They found Taufik relaxing by the rail with a hot drink, and he was happy to talk to them in Belada. Far from being astonished at their speed, he grinned and speeded up, saying they had the same root in Hind.
Next day he dismissed them from the lesson.
Pat expected to lounge in the sun and talk to the dolphins, but Sara had other plans for him. Perryn managed to talk his way out of it, on the grounds he would never need the skill and should study his spellcraft, so Pat found himself gingerly holding a light sabre while Sara explained the skills to him.
“Oh, God! Careful with that pig-sticker, it’s sharp.”
“Of course it’s sharp. Stop being a baby and concentrate or you’ll get hurt. Now this is how you parry.”
“Can’t we practise with a stick or something?”
“No. The weight is wrong and you will get the wrong reflexes. Much better to practise with the real thing.”
An hour later Pat dripped with sweat and blood, while Sara was cool and calm. They also had observers as school had ended, to Pat’s intense embarrassment. The soldiers and the Spakka joined them. Little offering advice - he seemed to be the only soldier who talked much. Mactravis watched Sara with interest, as did the fascinated Spakka.
Finally, Pat muffed a parry and managed to knock Sara’s blade the wrong way, receiving a nasty gash in his thigh.
“Enough,” he panted, looking crestfallen at his leg, trying to squeeze the sides of the cut together. “I need to treat this, there is no mud to stop the bleeding.”
“Ha! Piss on it lad, that’s the best cure.” said Little helpfully. He took Pat off towards the heads on the leeward side of the ship. “You need to piss on it quickly to clean it. Piss is the best, as it stops infection. Yeah, that’s the way. I know it stings, but you’ll get used to it. You can’t trust mud, could be all sorts of shit in it on a battlefield. It’s alright in the middle of nowhere, but you’re a soldier now, not a hunter.”
Meanwhile, Mactravis replaced him as Sara’s fencing partner and they went at it hard and fast. The other soldiers paired off and also started bladework, keeping an eye on the Spakka who hacked at each other with axes.
Sara disarmed Mactravis with a quick flourish then found she had to step smartly as he caught the blade in his other hand and continued as if nothing had happened.
She disengaged and stepped back. “Not seen that before.”
“We’re a little different on the battlefield to the salles. Sabres aren’t much use, as some of the savages use huge heavy swords and are so strong they use them like sabres, with good skills. They snap sabres, you can’t block them.” He smiled at her. “You’re no mercenary, ma’am.”
“I am, though. Just haven’t served on the northern frontier.”
“Yes you have,” Mactravis replied. “I was a cadet at High Peaks when you tried to lead a night patrol out. Thought the way Captain Parkes chewed you out was very stylish. He was horrified when he discovered who you were.”
“Damn! Does everyone know who I am?”
“There’s not a soldier in the army who doesn’t love you and would recognise you, ma’am. I know Sergeant Russell as a corporal caught you trying to steal a sword from the armoury when you were eight. He was your Master-at-Arms, I recall, so he knows you. You’ve spent far too long around the army to find anyone who hasn’t seen you. Your disguise is good, I only worked it out after the fight with the Spakka. I expect the boys worked it out right away, they usually do.”
“Lieutenant, you know why I am here?”
“Not exactly, but I presume there was some sort of assassination attempt? Lord Rotherstone?”
“Yes, a good one. How did you spot it would be him straight away?”
“He’s been trying to foment discontent in the army for years. Don’t worry; we’re with you to a man. I presume you selected us as your guard on this jaunt?”
“That’s right.”
“We are honoured ma’am. May I ask how long we can expect to be gone?”
“I don’t know. I am planning to be gone about six months, but my spymaster will let me know when it is safe.”
They talked quietly at the side of the ship, and she told him about the assassination attempt in detail. The soldiers continued to practice, making enough noise to keep the conversation private while ensuring they could hear themselves.
