by Angus Wells
“Unless I die first,” Bracht moaned, and fell back.
“He’d best eat,” the Kand youth advised, “I’ll fetch you something.”
He brought a plate of bread and cold pork: Bracht glanced at it once, shook his head, and turned away.
“He needs something in his stomach.” Mehemmed looked to Calandryll for support. “Shall you feed him?”
Calandryll nodded and took the plate. The Kand seemed reluctant to leave, lingering by the door with a curious expression on his narrow face.
“He’s your bodyguard?” he asked.
It was the simplest explanation: Calandryll nodded.
“And who are you?”
“My name is Calandryll.”
He thought it best not to give his family name, for fear his father had sent word of some kind to Aldarin: there might be a reward for his return.
“You’re a merchant?”
They had discussed this with Varent, deciding that their journey should be explained away as a trade mission, he an emissary sent to establish business links with the merchants of Kandahar, Bracht his bodyguard: he said as much.
Mehemmed grinned: “He’s a poor bodyguard if you’re to travel by sea. You’d have done better to hire a Kand. Burash put salt in our blood.”
“He’s capable enough,” Calandryll replied defensively. “At least on land.”
“Then best hope no corsairs cross our path,” the youth declared cheerfully, and left them.
Calandryll stowed their gear and settled to persuading Bracht to eat. The Kern succeeded in swallowing a few mouthfuls before he pushed the plate away and bent over the bucket.
“We should’ve ridden overland,” he groaned when he was done.
“That would take months,” Calandryll protested. “We’d heed to cross half Lysse, then swing south through Eyl. And then the Shann Desert would lie before us. This way, we’ll tread dry land in Mherut’yi in little more than a week.”
“A week!” Bracht mumbled. “Shall I live so long?”
“You’ll survive,” Calandryll promised.
Bracht moaned again and turned his face to the wall.
In a while he slept and Calandryll left him to go back on deck. The Sea Dancer moved at a brisk pace, the coastline of Lysse fading to stern, lost in the fusion of sea and sky. The wind blew steady from the northeast and ek’Jemm had set all his canvas to take full advantage of the blow. Whatever cargo he carried back to Kandahar provided solid ballast, for the ship sat low in the water, that thought provoking a grin as Calandryll wondered how Bracht might have fared had the vessel sailed with empty holds, riding high and rolling like a wave-tossed cork. He did his best to stay out of the sailors’ way, although his natural curiosity prompted him to inspect the craft as much as possible and he roamed the deck and lower levels until a gong informed him that food was served.
He ate on deck with the crew, Rahamman ek’Jemm dining alone on the poop, and found himself the object of curious glances, though only Mehemmed made any attempt at conversation, that mostly a string of questions about the cities of Lysse. He realized that these men spent the larger part of their lives on the water, plying the trade routes between Kandahar and his homeland or the coast of the great peninsula. The food was simple after the luxurious fare of Varent’s mansion, but he enjoyed it, his appetite sharp, and when he was done carried a platter below to Bracht. The freesword was awake again, accepting a further dose of the nostrum and even holding down a few mouthfuls of beef, though his humor was not improved and when he declared himself unable to eat more Calandryll left him to sleep.
He went back on deck, wishing he had been able to bring at least one book with him, for boredom threatened as the crew went about their duties, too busy to spare time for a passenger, and he realized that the crossing likely meant days of enforced idleness. He fetched his sword from the cabin and engaged in the exercises Bracht had taught him, ignoring the embarrassment induced by the crew’s obvious amusement as he slashed and cut the empty air.
Then his practice was interrupted by Mehemmed.
“The captain wants you,” the youth announced. “Quick.”
Curious, Callandryll sheathed his blade and climbed to the poop. Ek’Jemm had given the wheel to his helmsman and stood beside the stern arbalest, a spyglass raised.
“Lord Varent said you act as his emissary,” he declared. “That you travel to Mherut’yi on merchant’s business.”
“Yes,” Calandryll agreed.
“To negotiate contracts,” the captain said.
“Yes.”
Calandryll wondered what disturbed the Kand seaman.
“Secret business.”
“Yes.”
“Might you have rivals in this venture? Might they know of your departure?”
