The Bitterbynde Trilogy (18 page)

A sharp crack split the air along a black seam, and silence gushed out. Winch stood, whip trailing negligently from his paw. Beneath his horsehide jerkin he was shirtless. His bare chest sported a pattern of snakes and the usual tilhal, dangling on a thong. Wide leather bands studded with iron adorned his wrists and tree trunk waist. His brown hair was shaved to stubble on one half of his head and hung in long greasy braids on the other. He wore a necklace of sharks' teeth, and gold rings flashed in his earlobe and one nostril.

“Reef it, you puke-stocking rabble of misbegotten dung-eaters.”

Growling, sullen, the crew scraped dumplings and gravy off themselves and began to eat the larger chunks. Still standing, the captain surveyed them with a surly visage, adding for good measure:

“Anyone care to have a conversation with Lady Lash?” He grinned then, bulge-eyed as a lunatic, but received no reply.

As the men settled back into order, or a semblance of it, red-haired Sianadh said conversationally:

“Dung-eaters? Now why should he call us dung-eaters? What does Winch know about Poison's secret recipes?”

“Poison don't use no recipes, 'e makes it all out of 'is own 'ead.”

“That explains the texture”—Sianadh nodded wisely—“but don't be concerned, Croker—you ought to be used to eating things other people would scrape off their boots.”

Croker, an irascible giant with an enormous blue-veined nose, jumped up and pulled a knife out of the cutting laughter. In answer, Sianadh sprang to his feet facing him, one hand gripping the top of his scabbard.

“I'll slice out your foul tongue, stinking Ertishman.”

“Don't be so certain,
mo gaidair
. I have a long, wicked weapon to trounce ye with.” Tension mounted again, so soon. Winch devoured mutton noisily, seemingly unperturbed.

“Do not be so quick to provoke me. All my foes run when they see me coming!” the giant thundered.

“Really, Croker? Even before they smell you?”

Veins stood out on Croker's brow. “Toad-spotted scum! I have never been defeated.”

“Well, ye must run swifter than we gave you credit for.”

“You think you're so clever. I've seen donkeys with more wit than you.”

“Aye, someday I'll meet your brothers.”

“I'll kill you!”

Sianadh rolled his eyes upward. “Ye'd be doing me a favor, me bucko.”

“Draw yer weapon!”

Croker sliced runes on shadow parchment with the flash of his knife's blade. Responding with one fluid movement, Sianadh whipped a large sausage out of his pocket and flourished it triumphantly. Guffaws galed back and forth over the mess deck. Tension was released like the spring of a fired mangonel as Croker caught the sausage tossed to him, dropped his knife, and clapped a meaty hand on Sianadh's back.

“Ah, you be not such a bad jack for an Ertishman, Bear.”

“And I've always loved ye, Croker. The rain shall never fall on me while ye are my shipmate. There is always ample shelter beneath your nose.”

Croker joined in the laughter, his cheeks swollen with sausage. A moment later he looked puzzled, then shot a frowning glare at Sianadh, but it was too late. The red-haired man was by then seated in the middle of a circle, clutching a tankard in one hand, telling a story.

“This be a tale from Finvarna, my home in the west. The hero, Callanan, when he was a youth was trained by Ceileinh, the famous warrior-woman.”

“Ha! Only the Erts of Finvarna would have women warriors!”

“That is because the least of our women is mightier than most Feorhkind men,” was the seamless reply. “Do ye want to hear the tale or don't ye?”

“Aye! Aye!”

“To continue—Ceileinh held a stronghold in the mountainous country, wild and lonely. It was built atop a high plain surrounded on most sides by a sheer drop hundreds of feet down. From up there ye could look out across the heights and deeps to distant mountain peaks. Those who ventured there had to be stalwart and stouthearted. Ceileinh's fastness was renowned far and wide. All youths who wished to learn fighting skills went there for their training, which was arduous but made the best warriors of them, in the end—the best with spear and sword and bow, the best at horsemanship.

“One day as Callanan's training was nearly finished, sentries came riding in at a gallop, shouting that an invading army was pounding up the mountain path. It was headed by the infamous she-warrior Rhubhlinn, Ceileinh's fiercest rival, in her winged chariot. They swept away all who stood in their path, until they reached the cliff-top plain where Ceileinh and her company waited, forewarned, armed and ready, some on foot, others on horseback or in their chariots. Then a battle began. Rhubhlinn's mightiest heroes were slain single-handed by Callanan, but there were heavy losses also on Ceileinh's side. Both armies drew back for a breather, with neither side having gained the upper hand, and the leaders, despising this waste of their best champions, challenged one another to decide the outcome in single combat.

