Authors: J. V. Jones
Crope looked upon
the bums that covered Baralis' face and hands--some of the skin was beginning
to scar. Blisters and lesions could be seen, red and inflamed.
Baralis began to
murmur words that Crope could not understand. He seemed filled with agitation
and flailed restlessly in his bed. Crope felt great fear at seeing his powerful
master so overcome. He worried that Baralis would wear himself out with his
frenzied motions. So Crope tried to quiet his sleeping master, softly pressing
Baralis' arms and legs flat against the bed and covering his body with sheets
and heavy blankets.
He felt that his
master needed to be able to sleep peacefully to better regain his strength. He
could see that Baralis was getting no such peace--he was troubled by an inner
turmoil that was allowing his body no rest. Crope decided he would administer a
light sleeping draught to his master to help him fall into a more restful
sleep. He walked to the library and searched among the various bottles-he'd
watched many times as Baralis had taken the draught on late nights, when sleep
refused to come. He found what he knew to be the right bottle, for it was
marked with an owl on the stopper. Crope loved owls.
He returned to the
bedroom and, with large and awkward hands, poured a small quantity of the liquid
between Baralis' swollen lips. Crope then returned to his chair by the side of
the bed and reached inside his tunic for his box. Just to look at it made him
happy. It was beautiful, with tiny paintings of sea birds on the lid. He
settled down, turning the little box in his hand, and prepared to watch over
his master for as long as necessary.
Crope stood vigil
as his master drifted in and out of consciousness. He had stayed awake all
through the night, watching Baralis' limp form.
Tawl was standing
on the deck of The Fishy Few, staring out at the dark, sparkling ocean. Larn
lay two days ahead, and he didn't know whether to be relieved or full of dread.
The harsh voice of
Carver startled him from his thoughts. "Hey, you! What d'you think you
were doing feeding us raw turnips yesterday. Had me pukin' my guts up all
night."
"The turnips
didn't make you sick, Carver," shouted Fyler, drawing near. "It's the
sea that's finally gotten to you. Nobody born in the mountains makes a good
sailor. It was only a matter of time before your true nature showed."
"I was not
born in the mountains-it was the foothills." Carver's voice was suitably
indignant. "And I was sailing before I was walking. Seasickness! Never had
it once in my entire life. It's that boy's awful cookin' that set me off.
Turned my guts to jelly." Carver turned his attention to Tawl. "You
better watch it, boy. One more trick like turnip and parsnip salad and you'll
be overboard before you know it."
"Well, I'm
sorry the dinner wasn't to your liking, Carver. Perhaps if someone could show
me how to get the stove lit and find me some wood to bum, I might be able to
cook the turnips tonight."
"I don't want
to see another tumip as long as I'm on this boat. In fact, if I never saw a
turnip for the rest of my life, I'd die a happy man. I want some decent
food."
"Why don't
you catch some fish, then, Carver?" said Tawl ingenuously.
"Can't stand
fish." Tawl and Fyler laughed merrily at Carver's pronouncement.
"What's a man doing at sea, on a boat name of The Fishy Few, who doesn't
like fish?" Fyler was enjoying himself. "They must have been pretty
high foothills, Carver. You're the only sailor I know who won't eat fish."
Carver was about
to issue a scathing reply when another man turned up. He addressed Tawl:
"Hey, you. Captain wants a word. Move sharpish-he's waiting in his
quarters."
"Probably
wants to give you a mouthful over those turnips," mumbled Carver as Tawl
walked away. Belowdeck in The Fishy Few was small and cramped. The rooms were
so low that Tawl could not stand up straight, and he was forced to walk with
his shoulders and neck bent. He knocked on the cabin door and was bidden to
enter. He walked into a tiny, dim room lined with books and lit by one small
oil lamp.
The captain looked
at Tawl disapprovingly and told him to sit. When Tawl had done so, Captain
Quain poured out two cups of rum. "Best rum in the known lands, this,
boy," he said, handing it to Tawl. "Better be careful not to down it
in one go. I don't want to have to answer to the Old Man if you fall
overboard." Quain gave Tawl a scornful look.
"I believe
you were well paid to carry out this charter, Captain Quain," said Tawl.
