by Angus Wells
That seemed to Flysse a reasonable explanation, and it was soon obvious that Davyd was uncomfortable enough speaking of his oneiric experiences that she accepted his reasons and said no more. But she noticed that Arcole still pressed the boy with questions until Davyd would moan and hold his head, and look to Flysse to rescue him from interrogation, and she wished he would desist for Davyd’s sake.
One day, on deck, she spoke to him of her concern.
He had completed his exercises and washed. She held his shirt, unable to resist studying his muscular torso as he performed his routine. Davyd was a little distance away, staring dully at the sea, as if awaiting the arrival of a monster so inevitable that fear became pointless. She passed him his shirt and said, “Arcole, I’d speak with you of Davyd.” She kept her voice low, that the boy not hear. “Why do you question him so about his dreams? It serves only to upset him.”
She wondered if she saw interest flicker in his eyes. Surely there was a momentary tightening of his jaw. But then he shrugged and said, “Do you not think it better a man face his fears?”
“Davyd’s hardly a man,” she answered. “He’s but a frightened boy, and you frighten him the more with your interrogations.”
Arcole looked a moment thoughtful, then asked her, “Do you not think he might exorcise his fears through confession?”
Flysse’s brow wrinkled. Arcole noticed that she grew tanned, her hair become pale gold. For a moment he wondered how she would look in a decent gown, how she would sound without that harsh Evanderan accent. Then she shook her head and told him, “No. I think his fears are locked too deep, and shall remain until he sets foot on land again.”
“Perhaps,” Arcole said. “So you believe his dreams shall end when we reach Salvation?”
“Surely they will. It’s the sea that frightens him, no?”
Again Arcole said, “Perhaps.”
“How mean you, perhaps?” Flysse asked. “Is it the sea that frightens him, then surely dry land must comfort him.”
For a third time Arcole said, “Perhaps.”
Flysse found him enigmatic, and somewhat irritating. “Why are you so interested?” she demanded.
Arcole frowned, then hid that look behind a smile. “I’ve never spent time with anyone like Davyd,” he said honestly. “The boy intrigues me; I’d learn what makes him dream so.”
That sounded to Flysse as if Arcole relegated Davyd to the position of a specimen, some curious creature worthy of study for its oddity. She glared at him and said, “Is Davyd only some thing you observe?”
Arcole was taken aback by her vehemence. He felt a moment embarrassed, for there was a measure of truth in her accusation. Also he found himself disturbed that she grew so vexed, that he found himself concerned by her anger. He told himself he must assuage her for fear he lose a potential ally, that it was not personal. He bowed and said, “I ask your forgiveness, Flysse. I see that I’ve been clumsy in my attempt to aid the boy. Do you truly believe my questions worsen his condition, I’ll put them up. My word on it.”
He offered her a tentative smile. By God, what did it matter that he anger her? Save that he’d not; and he must admit, against his will, that he wished that less in fear of losing an ally than for the simple reason he’d sooner see her smile than glower at him. The admission troubled him, and he pushed it aside, to some hinder part of his mind.
Flysse hesitated an instant, then let herself smile back. “I think it should be for the best,” she said. “For Davyd’s sake.”
“Then as I say.” Arcole set a hand over his heart. “I shall desist.”
“Thank you,” Flysse said.
Then they started as Davyd cried out and sprang away from the rail. So vigorous was his jump that he flung himself some distance back, sprawling full length on the deck. Flysse and Arcole hurried to him, clutching him as he crabbed backward over the boards.
“Monsters!” His voice was hoarse and his eyes rolled, the whites exposed. “Sea monsters!”
Arcole left him in Flysse’s care and went to the rail where now a small crowd was gathered, pointing and shouting, sharing Davyd’s panic. He stared at the sea. The swell was a deep blue-gray, and from it emerged darting shapes of a similar color that raced alongside the schooner, sometimes flinging themselves high into the air like living missiles. For a moment Arcole felt his heart lurch, his skin crawl cold. Beside him a woman screamed.
Then, on his left, a marine lowered his musket and laughed. “Dolphins,” he said. “Only dolphins, and no harm in them at all.”
