Crown of Renewal (Legend of Paksenarrion) (59 page)

“We’ve another passenger,” the captain said at dinner. The captain’s cabin, much bigger than her own, took up the entire width of the ship at the rear, with room for a dining table that would seat six. He leaned back in his chair and smiled at Dorrin.

“He ate ashore?” Dorrin asked.

“Oh, no. Not in your class. He’s working his passage back south. Missed his ship, he says, being ashore with a toothache, but he’s a sailor right enough. Hands like shoe leather; feet, too. I made him run up the rigging and throw a few knots to be sure he could. I don’t expect you’ll notice him, and as he’s crew, he’s not supposed to speak to you.” He set his hands flat on the table. “Now, about that—ship has rules, and even paying passengers must follow them.”

“Certainly,” Dorrin said.

“You’re welcome on deck, but there’s a dark line—blackwood—you must not cross unless I give permission aft of the mainmast. Between that line and the cabins back here, you can walk back and forth for exercise or sit on the deck or a coil of rope if there is one. But if I tell you to go below, that means into your cabin, and it will be for a reason. You’ve never sailed, you said, and it’s all too easy for a land-legs to fall or get in the way.”

“I understand,” Dorrin said. “Stay on this side of the black line.”

“I may invite you to the upper deck, but you must not come up without my invitation. You may come into the passage between the cabins, but you may not come into my cabin without invitation.” Dorrin nodded, and he went on. “Even if a hatch is opened, you’re not to go down in the hold without permission. It’s not for trash or the spill of your pot. Gith will empty that, but otherwise you’re to keep your compartment tidy so that when the ship rolls, everything stays in place. And don’t leave things about, outside your cabin. Gith will tap on your door at mealtimes if you’re in your cabin; you can ignore the bells and other signals the crew needs.”

Dorrin discovered that everything on the ship had a different name than it would have had on land. Doors were hatches, walls were bulkheads, floors were decks—all of them, not just the top one, as she’d thought. Windows were ports, confusing because instead of heart-hand and sword-hand, the ship’s sides were port and starboard. What she called ropes were lines or cables or halyards or—in a few cases—ropes, and most of them had another specific name as well. Every sail had its own name. Every mast had its own name, and so did other parts of the ship. Days after they left Bannerlíth, she was still struggling to remember which was which.

The ship moved not just through the water but
on
the water. Dorrin had heard of ships “rocking” and had thought of them as like a seagoing rocking chair, but it was more complicated than that. The ship could, at any time, lean one way or the other or a combination of the two, and it was never completely still and level. Nor was it quiet. She had imagined, seeing the ships on the Immerhoft Sea from shore, that they glided along without a sound. But there was one noise or another all the time, in rhythms it took her days to understand. Shouted commands, shrill whistles, the thud of bare feet on the deck as sailors obeyed, the creaking of wood as the ship tilted this way and that, the flap of sails when they changed direction or the wind did, the splash and gurgle of water along the ship’s sides, the bell that rang the turning of the glass, the louder gong that called crew and passengers to meals. At first Dorrin alerted to every shout—shouts ashore meant some emergency—but here they meant nothing to a passenger.

When Captain Royan invited her to come to the upper deck, she could easily see the Eastbight, its mountainous mass jutting into the ocean on the sword—no, the starboard—side. The ship kept well away from it, so she could not see any details.

Royan spent most of his time on that deck, keeping watch on the sea, the ship, the sailors, and any other ships they met. Ships came to Bannerlíth from the far Eastern Continent as well as from Aarenis, so on most days they saw at least one. Royan explained what cargo they likely carried, from where, and for what market.

The first days, she later realized, were easy. They had left in fair weather, and it continued for a hand of days. By then, Dorrin could keep her balance on the open deck as she walked to and fro. On the sixth day, when she came out on deck, Royan shouted down to her from the upper one.

“Look at the sky: we’ve weather ahead.”

