Then, the Sty Maiden saw a sight that made her blood turn cold. In the center of each wall, afforded a place of honor among the trophies, were two sets of feminine hands, stuffed and preserved, upon wooden displays. They were positioned to show the counterfeit scars inflicted by her husband’s loving hand.
Reeling from the sight, her vision suddenly clear, the Sty Maiden saw too that the things with which she had been eating were all made of bone.
Rising from her chair in a surge of fear, she realized the nobleman’s son had moved behind her. He grabbed hungrily at her slim waist, pulling upon her dress until her shoulders and neck were bared to him. With teeth that seemed impossibly sharp, he bit at her repeatedly, causing blood to trickle down her chest.
The nobleman’s son reared back his head, readying his fangs for a fatal, longing bite. The Little Sty Maiden thought she would soon be dead, and cried out her husband’s name one final time.
There was a resounding clang of metal upon bone and the Sty Maiden was thrust forward. She turned round to see her husband. He held in his hands the familiar sty shovel, having just brought it down upon the bloodthirsty monster’s head.
It was a great crime to harm a Nobleman, but they knew he would attack again unless they acted quickly. So, the husband and wife chopped up the nobleman’s son and fed his body to their hogs. The realm rejoiced to find him disappeared, cruel as he had been, and they all lived happily ever after.
* * * * *
Tappan watched for the minuscule shake of Benson Rose’s head as Auk rounded the corner. The young shipboy continued his pretense of re-setting a nail on the hanging lantern while watching the progress of the Ship’s Second, straining to see whether or not he was yet out of sight.
Benson gave Auk a pleasant nod, holding the lantern’s support steady while Tappan feigned to ply at the hardware. Tappan felt the sweat bead up on his forehead, sure that Auk would see through their pathetic ploy, but the Second returned Benson’s nod and moved aft.
Checking that Auk was not about to return, Benson let the lantern fall back into place on its sturdy post and nodded to his co-conspirator. Tappan gave the fixture a tug and felt it solidly resist him. He wondered if Auk would check their invented work later and credit them with doing a good job.
The coast was clear, and the boys raced down the stairs and into the dim, stuffy maze below decks. Tappan and Ben moved on the tips of their boots, making minimal noise as they listened for the loud snoring they knew to be Cricket’s.
The ship below decks was broken into a series of shared living spaces, some large and some small depending on the relative importance of the shiphands in residence. Each space had a collection of hammocks and cots hung upon the beams. The sailors’ belongings laid below them in heavy wooden chests that were nailed down in the likely event of rough waters.
Since Tappan shared a living space with Cricket, he led the way towards the sleeping boy.
Cricket snored upon his bed, a blanket cradled tenderly in his arms. In sleep, he looked almost sweet to Tappan—so quiet and nonthreatening. Not sure he still wanted to go through with their plan, the shipboy clenched his fist at the dilemma and felt his knuckles ache where they’d come into contact with Ikpek’s face. His resolve to cause havoc returned.
Taking quiet steps, Tappan motioned for Benson to approach the sleeping boy’s feet. Benson looked skeptical of his plan for the first time. “You’re sure he won’t wake up?”
“You remember that storm a few weeks back?” Tappan asked.
“How could I forget?” Benson recalled. “I was thrown back and forth upon the hull for hours. I couldn’t understand anything for the yelling.”
“Aye, Cricket slept through it,” Tappan remarked, towering over the resting bully. “Said later it was the best sleep of his life. It’s like I told you, he’ll sleep through anything.”
Just as the words were uttered, Cricket woke with a gasp and grabbed Tappan’s hand. “Don’t trust the grayfish,” he gagged, “there’s more than one and they speak only in lies!” His wild eyes met Tappan’s and they softened. He asked, frown creasing his face, “Have you talked to the apple pie today? I’m worried she’ll feel lonely.”
Tappan turned his questioning gaze to Benson, but all either could do was shrug nervously. Tappan said soothingly, “Aye, Crick, I talked to her. She’s just fine. Hey, go back to sleep okay?”