Arcole went back to Davyd and told him what the marine had said. “Harmless dolphins,” he assured the trembling boy. “They’re a kind of fish, I think. Certainly they’re not sea monsters.”
Davyd’s hand gripped Arcole’s wrist with a strength that belied his scrawny frame. “They’ll come,” he muttered. “I know they’ll come. I dreamed it.”
There was such awful certitude in his voice, Arcole wished he had not made Flysse that promise. He watched as she smoothed the frightened boy’s hair, murmuring gently, and thought that he must find some subtle way to question Davyd further.
There was no immediate opportunity, however, for when Davyd’s prostration caught the attention of the marines on watch, several came to stare at the boy. He saw them, and Arcole saw his terror arise again, now prompted by the soldiers. Some laughed, and Davyd forced himself to join them, hiding his fear behind a rueful smile and a shaking of his head. He allowed Arcole and Flysse to help him to his feet and took a drink of water, pretending calm. Arcole saw that his shirt was heavy with fear sweat, but said no more, only played the part of concerned friend. It would not be easy, but he determined to unlock the secret of the boy’s dreams.
They approached the Sea of Sorrows now, and the days grew steadily warmer, no less the nights. Folk shed clothes like molting beasts, all modesty forgotten as the mounting heat pervaded the hold. The more brazen of the women went about in only their shifts, and emotions matched the rising temperatures. Arcole was gratified to see that Flysse did not demonstrate such abandon, though he could not properly define why.
Then, one stifling night, all became changed.
Arcole slept fitfully, bare-chested and awash with sweat. He could hear Davyd moaning in the bunk above, the grunts and cries of copulation loud amidst the snoring of those exiles fortunate enough to find sound sleep. He drifted in a limbo closer to wakefulness than slumber, and consequently was aware of stealthy footfalls moving toward him. He opened his eyes and began to raise his head, when a hand closed over his mouth, others clamping over his wrists, and abruptly he was hauled from the bunk.
In the light descending through the hatch, he saw that he was held by the man he had beaten and another of his coterie. A third held the wriggling Davyd. Flysse slept on, oblivious. Then Karyl Oster’s bearded face drew close. His breath was redolent of decayed teeth.
“We’ve decided, ’sieur Blayke”—he made the title an insult—“that we’ll wait no longer. We’ve had enough of your highfalutin ways, an’ since you don’t take the woman, we will. Me first, an’ then my mates. An’ you can watch. How’d you like that, eh?”
The one holding Davyd said, “An’ the boy for me.”
Arcole struggled as Oster turned away, but the two holding him were strong. He saw faces watching from the surrounding bunks, but none came to his aid or raised any outcry. He supposed they were more afraid of the immediate retribution of Oster’s bullies than the threat of Tomas Var.
Oster clapped a hand over Flysse’s mouth and snatched her from her bunk in a single movement. Sleeping, she wore only a shift. It rose to expose shapely legs as Oster deposited her on the deck, still gagging her with his hairy hand. She fought him, her eyes wide with terror and outrage. He leered and told her, “Play easy, girl, an’ this’ll pleasure you. Fight me, an’ …” He raised a fisted hand in threat.
Flysse went on struggling, and Oster struck her.
Something snapped in Arcole then. It wa
s a strange sensation. He had killed men in duels of honor, but always with a cold precision; this was different—a hot, red rage seemed to loan him an unnatural strength. Barely aware of what he did, he stamped the heel of one bare foot down hard on the toes of one captor, feeling bones break. The man yelped, and his hold loosened enough that Arcole was able to tear an arm free and fling himself backward, driving the other would-be rapist against the bunk behind. He drove an elbow into the fellow’s rib cage, and the hand across his mouth came loose. Still held by one arm, he kicked out, his foot sinking deep between the first man’s legs. There was a shriek of pain and the man collapsed onto Oster. His grip on Flysse was broken and she took the opportunity to rake nails down Oster’s cheek. He snarled and shoved his acolyte away, striking Flysse again.