“But young Callanan demanded to take the place of his instructress. Knowing the measure of his keenness and valor, she agreed but warned him of Rhubhlinn's renowned ferocity. He only said. ‘Tell me what Rhubhlinn cherishes most.'

“‘She loves above all things her chariot, her horses, and her charioteer. Such a team they are, skilled, experienced, and peerless, her pride in war.'

“‘I shall not fail you, my Chieftain,' said Callanan. He saluted and went forth to battle.

“The watching warriors kept vigil in a wide circle on the dusty, gore-spattered plain while those two combatants met like thunder-giants in the middle. First they fought with spears, but they were closely matched, and the spears shattered without doing harm. Their swords were brought forth, then. But Rhubhlinn was the more seasoned in this play, and soon she disarmed Callanan, breaking off his sword at the hilt. A great cry arose from the throats of the watchers. Rhubhlinn bared her teeth, seeing victory within her grasp, and drew back her arm for the fatal blow. But Callanan was no fool and had prepared himself.

“‘Your chariot and horses have stumbled at the top of the cliff and are in peril of slipping over!' cried he.

“Rhubhlinn, tricked by this hoax, turned her gaze for one instant. In that instant, Callanan seized her in his arms. His grip was like steel—he threw Rhubhlinn down and pressed his skian to her neck, demanding surrender or death.

“Then she yielded to him and promised that she would never again fight Ceileinh. See, this tale goes to show that it is not strength alone that wins battles.”

“This tale goes to show that Ertishmen tell improbable stories,” commented Black Tom, who was immediately gifted with an eye to match his name.

The night wore on; the fights wore off; the tankards were refilled. This was a celebration of another victory. Talk turned to the day's battle, then to other ships, the ships of the ocean. The legend of the Abandoned Seaship was told, and tales of the terrible shang unstorms and waterspouts in the northern seas, past which no ship could sail. Nothing lay beyond the Ringstorm—it was a barrier around the rim of Aia to stop ships from falling over the edge into nothingness. They spoke of the lands of the south: cold Rimany, where the Icemen dwelled with their milk hair, snow skin, and magnolia eyes, and of the known lands of Erith, where warriors slept for centuries deep beneath the hills while eldritch wights stalked the green turf above their heads. And, in whispers, these ruthless cutthroats mentioned, shuddering, the Nightmare Princes of the Unseelie Attriod.

They spoke, too, of strange tableaux they had seen in various parts of the world, left by the shang winds to repeat for centuries, gradually fading over time. They talked of the sailor who, among these very mountains, had been ordered to climb down the outside of the hull to effect repairs on a moving Windship but had been so terrified that he had stolen sildron to put in his belt. Strong winds had snapped his safety-rope, and he was cast adrift, helpless in the air and blown into tall gullies where ships could not go. Aeronauts claimed to have seen his decomposing body flying past at twilight, even when his bones must have dropped to the ground long since. A scoop net was kept ready by the helm in case that sildron belt was ever spied.

“Stormriders have flying-belts,” said one of the crew, “but you never hear of that happenin' to them!”

“Of course not,” said another, “they are not so stupid as to put high-grade around their middles. Their flying-belts are personally made to their weight, see, so that if 'n they fell, they would be brought to a halt ten feet up from the ground. Then they unbuckle and drop down.”

“Aye, but that do not 'elp them much if a tree gets in their way!” someone chuckled.

“Pig on a spit!” the first offered wittily.

Once, Red-Hair heaved himself to his feet, swaying out of synchronization with the ship. Gravely he called for attention, raising his tankard high; his audience responded with an expectant hush.

“I would just like to say, me buckos,” he slurred, “that at no time in my life have I ever”—a pause for emphasis—“ever”—another ripe pause, during which the crew focused on him with difficulty and enormous expectation—“had any idea …” The red-haired man looked up with a confused air as he trailed off.

“what I was talking about!” he finished, thumping himself down and smiling benignly all around. The crew cheered weakly.

At the last, one of them sang a song—not a bawdy song, for once, but a ballad about a maid who dressed herself as a boy in order to follow her true love into battle. The pirates listened, hiccuping and belching. Soon, sentimental tears salted the rum.

