by Greg Weisman
“You’re taking me back to Lakeshire.” It was no longer a question.
And still, Greydon neither spoke nor looked up at his son.
“Why?” Aram demanded. “I mean, why now? Because of Cobb? Because of the Whisper-Man?”
When Greydon answered, his voice was a whisper, too. “I think … I think maybe I made a mistake, bringing you on this voyage.” It was a sentiment Aram would have agreed with for most of the six months he had been aboard. But in this moment it cut him to the quick.
“Look, I know I should have told you about Cobb sooner—”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
“You’re not ready. And there hasn’t been enough time. Maybe there was never going to be enough time.”
“What does that mean?”
“Best if you don’t know.”
Aram literally staggered back a few steps, as if Greydon had slapped him across the face—or maybe as if he’d punched him in the gut. Greydon glanced up. Their eyes met. Aram said, “Why did you leave us?”
Greydon stared. His mouth hung open stupidly. Aram, his anger and resentment rushing back in full force, thought his father looked like a hapless and helpless fish pulled from the sea. Then Greydon’s eyes lost focus, and he repeated, “Best if you don’t know.”
“No. You promised. You gave me your word.”
“The situation has changed.”
“No. Keep your word, Father. Tell me why you abandoned your wife and child.”
“I can’t.”
“Tell me why!”
“I won’t.”
Aram felt his blood rise. He stifled an impulse to pick up the pewter mug and hit Greydon with it. Instead, he stumbled for the door, yanked it open, and slammed it on his way out. It echoed throughout the ship.
He staggered across the deck to the railing, passing Makasa, One-God, Thom, and even Duan Phen without seeing any of them.
He pulled his sketchbook out of his pocket, flipping through its pages until he found the sketch of his father. He tore it out of the book, crumpled it up, and let it fall overboard into the dark water below.
“How’s that for magic,” he whispered.
Come sunrise, a bitter Aramar Thorne was already on deck. Not—for once—because Makasa had dragged him out of bed, and certainly not because he had finally taught himself to wake on his own. No, Aram was up because he had never truly been down. He hadn’t slept a minute, so at the first hint of light, he’d given up, gotten up, and gone topside. There was a chill in the air, so he was wearing a gray woolen cable sweater that his mother had knit for him a year and a half ago—that is, a year before Greydon Thorne had come back into their lives six months ago, on a day Aram was now ruing more than ever.
Silent Joe and the night watch—doubled by Greydon since they’d set sail from Flayers’ Point—were heading to their bunks, but the bulk of the crew was stirring, quietly going about their business. Having executed his change of course during the night, Captain Thorne had the Wavestrider heading southeast—but they were still far enough out to sea that no land was yet in sight. To the north, clouds were low and black. To the south, low and gray. But here and there the sun peeked out.
Aram leaned his back against the rail, staring daggers at the closed door to his father’s cabin. He was soon distracted, however, watching Duan Phen lithely climb the rigging and the mainmast to her nest. As usual, she wore silk slippers and a silk cap, the latter of which hid the long silky raven-black hair Aram had seen her wash in a rain barrel exactly once. She was fifteen, third youngest on the ship after twelve-year-old Aram and ten-year-old Keelhaul Watt, the cook’s assistant, now newly promoted thanks to the defection of his master.
In fact, Aram could hear Keely cursing Old Cobb from the galley. The kid may not have been much of a cook—Aram could smell a kettle of burnt oatmeal from the deck, even before the boy emerged to dump the culinary disaster over the side—but Keely was apparently a genius at serving up epithets for Jonas Cobb capable of searing the most steadfast ears and heart.
Thom Frakes was back at the helm. Others attended to their various duties. Aram watched with some amusement as an already furious Flintwill emerged from the officers’ cabin and stalked her way below to the crew quarters, cracking her knuckles in anticipation of a confrontation that just this once would not occur. Aram counted to two score and six, until Makasa emerged again, wearing an expression of pure bafflement. She scanned the deck and finally spotted him by the rail. She looked so flummoxed, he nearly laughed aloud.
