Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (4 page)

“He would have to be,” Paddy snapped. He looked up at Tarnes. “You going to hit the rack or not?"

The Second Mate blushed, his face a dull red, and he stared down at Paddy with a look of hurt on his

weathered face. “Don't be taking your spite out on me, boy. I had nothing to do with what was done to

the fellow, and neither did Stevens.” Tarnes’ sniffed. “He says he tried to help the man."

Patrick Kasella snorted and it was a burst of both disgust and disbelief. He didn't bother to answer

Tarnes, instead keeping attention on the man whose eyelids were beginning to flicker.

“That's it, my friend” Paddy said in a soft, encouraging voice. “You can wake up. You're with friends,

people who're going to protect you now, and you don't have anything to worry about.” He laid his hand

on the man's fevered brow. “You'll be just fine from now on. I promise."

Tarnes was about to turn away, to leave, when he saw the man's eyelids open slowly, hesitantly. He

stopped and took a step closer to the bunk, watching intently as the eyes opened, closed, opened again,

tried desperately to focus, flickered and then held. The Second Mate could see the effort it was taking

for the man to focus, but when he did, his fever-bright gaze settled on Patrick Kasella's smiling face.

“J'Nal,” Paddy said quietly. It was a Viragonian greeting that meant: peace. “We're glad to see you

awake.” His tone of voice was gentle, reassuring, and friendly. There was a soft smile on his handsome

face.

There was no word to adequately describe the color of the eyes that stared out of the man's pale face.

They were neither blue nor black, but a color in between. The irises were speckled with pale yellow

striations. Long, tawny lashes slipped slowly closed and when the lids opened again, the color seemed to

have shifted to another shade.

“I've never seen eyes that color before,” Tarnes remarked.

The man's attention wavered; he seemed to be trying to understand the friendly words.

“You don't have anything to worry about, my friend.” Paddy held up his right arm, unbuttoned the cuff of

his shirt with his left hand, pushed back the cambric sleeve, and turned his arm so his wrist was facing

out. He waited until the midnight blue stare slid downward from his face to look at the offered wrist.

When the man flinched, then jerked his stare back to his face, Paddy nodded. “I wouldn't lie to you.

You're safe and you're with friends. The Captain's name is Weir Saur and he's a good man; he'll not let

the Transporters take you from us. I swear it."

Norbert Tarnes turned away. It wasn't often that Patrick Sean Kasella let anyone know he carried the

tattoo of the Labyrinth on his wrist.

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The patient's gaze followed her about the cabin, as she fussed with this and that, but when she turned

toward him, he would quickly look away and pretend he was asleep. He didn't answer her soft, girlish

questions; seemed to be ignoring her constant conversation as she worked. Her voice was sweet,

cultured, pleasant to his ears, but he couldn't have answered her even if he had wanted to.

Genny watched him covertly as she dusted the shelves in Weir's cabin. She laid her brother's treasured

books—the only things the taxman had allowed him to take from the estate when they had been

summarily evicted from their ancestral home—on the desk, and began to hum softly to herself. It was an

old tune: The Prince's Lost Lady. The song was a sad ballad and it swept the smile from her face and she

stopped humming, swinging her head around to see him watching her again.

“I know you've been watching me,” she told him. She stopped her dusting, folded her arms over her

chest, and turned to face the bunk. “You might as well stop trying to pretend you're asleep."

A flicker of a smile touched the still lips and the blue-black eyes opened slowly, lifted, and merged with

Genny's.

“Good morn!” the impish girl grumbled, nodding once quickly at her companion, and then unfolded her

arms, turned back to her dusting. “Don't feel as though you have to answer!"

He would have if he could, if only to take the anger from her soft voice, but he couldn't make himself

speak. When the man called Patrick had come to question him, he could do no more than shake his head

at the gentle interrogation.

“When you're ready,” Patrick had said. “We won't rush you."

