They still had a ways to go when a troop of dragoons charged out of the city gate, sounding bugles to clear the way. Seconds later, another troop followed. An inchoate roar of fear raced along the waterfront. People tried to stay clear of the troopers, but there was nowhere to go. Whips cracked up and down the street, and not only over horses.
The rearguard threw caution to the wind and pelted for the ship. No sooner were they on board than her hawsers were let go. No time for niceties of seamanship, the schooner was poled away from the pier and her sails raised with a rush. There wasn’t much breeze and she wallowed like a pig stuck in mud. The captain called out more orders and every stitch of canvas she owned was set. Slowly gathering way she moved out into the lake trailing lines astern, plimsoll mark two feet below the surface.
They were several hundred feet from the pier when the first of the guard thundered onto the wharf. Riders leaped from horses with bows in hand.
Carl called out, “Take cover!” and ran to herd city folk below.
Diving down the main companionway to the sound of arrows whistling overhead, Jeff caught child after child then exhausted mothers and fathers before returning topsides. Arrows bristled in the sails, masts and on deck. The quartermaster had been forced to remain at the tiller and was writhing on the deck with an arrow sticking out of his back. One of the horses had been hit and was bucking wildly. A handler got the mare under control, but not until she was exhausted.
Jeff was convinced his irrepressible friend had made a full recovery when Carl marched to the stern rail, dropped his breeches and mooned the soldiers on the pier.
The remainder of daylight was required to sort out the shambles on deck. Crates, furniture, assorted baggage—all were piled helter-skelter. Every able-bodied man and woman turned to under the captain’s agitated direction. There was no room in the hold for Cynic and three other horses, so several of the crew knocked together temporary stalls on deck. Others threw tarps over deck cargo and tied it down. Without exception, everyone sweated streams in sauna humidity.
Looking off to the northwest during a short break, Jeff understood the captain’s concern. Dark, scudding clouds were almost overhead. Close behind, black thunderheads billowed high blocking light from the sun.
As darkness intensified, the captain ordered crewmen to double lashings. Nearly full dark well before sunset, final preparations for the storm were made by ship’s lanterns. Whatever breeze there had been disappeared, leaving the Tounae to wallow sluggishly in confused waves. The captain had two reefs tied into the foresail and the mainsail taken in, depending on a staysail run up in its place to provide balance.
The last hatch had just been fastened when a line squall came tearing across the water. It hit with a steam-whistle roar, laying the Tounae on her beams end in a lash of screaming wind and rain driven so hard it hurt. She slowly righted as the quartermaster allowed her to pay off and run with the wind over the port quarter.
One of the horses had fallen when the squall hit and kicked its stall to splinters trying to get up on the wet deck. Jeff and Carl got her up and were tying the mare to a ringbolt when Carl happened to look south.
“God, damn! Grab onto something, Jeff!”
The wind had changed direction and blasted in from the south. Slamming the foresail across, the force of the wind heeled the Tounae until her port rail was taking green water over the top. The same horse fell again in a wild thrashing of legs, this time skidding across the deck to fetch up against the port rail smothered in foaming water. Rain came down in buckets along with lightning bursts that seemed continuous, accompanied by deafening thunder rolls.
The storm built in fury until the surface of the lake was churned into a confused cauldron of towering waves that broke on board from every direction. The Tounae buried her bow in waves that submerged her from bow to stern, others swept across her waist in rushing masses of knee-deep water, and still she lived on. Tying themselves to the mainmast, Jeff and Carl were nearly suffocated by air that had more water in it then oxygen.
Jeff knew it was a thunderstorm, not a large frontal disturbance that might take hours to pass. Still, it seemed to his dulled senses that time had stopped and the storm would never end. When it did and the first rays of a setting sun suddenly broke through, he could hardly believe it was over. The lightning rapidly decreased, the air became breathable and the thunderstorm was gone, racing east.