"No man forced your hand. It was your choice to sail to Larn."
The captain
appeared to ignore Tawl's words and took a slug of his rum, taking time to
appreciate its flavor. "The test of a good rum is not how strong, but how
mellow it is. Only the best rum has a taste so rich and smooth that it conceals
its true potency. Go ahead, try it."
Quain beckoned
Tawl to drink. He took a mouthful of the rum, wondering if the captain had
heard what he'd said. Tawl's thoughts were diverted, however, when the heady
liquid met his palate. He wondered how Quain could call this drink mellow; to
Tawl it was fiery and strong.
The captain smiled,
noting his companion's reaction. "The first taste is always a surprise.
Take another sip, and no rushing this time-let the rum dance upon your
tongue."
Tawl took a second
mouthful, pausing to appreciate the flavor before swallowing. He began to comprehend
that the rum was in fact mellow; it was as smooth as late-summer honey. It
warmed his mouth and his innards, and loosened the tension in his brow.
"Now you're
getting the hang of it. Go easy, though, it's powerful potent." Tawl
decided to heed the captain's advice and reluctantly put the cup down. "No
self-respecting captain would dare set sail with less than four barrels of rum
aboard. It's well known that a sailor can go months without a sight of land,
weeks without fresh food, and days without fresh water, but stop that sailor's
ration of rum for a day and you'll have a mutiny on your hands." Quain's
eyes twinkled in the dim light. Tawl found it hard to tell if he was speaking
the truth or joking.
The captain took
another slug of rum and eyed Tawl speculatively. "You said before, I had a
choice about sailing to Larn. I can tell from your words that you don't know
Rorn very well." Quain poured himself more rum and then continued,
"There are two people who count in Rorn. Forget the old duke and his nobles;
even Gavelna, the first minister, is merely a figurehead. The people who really
count are the archbishop and the Old Man. It doesn't do to cross either of them
if you value your life."
"Now, when a
crony of the Old Man's comes to me and asks me real nice, if I'd be so kind as
to sail my boat to Larn, I'm not about to refuse. Sure, it's all amiable. They
even see I'm well paid, say I'll be recommended to the right people. But what
they and I both know is that I can't refuse. I can't afford to upset the plans
of the Old Man. My business relies on word of mouth and, if I might say so, my
own good reputation. If I was to refuse a favor to the Old Man, I might as well
sail off into the sunset and never return." Quain drained his cup and
looked Tawl straight in the eye.
Tawl was beginning
to realize he had misjudged the man. "Captain Quain, I had no idea of the
position you were in."
"Don't get me
wrong, boy. I don't mind heading to Larn. I've sailed this ship through waters
more treacherous and shallow than any Larn has to offer. But Larn's more than
just dangerous water. My crew has heard tales of Larn--tales to set your hair
on end. Now I can't say if these tales are true, but what is real is the effect
on my crew. They're all feeling a little edgy, though they won't admit it, and
a nervous sailor is a bad sailor. That's what I'm worried about, boy, not the
island itself." Quain downed more rum.
Tawl was beginning
to feel a little guilty for feeding the crew raw turnips.
As if reading his
thoughts, the captain said, "Here, boy, get someone to light the stove.
I'll eat no more raw turnips. Ask Fyler to bring up some decent stuff from the
hold and tell him Captain Quain says no hoarding. I'm sure he was one sailor
who ate better than turnips yesterday." Quain motioned to Tawl to finish
his cup of rum. "Don't rush it, boy. Rum's for savoring not for
gulping."
Melli wished with
all her heart that she was back at the castle. Surely marrying Prince Kylock
could be no worse than this.
Following
yesterday's trial, the magistrate had first led Melli into a small room, where
he'd then insisted on searching her. Melli grew hot with anger as his hands
lingered excessively over her legs and buttocks. It was obvious she was hiding
nothing there! The magistrate had taken this particular duty very seriously,
though, mumbling words to the effect that Melli might have a weapon concealed
anywhere on her person.
When the magistate
was satisfied that Melli had no hidden weapons on her, he led her back out onto
the street. To Melli's surprise a small crowd had formed. As she walked down
the street, people started shouting names at her. They called her a whore and a
thief. One of them threw an egg at her, and then someone else threw a rotten
cabbage.
