Silverglass s-1

by J F Rivkin

  “No fear. I’d not survive another attempt at that spell.”

  “We’re not far from the docks. Lean on me.”

  “For anything one takes, one pays,” Nyctasia sighed. She took Corson’s arm and somehow kept walking. When they reached Merchants’ Wharf, Corson was practically dragging her.

  On board the Windhover, preparations for sailing were already underway, but some of the crew were still loading cargo from a wagon on the dock. A thin, middle-aged woman came up to Corson. “You’re Steifann’s friend?”

  Corson nodded curtly. “Destiver?”

  “Yes. You have the money?”

  “I have it,” said Nyctasia, before Corson could reply. “All of it.”

  “Follow me.” Destiver motioned the sailors aside and led the way up the gangplank.

  “You don’t even know how much it is,” Corson said to Nyctasia in an undertone.

  “I imagine she’ll tell me…”

  Stopping at an open hatchway, the captain turned to Corson. “Get below and stay out of sight till we cast off. I’ll settle with her now.” Without a word, Corson climbed down the ladder into the cargo hold.

  The only cabin below deck was a narrow, airless cubicle walled off from the rest of the hold. Corson had been in dozens of others like it, and every time she’d felt trapped and suffocated. She sat down on the bunk, which was too short for her to stretch out on, and mulled over her situation with resentment.

  “Giving me orders!” she muttered. “Scrawny, swaggering, leather-faced bitch!”

  Nyctasia entered the cabin and sat down, leaning against Corson. “I feel terrible,” she remarked.

  “Do you think she’s good-looking?” Corson demanded.

  “Who?”

  “That filthy pirate!”

  “Her?” Nyctasia yawned. “I don’t know, I suppose so.” She curled up on the end of the bunk and buried her face in her arms.

  “She is not!”

  “All right, she’s hideous,” Nyctasia mumbled. “Whatever you say.” Her face was battered-a dark bruise had appeared over one cheekbone, and her lip was cut and swollen.

  “Nyc…?” said Corson. There was no reply. She sighed, and pulled Nyctasia to the center of the bunk, wrapping the thin blanket around her.

  Nyctasia half-opened one eye. “Wha…?”

  “I decided to cut your throat after all.”

  “Oh.” Nyctasia shifted to a more comfortable position, too worn even to object to the dirty pallet and coverings.

  Corson sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall-she would not sleep until the ship was safely out of port. To pass the time, she took the precious hand mirror from her pack, and studied her features critically. She looked as tired and grimy as she felt. Her reflection grimaced back at her, and she laid aside the mirror to paw through her pack for something to eat.

  “He’s probably screwing Trask right now,” she thought sourly.

  19

  “she’s probably lying dead in a dungeon by now-I tell you, she’s gone too far this time. She thinks she can treat this like one of her fool escapades, but these are powerful people! Rich nobles, whoever they are-they’ll crush her!”

  Steifann groaned and reached for the pitcher on the table before him. It was nearly empty.

  “No more of that,” the cook said sternly, snatching it away. “You’re drunk enough already.” He turned back to the great mass of dough, kneading it rhythmically. The kitchen was already fragrant with the smell of baking loaves,

  “Corson knows what she’s about. You fret over her every time like a broody hen and she always comes back whole and hearty.”

  “This is different, I tell you-”

  “You always say that. I’ve no time for your babbling. And you should be on your way to market by now-it’s almost light. The best’ll be picked over before you get yourself there. If you come back with flyblown meat and rotten cabbage you’ll cook it yourself!”

  Steifann got to his feet with a grant. “You’ll see,” he said thickly, “I’ve more to think of than cabbages!”

  “That’s right,” said the cook, pushing him out the door, “onions. I want a bushelful, Don’t forget.”

  In the courtyard, children of all ages were feeding the hens, gathering eggs, drawing water, and loading their arms with firewood for the kitchen hearth-all in the noisiest possible manner. They were mostly the offspring of the cook and his wife, who lived across the court, but they spent most of the day about the tavern, doing kitchen chores and running errands. Seeing Steifann harnessing the cart-horse, two of the smallest stopped throwing corn at each other and ran up to him shrieking demands to be taken along to market.

