by Richard Nell
He shrugged, stroking her hand now with his thumb. Zaya gestured towards the cabin with her head.
"It was that monstrous pilot, singer. It was Ruka who crossed the endless sea, younger than you are now. He crossed it alone. And because he did I speak your language, and lived a happy childhood with enough food and a united people, when my forebears struggled against hunger. Like you he has born hardship and done dark deeds. But you're right, it's what we do now that matters. If any can lead us across this sea, it is him. Goodnight, Chang."
Zaya left him and walked to her cabin without looking back, hoping he did not follow her. Despite her words and attitude, as she took off her dress and lay sweaty on the bunk, she feared if he did, she may not turn him away.
Chapter 9
Days and weeks of sailing passed. Every movement away from the lands Chang knew swelled a nameless fear inside him, so he kept busy, and he kept his men busy. Then the wind died, and they floated listlessly in nowhere, nothing but sea on every horizon, with little to do but wait.
The captain did not help morale. When there was nothing to do he stared out at the waves like a statue, sitting like a monk with his eyes half closed, as if one step from a corpse. The pilot, at least, had stopped screaming in the dark. He stayed to himself, in and out of his cabin muttering, maybe sleeping, maybe toiling on some secret project. Zaya's presence became the problem it was.
A woman on a ship was more than just ill luck. Idle men had the bad habit of considering their fortunes—what they had, what they didn't. Hungry eyes soon roamed the foreign girl every moment without toil, remembering a night of rum and dance. Chang made them clean and polish the wood until it shined, had them fish, and repair barrels, re-organize the hold and re-fasten the rigging. But he knew nothing was enough.
The men soon complained about anything but what they really wanted. The food was stale; the rum was low; the work was useless and the bunks no good. None dared say 'Where's our mutiny? Where's the end? And if there's no end, why don't we at least make use of the girl?'
Zaya herself did not make things easier. Every night she sat with the men and joined in their singing. Since the first night, Chang avoided being with her alone. True, he was not often rejected and felt it strongly with her. But he was not immune to the same desires as his men. He liked the girl's company, but he knew his mind must be clear and strong to protect them both, so he kept his distance until he approached her on the twentieth morning, and explained.
"I see," she'd said, after his long, red-faced rambling. She shrugged. "I will wear my overdress as before, and tie up my hair."
Chang snorted, wondering how so few women understood the depth of men's desire.
"Macha you could wear a barrel and the men would lust after your ankles. They won't hurt you, neh? But they are driven mad, they make other problems. Best stay in your cabin most nights, and come out in the morning."
The look she gave him could have burned water, but she did as he asked. It helped a little.
On the twenty-third day the wind returned, and with it a renewed spirit in the crew. Still the days were long, the nights longer. None of the men had ever sailed so far and long without a glimpse of land, and even for Chang it made a man feel as if the world did not exist, as if all movement made no difference, as if nothing ever changed.
"We are roughly here," explained the pilot in the captain's quarters that night, pointing at a huge map with a stick. Chang had seen many maps in his life, but none so large or as detailed as the giant's. It showed the entirety of the continent, four coasts with every lake, river and nation, and hundreds of islands drawn in Pyu. He pointed to an empty grey space off the West coast of the continent, and Chang looked to it and all the space that remained as he blinked.
"Why is there so much nothing on your map? And on every side of the continent?"
The pilot's strange eyes glittered in the gloom.
"The world is very large. At our present speed, and assuming no sign of land, it would take hundreds of days to circle the sphere, and reach the Eastern coast of the Tong empire."
Chang looked from the giant to the captain, who said nothing as he smoked a cigar.
"That's…impossible." When the giant said nothing, Chang put his hands to his face, scraping over the stubble as he tried to process it. "How can you know the size of the world without having crossed it? How can you know?"