Calandryll stared at the man’s plump face, an ugly suspicion dawning. He shrugged: “Perhaps. Why?”
Ek’Jemm handed him the spyglass and pointed astern.
“You see it?”
He peered down the leather-bound tube, the lenses producing a blurred magnification that at first defeated his inexperienced eye. Then he focused on a dark shape resting low in the water, the image growing clearer as he concentrated. A single mast supported a square sail, the prow curving high, carved in semblance of some ocean creature; the body of the craft low and lean. It had a rakish look, as if designed for speed.
“That craft has the lines of a warboat,” ek’Jemm announced. “It seems corsairs follow us.”
Calandryll lowered the glass and faced the captain, his heart beating dully. “Do the corsairs sail so early?” he asked.
“No.” The Kand shook his head. “Mine is the first craft to make the spring crossing. And no pirate vessel came after. That warboat set sail from Lysse.”
“Perhaps it lay in wait.”
Calandryll hoped the captain would agree: if not, the vessel was likely sent by Azumandias. Might carry the warlock on board. But Rahamman ek’Jemm disappointed him. He shook his head again and said, “No. It sailed from Lysse. I think it chases you.”
Calandryll passed the spyglass back.
“What will you do?”
“Pray to Burash we can outrun her. If not, fight. Or …”
He paused, studying Calandryll speculatively.
“Or?”
“Give them what they want,” ek’Jemm said calmly. “I’ll not lose my ship for one hundred varre.”
“YOU made a bargain!” Calandryll stared at the man, aware that outrage—or trepidation, he was not sure which—lent his protest a shrill edge. He cleared his throat, self-consciously deepening his voice. “You undertook to bring us safe to Kandahar.”
Ek’Jemm ducked his head in the direction of the war-boat, without the spyglass no more than a speck on the blue horizon.
“I undertook to carry two passengers to Mherut’yi. There was no mention of pursuit.”
Calandryll clutched the hilt of his sword, wondering if he should draw the weapon: set the point to the Kand’s throat and insist he fight if necessary. He dismissed the impulse as senseless: were Bracht with him they might bring it off, but even were the mercenary fit enough to back him they would still face all of ek’Jemm’s crew; and their pursuers. He thought of offering a bonus, but dismissed that, too. The funds Varent had provided were heeded to get them to Gessyth: without them, they would be stranded in a foreign land. And what coin he did carry was scarcely sufficient to compensate ek’Jemm for the risking of his vessel. And if the captain knew how much they carried, he might take it for himself. It seemed diplomacy was his only resort.
“Lord Varent would take it ill should you deliver us into the hands of his enemies,” he said, doing his best to make his voice coolly threatening. “You’d likely find yourself banned from Aldarin harbor.”
The Kand studied him for a moment, lips pursed, then said, “How should Lord Varent find out?”
“He’d know,” said Calandryll. “My word on it.”
Ek’Jemm chuckled, g
lancing astern.
“You’ve nerve enough, I’ll grant you that. And there’s time in hand to make such decisions—that sea wolf’s fast, but she’ll not catch us for a day or two if this wind holds. Perhaps we can outdistance her. If not, well … I’ll decide then.”
“It would be worth your while to fight,” Calandryll promised rashly. “Lord Varent would reward you well.”
Ek’Jemm nodded. “Perhaps. But what good a reward if I lie with Burash?”
Calandryll could think of no appropriate answer and the Kand chuckled again, humorlessly. “You see my dilemma? I’ve a boat and crew to think of. Best pray we can outrun her.”
Calandryll grimaced, turning to stare aft. The sky was darkening, the sun already touching the western horizon, and the warboat was lost in the obfuscation.
“The Sea Dancer’s fleet enough,” ek’Jemm said, a trifle more kindly, “perhaps we can lose her in the night. Perhaps our arbalests will put her off.”
He patted the great crossbow affectionately, then turned back to the wheel.
“Now clear my deck. Keep out of my crew’s way—we’ve some sailing to do; and light no lanterns.”
Dismissed, Calandryll climbed from the poop, returning to the cabin, where Bracht lay sleeping. The freesword stirred as he entered, a dark shape in the shadowy interior. Calandryll set the bucket down, cursing as he rose to bump his head against the low ceiling.
“Is there no lantern?” asked the Kern.
