“Stop staring at her,” Donial urged. “I said she’s my sister!”
Mikelo obediently looked back toward the board they worked on. “Is she betrothed?” he asked. “Or married?”
“No!” Donial said sharply. After a few seconds, he decided his reaction had been overly harsh. “You want the truth, I think she is kind of sweet on Kral. But he does not know.”
“The Pict?” Mikelo said with astonishment. “He’s practically an animal!”
“He is not!” Donial insisted, swept up by a sudden fury. “He is as much a man as you. More so.”
“Picts are headhunters,” Mikelo countered. “They sleep in the mud. They eat human flesh.”
“I thought you might know something about them, being from Kordava,” Donial replied, fully aware that he had believed those same tales until a short while ago. “But I can see that you know only the same nonsense stories every Aquilonian child hears.”
“Have you been to their villages?” Mikelo asked.
“No. But my father . . . my father used to go to them. He told us about them. He was friendly with some. And Kral has told us all about his life. He has never eaten people, or taken heads as souvenirs, or any of that.”
“And you believe him?”
“More than I would believe whoever told you those lies. Had any of the people you heard them from ever been into the Pictish lands?”
Again, Mikelo shrugged. “I do not know. It’s just what you hear, over and over, you know? I know no one who has met the king of Aquilonia, either, but I believe that he is a barbarian.”
Donial felt vindication coming his way. “And do you imagine he would still be king if he engaged in the kinds of things you say Picts do? Are Cimmerians also animals, to you?”
“I know not,” Mikelo said with a snicker. “All I know is, one sits on the throne of Aquilonia, not that of Zingara.”
“For now,” Donial said, unable to resist the dagger. “Until King Conan decides to expand his empire by taking over Zingara, too.”
Mikelo’s face turned red, and Donial braced himself, in case the boy attacked him. It had already been explained that fighting was forbidden among the ship’s crew, however. Punishable by the loss of a hand, if one buccaneer raised a weapon against another, and by the loss of rations for mere fisticuffs. Donial was ready to risk it, but apparently Mikelo wasn’t. He set to work again, suddenly seeming very interested in doing a good job on that particular plank.
Donial was happy to let it rest. He was pleased there was another boy his age on the crew, and didn’t want to start out fighting with the fellow. If he had to be on the pirate’s crew for a time, he might as well have a friend and possible ally who had been here for a while and knew how to get by.
But Mikelo’s apparent interest in Alanya disturbed him. As did, for that matter, what he perceived as Alanya’s romantic interest in Kral. Though he had defended Kral, he still didn’t think a savage was a proper match for a civilized young woman of Aquilonia. Anyway, Kral was so single-mindedly obsessed with his crown of teeth and bones, he barely seemed to notice that Alanya was even female, much less that she felt anything for him.
Donial still thought of his sister as a girl—older than him, but not by much, and certainly not of an age to be paired off with any man. Even the idea of it disturbed him.
He figured he would have to get used to it, someday.
But not today.
And not with some pirate’s boy drooling over her.
WHAT KRAL DIDN’T know about ships was voluminous. He was frankly amazed that such a huge construction of wood and metal could float at all. He knew how to pilot a log canoe down a river, and had been out to sea briefly on rafts made of logs lashed together with vines. But until setting sail on the Restless Heart, he had never been on a serious ship, only glimpsing a couple from afar as they worked their way up or down the Western Ocean. Every moment the big craft stayed afloat was a bit of a revelation to him.
So he didn’t volunteer any ideas or information about the reconstruction of the Restless Heart, which, as the days stretched on, seemed to become more and more complex. Without any way to hoist the vessel out of the water, men swam below to patch the hole torn by the reef ’s jagged edge. They nailed the used boards in place, then covered the seams and nails with pitch, taken from the ship’s stores and heated over open flame.
But even after that repair work was done, Captain Kunios wasn’t satisfied. He didn’t want a three-masted carrack, shallow enough for river traffic, but something more akin to a sloop, the men said. None of these words meant anything to Kral, but he quickly got a sense of how much work was involved. He also learned how much the men feared Kunios, who, they hinted, had become ever more unhinged since losing his own vessel.
The carrack was big enough to haul cargo and men. Kunios wanted something lighter and swifter—able to dart after bigger ships, so that his men could board them and take only the most valuable booty back onto their own vessel. One of the Argosseans, a burly man named Bastri, with arms seemingly as long as an ape’s and a great thatch of fur over his chest and belly, explained what the captain had in mind. “We strip out the forecastle,” the man said. “And the pilot’s cabin. And the railings. That’s the easy part.”