Dorrin looked up into a sky with a pattern of clouds like fish bones, pale against the blue. They looked harmless to her, nothing like the thunderheads of summer storms inland or an approaching blizzard in winter. The wind continued to blow as it had; the sea was no rougher. But all the morning, a faint haze dimmed the blue between the fish bone clouds, and they thickened until they looked more like the curds in buttermilk than fish bones.

Royan came down for lunch and said, “We’ll be fine as long as we’re this side of the Eastbight, but tomorrow we’ll be past it. There’s storm coming—not unusual this time of year. Can’t tell how bad yet.”

“What should I do?”

“Stay in your cabin as soon as you can’t keep your feet, or if I say so. Don’t eat much; you’ll heave it up, and the smell will make you sicker. Dry bread and water is best. Always have a hand for the ship—a hand on something fastened down. If it’s a bad storm we’ll go around it—out to the middle of the ocean if need be.”

In the afternoon, the wind freshened a little, with occasional stronger gusts. Dorrin could just see where the dark ridge of the Eastbight dropped sharply to the sea and disappeared. Far ahead, the water looked different, with short lines of white drawn on it. The ship had developed a stronger movement, so the lamp hanging from the ceiling—overhead, she reminded herself—at dinner swung noticeably, but she did not feel sick. She sat down with a good appetite and ate as she normally would.

“Best get in your bunk,” Royan said when they had finished. “Latch everything in; hook the netting up. Best leave the jug in its niche until you need it, but don’t wait too long. Try to heave into that and not on the bunk or the floor.”

“I don’t feel sick,” Dorrin said. The fresher wind had cleared her head, and she felt more excited than scared.

“You will,” he said. “Everyone does, first storm. Especially in the dark. Do what you need to now and then stay in.”

“Yes, Captain,” she said.

This time he smiled. “That’s the way. You’ll be a sailor by the end of this trip.”

She finished in the ship’s peculiar arrangement for personal needs, latched the chamber pot into its compartment under the bunk, then lifted and replaced the slat that secured the jug into its niche at the head of the bunk so she could be sure of finding it in the dark. She was sure she would not need it. She was ready for whatever might come, she decided, and lay down, leaving the window open for the fresh air and light. The light dimmed quickly; the ship moved and creaked a little more. She might as well sleep, she thought, and—unconvinced it was necessary—hooked the netting onto the bulkhead.

She was dozing off when the ship suddenly heeled. She rolled into the netting and then back onto her bunk as it righted. A blast of wind came in, smelling of fish, then a spatter of either spray or rain. She could hear the wind whining through the rigging and the loud crack of sails. She struggled to find the bar by which she could pull the window shut, but while she was half-sitting, the ship tipped down and heeled again. She lost her grip on the window as she rolled into the netting again, then banged her arm into the bulkhead when she rolled back; the ship tipped up next, so she slid backward, her head bumping the end of the bunk.

When she finally got the window closed, she had an uneasy feeling she did not want to admit was seasickness, but as the ship continued to pitch and roll, she soon had no doubt. She had thought the jug unnecessary, far larger than anyone would ever need, but she was soon grateful for it and its large cork. Finally, her stomach was empty and she wedged the jug between one of the provisions boxes and the bunk.

Though she had nothing left to throw up, she still felt every lurch and sway of the ship. If only it would stop, even for a moment … but it did not stop. Instead, the movement intensified with the howling wind. She thought her body would come apart, but all she could
do was lie there, hands fisted in the netting to keep from being flung from side to side as violently.

The night seemed to last forever. When at last a little gray light seeped into her cabin, the ship still lurched in what felt like all directions at once. Her window was only a gray blur, water streaming down it. She heard footsteps, but no one came until the ship’s movement eased a little. Then someone knocked on her door, and the cook appeared.

“Here for your jug,” he said, and walked—unsteadily but moving upright, which Dorrin could scarce believe—to take the jug from where she’d wedged it. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said, and went out.

