Aaron cleared his throat. “It seems to me that evading that ship would be more important than having a servant for dinner.”
The captain nodded pityingly, “It is precisely because, my dear sellsword, you have never had a servant, that you would even contemplate such a statement. Forgive me, but through no fault of your own—a man without servants can’t be expected to understand them—you lack experience, and therefore credibility, in this particular area.”
He opened his mouth to tell the captain just what he could do with his experience and credibility, but the princess spoke first. “Do not let it bother you, Captain Leomin. I suspect that there are many areas in which Mr. Envelar lacks experience. Particularly,” she said, shooting an angry glance at Aaron, “areas involving any type of human interaction that doesn’t involve stabbing someone or hitting them over the head with a wine bottle.”
Aaron smiled his best, most winning smile at her, “Well, it’s kind of you to say so, princess. I find people easier to deal with when there’s a blade at their throat, and I’ve made some of my best friends from wine bottles.”
“I didn’t think you had any friends,” she snapped back, all pretenses of decorum gone.
Captain Leomin cleared his throat, “Yes, well. I am sure that we can come to some sort of agreement on the matter. As for her part, the princess is correct that men—in general, mind—are less sensitive to the human arts than the fairer sex.” He resolutely ignored the scowl Aaron directed on him and pressed on hastily with the air of a man trying to avoid a war, “As to Mr. Envelar’s point, I must agree that I, too, find men most agreeable after they have been thoroughly stabbed. Less useful, perhaps, but certainly more … pliant.”
“Yes,” Adina hissed, “and better to knock women over the heads with clubs than to imagine that they have their own opinions isn’t that right, Aaron?”
He grinned again and shrugged, “You won’t get any argument from me.”
Her face turning a deep crimson, the princess was starting out of her seat when the captain rose, “Yes, yes,” he said as if oblivious to the argument, “let us all have a toast.” Aaron rose, smiling, and lifted his wine glass. He wondered, idly, whether the captain himself or the princess had poured it. If it was the latter, he suspected strongly that it would have spit in it, but he refused to let his discomfort show as he held out the glass to the captain’s own.
Adina’s eyes narrowed at him, but after a moment she reluctantly lifted her own glass from the table and touched it to the others. The captain let out an audible sigh of relief before he spoke, “A toast. To new friends who we pray will not be enemies, to old enemies who we pray are not friends, and to old friends, who are,” he glanced meaningfully at Aaron, “most certainly, the worst of enemies.”
Aaron and the princess turned away from each other, their anger momentarily forgotten as they tried to work out exactly what they were toasting. The captain sat his glass, now drained, down on the table. Finally, Aaron shrugged and drank, and Adina followed suit.
They all had just seated themselves again when there was a knock on the door. The captain let out an angry huff, “Who is it?” He shouted. The door opened, and a grim-looking Balen walked in.
“Sir, sorry to disturb you, but—“
“I sincerely doubt that, Balen,” Leomin said, frowning, “but what is it that requires my attention so much that I must risk total and utter destruction at the hands of starvation to see to it?”
The first mate bowed his head in apology, “It’s the ship, sir. They’ve caught us.”
“Impossible!” Leomin exclaimed, “Why, they’d have to be, well … faster than us to do that.”
Balen blinked and nodded slowly, “Yes sir.”
Leomin sighed heavily, “Well, I do suppose such a craft may exist, though I suspect it all the more likely that you drank milk before bed—you do know how it gives you strange dreams.”
The first mate continued as if the captain hadn’t spoke, “They say that they want us to hand over our passengers to them.” He shot an apologetic look at Aaron and the princess, “The man aboard, a man that goes by the name of Aster, has promised five thousand gold pieces to each of us in return for the three of them.”
Go ahead and try it, Aaron thought. He liked the old first mate—as much as he liked anyone, that was—but the man was crazy if he thought Aaron would just be handed over for his execution like a misbehaving child to be punished.
He was just about to get out of his chair and draw his blades when Co spoke in his mind, Wait. Let’s see what the captain says.