Kral nodded. He guessed it made sense—anyway, it seemed to, to Bastri. “Next, we take down the foremast and the mizzenmast. We’ll remount that at the bow, as a new bowsprit. The canvas will have to be resewn, but once it is, it will all be stretched from either the mainmast or the bowsprit.”
“What is the advantage of that?” Kral wondered.
“Speed and maneuverability,” Bastri answered. “She will be twice the sea wolf she was before.”
“I don’t think Captain Ferrin intended her as a sea wolf,” Kral said. “He used her for cargo and passengers.”
“And he’s dead, is he not?” Bastri added. “The old Spur was a fine fighting ship, but this new Spur will be the next best thing.”
Kral looked at the ship, trying to picture what it would be like when all the work Bastri described was finished. And speculating on just how much time it would take.
Every day they stayed here, marooned on Shem’s wild coast, two things were true.
The likelihood increased that Shemites would discover their presence. Then there would most likely be another battle. He, Alanya, and Donial had survived the first one. But the Shemites would not be limited to the few men who had survived a shipwreck and could keep reinforcing their side until victory was complete.
The other thing that worried Kral was that every day the Teeth of the Ice Bear got closer to Stygia—or, if it was already in that country, closer to being delivered into the hands of whoever had called for it to be taken there. Whoever that person was, he or she must have had some reason to want the Teeth.
And there was no good reason for the Teeth to be anywhere except safely in its cave beneath the Bear Clan’s village. So that reason was a bad one.
Kral had meant to get the crown back before it could be used for any nefarious purpose. He didn’t know how yet, or from whom he would take it. That would have to be figured out when the time came. But sitting there in Shem, working on a ship that would probably head back toward Argos and away from Stygia, only gave the thieves that much more time with the Teeth.
Kral was deeply indebted to Alanya and Donial. He liked them both, especially Alanya, more than he had ever liked anyone outside the Bear Clan. Maybe even more than anyone outside his own family.
But if it came down to a choice between his feelings for the two Aquilonians and his duty to the Pictish people as a whole, he would have to choose duty. The moment would come when he would have to try to escape this crew, and if that escape couldn’t include his friends, he would have to leave them behind and strike out on his own for Stygia.
His only other option was challenging Kunios for the captaincy. The captain was a fearsome combatant, Kral knew. He thought he could take the man, but then again, many others had died trying
. That in itself wasn’t enough to make Kral hesitate. The problem was that if he lost, then there was no one left to go after the Teeth. And if he won, that still didn’t mean he could dictate the destination of the ship. Kunios had said that the whole crew voted on that, and other buccaneers had confirmed that, in answer to Kral’s discreet questions.
If he succeeded in taking over Kunios’s job, then the others still might object if he decreed they were going immediately to Stygia. Then he’d be faced not just with one pirate to beat, but a whole shipful of them.
There just weren’t any better options than escape. Followed, probably, by a long overland journey across Shem.
With or without Alanya and Donial.
Kral looked at the ship, pretending to care. But inside, his mood was cloudy and grim.
16
KUNIOS SURVEYED THE work being done to the captured ship. He liked the way it was taking shape, but not the speed at which the captives, and his own crew, were working. He wanted the Barachan Spur ready to sail. Too much time had already been wasted in that forsaken desert land. At any moment Kunios expected a Shemish army to crest the hill and attack.
He knew the men whispered about him, questioning his judgment. Even his sanity. It was ever thus, he acknowledged. Men doubted their leaders, but if thrust into the leadership role themselves, they would learn what a lonely, thankless task it was—surrounded by doubters, by those who believed they could do his job better than he.
Some just wanted to take the Restless Heart as she was, to patch the holes and put to sea. Never mind that she couldn’t outrun an enemy galleon in that state, never mind that she was a merchant vessel and not a fighter. A plodder instead of a sprinter. Others had not wanted to stop and fight the Heart’s crew at all, preferring instead to continue overland back to Argos without delay.
And then there were the prisoners they had ended up with. Sailors, but also soldiers, a group of men who looked like they sold their arms, and their lives, to anyone with a cup of gold to offer. And not just them, but those others, the Aquilonian girl with her radiant blond hair, and her darker brother, and their Pictish friend. Kunios wondered desperately about them, about what had drawn them together and how they came to be on the Heart. But they refused to engage in conversation. They, too, he suspected, thought that he was not up to the job.