  Steifann, who was feeling the effects of a sleepless night and too much ale, winced at their clamor and shooed them away. “Not today,” he said absently, pushing the hair back from his face and frowning at nothing. “I shouldn’t have let her go,” he thought for the hundredth time. But he knew full well that the cook had spoken the truth.

  When Corson heard the ladder creak under a heavy tread, she got silently to her feet and drew her sword, watching the door anxiously. She would be at a disadvantage in such close quarters, where she could barely stand upright.

  Surely it was only one of the crew…

  “Corson, are you in there?” Steifann pushed open the cabin door, laughing at her surprise. “Must you always greet me with that sword in your hand? It’s not manners. If I’m not welcome, I’ll take myself off.”

  Corson’s eager embrace left no doubt as to his welcome., “What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

  “Oh, I just thought I’d come see you off… not that I was really worried, I knew you’d be all right.”

  “You’re drunk!” laughed Corson. “You must have been up all night fretting, and there was nothing to it-it was a lark.”

  Steifann peered over her shoulder with bloodshot eyes. “Who’s that?” he demanded. “Hlann Asye, Corson, you’ve only just come on board and you’re already in bed with the cabin boy!” He crossed to the berth in two strides and glared down at the sleeping Nyctasia. “Oh

  …” he said uneasily, turning away. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.” He stooped to avoid a low beam and leaned back against the wall, fumbling in his pouch. “You must need some money, Corson.”

  She pulled his hand away and pressed it to her cheek. “No, she paid our passage,” she said, nodding towards Nyctasia. “That one has no end of money.”

  She nestled against him and murmured, “but you don’t want to hear about her.”

  Steifann reached his arm around her waist and drew her close.

  “You’ve not changed, I see, Steifann. Stinking drunk and still hot as a buck in nit!” Destiver leaned in the doorway, one hand on her hip. “But you’d best get yourself ashore unless you plan to sail with us. The tide won’t wait for you, lover.”

  Steifann stifled a yawn. “Well, if it isn’t Black Destiver, the terror of the coast,” he remarked amiably. “No thanks, Destiver. I’ve sailed with you before, and that was enough to sake a landsman of me forever.”

  Corson was looking from one to the other with a frown. Steifann gave her a parting squeeze and she kissed him quickly.

  Destiver stepped aside to let him through the doorway and slapped him on the backside as he passed her. “You were no rutting good as a sailor, that’s what made a landsman of you.”

  “Corson, write and let me know where you are,” he called over his shoulder, and disappeared up the hatchway with Destiver at his heels.

  “I’ll see you when I’m back in port,” Corson heard her remark.

  Corson spat after them and slammed the door shut. She felt the ship lurch and move out with the tide. Harboring bloody thoughts, she settled herself to sleep.

  ***

  Steifann was late getting to market, but nothing could dispel his good humor that morning. He listened with considerable interest to the tales making the rounds of the marketplace. The talk was
all of a monstrous demon that had murdered a nobleman and half his guard at the Smugglers’ House the night before.

  “Just vanished into the air, it did,” gossiped a cheesemonger. “They say it’s the Witch of Rhostshyl’s doing.”

  Steifann nodded sagely. “It sounds like witchery to me,” he agreed. He purchased a packet of gingerbread for the cook’s children and loaded his provisions into the cart. He forgot the onions.

  20

  nyctasia slept for a day and a night, and woke feeling worse than ever. Not only was she stiff and sore in every limb, but she felt violently ill as well. Spasms of acute nausea racked her, and each slow roll of the boat was an agony. She was sure that she’d been poisoned.

  Corson strolled in, chewing on a piece of fresh-cooked fish, “Time enough that you woke up,” she said. “I brought you some breakfast.” She held out a tin plate with half a steaming fish on it.

  Nyctasia gasped and rolled to the edge of the berth, her empty stomach contracting painfully, her throat constricted. “Take that away!” she choked.