Cricket fought this suggestion with a pathetic whine. “But the grayfish—”
“I’ll make sure everyone knows,” Tappan pacified. “There’s nothing to worry about. Sleepytime, huh?”
Cricket, his eyes still wide, nodded a few times, then crashed suddenly back into his snoring. Benson looked as uncertain as Tappan felt.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said with a sigh, reaching for the ship boy’s belt. Benson Rose nodded in eager agreement and got to work.
* * * * *
Aloft on the Turnagain’s mast, Jas Hawkesbury couldn’t resist taking in the well-made buildings of the port town at which they’d landed. It had been a good number of years since the Turnagain had seen unfamiliar shores, and Jas felt an odd nostalgia as he took in the different means of construction, the varied styles of clothing, the altogether alien landscape of the verdantly green country of Chaveneigh.
Realizing he’d been inspecting the landscape to the neglect of his current task, Jas turned back to the sail he was tying into place, ready to bark an order at his assistant, the Scribe’s silent Tikaani. To his surprise, the savage had already finished. Jas felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach. He was fairly certain he hadn’t explained how to do this task. Even if he had, Jas had been given no sign that the Tikaani spoke or understood Illiac. He frowned at Ikpek, wondering if Whyl was right that the boy should be feared. Then, he shrugged. Far be it for him to be upset that work was getting done well. It was the slave girl, anyhow, who had been so eerie and unsettling.
Task now complete, Jas hurried down the rope ladder, skipping the last few steps and throwing himself down to the deck. He hit upon it with satisfying skill, even though such displays were unnecessarily dangerous. Dusting off his tired hands, Jas noticed that his helper alit with wiry, cat-like grace. The boy was a skilled seafarer…for a savage. And for an assistant to a murderer…he added silently.
“Rest your arms,” Jas instructed the Tikaani with a frown, “I need to see the Captain.”
Ikpek smiled and nodded vigorously in a way that suggested he hadn’t understood a word of this, but he gave a slight bow and walked away all the same.
Jas shook his head in confusion as he too wondered off, soon knocking at Kaille’s door. It was slightly ajar and showed an empty room within. Jas turned on his heal and prepared to set out when he noticed a strange sight in another part of the hall. The Scribe’s door, too, was slightly ajar.
On the tips of his worn boots, Jas snuck towards the stranger’s cabin.
“Hello?” he whispered, rapping at the sturdy wood with two knuckles. The force of his fingers pushed the door open further, revealing a second empty chamber.
“The Scribe’s not in his cabin!” Jas exclaimed minutes later to a busy Captain Kaille, who’d been found demonstrating a task to another shipboy.
“I’d expect not,” Kaille said with a frown, extricating himself from the task. “He had business on shore.”
“He—he’s left?” Jas sputtered, shock written all over his face. “I didn’t see him go, but…you let him leave?”
Kaille frowned at his shiphand’s implication. “I’m owed a large sum of money for abandoning my livelihood to bring him here,” the Captain said in reminder, “which I can’t expect without first letting him go ashore to retrieve it.”
“Eli, have you gone mad?” Jas demanded, leaning forward and speaking in a low, threatening voice. “We’ve a man on our ship telling us that Fenric is a maniac and a murderer, and you simply let him go? How many people’s blood will be on your hands?”
“None, so far as I can tel
l,” Kaille replied harshly. “I think you’ll find he’s resisted his ‘murderous impulses’ for months already. There’s no reason to think he’ll give into them now.”
“He needed us,” Jas said by way of explanation, “he couldn’t cross the sea alone.”
“You could say the same of the ship we pulled him from,” Kaille pointed out. “Yet, it was sinking, and with him trapped upon it.”
“I…come now, anything could’ve happened,” Jas stammered. “He could have—”
“He could have, aye,” Kaille interrupted. He held up a hand to stop the argument. “I’m not a student of the law, nor am I in the militia. I have no right to hold him, nor do I have the force to do so.”
“But Whyl—” Jas started.
“…is delirious,” Kaille finished.
“Was delirious,” Jas corrected, sounding as bull-headed as he felt. “He said that Fenric killed all the men aboard the Illiamnaut.”