Melli could bear
no more, and so she spoke to the magistrate: "Unhandle me. I will no
longer be treated as a common criminal. I am Lady Melliandra, daughter of Lord
Maybor." She held her head high.
"Be quiet,
you stupid girl. Do not make things worse for yourself with foolish lies. You are
a common trollop, that much is obvious to me." The magistrate then twisted
Melli's arm nastily and proceeded on.
Their destination
was the town square. The crowd gathered round as the magistrate pronounced
Melli's evildoings to the crowd: "This girl here, known as Melli of
Deepwood, is guilty of the crimes of robbery, assault, prostitution, and
deceit. She is sentenced to twenty lashes with the rope. The sentence will be
duly carried out at two hours past noon on the morrow." The small crowd
jeered at Melli. The magistrate then marched her a short distance, and with no
warning pushed Melli into a deep pit.
Melli fell badly,
landing hard on her shoulder and side. Pain burst through her shoulder and
pelvis. She looked upward and was greeted by the sight of the crowd gathering
round the top of the pit peering in. They seemed well pleased that she had
taken a bad fall.
"Serves the
dirty little thief right," called one woman. "That'll teach her to go
around stealing horses."
"A good
whipping is just what her kind needs."
"It will show
her we don't take kindly to filthy whores in our town."
Melli was almost
positive the last voice belonged to Mistress Greal. Before she could confirm
her suspicions, she was met with a barrage of rotting vegetables and meat. Most
of the objects were smelly but soft, until someone started pelting her with
turnips. Whoever it was had a good aim, and Melli was forced to shield her face
from the barrage.
This action
delighted the vicious crowd and only served to increase their enthusiasm.
Someone dumped a large quantity of sour milk on her head, and then she was
bombarded with crab apples. There was nothing Melli could do: she was trapped.
She hung her head low and prayed that no one would start throwing rocks. After
a while the crowd began to either lose interest or run out of things to throw.
They slowly withdrew, with shouts of "whore!" and "thief!"
on their tongues. Someone threw one last thing: a large melon. It landed right
on her tender shoulder. Melli winced with pain.
She looked up to
find the crowd had left. Tears welled in her eyes. Her body was battered and
bruised, and she was terrified at the thought of being beaten. Everyone had
believed what Mistress Greal had said. They even seemed to believe'more-she had
not stolen a horse, or been a prostitute.
Melli tried to
remove what she could of the rotten vegetables, brushing slimy cabbage leaves
and moldy fruit from her dress. There was nothing she could do about the smell.
She looked around
her grim surroundings. The pit was about two times the height of a tall man and
barely wide enough for Melli to lie down. The walls were smoothed stone and the
bottom was cold earth. Judging from the amount of vegetation in various stages
of decay, the pit must have been used often. Melli tried to move her shoulder a
little and pain shot through it. She managed to curl herself up in a ball and
sobbed herself to sleep.
She was wakened
several hours later by the shouts of men. Night had fallen while she slept.
"Hey there,
missy! How's about flashing us your udders."
"Give us a
look at your melons, or we'll throw our ale all over you." Melli could
only stare wildly at the men. "Little bitch! I expect she's only willing
to do it for money."
"Dirty
whore!" With that the men dumped the contents of their jug of ale over
Melli's head. "Waste of good ale, if you ask me." Melli shivered as
the ale soaked through her clothes.
The men obviously
found the sight of Melli soaked hilarious and they laughed merrily. One of the
men was carrying a lit candle, and as he held it over the pit, hot wax dripped
on Melli's bare arms. The men were oblivious to this, and Melli felt it best
not to speak out in case they decided it would be a good way to torture her
further. The men, having run out of ale, soon moved away. Melli breathed a deep
sigh of relief.
She was freezing,
the night was cold, and she wore, thanks to Mistress Greal, the flimsiest of
dresses. Now, to make matters worse, she was soaking wet. Every inch of her
body ached: the turnips and crab apples had been thrown with cruel precision,
and Melli's body was now a mass of bruises. Her most serious problem was her
left shoulder. Tentatively she ran her fingers over the soreness. There was
some swelling, but she could detect no broken bone.