Through luck alone, the horse that had fallen didn’t break a leg. She was corralled and maneuvered into a hastily re-fabricated stall. Jeff was in the middle of that scrum. When it was over, he felt lucky that flying hooves had not stove in his head or rib cage.
Cynic had stood firm but trembled with anxiety and was covered in a lather of sweat. Calming Cynic, Jeff stumbled below in a state of exhaustion. Too tired to change out of wet clothing, he was about to curl up when he was pressed into duty on a bilge pump crew. The pump eventually sucked air, but he kept turning his handle in a stupor until someone shook him.
It was after noon before Jeff found enough motivation to emerge from below decks. The Tounae was making good time to the northeast on a close reach, the main staysail having been replaced with a double reefed mainsail. The sun was shining in a clear sky and sparkling off the water. Hanging onto the weather shrouds, Jeff breathed deeply of the cool breeze. I could live on this, he thought, but a bite to eat wouldn’t hurt.
The stench of vomit was overpowering when he went below to get some food, and his stomach churned in sympathy. Snatching a hunk of bread and a wedge of cheese, he fled topsides with Carl hurrying to catch up. The bow was empty, providing privacy for Jeff to fill Carl in on the situation in Rugen and Valholm. Carl whistled under his breath when Jeff stopped to yawn.
“So you’ve got a pack of Vandals and Visigoths doing their thing, and a loosely knit collection of feudal types that would like to think they’re a kingdom, right?”
“Something like that, wise guy,” Jeff laughed.
“Well, hell. You’ve got yourself a real situation, all right.” The men debated strategy until a crewman nudged them out of the way so he could hang a night lantern. “Time to eat, squirt, let’s head below.”
The main cabin had been aired out, swabbed down, and was now inhabited by folks who could do more than throw up. Children were sleeping in every nook and cranny or climbing on whatever was at hand. Parents did their best to supervise, but it was something of a madhouse scene. The pregnant mother spotted Jeff and Carl at once. She had no words, but hugged each of them and kissed their cheeks.
Following an evening meal taken in shifts, oil lamps swinging overhead, Jeff cornered Belstan. Talking with Carl had focused his mind.
“Rugen must be the center of any defense in the North. I am convinced the king will fight, the city was constructed to be defensible, and I believe there is time to prepare it for a siege. However, that will not suffice.
“Opening meaningful trade with Rugen is vital and must begin at once if there is to be any hope for its long-term defense. It sits near a treasure chest of raw materials, offering great wealth to any trader capable of perceiving the potential. I believe that you and Rogelf have that capability.” Jeff folded his arms and waited.
Belstan stirred in his seat after a long silence. “Great wealth or certain death. Roll the bones and take your chance. If Rugen falls to the Salchek, it would mean death or worse for those who assisted in its defense.”
“Yes, but…”
Belstan frowned at Jeff and he shut up.
“On the other hand, if Rugen stands any businessman with an early foot in the door could found a trading empire. As I said, roll the bones and take your chance. I will tell you, boy, that your vision intrigues me, but I must think on it and converse with Rogelf.” Belstan patted several children on the head and went in search of his partner.
“Well, I gave it my best shot, Carl,” Jeff said with a doubtful expression. “Now we’ll have to wait and see what comes of it, if anything. Whatever the o
utcome, I’ll be heading north shortly after we land at Astholf. How about you? Where do you want to fit into all of this? If you even do, of course.”
Carl had been cogitating on that very question since they had started their conversation in the bow earlier in the day. He frowned in concentration and spoke slowly.
“It’s not often that a person has the opportunity, can choose, to be part of something like this. We’re talking a major historical event here, Jeff, not some tribal scuffle.” He lapsed into a contemplative silence.
The ‘swish, swish’ susuration of water coursing along the starboard side of the hull they were leaning against formed a soothing background.
