incomparable warrior. A man of honor and integrity."

  "Yes, of course," said La Cava. He pondered the name for a moment, before his face assumed a polite mask. "No," he said, "I haven't heard of him."

  Patric drew La Cava to one side and whispered in his ear. The captain nodded in response. "Lurie!" the captain cried out.

  A tall, bony man with blotchy skin rushed up to the captain's side, his expression obsequious. Dressed in leather shorts with a bare chest, he was obviously one of the mates.

  "Lurie," commanded Patric, "give my betrothed my personal quarters and put me in the adjoining room with Strathcoe, the one across the hall. Bring out my mother's trunk and make sure Kitiara has everything she needs-oils and perfumes, the finest clothing."

  As Lurie listened, he bent his neck at an angle like a bird and darted sharp, curious eyes in her direction. When Patric finished, Lurie extended a bony forearm to Kit. "Follow me, my lovely."

  Kitiara was about to protest-she hardly needed to be spoiled-when Patric touched her on the arm gently and said, "Go now. I will join you for dinner."

  Kit shrugged and grinned. As she was escorted below by Lurie, she knew several dozen pair of eyes were fixed on her. Indeed, she felt like royalty already.

  Her cabin was in the gallery below the deck, with wide portholes that showed an expanse of sea. A comfortable looking bed, a chest of drawers, and a small writing table were built into the cabin's walls. Lurie watched Kit nervously as she walked around and touched things. It was as if she had to be sure they were real, that this wasn't a dream. When she finally turned to dismiss the captain's mate, he held up his hand in a gesture, bent down, and pulled a case from under the bed.

  Lurie unsnapped the lock, and Kit could see that the trunk was carefully packed with all variety of fine cloth
ing. Lurie, seeming to know just what he wanted, reached into it and drew out a yellow silk dress that had a low neckline and long billowing sleeves.

  "Very pretty," he said, grinning and winking. "Pretty dress for lovely lady."

  Kit snatched the dress from his hands, but she couldn't help but smile. It was all a little ridiculous, especially Lurie with his bent neck and birdy mannerisms. She had never seen, much less worn, such a dress. But as she took it in her hands and felt the softness of the fabric, Kitiara reveled in the luxury of it.

  "Try," said Lurie.

  Kit held it up against her body and saw that it would fit as if made for her. Lurie, his gaze curious, gave her an encouraging smile. He opened the door of a built-in closet, revealing a full-length mirror.

  Slowly she approached the mirror. The person in it seemed not to be herself, but some princess. In the reflection she could see Lurie back out the door, his eyes taking one last look at the beautiful betrothed of his master.

  "Set sail!"

  With its canvas snapping in the wind, the sloop got underway.

  Chapter 11

  The Silver Gar

  The afternoon heat blistered the deck, relieved only occasionally by a slight breeze. Lurie and Strathcoe had paired off midship, making a contest of throwing knives at a puppet figure tied to one of the masts.

  "Bad throw, bad throw, dearie," said Lurie, clucking his tongue and shaking his head as he ambled up to the puppet. Once his back blocked Strathcoe's view, Lurie surreptitiously pulled the knife out of the target's dead center and moved it an inch or so to one side.

  His gargantuan opponent stormed up to the mast. Strathcoe cast Lurie a suspicious look, then grunted and pulled out his knife with such force that the puppet came loose and dangled upside-down on a string. Then he circled his arm, as thick as a vallenwood branch, around Lurie's waist and lifted him up against the mast, miming that the captain's mate could be the new target.

  "No, no, no, no. Not with your aim. Captain La Cava, he need me to sail. If Lurie get hurt, whole ship be hurting, especially captain," Lurie proclaimed indignantly.

  Lurie could afford to brag. La Cava was down below, napping. The captain liked to take the helm at night, alone under a starry sky while everyone else slept. He caught up on his sleep in the afternoon.

  Patric, too, was below. He had settled down in his cabin to write in his journal and had waved away Strathcoe, who otherwise would have stayed at his master's side.

  All the other passengers had retreated to their cabins, chased there after lunch by the midday sun. Even most of the crew had made themselves scarce. Only two or three sailors remained above deck. The minotaurs pulled at the oars to keep the ship moving, but did not exert themselves. The sky was hazy with reflected light, the water a deep, sapphire blue. The bow of the ship was pointed north by west.

  Driven from her cabin by boredom, Kitiara climbed on deck in time to observe Strathcoe's forcible persuasion of Lurie. After almost two weeks of land travel with Strathcoe and a week on board the Silver Gar with Lurie, she knew them well enough to see that the quarrel was not serious. A fundamental camaraderie underlay their every activity.

  "Hey! You two look like you need someone with the wisdom of the gods to settle this, and I want you to know that I'm available," Kitiara called out, grinning as she approached.

  Kitiara had never been on any body of water larger than Crystalmir Lake, but she had taken to life at sea. During the first day or two she had thoroughly explored the ship, adapting to the sea swells and moving with her customary agility.

  After watching Kit and answering perhaps her hundredth question, La Cava had decided she could be of some use. He had permitted Kitiara to help with some of the shipboard tasks-taking down the sails, climbing the rigging to untangle lines, and even having a turn at day watch in the crow's nest. The sun had toasted her skin to a warm golden tan, and the physical activity had added more sinew to her slenderness.