One-God also exited the officers’ cabin, shirtless, shoeless, and bleary-eyed. He stopped in front of the rain barrel, removed its wooden lid, pulled himself up by the rim, leaned over, and dunked the entire upper third of his shaggy red-haired body under the water, holding it there for about ten seconds. Then he swung his head up and staggered back into the cabin.
He emerged again five minutes later, smiling and laughing and slapping anyone within range of his limited wingspan hard on the back. His mirth seemed to waken the entire crew, who began chattering and gabbing and even singing their morning away. Soon, One-God was leading them in his favorite sea chantey …
Can a good young man drown without leavin’ his ship?
Why, o’ course is the answer, o’ course by me hip!
Fer a fair sailor ne’er needs the deep blue to drown,
Just a barrel of ale ’n a head that’s unsound!
Can a battleaxe cut down a cabin boy clean?
Why, o’ course is the answer, o’ course by me spleen!
Still, the axe isn’t why the boy never set sail;
It was layin’ his neck ’cross the barrel of ale!
Can a great kraken pull a stout seaman to brine?
Why, o’ course is the answer, o’ course by me spine!
Though the tentacles sure di’nae drown him alone,
Fer the seaman drank ale ’til quite drunk as a stone!
Can a poor sailor’s headbone be crush’d by a mace?
Why, o’ course is the answer, o’ course by me face!
But the skullcrusher isn’t what fills us with dread.
No, the barrel of ale crush’d his weak unsound head!
Can a pandaren junk set a frigate aflame?
Why, o’ course is the answer, o’ course by me frame!
But the bears’ breath o’ fire di’nae cause us to wail.
Fer the crew o’ the frigate drank pandaren ale!
Can the claws of a worgen shred Captain and Mate?
Why, o’ course is the answer, o’ course by me pate!
But the worgen’s sharp nails wer’n’t the officers’ doom,
Since they both drank enough ale to lower the boom!
Can a mariner die on the point of a knife?
Why, o’ course is the answer, o’ course by me life!
But the point o’ the knife ain’t the reason he’s dead;
‘Twas the barrel of ale an’ that damn’d unsound head!
Can a deckhand expire from the bite of a troll?
Why, o’ course is the answer, o’ course by me soul!
Though the teeth o’ the troll are but half o’ the tale,
Fer the ’hand an’ the troll shar’d the barrel of ale!
Can an old saltbeard wander, forever at sea?
Why, o’ course is the answer, o’ course by me knee!
All the maps in the world canna help him be found,
Once that barrel of ale finds his head so unsound!
Cross as he had been, Aram found himself smiling and was still smiling when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to look into the sad gray eyes of Greydon Thorne. Aram’s smile calcified instantly, then vanished entirely—which did not go unnoticed by his careworn father.
Still, Greydon was determined to make the best of things, saying in a low voice, “We might as well make good use of the time we have left. Go fetch your cutlass.”
Aram brushed Greydon’s hand off hi
s shoulder. “No,” he said. “I’ve had enough. I’ve learned all I care to learn from a man like you.”
Greydon’s son had not kept the conversation private. To the contrary, he had spoken loudly enough for all to hear. Makasa glowered. Others looked away. Even One-God had stopped grinning.
Greydon’s brow furrowed. “Boy,” he said, matching Aram’s volume, “I’m your captain and your father—”
But Aram, louder still, cut him off: “You may be my captain, but you’re NOT my father! Robb Glade is my father! And you know how I know? Because he was there!”
Stunned into silence, Greydon could only watch as Aram turned on his heel and crossed to the aft side of the ship.
Makasa approached and growled low into Greydon’s ear, “Captain, that boy could use a good flogging.”
But Greydon sadly shook his head. “For being right? No. He’s not the one who deserves flogging.”
Aram stood aft, glowering out to sea. And then something caught his eye at the horizon. It was barely anything: a blacker speck peeking out from black clouds before vanishing again. Then, sure enough, a tar-colored ship emerged from the approaching storm, still tiny in the far distance. Aramar called out, “Look, a ship!”