The pilot shrugged. "I measured shadows, the curvature of the world, and the speed of the sun. I don't expect you to understand. That I know the size is sufficient. My hope is that we will find new land, but with luck, and continued fishing efforts, we should be able to survive a full crossing."
"This is madness." Chang felt as if his head weighed more than it should. He staggered and felt strong hands grab his arms, then carry him to a chair.
"He's not wrong," said the captain's voice, as if from underwater. "His men will react no better, and maybe worse."
"I told you the size, pirate. Nothing has changed."
"It's one thing to hear the size, savage. Looking at is something else."
The conversation seemed at a standstill, and Chang blinked his blurred vision away as he groped at a glass of rum on the desk.
"How are you feeling?" said the giant's voice. Chang grunted.
"I want a ship," he said in answer, then forced himself to meet the giant's eyes. "For me and my men. If we survive your mad journey, I want a ship. I want this ship."
The pilot's lopsided mouth formed in what might have been a grin. Chang forced himself to stand.
"I've spoken to your…skald, pilot. She says your people honor words. She says your goddess is listening. So I want you to bloody say it."
The giant's smile widened. He stood to his full, ridiculous height, head touching the roof as he met Chang's eyes.
"As you wish. For your aid, I, Ruka, son of Beyla, will give you this ship. This I vow. Does that satisfy you?"
Chang tried to think of some flaw in the wording but could see none. He nodded, and the giant bowed his head in the island manner, then turned for the door. Chang found the captain's eyes boring into him, and waited as the pilot left and closed the cabin.
The Batonian killer rose and released a breath of smoke, his other hand lifting a blade from behind his desk. To Chang it looked disturbingly natural—as if without it he'd been somehow…naked. His hand blurred, and the knife crossed the room with a hiss until it sunk deep into the wood by Chang's ear.
"You should have asked me first," the ex-assassin said, as if he'd commented on the weather. A silence lingered while the captain smoked, and Chang returned the man's rum to the table with slow movement, his heart pounding in his chest. He searched for the words, and decided he would indeed ask, but before he could the captain spoke again. "Talk of mutiny doesn't bother me, Chang. But keep your men in line, or I will. This ship doesn't need ten crew."
With that he gestured for the door, and Chang bowed and fled.
* * *
Zaya grumbled as she practiced her knots. It had been a long, hot night and she hadn't slept very well. She was tired of the swaying bunk, tired of her cabin, tired of fish and salted whale meat and squatting over her bucket and being stared at constantly by lustful men. She was tired of this ship.
"Why goddess," she muttered. "Why send me to the shaman on the sea?"
The work, at least, was getting easier. After weeks of monotonous practice, Zaya could tie a dozen kinds of knots, climb a mast and even help with some of the rigging. Her hands were rougher, her balance on the deck more natural, and the feel of rope had become familiar, almost comforting.
From her spot on the deck, she had watched Chang and the shaman head into the captain's quarters. She watched them leave, and then Chang gather his men in the hold below. As they went, they had the now typical dour expressions of men who didn't much like their lots. But as they came up, they looked like new men. Almost all wore plain smiles, some joking with their comrades as they took the stairs two at a ti
me. Chang caught her eye and smiled across the deck.
"Good evening, Macha." He inspected her knots and nodded with approval. They hadn't spoken much in the past weeks—not since the night they had drunk and danced, and she had ignored his touch. To have called this rejection would have been wrong, and more accurately a last ditch resistance. She was both relieved and disappointed he'd stopped trying.
"Your men are in fine spirits," she said, and Chang shrugged. Then his face turned more serious, and he stepped in front of her almost formally before he spoke.
"I must apologize, Macha. I have made awkwardness between us. I was stirred by your beauty, but, that is no excuse. From now on I am your chief and that is all. You are free to sit with the men at night or do anything else, and the others will keep to themselves or face me. The problem is mine, not yours, neh?"
"Ka, chief," she smiled, still feeling awkward and not sure what to say.