  The paying passengers gaped and sniffed at her as she clambered around, trading jokes and insults with the crew. La Cava indulged her the way a father would a spirited child. Slowly, most of the sailors, who were unaccustomed to a female behaving as their equal, grew to regard her as such, respecting her willingness to try anything.

  Kit found Patric's reaction difficult to decipher. She often felt his eyes on her as she moved around the ship. At times he seemed bemused by her energy and physicality, at other times proud, almost possessively so, of her and the admiration she attracted from the sailors.

  In other ways, though, Patric had drawn apart from her. The longer and farther they sailed, the more protracted became his moods and silences. Kit could not figure out what preoccupied him.

  Only at night, when they dined with La Cava, did Patric become animated, telling story after story about Gwynned and his family's estate, and other tales from the region. With looks and gestures, he included Kit in the embrace of his storytelling. Afterward, though, when they would walk up on deck, he spoke less freely and rarely touched her. Their kisses, which she usually initiated, were oddly chaste.

  She shook these thoughts from her mind as she greeted Lurie and Strathcoe. "Show me how to do that," she asked them.

  They nodded, and Lurie handed her the thick-handled knife they were aiming at the makeshift target, a foot-high straw icon of a hobgoblin. Kitiara hefted the knife in one hand, feeling its weight as she squinted at the target, about ten yards down the deck. With her other hand she shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun.

  Kitiara had handled plenty of knives growing up, but she had never taken much target practice, nor actual training with a short blade like this. Gilon's knives were practical ones better suited for butchering meat or carving a table leg than for fighting.

  Strathcoe grinned encouragingly at her. He, Lurie, and Kit had become almost friends, a surprising development considering that Strathcoe could not utter a sentence and Lurie had his own idiosyncratic way of expressing himself, not always making sense.

  "Here," said Lurie, "hold it this way." He put his arm around her shoulder and laid his hand over hers, showing her how to grip the knife with the fingers splayed along the length of the handle. Then he made a sideways, whiplike motion. The knife flew from her hand, missing the puppet target by several inches and embedding itself in a rain barrel that, fortunately, was empty.

  Strathcoe mimed disgust at Lurie for failing to impart a piece of vital information to their pupil. He ran forward to pull the knife out, bringing it back to Kit. Strathcoe made an elaborate point of wiping both sides of the blade on his trousers before handing it to Kit. She glanced at Lurie, puzzled, because the blade had not been wet.

  "Strathcoe, he says, 'keep it dry,' " interpreted Lurie.

  "Why?" asked Kitiara, as she readied for another try.

  Strathcoe made some indeterminate, strangled noises, ending with his characteristic grin. "Truer aim," said Lurie matter-of-factly. "Water bends the knife. Dry goes in deeper, too. Always dry before big fight or after each throw. Very dry, best."

  This time Kitiara tried the throw by herself. A roll of the ship set her off balance at the last moment, and the toss went astray, clattering to the deck a couple of feet from the target. Exuberantly, Strathcoe hurried to retrieve it.

  When the big slave got back, he showed her his style of grip and throw. Strathcoe's fingers tightened over the handle. His body tensed as he whirled in a half-circle-despite his bulk, Kitiara was struck by the grace of his motion-and the knife flew from his hand in a blur. An instant later, she saw that the blade had cleaved the chest of the doll target.

  Lurie sauntered over to pull it out, came back, and, as he readied his own throw, cast a scornful glance at Strathcoe. It was as if Patric's slave should have been ashamed of himself for showing off. "Score a mark," said the captain's mate drily.

  Lurie served as Kitiara's willing guide to all the workings of the ship, the better, she suspected, to avoid his regular duties. At just over one hundred twenty
feet from stem to stern, the Silver Gar was not a particularly big ship. Still, there was an abundance of things to see and explore. The only room barred to Kit's investigation was La Cava's private chamber. The captain kept his cabin locked when he was not there, and Lurie, who had a key, dared not trespass. Kit's cabin, and Patric's, were near the captain's, in the stern.

  The other passengers were quartered forward of the stern in ten or so cabins that were smaller than Kit's, but beautifully appointed. One day she and Lurie explored their small section. Several of the doors were open to allow for any wisp of a breeze. Ever curious, Kit glanced inside the cabins when she could and saw each was outfitted with oak paneling, plush velvet cushions, and elegantly functional furniture.

  In one, she also saw a plump, veiled lady wearing a woolen dress despite the heat, reclining on her bed and breathing heavily. The young boy traveling with her was doing his best to keep her cool by waving a large peacock feather fan. Both were dressed absurdly for the hot weather, and Kit almost had a mind to say so. But Lurie gave her a nudge, and she moved on.

  Through another doorway, Kitiara glimpsed a pale elf, pointed ears showing through longish white-blond hair, sitting on a stool and staring out a window at the sea. Although he sat with his back to the doorway, Kit had the impression that his eyes were closed. She heard murmuring, some kind of incantation it sounded like, from his direction. Next to her, Lurie shifted his weight impatiently and brushed up against the doorway, making a sound that caused the elf to turn sharply. He had such a frown on his face that Kit involuntarily took a step back and hurried on.

  On another day, Lurie guided Kitiara down to the hold where a dozen chained minotaurs rowed their oars, during periods of calm, to a rhythmic sea chant. One of La Cava's men watched over them constantly. Still, Kit knew they were treated relatively well, eating the same rations of food and water as the sailors and rich passengers.