“We run without lights,” Calandryll said, and explained the situation.
“Azumandias?” Bracht grunted. “Did Varent’s magic not conceal our tracks, then?”
He seemed almost pleased at the prospect of such failure, as if it justified his distrust of magic. Calandryll shrugged, the gesture unseen in the darkness, and found the nostrum, administering a further dose. Bracht drank the potion and swung his feet to the floor, groaning. He was clearly too weak to fight and Calandryll pushed him back.
“There’s nothing you can do,” he advised. “Ek’Jemm says it will take the warboat a day or two to catch us if the wind holds, and we might lose her in the night. Better that you rest.”
The Kern sighed and fell back across the bunk. “If we’d gone horseback, like civilized folk …”
Mehemmed’s face appeared in the hatchway then, nostrils wrinkling as he smelled the cabin. “I’ve brought you food,” he said in thickly accented Lyssian. “Open the port and I’ll fetch something to clear the stink.”
He set two platters down and disappeared, returning moments later with sticks of incense. He set them about the cabin and struck a spark from a tinderbox, lighting them. They gave off no glow, but sweet-scented smoke drifted from the tips, mingling with the fresh sea air to overwhelm the sour odor of Bracht’s vomit.
“That’s better,” the Kand youth declared, grinning. “How d’you feel?”
“Nervous,” Bracht grunted.
Mehemmed chuckled. “It’s exciting isn’t it? I’ve sailed with the captain five voyages now and we’ve never been chased.”
Calandryll stared at him, noticing that he wore a long dagger sheathed in his sash, surprised by his enthusiasm.
“Aren’t you afraid?” he asked.
“I suppose so.” Mehemmed shrugged. “But it’s still exciting. I doubt the warboat can catch us, anyway—we’re running under full sail and the captain thinks the wind will hold for a while. Likely we’ll lose the warboat tonight.”
His optimism was cheering, but misplaced.
The next morning, while Bracht still slept, Calandryll made for the poop deck. Rahamman ek’Jemm stood by the wheel as though he had stood there all night, and would stand there throughout the voyage, though now a wide-bladed sword was belted on his sizable waist. His green eyes narrowed as Calandryll appeared.
“It’s still there.” He stabbed a thumb to the northeast. Calandryll squinted into the glare and saw nothing.
“Here.” Ek’Jemm thrust the spyglass toward him. “She’s hull down on the skyline. We’ve kept distance, no more.”
Calandryll took the glass and raised it to his eye, wincing as the hew risen sun was magnified, traversing the horizon until he located the dark square of sail. It seemed to him the Kand was pessimistic: surely the warboat had fallen back a little?
“If we can only hold distance we must reach Mherut’yi before she closes,” he said.
“If this wind holds,” ek’Jemm nodded, “but only if it holds. I smell a change coming, and that sea wolf carries oars—which gives her an advantage if we’ve no wind.”
Calandryll gestured at the arbalest. “If they must use oars, can you not cripple them?”
The Kand shrugged. “If we’re lucky, but a warboat’s hard to stop. You’d best hope Burash accepted that offering you made.”
“Yes,” he agreed, and went in search of breakfast.
He carried two plates to the cabin, finding Bracht awake, measuring the nostrum into a beaker of stale water.
“I feel recovered,” the freesword declared. “We must obtain more of this when we sail for Gessyth.”
He seemed closer to his old self. The greenish pallor that had colored his face was faded and his eyes were brighter. Calandryll saw that the bucket stood empty, and when he set the plates down, Bracht took one without demur. He tossed the slab of salted pork out through the window, but ate the bread and cheese. Better still, he kept it down, and when he was finished, declared his intention of going on deck.
Almost immediately he faltered, looking wildly round for something to clutch as the Sea Dancer rolled beneath his feet. Calandryll took his arm and helped him to the rail, which he held firmly, bracing himself against the swaying planks.
“Ahrd knows,” he muttered grimly, “this is no way for a man to travel.”
Calandryll grinned, delighted that his comrade regained his composure.
“Now,” said Bracht, “I’d see this boat that chases us.”
Ek’Jemm was irritated by their presence, but passed the Kern his spyglass, smiling maliciously as Bracht tottered uncomfortably to the arbalest, steadying himself against the crossbow as he peered through the glass.