Fine, Aaron thought, but if we wind up as shark shit you’ve only yourself to blame.
The Parnen raised his eyebrow curiously, “And what is to be the consequence should we fail in this … request?”
Balen made a sound in his throat, “He says he’ll kill us all.”
Leomin rolled his eyes, “How crass. Tell me, Balen, have we, as sailors of Sheza’s mighty seas, accepted these, our passengers, in good faith?”
The first mate grinned widely, “Yes sir, we have.”
The captain nodded distractedly, “And is it, thereby, in your personal and professional opinion, our duty to see to their safety as best we are able while they yet reside among the Clandestine?”
The man nodded again, “Yes sir, it is.”
Leomin stared hard at the first mate, and Aaron was sure that he saw anger flash in the Parnen’s gaze, but when he spoke, his voice was as calm as ever, “Very well. It seems there is nothing left for us, but to regretfully decline this Aster’s offer.”
Balen nodded, “Of course, sir. I will tell him that you will speak to him in a moment.”
The captain snorted a laugh, “And ruin a perfectly good dinner? Truly, Balen, sometimes your lack of decorum astounds me. No,” he said, shaking his head, “it would be nothing short of criminal to let this meal—one which Henry sweated and toiled over I do not doubt—go to waste.”
“Very well, sir. I will see to it.” The first mate bowed his head first to the captain, then to the others, before turning and walking out the door.
“Curious,” Leomin muttered to himself as the door closed behind the departing first mate, “truly curious.” He seemed to be in deep thought for a moment before finally turning to Adina, “I wonder, princess, where is your man? Oh, what was his name, Eddard?”
“Gryle. He’s not feeling well, captain. He has been battling sea-sickness since we boarded the ship, and I fear that he would be poor company just now.”
The Parnen captain nodded slowly, rubbing a hand across his chin, “Right, Gryle. Still, it would do us quite well to have a servant present. Yes, quite well. Would you be so kind as to ask him if he would join us?”
The princess frowned, turning first to Aaron then to Leomin, “Now?”
“Now?” The captain asked as if she’d suggested it, “why, yes,” he said, nodding thoughtfully, “I think that would be for the best.”
Aaron expected the princess to say no, and he was surprised to see her nodding thoughtfully. “Well,” she said, “I suppose it would do Gryle good to get out of that room. Still, I’m not sure—“
“It’s settled then,” Leomin said rising. He moved to slide Adina’s chair out from behind her, and she had no choice but to stand, “I beg of you, do not be gone long, my dear, sweet lady, for we shall both be lessened by your departure.”
“Speak for yourself,” Aaron muttered, and the princess shot him an angry look before allowing herself to be led out the door.
Leomin looked down both sides of the hall before closing the door and sitting back down at the table. “There. Now, we may talk freely, or, at least, as free as any one man ever may to another, constrained as we are by those around us.” He frowned and glanced around the room as if expecting to find someone hiding behind one of the cloth tapestries, “Those who sit idly by, listening, and waiting.” After a moment, he turned and met Aaron’s gaze. Gone, was the absent-minded look Aaron had begun
to associate with the man. For the first time since he’d met the captain, the Parnen appeared completely focused. Focused and troubled. “For there are always those listening, waiting to see what we will say, what we will do, do you not agree, Mr. Envelar?”
Aaron growled in frustration, “There is a ship of men who have just threatened to kill you and your crew, and you talk gibberish? By the gods, what is the matter with you?”
“They do not threaten to kill all of the crew, Mr. Envelar,” the captain replied calmly, “or at least, they would not, I think. As for the crew being mine, you are wrong. They have not been mine for some weeks now—if they ever were—a possibility that I have grown to seriously doubt.”
“What are you talking about?” Aaron asked. “Of course they’re your crew. You’re their captain.”
The Parnen revealed his bright white teeth in a humorless smile, “And yet, they are not my crew.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Aaron growled as he rose from the table and started for the door.
“I wonder, Mr. Envelar, have you ever had a best friend?” The captain asked, his voice low and thoughtful, “One that you trusted implicitly?”