And no one had; but this young woman, this beautiful, sensuous young woman, had been trying her best

to wear him down with her teasing smile and easy banter. Now, her tactics were beginning to change: she

was adding a touch of hurt feelings to her repertoire. He saw her glance around at him and frown.

“You can talk, can't you?"

He nodded.

A light of triumph lit her pretty face. “But you just don't want to, is that it?"

He looked down at the covers. He shook his head.

Genny threw her hands into the air. “I give up with you!” she said with a hard sigh.

She couldn't read his expression, she was not all that accustomed to the many ways in that men looked

at women, but she thought she detected a hint of hurt in his sunburned face. “Or is it just that you still

don't trust us?"

“Leave the man alone, Genevieve."

Genny turned to see her brother standing in the doorway, a cup of steaming brew in his hand.

“I was only trying to...” Genny started to say, but her brother waved away her explanation.

“My sister,” Weir announced as he came into the cabin and hooked a foot under the low stool beside

the bunk, “is an expert at annoying people.” He pulled the stool toward him and then sat down, extended

the cup toward the silent man on the bunk. “Just ignore her and she'll eventually go away.” He glanced at

his sister, smiled at her look of pique. “Go bother Paddy, Genevieve,” he ordered as he settled the china

cup in the man's hand.

“Well, at least he wants my company!” she sniffed, flouncing for the door.

“Don't be so sure,” Weir warned, winking at the convalescing man. He thought he detected just a hint of

an answering grin deep in the wounded eyes looking up at him.

“Women,” he whispered as Genny slammed the cabin door shut behind her departure. He leaned

toward the other man and grinned. “You can't live with them; you can't live without them; you can't sell

them to the highest bidder, eh?” He laughed. “Unless you're a Hasdu!"

The man on the cot looked down at the steaming cup.

Weir understood. He and Paddy thought somewhere along the line someone close to this man had hurt

him very badly; it was evident in the lack of trust he was exhibiting despite everyone's effort at putting him

at ease, at assuring him he was safe.

“She hurt you pretty bad, didn't she?"

The remarkable blue stare shifted in surprise to Weir.

Weir smiled gently. “It's a man's curse, sometimes: trusting a woman. Were you lovers?"

There was a slow nod.

“And she betrayed you?"

Another slow nod for reply.

“I'm sorry."

There was a slight shrug.

Weir didn't know what else to say. So far, this was the most they'd gotten out of him. No words as yet,

but at least some questions had been answered. He reached out and touched the man's thin arm. “Drink

that,” he ordered, nodding at the cup. “You've probably never had anything like it and I promise you will

enjoy it."

The weak man lifted the cup, put the rim to his lips and seemed to sigh as though he would do as he was

told simply because he'd been told to.

“The old man we found with you is finally up and about. He was anxious to get to work. Not a bad sort,

is he?"

Weir's companion shook his head.

“Helped you, did he?"

A brief, thoughtful nod.

“That's good.” Weir yawned, stretched, and then stood up, arching his back to relieve the tension in his

shoulders. He looked about the cabin, pleased to see his sister had at least started to clean the

bookshelves. He jerked his head toward the stack of books on his desk. “Do you read Serenian?"

Another nod: hesitant, unsure.

“Then, help yourself.” Weir leaned over and picked up three books at random. He read the titles,

cocked a brow at his companion, and then handed a thick volume of short stories to him. He was more

pleased than he could admit when a hesitant hand took the thick tome from him. “Enjoy it."

The patient followed Weir's departure from the cabin, stared a long time at the closed door before finally

looking down at the book cradled lovingly against his thin chest. He pulled the book away from him, read

the title, closed his eyes, and hugged the volume of short stories to him once more.

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“He still hasn't spoken?” Jarl Stevens asked. He stopped in his task of sluicing the deck and leaned on his

mop, looked hard at Patrick Kasella.

“He will,” Paddy said, stepping briskly past the old man. The sight of the ex-prison ship guard never

failed to anger him.

“You want me to try talking to the lad?"