“He also said that he was being bitten by snakes,” Kaille said seriously. “I treat all words as though they’re equally credible. Usually, somewhere in the middle lies the truth.”
“Some Isabien ships do harbor stow-away snakes,” Jas defended meekly. “Anyhow, don’t dismiss what I’m saying now. I talked you into taking that murderer to begin with, I feel responsible—”
“You may have fought for him, aye,” Kaille corrected, taking an aggressive step towards his employee, “but it was my decision to take him here. And this is my ship. If you wish to remain on it, you’ll follow my orders: leave the Scribe alone.”
Jas felt his body tighten. His fists clenched. Unconsciously, he mirrored the Captain’s aggressive stance, taking his own step forward. Then, considering what it would mean to attack a ship’s Captain, he softened his posture. It was the ultimate wrong in the endless blue, to attack a Captain—it was the beginning of mutiny. Whatever else it might accomplish, it was most definitely the fastest way to be left behind in a foreign land, newly unemployed.
Spitting upon the deck, Jas turned on his heels and stormed off.
Kaille, releasing the tension in his fists, watched his old friend go. He cursed in his mind the blasted Fenric, the reticent Whyl, and the ever-growing mystery that surrounded them both.
The Captain didn’t know that Whyl was lying or that the Scribe was telling the truth. He didn’t know anything about either of them. Despite what his biased shiphand believed, he was not yet ready to take sides. All the Captain could trust was his own gut instinct—that and the belief that, even if the Scribe was evil, he would show his hand while there was still time to make the right choice. In the meantime he was resolved to treat Fenric as the man’s actions suggested he ought to be treated. It was all he could think of to do.
Staring out onto the green gem that was Chaveneigh, the Captain huffed in frustration. This wasn’t supposed to be his life. He knew his trade schedule well: this time of year he was supposed to be turning the curve of Mallory, mere days from his home in Quillain…but going home held unpleasant tasks of their own—there were people he wasn’t eager to tell of Ben’s death…
Unthinking, he hollered for his First. “Ben!”
Within moments, the yellow-haired shipmonkey appeared. He spoke a militant, “Aye, Captain.”
Kaille’s heart sank upon seeing Benson Rose. Once again, he realized his mistake too late. More gently than he felt, he told his new hire, “I meant Hector.”
Benson Rose nodded, his eyes oddly sad. “I know, Captain. I’ll go get him…”
Kaille sighed once more, holding up a hand for the boy to stop. His moment of pity was soon spent, and he squared his shoulders. Looking at Benson, he said, “It’s fine, you’ll do. Tell me, Ben, what do you know about Fenric?”
“Almost nothing,” Benson said after several false starts. He looked towards the land on his right. “I’d expected to know him better by now, since I spend several hours with him each day, but I know almost nothing. He just gets more confusing, really.”
“Several hours?” Kaille asked, only vaguely aware that Fenric did indeed pay this youth some special attention. “What in the sovereign sea for?”
“He…” Benson stammered uncertainly under the Captain’s skeptical gaze, “he needs help because of his leg. And he’s teaching me to read.”
Kaille’s eyes flew open. He supposed the Scribe did require more help now that he was crippled, but what point was there in teaching a sailor boy to read? “To read?” Kaille’s exclamation echoed his thoughts. “And what is it that draws you to his attention?”
“I couldn’t say,” said Benson nervously, turning his eyes seaward.
Kaille noted the shift in the boy’s gaze, and read in it the lie. So, he thought, the Scribe thinks this yellow-haired boy is special. The Captain examined him carefully. He was a handsome sort of boy, with a broad jaw, a slight build, and the tan of a shiphand. The only remarkable things about him were his bright green eyes and the presence of a soul that shone from out of them. Strangely, the boy’s gaze held within it an indescribable kind of beckoning, but rather than find it unnerving, the Captain felt comforted. He felt as though he could bare his soul to the unknown youth.
Kaille shook his mind clear of this nonsense and catalogued the Scribe’s relationship with Benson among the many questions to be addressed later. He returned to his present line of questioning. “So many hours, then, and you still claim to know so little?”
