Tor picked up the thread, thinking aloud. ‘Yes, this crew is slovenly and ineffective most of the time. The food is woeful and I’ve noticed that the ship is not in good repair.’
‘You’re right. Pray we aren’t hit by a storm because, in honesty, I’m not sure
The Wasp
is up to it.’
‘I heard this was the last sailing this season. I presume Blackhand will spend the winter in port and fix up the ship?’
‘Yes, but I’ve heard from the men that he should be doing it now, except his avarice ensures poor judgement. You know he’s risking this one last voyage because of you and that creepy priest on board. Apparently the priest has paid a fortune for passage.’
‘Who is he?’
‘No idea. I haven’t even so much as glimpsed him. It’s all very secretive. Even Ryk, who would normally blab everything, is terrified into silence.’
‘Ryk tells me the man has some sort of physical affliction but will not divulge anything further.’
‘Well, that’s the story but I think that’s all it is. Perhaps he’s fleeing something and needs to hide his identity.’
‘Hmmm, interesting.’ Tor determined to find some way of making contact with the elusive stranger. At least conversation with someone new would be a means of passing the time and would take his mind off his incapacity for action whilst aboard the ship.
‘Tell me,’ he said, switching the subject, ‘why are you on board anyway?’
‘Oh, didn’t Eryn tell you?’
Tor shook his head.
‘Well, she thought it unlikely that Janus would trust you. He doesn’t trust anyone, to be honest, except Eryn. And no matter how much you tried to convince him, he wouldn’t have acknowledged you or your story. Eryn figured that if I came along to vouch for you, Janus would pay attention. You could say that I’m your security,’ Locky said, falling back on his cocky nature.
Tor was relieved to see it had not deserted him. ‘Your clever sister thinks of everything,’ he said, impressed once again by the diminutive girl who had picked him for her King of the Sea when life had been more simple and he had had everything to look forward to.
‘Look, I really am sorry about what I said the other day. I love Eryn. If it wasn’t for her I—’
Tor squeezed Locky’s shoulder. The gesture was enough. It told Locky that no more needed to be said on the subject.
Tor had lost all curiosity about the other guest by the fourth day at sea. The rolling of the waves had given him a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach and he had decided he was no sailor. But when the cry went up from the crow’s nest, he forgot all about his churning belly.
‘Weather coming in from the west!’ the lookout shouted and the crew jumped into action.
Tor looked towards the angry, purple clouds ahead. Heavy rain threatened. It reminded him of the day when Merkhud had arrived at his parents’ house in Flat Meadows. The skies had been a similar colour that evening, and what a great storm had hit, lashing the region with heavy rains and winds.
So much had happened since that night when the Royal Physic had asked Tor to become his apprentice at the palace in Tal. That same night he had shared with Merkhud the image of the three magical orbs, their iridescent colours weaving and circling around and between his fingers. Tor had watched the colour
drain from the old man’s cheeks when he saw the orbs. The Stones of Ordolt, he had called them.
Tor wondered about the orbs now as he stared at the threatening skies. He had given the three Stones to Sorrel in those desperate last seconds in the Heartwood when his beautiful children were taken from him. It had been all he could think of to give them and somehow he had felt that the Stones might keep the three of them, Gidyon, Lauryn and Sorrel, safe as they fled. The orbs were his only link with his secret past and he hoped they would be his children’s link to their true parents.
His instincts had been correct. He had learned from the Writings of Nanak that the Stones were deeply enchanted. They derived from the three flowers which the infant god Orlac had been holding when he was stolen from The Glade. Tor had also learned that the mysterious phenomenon of The Glade was known to the gods by another name: Ordolt. In the passing through the portals, between worlds, the three flowers had shrivelled and dried to hard stones, the Stones of Ordolt. These three magical orbs had found their way to Tor’s adopted parents and had been kept safely by them until he was of an age to receive them.
What were they for? Tor asked himself now. What power would they wield in this baffling quest?
A burly sailor interrupted his thoughts. ‘Better go below, sir. She’s going to burst any moment,’ he said, pointing to the bruised-looking clouds which were almost directly above them now.
Tor nodded and headed below, thoughts of the orbs once again put into a safe place in his mind to be pondered on another time.