The rage that consumed Arcole was fueled fiercer at that. He turned, wrenching clutching hands from his arm, not now in emulation of Smiling Jacques’s lessons but in blind fury, seeking only to damage, to inflict pain. The man gasped as Arcole’s fists landed against his ribs and face, and he raised his arms helplessly. Arcole batted them aside, clutched the bloodied face, and slammed the man’s skull against the edge of the bunk. As he fell, Arcole spun round, seeking Oster, the architect of this outrage.
The giant was clambering to his feet, beating at the hands Flysse set about one wrist. Beyond them, Arcole saw Davyd fight loose of his captor and drop to the deck. The man who had held him gaped, then turned and scuttled into the shadows. Davyd flung himself at Oster and was hurled away.
Arcole said, “Flysse, let him go. Leave him to me.”
Oster grinned and wiped a hand across the scratches running down his cheek. “Aye, girl, you do that. An’ when I’ve done for the popinjay, I’ll be back for you. I’ll …”
The sentence ended as Arcole’s fist smashed teeth. Oster spat blood and lumbered forward. He stood a good head taller than Arcole and his build was massive, apelike. In a gymnasium, with room to maneuver and employ well-learnt techniques, Arcole would have held the advantage, but here he had none. The spaces between the tiered bunks were narrow, denying movement, and Oster was clearly the stronger man. But Arcole remained possessed by rage, and what he gave away in weight and reach was more than balanced by sheer fury.
As the leering giant advanced, Arcole set his hands upon the topmost bunks to either side and swung himself up, thrusting both legs forward. His feet slammed against Oster’s chest, and the giant’s advance was halted on a gust of fetid breath. Before he could recover, Arcole dropped to the deck and sprang forward, driving clenched fists rhythmically into Oster’s abdomen. The blows were low—deliberately; Smiling Jacques would have called a foul—and Oster squealed, exhaling blood and spittle. His arms flailed, landing blows that Arcole scarcely noticed as he kicked Oster between the legs. The giant’s eyes sprang wide, his head dropping as he curled instinctively around the pain. Arcole stepped forward to snatch handfuls of black hair and bring the man’s head lower, down to meet his rising knee.
He felt no pain as broken teeth cut his flesh, only a savage satisfaction as he raised the head again, and again brought it down to smash against his knee. Cartilage broke in Oster’s nose, and he snorted crimson froth. Still holding him by the hair, Arcole dragged him forward, tumbling him off balance so that the larger man pitched onto his knees. He swung the head then, a fleshly metronome that ended each arc against the solid wood of a bunk. Oster no longer resisted, but Arcole went on pounding the yielding skull.
He was dimly aware of Flysse’s voice, entreating him to stop, but he ignored it until she grasped his arm, her weight slowing him.
“Arcole! For God’s sake, Arcole, you’ve killed him!”
He blinked and let loose Oster’s head. It fell to the deck and he saw the ruined temple, the blood—slick and black in the moonlight—that matted the hair and oozed from the ear. Flysse pressed against him, holding him back from further violence, and without thinking he put his arms around her, wondering vaguely why she wept.
“Arcole! Oh, God, Arcole, what have you done? What will they do to you? You know the rules.”
He thought that for slaying such vermin as Oster he perhaps deserved applause, but then the import of Flysse’s words sank in. He recalled Var’s promise, exactly: Do you raise hand against one another, you will be flogged.
Surely not, when he had acted only in her defense. And Davyd’s, he remembered, looking past Flysse’s tearful face to where the boy stood wide-eyed with admiration. But then he thought that these were the strictures of the Autarchy, of Evander, and therefore it was likely to be so. He was not sure he could accept the indignity of a whipping—that was such punishment as was meted out to common criminals. And then he could only chuckle at his own foolishness, for in the eyes of the Autarchy he was a common criminal, an exile, branded and indentured. And now likely to be flogged, his objections of no more consequence to the Evanderan marines than his dignity.
Well, was it to be, he would act the man. He held Flysse at arm’s length, making his smile careless. “Mistress,” he declared, “am I to be punished, why, that it be for sake of your rescue shall make it worthwhile.”
For a long moment she stared at him as if she thought him deranged, then she came close and, somewhat to his surprise, kissed him on the lips. No less surprising was the comfort he took from her gesture. He stared at her, and she blushed and drew back, tugging her shift closer about her as if only then aware of her immodest dress.