“Rugen could really benefit from your training. From a public health perspective, it’s a disaster.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.” Carl began nodding. “I’ve got to be part of this. I want to put my training to use in a practical way that I could not even dream of back in Seattle.” He smacked a fist into his palm. “I have this gut feeling we can whip the Salchek, or at least drive them back south if the right pieces can be put together in time. While you haven’t said it in so many words, I know you are going to try and weld the northern tribes into some form of confederation. You are best suited for that job, you have been called to do it, it must be done.” Carl narrowed his eyes as if listening to some inner voice. “I feel, I sense that my place is in Rugen working to make it stronger through what I know. A chance to make a difference.” Carl sat up straight, his eyes gleaming. “Damn, what an opportunity. What a time! I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
In Jeff’s experience, Carl had never committed to anything other than his work and fencing. Of course, neither had he. There had been nothing on Earth worth committing to.
“You’ve just said it all, man. A chance to really make a difference. I can’t tell you how good it will be to have you at my back in Rugen when I head north. We got us a real team going here.”
“Damn right, brother.”
Chapter Fourteen
Appearance Isn’t Everything
Deep in the Tounae’s hold, Rogelf watched Zimma closely. Since leaving Khorgan, in fact since her return from Tradertown, she had been so quiet that he had become concerned. Observing her potter about in a distracted fashion, Rogelf thought he had a good idea what was going on in Zimma’s mind. In reality, he understood only a fraction of her turmoil.
The shock of seeing Jeff lying unconscious in a pool of blood had been so devastating that Zimma had yet to recover. She had seen seriously wounded men before—that wasn’t the issue. It was the role she had played in putting him there.
First she had insisted on joining the expedition in spite of the risks her presence would pose, then repeatedly stood in opposition to every suggestion that would have reduced those risks. As a result, a Baktar crewman had died and Jeffrey had come so close she still found it hard to believe he had survived. Watching his blood pour onto the sand as she desperately tried to staunch the flow, she knew with clairvoyant certainty that if he died her own life was forfeit.
She had endlessly reviewed her life prior to that one terrifying event, and each time cringed away with self-loathing. The wild, drunken parties. Smoking kalheesh until she didn’t remember or care which man she had slept with, or how many. But that was only part of the shame. It was the look of stark fear on her father’s face each time she stumbled home, and that of contempt on her brother’s, that had truly haunted every waking hour and much of her dreaming since escaping Tradertown.
When there were no more tears to cry, the exquisite pain deep in her soul remained. Now, far out on Lake Ligura, the worst of that agony had relented and she was free to focus on an issue that had been endlessly running around in the back of her mind.
Leaning against a stack of trade goods, Zimma called up an image of Jeff when they had first spoken on board the Baktar. A question took shape: what would life be worth without him?
Jolted by the question and not ready to deal with it, she picked up a bale of clothing that had come adrift and found a secure niche for it. Dusting off her hands, Zimma’s cheeks grew hot when she remembered the look on Jeff’s face when her blouse had been torn off. And the next morning when he walked away in those leather pants.... Zimma felt something stir that had nothing to do with guilt.
Snatching at a block of wood left sitting on a bale, Zimma heaved it at the dim shape of a spubak scuttling across the aisle. The squeak and scrabbling of claws that followed was deeply satisfying. She sat down on a crate of spices and tried to imagine what it would be like to get up each morning and not feel a rush of excitement at the prospect of seeing Jeff again. To get up each morning and know she would never see him again.
Zimma felt such a stab of fear that she jumped to her feet and couldn’t stop a little cry. Then, quite unaccountably, her mind abruptly changed course. For the first time in her life she thought about babies; what it would be like to carry and give birth to a child.
Graphic images of women she had seen in various stages of pregnancy flashed through Zimma’s mind. Always before she had thought them ugly and swollen. Now she recalled the radiance that virtually glowed from their skin, and a special kind of contented wisdom in their eyes that had made her feel resentful.
Zimma envisioned herself far along in pregnancy and thought how envious other women would be. Yes, they would be! Jeffrey would put a baby in me such as this world has never imagined!