Tor spent an uncomfortable night in his cabin whilst rolling seas and rain lashed
The Wasp
. The two days following were mild, but Tor was warned not to be fooled by the calmer weather. Blackhand had ordered running repairs on the ship but neither Tor nor Locky believed much would be achieved. In fact, Tor now agreed with Eryn’s brother that if a big wave hit or the storm re-presented itself,
The Wasp
would surely founder.
‘How many more days until we reach the Trefel archipelago?’ he asked Ryk, who was sharing a few minutes on deck.
‘Captain says we’ve lost some time but we should make the rendezvous point in two more nights.’
‘That’s good, we’re not so far behind the original schedule then.’
‘No, sir,’ Ryk agreed. ‘I have enjoyed you being on board, Physic Petersyn, and hope one day to serve you again.’
Tor smiled at the lad, whom he guessed to be around eleven, possibly twelve summers. He was so slight and had a nervous disposition yet when they relaxed and chatted over trivia like this, Ryk became fluent and charming. It must be Blackhand, Tor decided, who made the boy so jittery.
‘Do you imagine yourself being a sailor when you’re grown up, Ryk?’
‘No, sir, I have always dreamed of being a great chef.’
Tor checked the laugh which formed in his throat as he realised that the wistful look on Ryk’s face was real.
‘But that’s wonderful, Ryk. Tell me more.’
‘All the men in my family have been chefs, Physic Petersyn. It is rumoured that my great-great-great-grandfather, Orr Savyl, once cooked in the old palace for the King.’
Tor was impressed. ‘Indeed? So how is it that his great-great-great-grandchild is now working for a pirate?’
Ryk sighed. ‘Our family has fallen on hard times, sir. Two of my eldest brothers died, as did my sister and mother, from the green fever. My father was left with three baby girls—triplets—and myself to run his dining room at Ildagarth.’
‘Your family is from Ildagarth? Well, I never—I visited that city once. It is very beautiful, even in its ruin.’
‘That it is, sir. My father ran the most famous of dining halls, called The Tapestry, which was his special way of noting the work which came out of Ildagarth’s famous looms.’
‘So what happened, Ryk?’
‘Hard times, as I said, sir. With all the older children dying and my mother gone, my father could no longer work the kitchen. To be honest, sir, I don’t think his heart was in it any longer,’ the lad said, his
eyes a little misty. ‘My mother was a fine cook herself and she was a wonderful person too. I think his heart broke and he no longer felt the love for his food.’
Tor put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘And so you had to find work, is that it?’
‘My father turned to the drink, sir, and there were baby sisters to feed. All my earnings go back to them. My mother’s sister cares for them as best she can, but it’s a poor life for my pretty girls. You know, sir, one day I will be a famous chef like my father, and his father before him. And my sisters will wear beautiful silks and dance with princes.’
Tor could hardly believe this sad little story from the boy squatting next to him.
‘And can you cook, Ryk?’
‘Of course I can but no one on board knows,’ he answered. ‘I was my father’s right-hand man in the kitchen. My mother said no child of hers had ever learned the trade as fast. I learned his recipes and, although I am young, sir, I can recall them in their detail. I knew from seven summers how to run a kitchen.’
‘And how old are you now, may I ask?’
‘I am twelve, sir.’
‘Well, Ryk, if I can ever help you make that dream come true, I promise you I will.’
‘Thank you,’ the boy said, his eyes shining. ‘You are very good to me.’
Ryk heard his name being bellowed by the second mate. ‘Back to the scullery for me, sir. It’s hare tonight and a pea soup to start.’
Tor dreaded the thought of eating hare after his experience with Cloot. ‘I wish it was by your hand, Ryk.’
The boy grinned. ‘Yes, Therd is too heavy-handed with the seasoning, sir. One day, Physic Petersyn, I shall cook you a grand meal.’
He scampered away, terrified of the captain finding out he was a moment late for his chores.
Tor shook his head. He would have to see if there was anything he could do for Ryk. Perhaps he could talk with Blackhand that evening.
His chance came as they were eating the exceptionally peppery pea soup. Blackhand was in a foul mood and Tor managed to match it; his stomach lurched along with the ship’s motion and his mouth burned from Therd’s heavy hand.
‘Don’t be misguided by this calmer weather, Physic. Did you notice how still it became today?’