All eyes followed his voice aft, including Duan Phen’s up in the crow’s nest. Instantly, her voice echoed his discovery: “A ship! Captain, a ship!”
Within seconds, Greydon, One-God, and Makasa had joined Aram at the aft rail to stare out in the direction Aram was pointing. At first Greydon Thorne saw nothing. But the first mate handed his captain a telescope. Greydon held it up to one eye. “A destroyer,” he said. “An elven destroyer.”
“Runnin’ from the storm?” One-God asked.
“Or chasing us?” Makasa countered.
Greydon continued to study the other vessel through the spyglass. “It’s riding high. No cargo in its hold.”
“You keep your hold empty when you plan to fill it with someone else’s goods,” said Makasa, ever the ray of sunshine.
Aram desperately wanted to give his father the silent treatment, but he couldn’t resist asking, “So you think that’s the Whisper-Man’s ship?”
“Looks like we’ll find out,” One-God said. “She’s gainin’ upon us. An’ that’s nae a ship we can outrun.”
“No,” said Greydon. “But if we’re sharp and lucky, maybe it’s a ship we can outsail.”
He turned on his heel and began barking out orders. Another sail was hoisted for the wind to fill. Various ropes were tied off. Every member of the crew knew his or her job and performed with admirable efficiency, speed, and cooperation, as if each ’hand were another personal appendage of their captain. One-God, Makasa, and Silent Joe (who’d been roused from slumber, along with the rest of the night watch) were everywhere—climbing the rigging, crossing the deck, descending into the hold—exhorting the crew, each in his or her own style: that is, One-God with humorous bluster, Makasa with threatening intensity, and Joe simply by speaking more words in that hour than he had the entire voyage. The captain ordered some of the less valuable cargo to be thrown overboard to lighten the load. This was accomplished with Aram pitching in; he watched pallets of sandstone, barrels of musk oil, and crates of iron chain vanish into the deep—and couldn’t help wondering what treasures and trade his father would have made of them all. Greydon gave more orders, and Frakes turned Wavestrider, hard rudder, off their previous course to catch more wind. She cut across the sea at a stunning pace. The ship was hale; the crew, experienced; the mates, reliable; their captain, sharp.
But lucky, they all were not. From the nest, Duan Phen called, “It gains, Captain!”
Greydon Thorne’s telescope confirmed the obvious. The tar-ship had matched the Wavestrider’s course correction and was still gaining. Aramar Thorne, Durgan One-God, Makasa Flintwill, and Silent Joe Barker, silent once again, approached.
“How long?” Makasa asked.
Greydon checked his compass as if it might hold the answer. Then he checked the sun, only partially hidden by clouds. Aram watched his father’s face, as the captain made the necessary mental calculations. “Tonight,” Greydon stated. “About two hours after sunset we’ll have a fight on our hands.” He tucked the compass under his shirt.
“Nae, Captain,” said One-God. “Two hours after sunset, them pirates’ll have a fight on their hands.”
Makasa, smiling grimly—or scowling mirthfully—nodded her agreement.
Joe said nothing, and his face betrayed even less.
Greydon turned to Aram. “Now, will you get your sword?”
The tar-ship chased the Wavestrider all through the day, gaining with each passing hour.
Captain Thorne had given up on evasive maneuvers. Instead, he and his mates were making sure the entire crew—up to and including the three youngsters, Aram, Duan Phen, and Keely—were armed and ready for what seemed an inevitable fight. Makasa strode across the deck with her shield strapped to her back, her iron chain crossed over her chest, her cutlass at her side, and her harpoon in her hand. She wasn’t exactly Aram’s favorite crewmate, but he had to admit her presence gave everyone more confidence, including Aramar Thorne.
In fact, Aram was tense but not overly afraid. Makasa, One-God, Silent Joe, Mary Brown, Anselm Yewtree, his father. He’d seen all of them fight at one time or another (mostly in tavern brawls) over the last six months, and he tended to agree with One-God that the elven destroyer’s pirates had chosen the wrong ship, the wrong crew, to attack.
Then he thought of the Whisper-Man and shuddered.