Breathing hard, eyes flashing, Zimma felt such a rush that she put a hand out to steady herself. With that thought, a line of reasoning closed to form a circle and she knew without doubt what she wanted, and whom she wanted to spend her life with.
The insight was so strong that it staggered her, and was immediately followed by a burst of fear that made the first one seem like nothing. What if he doesn’t want me? Why should he? Why would any man want a woman who has treated him so badly? He is going to leave me. I know he is. I’ll never see him again. Standing in the dark aisle, Zimma burst into tears.
Rogelf hurried up the aisle and pulled her into his arms. “What is it? Please, little one, you must tell me.”
“It is Jeffrey, Father. I am going to lose him. He hates me.”
Belstan trotted from the other direction in time to overhear. He was not burdened with the restraints of fatherhood, yet accorded the affection of a favored uncle.
“Look at me, Zimma.”
She released Rogelf and turned to face him with downcast eyes. He lifted her chin. “There is no hate in Jeffrey. You are attempting to hate yourself. Since returning from Tradertown, and for the first time in years, I am proud of you. Now you have come into your own and will either seek what you would have or cast opportunity to the wind, perhaps forever. It is life, Zimma. I know Jeffrey is very fond of you. It is in your hands to discover if there is more.”
The uncompromising, even stern, tone of Belstan’s voice settled Zimma down at once. She did not need to reflect on his words to understand that they conveyed the stark truth. Choking back a sob, she drew herself up.
“I will have him.”
“Then it is time to be done with talking and tears. Go. Discover your destiny.”
Zimma kissed Rogelf, hugged Belstan, and fled down the aisle. She missed the corner, slid into some bales, ricocheted back and was gone. Looking at each other, the men let their breaths out together. Belstan waved for Rogelf to follow him.
“I believe this moment calls for a pot of ale.”
“Oh, where is he?” Zimma had searched for Jeff from the crew’s quarters near the bow to the captain’s cabin in the stern.
Heart beating a rapid tattoo, Zimma ran up the main companionway ladder, skidded to a halt on deck and looked around. Even though land was out of sight, she knew a moment of panic. He is gone! At that moment she spied Jeff leaning on the weather rail staring across the water, tousled hair blowing in the fresh breeze.
“Thank the gods.”
Wishing she didn’t smell of
sweat and look like a fishmonger, Zimma straightened her clothing. She did a quick mental inventory of her clothing and jewelry. Perhaps some perfume.... Zimma shook her head savagely, and thought, No! I have behaved like a whore, but that is done with forever. If he does not want me as I am, or because of what I have been, then it was not meant to be. Gathering resolve for what she must do, Zimma walked over and leaned on the rail next to Jeff.
Startled out of worried reflection, Jeff smiled at Zimma and put a companionable arm around her shoulders. At his touch Zimma knew it was right, had been right for many weeks. She rested a hand on his arm and moved closer so their hips were touching. There was no need for words. The body contact and shared presence was worth more than a volume. Yet there was unfinished business. After a period she disengaged Jeff’s arm and turned him from the rail.
“I have yet to thank you for saving my life and freedom, Jeffrey. Still I awake of a night in the grip of deep terror from those hours while a captive. I do not believe my spirit would have long survived, had you not come for me.” Captured by those memories again, tears gathered in her eyes. “But you did, and nearly died as a result.” Zimma paused and looked down. When she looked up her face was resolute. “And now there must be a reckoning. These past weeks have afforded barely sufficient time to consider my life in all its shallow and hateful manifestations. I have apologized to my father, yet only time will permit me to compensate him for all he has endured in the name of love.”
“Zimma, please. You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes! Yes I do! I must rid my soul of this burden so that love and charity may find a home.” Zimma gripped Jeff’s arms so hard it was painful. “And you. You who I called oaf and buffoon, whose very father I termed a churl, rescued my spirit from such degradation as cannot be imagined.” Tears streamed down Zimma’s cheeks but she would not look away. “Please, will you forgive me?”
Exile to the Stars (The Alarai Chronicles) Page 26