Authors: Angus Wells
I traversed the yard again, this time toward the gates. I went boldly—the walls were high for climbing, and that furtive exit was more likely to attract attention than if I behaved as if all were well. Still I felt that eyes locked on me as I approached, and it was not easy to saunter casually, all the time waiting for a voice—Robyrt’s or Varius’s or Pyrrin’s—to hail me and demand to know where I went, with staff and bags, at such an early hour.
I was grateful for the negligent attitude of Pyrrin’s gatemen: they were half asleep still and barely glanced my way as I ambled by, nodding to them. One gave me the day’s
greetings, and I answered in kind. Likely they found nothing odd in a Storyman going out so early, but even so, I waited on the summons that should bring me back as I found the avenue leading down to the harbor.
Low warehouses stood silent here, their frontages facing toward the sea. I paused where two afforded me a shadowy hiding place, scanning the nearest mole. There was no breeze, and the air no longer carried the odors of seaweed and tar and fish—the still-familiar scents of my childhood—but rather a metallic hint of the heat to come. It was already warm, even though the eastern horizon as yet showed only a glimmer of sunlight. It was a reddish gold: it reminded me of Rwyan’s hair. I studied the ships riding at anchor. The
Sprite,
she’d said; I looked for it.
I could not find the vessel: I left the cover of the warehouses and set to pacing the harbor, south to north.
It was very quiet. There were no Truemen about save me; Changed crewmen slept on open decks, quite unaware of my inspection. Rwyan had said her ship sailed on the morning tide. The tides even were changed in this unnatural summer, defeating my childhood memories of their swell and ebb, but from the look of the water I guessed the turning should not come before midmorning. There were no fishing boats along the beach—I assumed them out, taken on the night’s ebb. I thought the harbor should not wake until the sun was full risen. I continued my stealthy inspection.
I could not read; there was no need. But neither could any save a handful of Dhar. The nobles, a few sorcerers—such folk as sometimes wished to record messages privately. What could not be said in honest speech was illustrated, like a tavern sign or a ship’s name, and that was how I recognized the
Sprite.
She was a galleass, her three sails furled, her sweeps stowed inboard. She was painted a brilliant scarlet, and on her plump bow was an ethereal figure, a silvery-haired woman clad in wispy blue robes that became waves about her waist, one arm raised to point ahead. I had no doubt this was Rwyan’s ship. I halted.
She rode high in the water—if she was to take on cargo, that should be loaded later (how much later? how soon?)—and I could not see her deck. I looked to her oarports and saw twelve openings. So: twenty-four oarsmen whose
benches must lie directly beneath the topdeck, more crew to handle her sails; likely all sleeping on board. There was no gangplank run out, but from bow and stern extended heavy cables, lashed firm to the wharfside bollards. Below them were portholes that must open into cabins fore and aft. The latter, I decided, was most likely the master’s, and he might well sleep there now; the forrard quarters would be for such passengers as should soon come aboard. If the master remained with his vessel, I could not chance waking him: I walked silently to the bow.
I stood at another watershed in my life, and I shall not deny I was afraid. I could turn back now; go back to Pyrrin’s keep with neither questions nor accusations leveled. I was ordered by my College to travel up this coast by land, and I had no idea what punishment should be mine did I betray that duty. I could neither ask for nor purchase passage—that would be denied me. If Rwyan knew what I intended, I thought she would deny me. If I did my duty—remained in Carsbry—I must let Rwyan go; I should likely never see her again. That thought I could not bear. Of the outcome, I thought not at all.
It was too late for second thoughts: I buckled my saddlebags across my back, fixed my staff beneath them, and took hold of the mooring line. I swung clear of the mole, teeth gritting as my hands almost slipped from the cable. My weight carried me down, the
Sprite
shifting in the water. For a moment I feared I should be crushed between galleass and wharfside, that the movement alert the sleeping crew to what I did. Momentarily I anticipated faces, shouts; defeat. Then the ship righted, water slapping about my heels. Her boards groaned softly. I swung my legs up, hooking dripping boots over the rope, and began to inch my way along.