Dorrin tried to convince her stomach that the lurching wasn’t nearly as bad. Very soon the cook returned with the jug, now empty, and put it back in its niche.

“You have anything for the sickness?” he asked.

She had forgotten about the Sea-Prince’s wife’s gift. “Someone gave me …” she said, and then her stomach turned. She clenched her teeth and managed not to heave. Instead she pointed to the cubby where she had put her kit. “Round box,” she said.

He took the box, bracing one leg against the base of the bunk, and opened it and sniffed. “Good,” he said. “I’ll fix this.”

Dorrin closed her eyes. She had never felt this sick in her life. She had heaved before, yes, from bad food in Aarenis, but always once or twice had been enough, and then the empty feeling and then it was over. This went on and on.

Eventually the cook came back with a mug that smelled of sib and the herb in the box. Her stomach roiled. “You drink this, tiny sips,” he said. He unhooked one corner of the netting, put an arm behind her shoulders, and lifted her a little. “Tiny sip,” he said, putting the mug to her lips.

She didn’t want anything, but she sipped. Once … twice … a third sip.

“Two more,” he said. “Then rest, then I come again.”

Two more sips. He took the mug from her lips, let her back down slowly, rehooked the netting, and went away with the mug. Dorrin closed her eyes again. The nausea lessened, though the ship continued its uneven motion.

When next someone tapped at her door, Dorrin woke from a doze. Captain Royan looked in.

“You’ll do,” he said. “The herb helps, doesn’t it? Nice couple of squalls we had. You might get up and use the pot now, while you can.”

“Squalls?” Dorrin said. Surely that had been a huge storm and they were lucky to be still afloat.

“Yes. Not the main storm. As I said, we’re going farther out, around it. We should have a half-glass, maybe, before the next squall. Can you stand?”

She was sure she could not, but he unhooked the netting and helped her sit up. “Put your pot in the niche just outside the door when you’re done. I don’t want you out in the passage or on the ladders; someone will take it for you. Don’t forget the lid.” He left.

Sitting up was worse than lying down, but Dorrin managed to retrieve the chamber pot, use it, and push it along the deck with her foot, then get it latched into place in the niche beside the door. It occurred to her that a ship carrying passengers on a regular basis must be familiar with seasick passengers and their needs.

She had made it back to her bunk and rehooked half the netting when the cook reappeared with the mug of sib and a piece of dry bread. At his direction, she drank more this time—ten sips—and ate half the bread. Then he said, “Squall coming,” and she lay down while he hooked up the rest of the netting and left her.

This time was not quite as bad. Though she threw up the bread, she had no dry heaves after. The movement of the ship, the noises of the ship itself, the wind, and the water were still distressing, but she no longer felt she was at the edge of endurance. As soon as the ship’s motion eased again, she fell asleep and slept (she later heard) through another squall. This time when she woke, she was actually thirsty and hungry when the cook appeared. She was able to sit up and drink a half mug of sib and eat a whole piece of dry bread.

The next dawn brought brighter light. Dorrin looked out the window—coated with what looked like frost-fur—and opened it a little and breathed in the fresh air. She put a hand through the opening and felt the outside of the window, then tasted her finger. Salt. She pushed the window wider. The ship moved up and down over
deep green water with white at the top of every wave. She could not see ahead or behind, but in the direction she could see, no land showed, only a vast expanse of water, all of it shaped into the hills and hollows of waves.

“Past the worst of it,” the cook said when he appeared with a mug of sib and another piece of bread. “How sick?”

“No more in the jug,” Dorrin said.

“Good,” he said.

She drank the sib in small swallows and ate the bread in careful bites. The ship’s motion, as it slid down into the hollows between waves and tipped up to climb over the crests, no longer bothered her while she was sitting in her bunk, mug in hand. After one slop of sib over the top, she learned to let her hand stay in place while she and the ship moved. Much like drinking from a flask while riding, she realized.