Sara came up on deck from the heads after the watch finished, and went looking for Pat. Awful sounds came from a cabin on the port side of the rear castle, which she thought was the smithy. It sounded like a fight was about to start, shouts and aggressive noises but the words were a nonsense.
Curious, she looked in the door and saw Pat shouting at the smith and his assistants. And one of them was shouting at Pat, waving a hammer at him. Pat stood there, glaring at him, then shouted back. Sara stared as she realised he was using the same language. ‘
Bloody cowboy, my eye,’
she thought.
‘Speaking dwarvish, what next? I’ve never met anybody who could speak their language.’
Brian pushed past her. “What the hell is going on here?” The Bosun was behind him, unobtrusively holding a marlin spike.
Pat and the smiths turned in surprise. “Nuthin’,” grunted the smith. “We just talkin’ about metal.” The four of them stared at Brian for a moment; one of the smaller smiths barked something at Pat, who shouted back, picked up a poker and slammed it on the anvil. This got them all shouting at once, until Pat pulled out a bit of paper and a pencil and started drawing on it, using the anvil as a table. They all shut up and crowded around, looking at his drawing; they started arguing again.
Brian shook his head and departed, the Bosun following after giving Pat a hard look. Sara sat down and watched, hugely entertained.
The argument went on until finally the dwarves roared in agreement and pulled out some mugs, filling them from a barrel, a clearly illegal barrel hidden under some spare bits of metal. Sara was given one too, and as she sipped it, they all shouted a toast and drained theirs, promptly refilling them and starting work, pumping the bellows and staring critically at the flames, waiting for the right temperature.
Pat waved to them and left. Sara followed him and asked, “What was that all about?”
“Oh, I wanted them to make me some different arrow heads.”
“What was the argument about?”
“Argument? What argument?”
“Well, you were shouting and threatening each other.”
“No we weren’t.”
“Pat, explain please,” she said patiently.
“Uh. That’s the way you talk with dwarves.”
“Really? I’ve never seen them act like that before.”
“You seen them speak their own language?”
“No - and how come you speak it?
“We went to one of their mines and borrowed some smiths a couple of years back. I hung around to see what they did and learnt the language. They always talk like that when discussing things.”
Sara shook her head, thinking she had only seen about two dwarves in her life.
“Some cowboy you are. So what were you asking them? How to transmute gold from steel?”
Pat looked at her in incomprehension, deciding to answer the questions he could understand.
“I was asking them to make me some arrowheads of different designs. You can’t transmute anything, but you can take it out of certain rock, if it is gold bearing ore.”
Sara started to ask what ore was, then gave up. “Come on, let’s make the sing-song. You learnt the songs yet?”
“Some of them,” said Pat cautiously, worried she would drag him in for a duet. He hated being the centre of attention and Sara seemed to push him into it relentlessly. She put her arm through his and dragged him off to where the boatswain’s mates were charging their fiddles.
Two days later Pat and Sara were relaxing on deck with hot tea made from a herb infusion popular in Praesidium. They were on watch, but nothing was required. The nightwatch was asleep, their watch was on call. A burly sailor came up to them. They knew him vaguely; he had joined a fortnight before them and considered himself above them. Pat didn’t like him.
“Midshipman,” he said. “I have a small problem with the cargo. Need your opinion.”
Sara passed her drink to Pat and started after Kane as he turned and walked away.
Pat took the cups and started towards the galley. “I’ll lend a hand as well.”
“No need,” said Kane over his shoulder, Pat shrugged and went to talk to the soldiers.
Sara followed Kane down a companionway into the bowels of the ship. He grabbed a lantern and opened a door that gave access to the main hold. Sara followed him in and looked around with interest. It was hard to see in the gloom, and the place smelt pleasantly of cotton and dyes. Kane worked his way along a gangway to the middle, where a narrow passage led deep into the cargo between bales.
He held the lantern high. “You’re smaller than me, so go ahead. Go down here and take the first gap on the right. I’m worried about some of the bales in there.”