At various times during these tales, the deformed youth floated in and out of uneasy sleep. Snippets of stories concerning unseelie wights, monsters, and legendary warriors mingled with the whistling breath of the cabin boy, adrift in slack-jawed slumber on his shoulder.

He woke fully, later, to find that most of the lanterns had gone out or been extinguished. Men reclined or slumped, snoring, in a variety of positions about the patchy dimness of the sweltering deck, which was redolent with the reek of their bodies and rancid fat. The cradle of the ship rocked gently, incessantly, in crosscurrents.

The big, red-haired sailor called Sianadh was sitting opposite, his back to the hull's timbers. A lantern spilled a rose petal of light on a paper he held in his hand. He was gazing at it intently. The youth did not move a muscle. He studied the sailor's face, alert to any twitch that might indicate the man was turning his head. Could pirates read? This one must have that ability. Or was it a map he was holding so carefully? At last the man folded the paper and slipped it inside an inner pocket of his rabbit-skin jerkin. The crinkle-edged blue eyes slid sideways and pinned the lad. He started, jolting the somnolent cabin boy's head, which slumped down onto his knee.

“Oho, so ye be awake, be ye,
mo reigh
? Ye did not see that,” the pirate said softly, soberly. “Foolish of me to bring it out here. But it is gone now, and ye saw nothing.”

The lad shook his head vigorously. The blue gaze did not leave him. It studied him as intently as it had studied the map. “Ye be mute, be ye not?”

A nod for reply.

“I had wondered. I never heard ye cry out, even when we came in over the rail—even when your shipmates were slain. I thought ye were too tough, too tough to cry like a babe. And I still believe that, now. There's more to ye than meets the eye,
mo reigh
. Ye do not wear the uniform of the lemonlegs. Ye be not one of theirs, are ye? Ye did not belong on that benighted clipper. And that straw-thatch I saw when your taltry blew off, aloft—ye be Talith, be ye not? Color like that, so bright, right to the scalp, cannot be false. Talith—that be rare. Where be your people?”

The lad shrugged.

“Ye wear the brown of a drudge. Topsy-turvy are ye—brown garments, lemon hair! Topsy-turvy in more ways than one. Ye be not what ye seem, eh? I knew that as soon as I clapped eyes on ye.”

The youth gazed back helplessly. Aside from the young servant Caitri, nobody had ever spoken to him like this before—not that he could remember—not even Keat Featherstone, so
personally
, as though he were worthy, worthy of notice and opinion. It was stirring and frightening. What did this bull of a man see when he looked at him? What in Aia was he talking about? Suddenly he wanted to reach out and clutch that knotty shoulder, to shake him, shake answers out of him.
What is Talith? What do you see? What am I? Who am
I? But he restrained himself, staying as rigid as canvas in a stiff wind.

And that did not go unnoticed, either, but was misinterpreted.

“Do not distress yourself. I shall not give away your secrets if ye do not give away mine. Shake on it.”

The red-haired man held out a calloused palm, and they shook hands.

“Good.” But Sianadh looked troubled.

“As thick as most of this
sgorrama
crew is, this be a Windship,
mo reigh
, and quarters are cramped.… You should get away, if you have a chance.”

Spargo rolled over in a hammock and fell out on top of Hogger. The ensuing racket distracted the lad's attention, and when he looked again, Sianadh was nowhere to be seen.

The crew of the
Windwitch
woke like thirty soreheaded bears to a breakfast of lukewarm spike, ship's bread, and half-cooked, stolen bacon doled out by Poison—himself not in the best of moods from having had to get up earlier than the rest. Captain Winch and the first mate, the purple-veined Cleaver, shouted orders. The two new lads were sent aloft, where they were kept busy.

In the stillness of predawn, the mountains rang with the liquid warblings of magpies, heralds of morning in the wilderness.

As the sun's first ray edged between the three pinnacles to the east, a tremendous noise of crunching reverberated through the ravine, as of massive grindstones grating against one another. On a nearby crag towered a pile of gigantic, flat rocks. The topmost rock was turning around by itself. Three times it wheeled laboriously around its own axis, and then it ceased and gave no other sign but seemed an ordinary stone, unbudging. The lad from Isse Tower glanced at his companion for confirmation that his eyes had not deceived him. The cabin boy, however, with his eyes tightly shut, was engaged in vomiting over the yardarm.