It was no easy journey, encumbered by staff and bags, the line greasy and wet, the
Sprite
all the time swaying as if undecided between allowing me my goal and squashing me like some unwelcome bug. Had I not been propelled by the greater fear of forever losing Rwyan, I believe I might well have let go, dropped into the water of the harbor and swam hangdog ashore. But that fear gave me strength: I clung limpetlike or, more correctly I suppose, like a determined rat, intent on reaching the riches on board.
From my inverted point of view, I saw the forrard port
come closer. I almost fell as I nudged its glassed shutter wide. I hung, swaying precariously, listening for shout of alarm. None came, nor face to the opening; the galleass remained silent, save for that multitude of sounds a ship makes at anchor. The thudding of my heart seemed to me louder. I took a breath and got one hand on the lower edge of the port. This would be the hardest part, the point at which I was most likely to fail. I clenched my teeth and let go the rope.
I got my free hand on the porthole’s sill as my body crashed against the bow. My face hit the planks, and I felt pain erupt in my nose and jaw. My head spun; I was winded. I thought my fingers must snap, so fierce did I grip my hold. Blood ran from my nostrils. I thought I must be found. I held my breath, ears straining then as much as the muscles in my aching arms. There was silence still: I found some purchase with my toes and desperately hauled myself up. I got one elbow on the sill—the second—and then I was inside, stifling a cry as my injured face struck wood again.
I rolled onto my back: bloodstains would doubtless occasion questions. I inspected my teeth and found none broken; nor was my nose, for all it hurt ferociously. I lay panting, my head tilted back until the trickling from my nostrils ceased. I inspected my surroundings. The cabin was small, the outer wall curved, following the shape of the prow; the inner was straight, dividing this berth from its matching fellow. There was a narrow bunk with storage space below, a bench seat that was also a cupboard, a table hinged to fasten against the wall, nothing more; nor anywhere to hide. I picked up my staff and went to the door.
I pressed an ear to the wood and heard nothing. I could not dare hope the crew would sleep much longer, only pray none came below before I found some better refuge. I eased the door ajar and set an eye to the crack. I looked out on the rowing gallery. The oarsmen’s benches were set to either side, roofed by the topdeck, which was open down the center. The masts were bedded here, and between them were hatches affording access to the holds and bilges. Aft was a single door that must, I surmised, open into the stern cabin. To either side, ladders rose to the upper deck. I glanced that way and saw the sky was brighter. I heard movement above, as of bodies rising, the sound of stentorian yawns and the
beginnings of conversation. I had no more time to waste: I scurried to the nearest hatch.
A short ladder carried me into darkness. The air was redolent of past cargoes, thick and unpleasantly warm. I could see nothing, only grope my way forrard until I reached the stemson. I crouched there, hidden as best I could manage behind one upward-curving rib, slipping off my bags and thinking of the tinderbox within. To strike a spark was too great a risk, and I resisted that temptation. I hoped there should be no cargo taken on from Carsbry.
Time ran slow in that stygian gloom, its passage marked only by the muffled sounds from overhead. I thought the crew must break their fast, but I could smell only the musty odors of my hiding place. I lost track of time; I dozed, and woke as footsteps echoed directly above me. Wood creaked, and I supposed the oarsmen found their benches. I heard shouts, faint through the intervening planks, then felt the ship roll as she cast off. A whistle shrilled, there were muffled thuds, the craft vibrated, trembling slightly. I felt her heave—the bow coming around—and then the familiar undulation of vessel through water. I thought of finding my way above and decided to wait, at least until we were too far from Carsbry for the master to willingly turn back.
More time went slowly by. I curbed my growing impatience. I sweated profusely, the air heady. I grew hungry; thirsty, too. When I deemed us well out onto the Fend, I climbed the ladder and shoved back the hatch.
I had not often seen overmuch expression on the bovine faces of the bull-bred Changed, but those of the oarsmen showed stark surprise as I appeared. One bellowed; several lost their stroke. From the stern came a shout, part inquiry, part anger. I climbed out, blinded by the light as I came into the sun, so that I could only stand, hand raised to shade my dazzled eyes. I heard the same voice shout, this time in bewilderment.
Then a voice I knew, closer, said, “Daviot?” as if she could not believe the evidence of her senses. Then, firmer, “Daviot! What in the God’s name are you thinking of?”
I said, “You.”
I felt at some disadvantage. The sun now stood directly overhead, and I had lurked in darkness long enough it took
some while for my eyes to adjust. Rwyan’s voice had sounded as much angry as surprised.