Tor nodded, hoping if he kept his mouth shut he would not return the spoonful of dreadful soup he had just swallowed. Some of Blackhand’s soup had dribbled down his chin and as he licked at it with his tongue, flecks of blood from his diseased gums contrasted horribly with the green liquid.
‘That’s our warning,’ the captain continued.
‘You mean the stillness?’ Tor spooned another tiny amount into his mouth, refusing to look at the captain.
‘I do. It’s gathering. I have to tell you, Physic, it makes me nervous. But we shall try to outrun it. I have hopes we might just sneak around it and reach the safety of the archipelago in time.’
‘I hope so too,’ Tor said politely.
‘Boy!’ the captain bellowed.
Ryk arrived at the captain’s side. Blackhand belched into the lad’s face. ‘More soup! And be quick or I’ll tan your arse for you.’
This was his chance. ‘Did you know, captain,’ Tor said, forcing a genial expression to his face, ‘that young Ryk, your cabin boy, is the son of a famous chef?’
‘What of it?’ Blackhand looked at Tor suspiciously.
‘Nothing more than the notion that his services might be put to good use in your kitchen. Rumour has it the boy is adept with food.’
‘Is he indeed?’ the captain said, staring at Ryk over his bulbous nose as the boy approached with the soup tureen. It made Ryk nervous.
‘Yes, captain, sir?’
‘Are you adept with food, boy?’
Ryk shot a nervous glance at Tor. ‘I…I can cook. Yes, sir.’
Blackhand sneered. ‘A bloody squit like you? Don’t try and foist yourself upon my private guests, boy. From now on you are forbidden to leave the scullery unless on my express order. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the boy answered, his voice wavering.
Tor was mortified. This was not what he had intended. He had thought to do the young lad a good turn but now he had just made his life worse aboard this intolerable ship.
‘Now pour me some more soup, you witless brat!’
It was too much for Ryk’s nerves. Terror, combined with the sickening lurch of the ship from a rogue wave, saw the entire contents of the soup tureen spill into the captain’s lap. The captain screamed so loud that Ryk turned and fled from the room. Clinging to the table in an attempt to remain upright, Tor had no idea how Ryk had stayed on his feet long enough to get out of the cabin. Fortunately the soup had not been piping hot but Tor did not doubt that Blackhand’s agony was genuine. If Ryk had not been the cause, he might have enjoyed it. It seemed like divine intervention. But as he staggered over to help the captain back into his chair, his thoughts immediately flew to how he might save the boy’s skin from a thrashing.
As it turned out, it was not Ryk’s skin he needed to worry over.
Suffering from the return of the stormy weather, Tor remained in his cot the following morning, wishing the voyage was all a bad dream and that he could wake up on firm land. He woke from a disjointed doze to the sound of Locky banging persistently on his door and calling his name. He sounded very anxious. Tor lurched to let him in; it was the one occasion that he was glad for the tiny width of his cabin.
‘Come quickly, Tor, it’s Ryk.’
‘Oh no, don’t tell me Blackhand’s punishing him. What now? A public flogging, I suppose,’ he said wearily, looking for his breeches.
‘Much worse. Blackhand’s feeling especially nasty. He’s ordered that Ryk must lose a hand.’
That got Tor’s attention. Suddenly his stomach was steady and his mind calm. ‘That bastard,’ was all he said before pushing past Locky. ‘Where?’
‘On deck.’
They both ran. On the way, Locky added that the second mate appeared to have miscalculated their course. ‘I think we might be in the eye of the storm,’ he yelled as they burst onto the deck.
It was horribly still outside. The sky was the oddest colour; a dirty yellow. Tor could hardly breathe. It was as though all the air had been sucked out of the area where they floated. All was silent and eerie.
But far worse was the scene on deck.
Little Ryk had been tied to the main mast with one arm pinioned above his head. He was petrified; his eyes were glazed like those of a terrified deer. Tor saw that the small boy had lost his water in his fright. The crew stood around laughing and jeering whilst Blackhand, limping from his scalded groin, bellowed that this was how he treated anyone who mistreated him. It was a ghastly picture.
All Tor could think of was Cloot. He saw him again as he had first seen him, nailed by his ear to a post and surrounded by a jeering crowd howling for the brute Corlin to inflict more pain on the poor mute. Tor felt the same immense anger rising in him
again now. He dimly heard Locky speaking as the Colours roared up inside him.