  “Hmm, seasick,” Corson observed. She helpfully ate the rest of the fish.

  Nyctasia lay back and shut her eyes. Her face was grey. “Is that all it is? But I’m dying!”

  “That’s how it feels. It takes a few days to pass, but you’ll live.”

  Nyctasia’s stomach began to heave again. She leaned over the side of the berth and groaned. “I don’t want to live.”

  “Everyone says that. I’ll get you some water. And a bucket.”

  “Days…?” whispered Nyctasia faintly. She tried holding her breath but it didn’t help.

  “You should try to get some of this down,” Corson suggested. “It’s better to puke up water than your own insides.”

  “I know. Leave me alone.”

  Corson hesitated at the door. “Why can’t you cure this the way you healed that wound?”

  “Must you always ask questions?” said Nyctasia feverishly.

  “Must you always tell lies? You said healing was simple.”

  “I’ve called on the vahn for so much already, Corson-to do it again so soon would violate the Balance… between the Dwelling and the Indwelling…”

  The ship struck rougher water and Corson could see the sweat break out on Nyctasia’s face. Between fits of retching, the sorceress gasped, “There’s more than enough imbalance aboard this vessel!”

  She was bedridden for the next three days and slept as much as she could. There was some relief when the Windhover docked at coastal towns to take on or deliver cargo. While they rode at anchor, the rolling of the ship was easier to bear, but the time between ports seemed endless to her.

  Corson slept on deck, only coming in now and again to see that Nyctasia drank a mouthful of water, and to complain about her own lot.

  “You’re just as well off without the swill they eat on this floating dung heap,” she grumbled, sitting on the edge of the narrow berth and crowding Nyctasia. “If not for you, I could be feasting at the Hare right now. Steifann has the best cook on the coast.”

  “Will you please talk about something else, if you must talk?”

  “There’s nothing else to talk about. I’ve never been so rutting bored.”

  “Pity,” said Nyctasia drowsily. “Let me sleep.”

  Corson wanted company-she missed Steifann. Nyctasia was an unsympathetic listener, and the crew regarded her with obvious suspicion. They were a close-mouthed lot who rebuffed her friendly advances, and she was certainly not willing to approach the captain. She chafed at the idleness and confinement she was forced to endure aboard ship-fishing was a poor pastime, and it was not yet safe for her to go ashore when they made port.

  In desperation, Corson pulled over Nyctasia’s satchel of books and opened one at random. Dead languages! Why couldn’t Nyctasia have something that a person could read? The first passage that was intelligible to her seemed to be a recipe-but for what? What was bloodroot?

  Corson hastily turned the page. She leafed through ballads, riddles, and puzzling verses that looked suspiciously like incantations. The rest of the book was blank. She chose another volume and began laboriously to spell out a long poem about a warrior’s encounter with a seductive demon. This was much more to her taste.

  Before long, Nyctasia turned over and groaned fitfully.

  “Are you awake?” Corson asked.

  “Unfortunately.”

  “What does lirihran mean?”

  “It’s an old word for ‘twilight,’” Nyctasia answered dreamily. “But it means

  ‘half-darkness,’ you see, not ‘half-light’… It’s only found in poetry nowadays.” She suddenly sat upright, wide awake, “What are you doing? Leave that alone!”

  “Why? I’m not reading your foul spells.”

  “Well, what are you reading?”

  “I’m cursed if I know-it’s about a demon, and it’s nothing I’d have thought a lady would write.”

  “Oh, that,” said Nyctasia, relieved. “I only translated it. That poem was written centuries ago.”

  “Really? Folk haven’t changed much, then.”

  “Yes, that’s the lesson of it. Perhaps I’ll make a scholar of you yet.”

  Corson snorted. “I could teach you a few things-this chart’s all wrong.” She turned to a map of the southern constellations. “Everyone knows you can only see the Wolf in winter, and the Chalice should be further over here. If you tried to travel by this, you’d never know where you were.”