"Good. I miss your singing. Join us tonight." Chang smiled, but it was the smile he would have given to any man, and not just for her. He turned away, and again Zaya felt relief, and loss.
As usual, she went to her work, which today was cleaning fish and skinning old potatoes enough for twelve to take three meals. She ate her hated fish, and tried to find some combination of clothing that didn't suffocate her nor reveal too much skin. That night she sat with the men and sang along, and they at least were in finer spirits than they'd been since the journey started. Even the shaman joined them, sort of—sitting at the edge of the gathering with his far-away eyes.
In a lull while the men walked or rested, Zaya found her courage, and moved next to the shaman.
"May I join you, God-tongue?"
He nodded, though he seemed uncomfortable. Zaya sat and tried to find something to say. Men and women of her culture rarely socialized except for kin, but as his skald she thought surely she must find a way to speak to him. Men liked to discuss their deeds, so she thought she might start with that. Her father had told her much of his earlier years as an outcast, and she knew of many of his exploits.
"Will you tell me of your battle with the emperor of Naran, shaman? I have only ever heard it from my father."
The Godtongue's jaw flexed. He looked out into the darkness, pupils moving back and forth, as if the battle were before his eyes.
"Then you have heard the best version."
Zaya almost swore at the failure, but tried another angle. "The men seem very pleased this evening."
"Yes." Ruka blinked and turned until his golden eyes bore into hers. "They think they're getting what they want." Zaya felt as if he was trying to look inside her very soul, and shivered at the sudden attention. "And you, Zaya," his head quirked like a bird of prey. "What do you want?"
"I…to see the world. I have only known life in Orhus. I wanted to see where the gods would lead me."
"Don't speak to me of gods. Tell me why you are here. What do you want?"
"I don't know." Zaya had not expected to be questioned like a prisoner when she'd sat beside the man. She felt an anger rising at the rudeness, at the unnecessary questions. "I don't want to just sing of heroes in a book. I want to be one. Like you."
He looked away again, the intensity like a flash fire that could fade in an instant. "Most heroes are myths," he said quietly. "Or corpses."
"But not all," she answered without pausing, wishing she could explain. How did you tell a man that because of him your life had been transformed? That a whole people had become something different, something hopeful?
"No." He agreed after a time. "Not all." He sighed as he looked at her again. "I came to this sea to leave the past behind, Zaya. I would like to be just a man, not a shaman, or a prophet." He stood, and she felt herself compelled to stand as well. "I have been cold and distant, for that I apologize. I admire your courage." He smiled, and though his face was deformed by the touch of the mountain god, she found it warm. "Perhaps we are not so different, you and I. Perhaps, on this ship, we will both find what we're looking for. But do not call me shaman, or Godtongue. Call me Ruka. That is my name."
Zaya nodded in respect, lost for words, but the intense gaze remained, waiting for an answer, and she smiled shyly. "I will try."
The corner of the thick lips quirked in a smile that Zaya thought was not for her. "That is all any of us can do, Zaya, daughter of Juchi and Egil. Good night."
"Goodnight…Ruka."
The legendary shaman turned for his cabin, his gait she now realized holding the hint of a limp, no doubt some injury earned in a glorious battle he'd not speak of. With a sigh, and a last glance at Chang singing again with his men, Zaya did the same.
Chapter 10
Before morning on the twenty-fourth day, a perfect wind began to blow from the East. The captain roused the men with his shouting. "Fill the rigging! Extend the halyards, I want every scrap of sail!"
Chang blinked the sleep from his eyes and woke the Pitman and Old Mata, who had already mastered the new sails better than any man on the ship. By dawn the Prince stretched her arms to the sun, cloth snapped taut and full on every mast until Chang was worried her bones would snap.
But the monstrous pilot walked the deck grinning. He glanced at the sea and the wide-eyed men as he laughed. Chang stood on the prow, the wind surrounding his scalp and snapping his shirt full like a sail, wondering if this was how birds felt when they flew.