I heard the other voice shout from the stern, “You know this fellow, mage?”
And Rwyan answer, “Aye. He’s a Storyman; Daviot by name.”
“What does he on my ship?” I assumed this was the master. “By the God, are Storymen become stowaways now? Or is he some pirate?”
“He’s a Storyman,” Rwyan called, “but what he does here, I can only guess.”
My sight returned slowly, and I saw the oarsmen had resumed their task, bending over their sweeps, ignoring me as if divorced from this drama. I saw other Changed faces peering down, and then Rwyan’s, Tezdal at her side. The Sky Lord seemed somewhat amused; Rwyan not at all. I grinned and said, “I’ll not lose you again.”
Her expression then was one of naked disbelief: she seemed not quite able to accept I was there. I went up the forrard ladder to where she stood. Four burly Changed moved toward me, marlinespikes in their hands. Rwyan gestured them back, calling to the captain, “He’s no danger, Master Tyron,” and to me, softer, “only a fool.”
“A fool in love,” I said. “I could not bear to let you go.”
Her expression changed. It was as though sun and shadow chased one another across her face. I saw disbelief become pleasure, that turn to anger, then exasperation as she shook her head and beckoned me to follow her. We went to the bow. Master Tyron came after us.
He was a squat, barrel-chested man, tanned dark as ancient leather, his head bald save for a fringe of white hair. He wore a short, wide-bladed sword such as sailors favor, and his right hand curled around the hilt as he studied me. His eyes were a piercing blue; they fixed me as if I were some loathsome creature come slithering out of the depths to soil his ship.
“I’d have an explanation,” he declared. His voice was gruff, hoarse from shouting orders or from outrage. “I’m commissioned to deliver you, lady, and your man here. Not some stowaway Storyman who slinks on board. When?”
This last was barked at me. I said, “This morning, captain. At dawn.”
He grunted, muttering something about a careless watch and punishments to come, and said to me, “How?”
I told him, and he grunted again. Then: “Why?”
I hesitated. I’d no wish to needlessly deliver trouble on Rwyan. I said, “I’d go to Durbrecht, captain. With this lady. She knew nothing of this.”
Tyron said, “I’m minded to put you overboard. Carsbry’s not too far a swim.”
I could not help but glance shoreward at that: there was a suggestion of firm purpose in his tone. I saw the coast shimmering faint in the distance; I doubted I could swim so far.
Rwyan said, “No!” and when I turned toward her, I saw genuine alarm on her lovely face.
Tyron snorted. “You say you know him? Is he crazed?” She said, “No.”
Tyron’s gaze swung from me to her. I watched his fingers clench on his sword. “You had nothing to do with his trespass?” he demanded.
Rwyan and I said, “No,” together. I added, “On my word as a Storyman, captain.”
Tyron considered this awhile. Finally he said, “Then I place him in your charge, mage. You decide what’s to be done with him; but I’ll have payment from his College or yours for his passage.”
Without further ado, granting me a last smoldering stare, he spun and stumped his way aft, shouting irritably at the crew as he went.
Rwyan faced me, and I was abruptly embarrassed. I said, “I could not bear to let you go.”
She said, “You keep repeating that, Daviot,” and sighed. “Shall you tell them that in Durbrecht? Think you it shall be explanation enough?”
I looked at her. She wore a blouse of unbleached linen and a skirt of the same material, dyed blue and divided for ease of traveling. There was no wind to ruffle her hair, and it floated loose about her troubled face. I reached to touch her cheek, but she drew back. That hurt.
I said, “Are you not glad to see me?”
She said, “No!” Then, “Yes.” Then, “In the God’s name, Daviot,
are
you crazed?”
I shook my head; I shrugged and fiddled with my staff. I
could think of no proper answer. I had not thought much at all beyond this moment, and it was not progressing as I had anticipated. I was abruptly reminded of childhood transgressions and my mother’s stern face.
Rwyan said, “This is madness. What do you hope to achieve?”
“I thought …” My voice faltered. I shrugged again and said, “I’d not thought too much. Save of losing you again.”
“Think you I don’t feel that hurt?” She seemed torn between anger and fondness. “But we’ve both a duty, and it forces us apart.”