“So that’s a warboat,” he murmured. “What’s that carved on the bow?”
“The bow?” Calandryll snatched the glass from his hands. “You can see the bow?”
He adjusted his weight, compensating for the pitch of the deck, and saw the slender craft had gained on them. It no longer lay hull down below the horizon, but was closer, the dragon’s head prow clearly visible.
“Give me the glass.”
Ek’Jemm’s harsh voice rang in his ear and he passed the telescope to the Kand. The man stood for long moments with the leather tube pressed to his eye, then grunted, turning to peer up at his sails.
“Burash rot them,” he muttered. “It’s as I feared.”
“The wind drops,” Calandryll told Bracht. “And the warboat carries oars.”
Bracht followed the captain’s gaze and nodded, glancing at Calandryll, who in turn stared at the sails. It seemed that in the time they had emerged from their cabin and climbed to the poop the wind had lessened. It still blew, but the Sea Dancer lost headway. Ek’Jemm bellowed orders and seamen clambered aloft, adjusting the canvas. The captain mouthed a curse and ordered his helm brought over. The vessel swung slightly to starboard, the sails filling again. Ek’Jemm said, “Go below.”
“We’d not be handed over like cattle for the slaughtering,” said Bracht, his free hand set about the falchion’s hilt.
“I think,” said the captain, “that if you draw that sword you’ll fall down.”
As if to emphasize his point, he barked a further command in his own language and the Sea Dancer swung to port, her deck canting. Calandryll braced against the roll and kept his footing. Bracht shouted and lost his hold on the arbalest, falling to the deck and sliding across the planks to fetch up against the taffrail. Ek’Jemm chuckled; Bracht hauled himself upright. His pallor had returned and
Calandryll realized that he was less recovered from the malaise than his actions suggested. Willpower had brought him to the poop and it was determination that now blazed furiously from the dulled tan of his face as he drew the sword.
It seemed to amuse ek’Jemm: a thick-lipped smile creased his plump cheeks and he nodded as if in appreciation of the Kern’s courage. Then Calandryll saw him gesture with his left hand and the helmsman turned the wheel a trifle more. It was only a small adjustment in the great hoop’s revolution, but it tilted the deck at an even greater angle. Calandryll himself staggered, arms flailing as he struggled to retain his balance; Bracht was flung hard against the rail, almost losing his blade as he teetered, close to toppling over into the waves. Calandryll slithered across the deck to snatch a handful of his leather shirt and drag the freesword back to safety. Close up, the Kern’s tan was once again tinted with green, his forehead and upper lip glistening with a fine sheen of feverish sweat. The two sailors manning the arbalest came nimbly across the planks, wide, curve-bladed swords in their hands.
Bracht turned to face them, tearing loose of Calandryll’s grip, and found himself sliding backwards again.
“No doubt a freesword like you could carve both my fellows on land,” ek’Jemm said, “But you stand on the deck of my craft and here you don’t stand a chance. Now sheath that Burash-damned blade!”
Calandryll saw that it was useless to protest or fight: he nodded to Bracht, reaching out to steady the Kern.
Reluctantly—and not without difficulty—Bracht slid the falchion into its scabbard. Ek’Jemm spoke to the helmsman and the Sea Dancer righted, the deck flattening again. Calandryll and Bracht stood shoulder to shoulder against the taffrail, facing the two armed sailors. Ek’Jemm shouted and two more swordsmen came scurrying up the companionway.
“Under the sea laws of Kandahar I could hang you for that,” said the captain, “but I won’t. I admire your courage, if not your stupidity. Now go below.”
Four weapons gave threatening weight to his command: Calandryll and Bracht had little chance but to obey.
The four sailors prodded them down the ladder and back into the bowels of the ship. The cabin door banged shut and they heard a bolt slide home. Bracht flung himself furiously onto his bunk, his pallor hidden beneath a dark flush of anger. Calandryll bent across him to peer from the window. The angle of the Sea Dancer’s course afforded him sight of the pursuing warboat. It was closer now, no longer a speck but a distinct shape, visible to the naked eye: he wondered how long it would take to catch them. He fell onto his own bunk, staring at Bracht.