Aaron sighed heavily and turned back to the captain, “How is that any of your business?”
“Humor me, please,” the captain said, meeting Aaron’s eyes with a penetrating stare. Unbidden, memories of his childhood began to crowd into the Aaron’s mind. Before the orphanage, most of his life had been spent in various military camps. While his father ordered drills and commanded Prince Eladen’s armies in battle, Aaron spent his time being tutored with other kids who were the sons or daughters of soldiers in Eladen’s army. The fact that his father had been the commander of the fathers of the other children hadn’t helped Aaron make friends.
At best, the other kids had avoided him in the same way that experienced stable-hands avoided walking up behind horses. It wasn’t that they were certain the horses would kick, only that they could. At worst, the kids—most often the sons or daughters of soldiers his father had reprimanded—took every opportunity they could to make his life a study of torture. Their methods ranged widely, from slipping Rabelia petals into his drinks, so that he spent the rest of the afternoon puking his guts out, to lining his chair with sap from a Satley bush, so that he stuck to it and was only able to stand after ripping large, ragged patches in the seat of his pants.
No one ever came forward to claim responsibility for the tricks, of course. They had laughed and talked about him when they thought he wasn’t listening, but they would never take the credit. After all, he was the son of General Envelar. In truth, he hadn’t had any friends until after his parents were killed and then only one.
For the first time in years, he thought of Owen. After his first beating at the orphanage, as pain traced its way along the wounded flesh of his back like wildfire, he’d been lying on his small cot (on his stomach, of course) filled with anger and trying not to weep. It was then that the door to his room had opened and a small, sickly-looking boy walked inside and introduced himself. In his pain and anger, embarrassed by the tears leaking out of his eyes, Aaron shouted at him, using every threat he could think of to make the boy leave. But he didn’t. Instead, Owen had rubbed some sort of sharp-smelling unguent on the wounds, and as he did, explained to Aaron how best to avoid the Headmaster and, therefore, the regular beatings that he administered to his young charges.
Aaron had listened then, though mostly because the unguent did an incredible job of numbing the almost unbearable pain the headmaster’s strap had left in its wake, but as time went by he listened and talked to the small boy more and more and eventually they became friends. They would wander the grounds of the orphanage in their rare moments of spare time, talking about their dead parents, dreaming about the days when they would become soldiers or fishermen or even farmers—anything but orphans.
It was their friendship, more than anything, which sustained Aaron through his first year at the orphanage. Knowing Owen made life under Cyrille’s twisted reign bearable. That was, at least, until a few months after Aaron’s year anniversary at the orphanage. He’d been one of the headmaster’s recent picks for a switching, and he lay in his room, his back bloody and raw, his anger building, until the headmaster left to visit one of his noble friends.
When he was gone, Aaron crept to the tool shed and retrieved a hammer and a pickaxe, his fury helping him to ignore the sharp burning agony that traced itself across his back. Owen pleaded with him, warned him of the consequences, but Aaron was too furious to listen, and he left his friend behind as he snuck into the priest’s personal chambers and systematically tore them apart. He broke the expensive oak desk into kindling, ripped the costly mattress apart and scattered the soft white stuffing across the room. He smashed several small statuettes and figurines—gifts from some of the headmaster’s noble friends—until the piles of porcelain and glass that were scattered across the floor were completely unrecognizable. He kept at it until his hands bled from gripping the pick-axe, until his shirt was soaked in hot sweat and fresh blood. And then he kept going. By the time he returned the tools and crawled into bed, a satisfied, weary smile on his face, the headmaster’s quarters looked as if a pack of rabid jackals had been let loose inside.
The next day, he was assigned to work in the garden with several other boys while Owen—who was weakly and often sick—was sent to help the girls with the laundry. The headmaster enjoyed taunting Owen because of his small size, and the task was just another way of going about it. Aaron spent the day constantly shooting glances over his shoulder as he pulled weeds and dug holes, sure that he would turn to see the headmaster with his switch in hand, his old, wrinkled face twisted with rage.