Still, his greatest fear was of not holding his own in the fight, of proving himself a liability, of embarrassing himself by requiring rescue. Standing aft, watching the tar-ship until the light of day faded and the moonless night allowed no further view of their pursuer, Aram kept one hand on the hilt of his cutlass and wished by all the gods he had been a better student of the weapon.
He crossed the deck and heard Duan Phen call down, “I’ve lost sight of her, Captain!”
Greydon Thorne yelled up to her, “You’ll see her again when she’s upon us. Stay put and keep your eyes open!”
“Aye, aye, Captain!”
“Everyone, douse your lights! Not a candle glowing! And keep your traps shut, too! We’re not going to make this any easier for those rogues!”
A chorus of “Aye, aye, Captain” followed, and rapidly the ship went dark and silent.
Thom whispered, “How long you figure, Cap’n?”
“Two hours. A little less.”
Aram decided to make better use of the time.
He retreated to the near-empty hold—made his way down into its darkness quietly and carefully—and slid his cutlass from his belt to practice. It was pantomime, really. He imagined enemies, imagined their moves and countered. He’d parry, attack, parry, attack. And if the stale air of the hold had been the Whisper-Man, then, yes, the scoundrel would have been whispering his last words on this earth.
Yet as he sliced and stabbed, Aram had a hard time believing that these efforts were even the slightest bit worthwhile. It was child’s play, shadow-play, a game. He stopped, his sword hanging slack in his hand. He thought of swallowing his pride and asking his father for one last lesson before it was too late. But he was sure his father had better things to do, and the last thing the crew needed to see was a demonstration of the “Greydon-son’s” pathetic level of skill. It could hardly fill them with confidence, and he knew enough to know that anything undercutting their confidence at this point could get them all killed.
“That’s not my fault,” he said aloud, to no one. He hadn’t asked to be there, to be on this ship, to be in the midst of this crisis. Everyone else aboard had had a choice in the matter. Greydon Thorne was many things, but not a slave-master. He pressed no sailors. The crew had signed on voluntarily, had apparently signed contracts, had known the potential risks. But Aram hadn’t had a choice in the matter. If he was a liability now, that was Greydon’s fault, not his o
wn.
Which changed nothing. He still didn’t want to look bad. Nor did he want to die on this boat.
He sat on a crate, practically collapsed onto it. He began chopping at the wooden floor with the tip of his cutlass. Then he stopped, realizing it would dull the blade, which was the last thing he needed.
He tried applying some of Keely’s curses to his father. But they rang hollow in his ears and tasted like dust in his mouth. He still had half a strip of jerky in his pocket. He tore off a bite and began chewing on it. Two hours. A little less, Greydon had said. Aram gave even odds the mouthful of jerky would last that long.
Chewing away, he leaned back, resting his head against the side of the hull. Down here in the darkness, he could feel the sway of the ship at its source. He knew he was below the waterline. He sighed heavily, shut his eyes, and chewed. “Just stay calm,” he whispered to himself. “When it starts, just keep your eyes open and your wits about you.” Greydon had said something similar more than once. He reminded himself that just because his father said something didn’t make it bad advice. After all, his father was a skilled warrior. Not much of a father, but a skilled warrior. Aram remembered the gnoll fight. Remembered Greydon swinging his club against the matriarch. He remembered the matriarch. He felt the ship sway. He remembered her leaning over his sketchbook. He felt the ship sway …
She was saying he had to finish the drawing of his father. He looked up, trying to read the gnoll’s face. But it wasn’t Cackle; it was his mother, Ceya Northbrooke Thorne Glade. She said, “Finish the drawing, Aram. Your father—both your fathers and I agree it’s what you need. Finish the drawing.”
“I finished it,” he said. But he could feel that half-truth stick in his throat.
“Then show it to me,” she said. It was Duan Phen.
“I … I can’t.”
“Why not?” Little Selya sounded so disappointed.
He didn’t answer, felt ashamed.
“You tore it out, didn’t you?” Makasa said. “You tore it out of the book and threw it overboard.”