It was only the beginning of a long and blessed streak of fortune. The wind carried them for days with little tacking, then on the fifth the Steerman called land ahead!, and the crew scrambled with unhidden joy at even the prospect of an island.
As the outline stopped growing they realized it was tiny, but still, they stopped and fished, and made a great bonfire of the trees. The pilot returned grinning with pots filled with soil and a few plants, and several crabs and other shellfish in a bucket. "Tonight," he'd shown them, "we eat like kings."
Leaving that small patch of land had been hard. Chang and his men returned to the monotony of life at sea, fishing and scrubbing, tacking and repairing. When a sail tore they replaced and stitched it, when a board broke they fitted another before caulking it with fat and glue. Zaya had returned to their nightly singing, and the joy of their reward kept everyone civil.
If anyone suffered from the ashlander's beauty, in fact, it was Chang. He did his best not to watch her. She had stripped down to a sleeved version of a sailor's clothes and let down her hair, which to Chang looked the color of twilight on the sea. She laughed more easily now, her smile carved by benevolent spirits, her growing competence bringing her a pleasant ease.
Chang focused on his work, and his men. In the evenings, to get away from Zaya, he had begun to sit with the pilot. At first the giant was uneasy but cordial, but made it clear he had no desire to speak of his past. When prompted, though, he soon went on endlessly about his plants or his maps, his gadgets or the stars. As a lifelong sailor of the isles, stars was a thing Chang knew a bit about.
"There," he pointed on a cloudless night with half a moon. "We call that the Fisher's Hook, see how it curves? And there is the line. You see?"
The giant smiled with his long, jagged teeth. "It is clearly the head of a sheep."
"Damned fool barbarians," Chang shook his head. "In the summer pattern? If it were a sheep it would be sheared. And where are the ears?"
"It is winter in the land of ash," the barbarian insisted with the same smile. "That is why the body is so round."
Chang smoked his tobacco, which often summoned the captain as if from nowhere, who would accept one with a nod and sit with them in silence. Chang thought it best to ply the frightening man's vice and perhaps one day buy himself a few moments of mercy, if the moment came.
Nights as ever became days, and days turned dark again in an endless loop of toil and renewal, movement and stagnation—the unforgiving rhythm of the sea. After two more weeks the sheen of the great prize began to wane. The distance from land became more than an abstraction, more even
than the knowledge that for each day at sea they must go back again the same distance. The grand adventure became a trick—a fool's errand, a madness which would never see them home or able to claim their prize. The grumbling began, inevitable as the tide.
"How much further, neh chiefy?" it didn't much matter who started it.
"Yeah, Lucky, you sit with the pilot. What's he say, neh? Where's the landfall he promised?"
"Soon enough." Chang answered, day after day, question after question, watching their little dark speck move so slowly across the endless grey of the pilot's map.
A storm came, and went. The Prince danced across the waves with little enough help, save for a few hardy men to bail. A calm came after, and it was this Chang truly feared. A few fights broke out over nothing. An oarman and the Pitman came to blows over who'd made the deepest scratch in the breakfast table, frothing and ready to draw knives until Chang and a few others held them down so long they wept and embraced, their madness forgotten.
Time carried on. Some mornings Chang had to force men from their beds to take their shifts, and once roused some would stare at nothing, mostly useless save for the single task before them. You could learn a lot about a man at sea, and Chang had learned his brothers well. Basko did his work, but otherwise vanished into his own mind. The Oarmen and Pitman did nothing if not in each other's company, playing dice with stakes no one else could discern. The Steerman, of course, became a lunatic. His temper exploded over nothing, his violence only subdued by two or three men after a few cuts and bruises.
Zaya sang her songs and seemed so at ease Chang truly wondered if she were a spirit of the sea. The pilot did his work in silence, strange eyes glassy and far away, like a mirror of the growing madness that overtook the crew.
The captain watched all like a predator.