  “It’s hard to make accurate charts from old books and hearsay. Show me the right positions,” Nyctasia said eagerly.

  “Surely,” said Corson, stretching, “As soon as I’ve finished this story.”

  Nyctasia hadn’t the strength for an argument. “Please yourself, that’s harmless enough. But be careful how you meddle with my books, Corson. Words can be dangerous.”

  “What does wisranupre mean?”

  “Give me that,” laughed Nyctasia, “I’ll read it to you.” She found that she was feeling much better.

  The Windhover was a small, single-masted merchantman with a crew of only six, including the captain. It was built for coastal trading but, as Corson soon discovered, the ship was more than a simple cargo-runner.

  One night she awoke with the moon still high overhead. Some change that she could not immediately recognize had disturbed her sleep, and after a puzzled moment she realized that the Windhover was no longer moving-they must have dropped anchor. She soon heard the ship’s boat being lowered and the crew moving about, talking in low tones.

  Surely they weren’t putting into port in the middle of the night? Curious, Corson stood and looked over the rail towards land, but she could see only an occasional flash of light on the beach. The boat was making silently for shore, the oars dipping without a splash.

  Corson smiled complacently. Of course, a pack of smugglers! That’s why the crew was so wary of strangers.

  “What are you doing here?” Destiver demanded in a harsh whisper. “Get below where you belong and stop your spying!”

  Corson rounded on her angrily, keeping her voice low with an effort. “Don’t try me, you slinking water rat! Save your bullying for your crew! What’s it to me if you cheat the trade laws?”

  “Listen,” hissed Destiver, “Steifann’s vouched for you, but there’s a fat price on your head-remember that, and forget what you’ve seen tonight.”

  “And I remember that they still have gibbets for smugglers in the Maritime cities.”

  “Then we understand each other,” said Destiver. “But while you’re on my ship you’ll do as you’re told.”

  Before Corson could reply, one of the sailors came over to fetch Destiver, who went off muttering imprecations against Steifann for involving her in this affair.

  For once, Corson agreed with her.

  21

  nyctasia was disappointed to learn that the Windhover never sailed out of sight of land. She had never been on a ship before, and once she�
��d recovered from her seasickness she was eager to learn all the workings of the vessel. She drew diagrams of the rigging in her commonplace book, inquiring the name and purpose of every part of the ship.

  Corson was far too familiar with ships to share Nyctasia’s enthusiasm, and she was more bored than ever now that Nyctasia was taken up with this new-found interest. The sight of Destiver was a constant goad to her temper, and the crew continued to shun her, taking their lead from the captain. She took to spending more time in the cabin, brooding and trying to puzzle out Nyctasia’s books.

  For a time, an illustrated herbal took her fancy, with its detailed drawings of leaves and brightly inked paintings of flower petals. She read: “The leaf of the Wolfhead Yarrow, when seethed in water or wine yields a tisane which may be taken against the catarrh, and when crushed in a mortar is most profitably employed in the preparation of a poultice for staunching of blood and the other humors of the body, for it possesses certain beneficial properties which make the flesh to draw together in such manner as may aid in the closing of wounds and the healing of purulence and suchlike maladies.”

  Corson yawned. She passed over the lengthy instructions for the preparation of the poultice, and turned to the next picture, which showed a thick-stemmed plant with large, dark purple blossoms. Here, as elsewhere in the book, a dry, faded cutting was pressed between the pages. This was Royal Swinebane, Corson learned, and its juice was so deadly that even its touch was dangerous. When it was set afire it gave off evil fumes that burned the eye and choked the throat. It was not safe even to smell the thing.

  “Poisonous little witch!” Corson muttered. She closed the herbal, being careful not to touch the flattened Swinebane, and took up the last of the books, which was so small it fit in the palm of her hand. It was closely written in a minute script that Corson read with difficulty in the dim light of the cabin. But, as she began to decipher the text, she found to her dismay that it was a long, ponderous treatise of Vahnite philosophy, even more dull than Wolfhead Yarrow.