Obediently, Sara set off and he followed behind with the lantern. She found the gap, turning sideways to squeeze through, finding a larger space behind it. Kane held the lantern behind him as he squeezed through and she couldn’t work out the layout in front of her, so she paused.
Kane pushed through, brought the lantern behind him and hung it up on a peg. Sara stared in astonishment at where a small space existed on top of the bales, perhaps eight foot by six. It was a layer of bales with nothing on top of them, making a small cosy cabin in the middle of the hold. She was just about to comment when Kane pushed her hard and she landed face down on the bales which were soft and gave under her. Before she could react he was on top of her, his weight pinning her to the bales.
She tried to buck him off, but could get no purchase, nor could she shout with her mouth full of cotton. In outrage, she felt his hand curve round her buttocks, and heard his pleased chuckle. She tried to cry out in anger, and couldn’t. His hand was working round under her now, feeling for the belt and fastenings of her trousers. Her legs thrashed ineffectually, and he used her movements to get his hand on the fastenings and undo the belt . He started working on the buttons.
Sara got an arm free from under herself and tried to hit him, but could not reach him on top of her. With a hard yank, he pulled her trousers down past her buttocks. She clamped her legs together but his hand was under her panties and pushing down into the crack of her buttocks. Sara squealed in outrage as one of his fingers pushed with brutal and painful force into her bottom, the nail rasping and tearing at her tender flesh. She clenched her buttocks together, relaxing her legs at the same time and in a trice he pushed her trousers down to her knees.
Kane moved higher on top of her, she tried to buck and he sat firmly on her back. He used his legs to pin her shoulders and leaned down and pulled her trousers off, taking the panties with them, despite her kicking. Sara began to panic and tried to scream again, struggling to breathe under his weight. Kane turned around, shuffled backwards, sitting on her buttocks. She reared up, pushing herself up with both arms. He grabbed her shirt at the collar and pulled it down and out, ripping open the top two buttons and trapping her arms to her side. Then he slipped off her and swung her onto her back, her arms pinioned to her sides, bare from the waist down. Before she could react he fell on her, pinning her down with his waist. One hand held the shirt and her arms, with the other he popped a straining button and revealed her breasts, grinning as he caressed her left breast and rolled the nipple with his thumb.
Sara stared at him in shock and astonishment - nothing in her life had prepared her for this, nor for the revulsion that welled up in her as her nipple hardened under the friction. Realising she was trapped, she started to shout for help, knowing Pat would hear. As her mouth opened, Kane was ready and he pushed some loose cotton into it. She choked and felt panic rising inside her, thrashing feebly. He saw the nipple firm up and grinned again, speaking for the first time as he rubbed the nipple further.
“Ha! Knew you would like it when we got down to it. You proud and hoity-toity girls always want it rough.” He dropped his head to her breast and she felt hot damp warmth on her breast. She groaned, thinking how her nipples always reacted to temperature and friction and how annoyed it made her when boys thought they were responsible. Now this! His weight crushed the breath from her, and she felt a growing pressure in her groin where he pressed against her. His hand went down and she felt him fiddling with his own trousers that he pushed down and away and she felt something big, hard and hot against her thighs.
She sobbed in horror, and he laughed again, wiggling his legs. “Stop struggling, girl. Or should I say Princess.” He grinned at her expression of shock, pushing the horror and outrage off her face.
He chuckled, looking down at her frozen form and squeezing her left breast painfully. “You heathen Starr bastards have lived off our backs long enough. Not even a proper Christian, are you, bitch?”
He bent to her breast again, biting and the pain lanced through her. She thrashed again, desperately trying to get her arms free and he used her movement to slip between her thighs, forcing them apart and wide. The hot thing was now pressed against her private parts, rubbing against her, causing more revulsion to erupt in her, combining with the pain from her breast. She smelt his rancid, unwashed body and felt a surge of bile rush up her throat, a shudder of horror and panic overwhelming her, her mind a screaming mass of panic.