“I’ll tell them what happened,” she promised.
“And I,” said Davyd. “They’ll not flog you when they know.”
“Perhaps not.” Arcole felt a wetness against his bare sole and moved aside as he realized he stood in Oster’s blood. “Perhaps there’s some honor left in these Evanderans yet.”
At his back someone said, “You’ll find out soon enough,” and he turned to see the companionway hatch flung back, lanterns flaring there as marines with cocked muskets descended the ladder.
A voice he recognized as belonging to Tomas Var said, “What goes on here?”
It was not, for Tomas Var, an easy decision. He supposed that were he made of sterner stuff, of such temper as so many of his fellow officers, then it should have presented no problems. The regulations covering the transport of exiles were very clear. One prisoner had slain another; he had also broken a man’s head and another’s foot. Two indentured servants would arrive in Salvation crippled, a third not arrive at all. Var could, therefore, order Arcole Blayke’s execution; he was, undoubtedly, required to administer at least a flogging. Captain Bennan recommended the full fifty lashes. Var had doubts: he could not help but think he would have acted in similar fashion, had he been in Blayke’s place.
He had listened to the pleas offered by Blayke’s companions—the potential victims—and accepted that the dead man and his bullies had been intent on rape. Indeed, when the two hurt men named their missing accomplice and he had been dragged from his hiding place, all three had confessed, pleading for mercy and claiming they had acted solely in fear of Oster. Var had entertained no hesitation in ordering they each receive thirty lashes—in the case of the worst hurt, to be delivered when the ship’s surgeon pronounced them fit enough to survive.
But Arcole Blayke was a problem. Var knew he must order punishment of some kind lest his authority over all the prisoners be weakened, but he was loath to accept Bennan’s recommendation. He could not help but grant Blayke a grudging respect, and indeed, were he honest with himself, he felt that in other times, in other circumstances, they might even have been friends. He had checked the records of all involved, and found the thwarted rapists to be no more than he suspected—common criminals, footpads, and murderers. Davyd Furth was a thief: Var dismissed him. But the woman, Flysse Cobal, he thought honest, and—a notion he swiftly dismissed as traitorous—cruelly condemned to exile. And Arcole Blayke; well, he was a curiosity.
He was a gentleman. Of that, Var held no doubt at all: it was obvious from his speech
and bearing, even had the records not revealed it. Nor had he acted from malice, but in defense of the woman. Had he not worn the brand upon his cheek, such action must have been considered honorable.
But he did wear the brand: he was an exile. And therefore Var must punish him.
He studied the man standing before him on the quarterdeck. Blayke was dressed now, in clothes of fashionable cut, but crumpled and somewhat soiled by the voyage. He wore a growing beard—the exiles were forbidden blades of any kind—but still he managed an air of elegance. He was flanked by two burly marines, ten more at attention to either side. He showed no remorse, nor any fear. Var thought of him exercising and knew that he was likely one of the few fit enough to take fifty lashes and survive. He did not want to give Blayke fifty lashes, but neither could he renege his duty or allow his authority to be questioned.
“You confess to the slaying of Karyl Oster,” Var said.
Arcole nodded. “I killed him, yes.”
“And grievously wounded Petyr Rayne.”
“Which one was that?”
“You cracked his skull.”
“Ah, him. Yes.”
“And also wounded Matrym Greene. You broke his foot and … ah, unmanned him.”
“I did. Had I my blade, I’d have slain them all. Swifter and cleaner.”
Var wished the man were less defiant, and admired him for it. “You exhibit no remorse, Blayke,” he said. “These men are—in Oster’s case, was—the property of the Autarchy. As are you. Rayne and Greene shall likely be cripples now, and thus of lessened value. Oster is now quite worthless.”
“Oster was worthless before I slew him,” Arcole said. And hung Var from the crux of his dilemma: “Would you have done less?”
Var was not sure whether he wanted to smile or curse the man for his arrogance. He knew the answer to Blayke’s question—and he could not admit it. He said, “Such theorizing is irrelevant. Have you aught to say in your defense?”