“He speaks…” Benson attempted to say, shaking his own head. “He says things in a way that says everything and nothing at the same time.” Then he continued with a frustrated grin, “I don’t think he’s said a single word to me that wasn’t part of a riddle.”
Despite his own frustration, Kaille found himself sharing this smile. “That’s as accurate an assessment as I’ve heard. Do you know where he’s gone?”
Benson’s smile fell immediately. He looked around in bewilderment. “He’s not here?” the boy asked, rushing to the rail and scanning the port town. “I don’t…why would he…? He’d asked me to help him…”
Kaille frowned, looking towards land himself. “Had he? Then you’d better go do that.” Kaille held out a hand to stop Benson, who would’ve run off then and there. Looking the boy square in his brilliant green eyes, Kaille instructed, “Keep a watch on him for me.”
The boy stared back, as though considering disobedience. Then, he answered uncertainly, “Aye, Captain.”
Seeing the hesitation, Kaille reached into his pouch and retrieved a coin. “I’ll make it worth your while, boy,” he said, clicking the metal against his teeth to demonstrate its value.
Benson looked at the coin distastefully and then at the briber. Though he couldn’t read the boy’s thoughts, Kaille watched him lower his blond head, flush, and then shake it. “Nay for me, Captain,” said Benson sheepishly. “I won’t be needing payment.”
“Everyone needs payment,” Kaille said, barking at the ridiculous thought.
“Nay, I…” Benson quietly insisted, looking at the deck shyly, “I’m just glad to help.”
* * * * *
Sara had grown to hate the Landlord’s assistance. It would have been easy to pick out characteristics that she despised most, but what she hated, truly, was that she depended so heavily on him. Out shopping among the rabid crowd, the need for his presence was especially stifling.
Sara lifted a hand to shield her eyes against the late afternoon sun, which broke through the mess of towering black spires above the Portridge marketplace. Moments later she winced in pain. Pella snatched her uncovered hand from the air and shoved it roughly back into the wide pocket of her robe.
“The sun’s so bright!” Sara complained, knowing that he was only following the strict rules of the town wherein a woman wasn’t allowed to display bare skin. “This veil blocks none of it.”
Pella’s eyes brushed over her thick black veil and form-distorting black robe, but he said nothing. He walked gruffly forward in his role as the male guardian�
��a requirement for foot travel in the rough city.
While Sara examined a line of shops, Pella became distracted from this goal, and moved several paces ahead of her. She watched as he approached one of the cleaner street urchins—likely new to town—and leaned to whisper something in her ear. There was a strength in the beggar’s face that returned at his words.
Sara stopped, taking in the exchange from a distance. She wondered what the inscrutable Landlord was thinking, rubbing elbows with beggars. It wasn’t proper. Feeling a menacing brush against her skirts, however, she ran to catch up. Hatred surged through her once again as she admitted she was more frightened to be alone than to share a connection with him. By the time she was near, the beggar had disappeared.
“What did you say to her?” Sara asked, regaining Pella’s arm.
“I told her there’s a fisherman’s daughter with an ego far above her station coming through,” said Pella, his voice mocking, “and that any self-respecting person had best get out of her way.”
Sara let out a frustrated huff. She’d grown weary of the man’s taciturn company. Just as Sara was ready to be done with talking, however, Pella decided it was the very thing he wanted most.
“I heard your Mama crying again last night,” he said, sifting idly through the varieties of grain in the Grainer’s stall.
Sara looked at him in panic, recalling his threat from the other day. “I talked to her. I did!” she cried. “But she can’t—she won’t—”
“Be calm, child,” said Pella, motioning for her to lower her voice. “I know things are harder for you than you let on.”
Sara heard pity in his voice and was disgusted by it. “I’m fine,” she insisted, turning away.
Pella nodded sagely and shrugged. “I suppose you would know better than I.”
“We don’t need grain anyway,” said Sara, ready to be finished with her shopping. “Mama doesn’t eat much and we have plenty left over.”
The Secret's Keeper and the Heir Page 10