Patrick spun around, his hand came up, and he pointed a rigid finger at the old man. “You keep the hell

away from him! Do you hear me? He doesn't need anyone reminding him of what was done to him!"

“And I suppose you know what was done to him?” Stevens shot back, his craggy brows drawing

together.

“Aye, I sure as hell do!” Patrick shouted.

“All of it?” was the sly rejoinder.

“What do you mean by ‘all'?” Norbert Tarnes, the Second Mate, inquired from his position on the main

deck.

“Keep out of this, Norb!” Patrick growled. He walked back to the old man and glared down into a face

weathered from many years at sea. “I know what they do to escaped prisoners, Stevens. He'll get over

it; his hands are almost healed now.” He leaned forward, intending to intimidate the smaller, shorter man.

“If you want to stay on this ship until we make landfall, you'd best stay the hell out of my way. That man

is no longer your problem. We'll make sure he gets all the help he needs."

“And will he get over what Janssen did to him, too?” Jarl Stevens snapped, throwing the mop down to

the deck. He put his gnarled hands on his hips and stood toe to toe with Paddy. “You think he'll just

forget about being keelhauled under the Tamarind and nearly drowned?"

Patrick's face blanched. His mouth dropped open and he turned to look into Norbert Tarnes’ shocked

face.

“That's what they did.” Stevens eyed the man looming over him with contempt. “They tied him up and

drug him under the ship. The lad was barely alive when they brought him up. He was terrified of the

water even before he went under. You could hear him screaming all the way to Necroman and back

when they pushed him over the side. Of course, that was after he'd been screaming and pleading and

begging them for over an hour not to do it."

“Maybe he's strained his throat and all, Paddy,” Norbert Tarnes remarked. “Maybe that's why he ain't

said nothing to us."

“He was hoarse by the time that son-of-a-whoring-slut had him heaved over the rail,” Stevens told them.

“He ain't said a single word since they pulled him out."

“Why didn't you tell us this before?” Paddy shouted. “We should have been told!"

“You didn't ask me nothing!” Stevens reminded the warrior. “You ain't said bidey-bye to me since I was

able to be up and about! I figured you'd come looking for answers when the lad didn't give you none, but

no: you think you know so damned much!"

Norbert Tarnes could see the explosion coming, looked down at Paddy's balled fists and hurried

forward to avoid the confrontation he knew the young Ionarian would later regret. He wedged himself

between the two men, not an easy feat, since they were practically nose to nose despite the difference in

heights.

“Maybe you ought to tell us everything you know, Stevens.” He turned his back to Paddy and pleaded

with Stevens to co-operate. “Anything we can learn that might help the lad, will be greatly appreciated."

Stevens snorted, turned his head, and spat a thick glob of phlegm over the rail. He craned his neck and

peered around Tarnes to study Patrick.

“I'll say my piece if I ain't interrupted by the likes of this fool."

Paddy nudged Tarnes with his body, was surprised when the older man didn't, and wouldn't, move out

of the way for him to get to Stevens.

“Steady as she goes, Paddy,” Tarnes mumbled, pushing Kasella back with his skinny rump. “Let the

man have his say."

“Maybe you should get the Captain so this don't have to be repeated twice,” Stevens advised. He

hawked another clump of mucous from his toothless mouth and leaned down to pick up his mop.

“Weir!” Patrick shouted at the top of his lungs. He didn't look away from the old man as he yelled.

Seating himself on a coil of rope, Jarl Stevens propped himself up with the mop handle, his arthritic

fingers curled around the wooden spindle, and began his tale as soon as Weir and Mr. Neevens, the First

Mate, arrived.

“We was just off the coast of Virago when the storm struck. We took on nearly three feet of water in

the lee scuppers and down in the hold in less than thirty minutes; that's how bad the blow was. They was

manning them pumps faster than a sailor drilling his first whore after a six-month sea voyage. It wasn't one

of my jobs, manning them pumps, ‘cause the smell of that bilge water sloshing about in there never failed