It was with some surprise, then, that the day passed uneventfully. Night came and, giddy with relief, Aaron shuffled into the bedroom he shared with several other boys, too exhausted from worry and relief to meet with Owen and sneak around the grounds as they often did after lights out. It wasn’t until the following morning that he learned that his friend wouldn’t have been waiting at their spot even if Aaron had gone to meet him. The headmaster had, indeed, went wild with rage when he saw what had been done to his personal quarters. He’d stormed into the cafeteria during lunch (Aaron had taken his in the garden), frothing at the mouth like a wild animal, laying about himself with the hateful leather switch, cracking noses and blacking eyes as he demanded to know who was responsible.
From what Aaron was told later, someone had mentioned his name. The headmaster had turned and started toward the gardens when Owen jumped up and took the blame on himself, claiming that he’d destroyed the headmaster’s quarters alone. The terrified kids could do nothing but watch as the headmaster dragged the boy out of the room, hitting him as he went. No one ever saw Owen again.
Despite his size, or perhaps in part because of it, Owen had been well liked among the kids at the orphanage. He’d been a kind person, kind and innocent, and the other children often assured each other in quiet whispers that he’d escaped, that he’d found a good family to take care of him. It was a lie, of course, and they all knew it, but they said it just the same. The truth was that Aaron had awakened the headmaster’s fury, and his friend had suffered—had died—because of it.
He felt a knot growing in his throat and forced the sadness away with a growl. Owen hadn’t deserved what had happened to him, but so what? It was the way of the world. The powerful took what they wanted and the weak suffered. He turned to the captain and when he spoke his voice was tight with emotion, “Yes. I’ve had a friend before.”
Leomin nodded, as if no time had passed at all between his question and Aaron’s answer, “I’ve had a few in my time as well—two, to be exact. I wonder, Mr. Envelar, what would you do if you were to learn that your friend, a man who you thought you could trust with anything, had betrayed you?”
“He wouldn’t.” Aaron answered at once, surprised by the anger in his own voice.
“L
et us assume, for the sake of argument,” Leomin said, “that he did.”
Aaron considered the question. His first thought would be to make the man suffer, but he thought of Owen, thought of the boy’s shy smile, and that first night, where he’d spent the better part of an hour rubbing the numbing unguent on Aaron’s wounds. “I don’t know.”
The captain nodded, satisfied. “We are not so very different then, you and I.”
Aaron barked a laugh, “If you say so.”
Leomin’s mouth turned up in a humorless grin, “I do indeed.” He was starting to say something else when the floor lurched beneath them, spilling them from their chairs. After a few dizzying moments in which Aaron was sure he was going to puke, the ship stabilized. The captain climbed nimbly to his feet, dusting off his fancy clothes with an annoyed sniff.
“What in the name of the gods was that?” Aaron said as he rose on unsteady legs and glanced at the spilled silverware lying in the floor.
The captain rolled his eyes with a sigh, “That, I suspect, is our friend Aster boarding us.”
“Boarding us?” Aaron growled, drawing his blades, “I thought you said he couldn’t catch us.”
“Normally, he could not. Alas …” The captain shrugged casually, not bothering to finish his sentence.
“Alas what? Is your ship faster or isn’t it?”
Leomin stared at him as if he’d just discovered the man he was talking to wasn’t right in the head and gave a long-suffering sigh, “Do you not yet know? We have been betrayed, Aaron Envelar. I have been betrayed.” Suddenly, the cabin’s door flew open. In the same instant, the captain whipped a rapier from somewhere under the table with a speed Aaron wouldn’t have credited him and pointed it at the newcomer. “Ah, it is our dear princess and her man,” he said in a calm, welcoming voice as he let the rapier’s point fall, “I am glad that you could make it. Things are about to get … shall we say, interesting.”
The chamberlain’s face was pale and covered in sweat, and he covered his mouth with one hand as Adina led him into the room by the other. “Just what is going on here?” She demanded, “what was that? I nearly broke my neck.”
A Sellsword's Compassion_Book One of the Seven Virtues Page 16