But they would learn better. Kunios had won his captaincy and kept it with a sharp mind and sharper cutlass. Enemies might lurk at every turn. His own crew might wish to cut his throat in his sleep. They would find that Kunios of Argos slept with one eye open, that he watched and waited, that he knew who was likely to betray him and could take the necessary actions to defend himself.
Even then, standing at the edge of the bustle, he could tell which crew members were content and which would like to bury their daggers in his back. As he watched, one of them, a laggard named Simloch, dropped a bucket of nails, overturning it into the sand. Simloch had hated Kunios for months, ever since he’d been disciplined for miscounting the booty from a captured ship.
“You!” Kunios shouted, pointing at the man. “You dropped those nails just to slow down repairs to the ship, didn’t you?”
Simloch looked at him, sudden terror masking his face. “No, Captain,” he said. “It’s just . . . you made me nervous, starin’ at me like that, and—”
“Nervous?” Kunios interrupted. He barked a fierce laugh. “What good is a nervous seaman?”
“It’s only a few nails, Captain,” Simloch protested, scrabbling at the fallen nails with both hands. “I’ll have ’em picked up quick.”
“With your teeth,” Kunios ordered.
“What?”
“Pick them up with your teeth, man. You’ve got to learn to do things right the first time.”
“But Captain . . .”
That was what Kunios had been waiting for. The willful disobedience of a direct command. “You refuse?”
“Captain, I . . .”
Kunios drew his cutlass and stormed across the gap separating them. Simloch dropped the nails in his hands and reached for his dagger. Kunios gave him a half second, until the dagger cleared its scabbard, then he attacked.
Simloch was a stout man, bare-chested, with white hair and a clean-shaven chin. He threw up the dagger to block Kunios’s blow, and his protruding gut shook. Kunios envisioned driving the point of his cutlass straight into that round belly. But the others were watching now, and he thought they should see an appropriate display of swordsmanship. Even against such a worthless foe, proper technique could be applied.
So he wove a shining web with his blade, dazzling poor Simloch, whose dagger was barely up to the task of parrying. It would not have been, had Kunios not chosen to extend the fight. His cutlass swooped up like a gull with a freshly caught fish, swung down like slashing rain, arced from one side or the other. Dizzied by the onslaught, Simloch tried to appeal to his captain. But to no avail.
When Kunios was sure he had impressed all observers with his technique, he let the cutlass blade drop below Simloch’s upraised dagger and sliced across the man’s exposed belly. A line of red followed the sword tip’s path. Simloch cried out, and Kunios dealt him a killing blow to the neck.
When the seaman fell, the whole camp was silent, looking on.
Kunios returned his sword to its place on his belt. “You see?” he shouted. “You see what rebellion will get you? Do you?”
A few halfhearted calls of “Aye, Captain,” came in response.
“All of you!” Kunios demanded. “Do you see?”
This time, the men thundered out their answer. “Aye, Captain!”
Better, Kunios thought. For another day or two, they were his. None would dare betray him now. Not, at least, until the memory of this demonstration slipped from their feeble minds.
“Someone pick up those nails!” Kunios called. “And get rid of that body. Sight of it makes me sick.”
ALANYA SAT ON the beach, massaging her hands. Her fingers were cramped from sewing—first repairing clothing belonging to a few of the buccaneers, then reshaping sails to meet the new requirements of the refitted Restless Heart. The canvas was much harder to work with. She had to force the needle through with all her might, often pricking herself in the process. Her shoulders ached from the constant bending over her work, and even her legs complained from being seated on the ground so much.
She didn’t complain out loud, though. She knew that Donial’s hands had been worn almost to the bone by his first task. Now he and Mikelo had been assigned to other duties, on the ship, scrambling and crawling into spaces too small for the larger seamen, or up the rigging. Still, her brother was in just as much pain as she was, his muscles being forced into activities every bit as foreign to his experience as day after day of needlework was to hers.
She longed to be away from here, back in her home in Tarantia. During the night, she had even dreamed of it. Father had been there, and Cheveray, Kral, and Donial. They had been sitting in the courtyard, with a soft breeze blowing white flower petals all around them. She had been filled with a sensation of loving warmth that she never wanted to end. Waking up here on this desolate stretch of beach, a captive once more, she had been so disappointed she had nearly wept.
As she sat there, rubbing her hands and wishing that fate hadn’t thrown them into their situation in the first place, Kral came and squatted beside her. Of the three of them, he was the one faring best—his skin even more tanned than it had been back in his homeland, where the skies were often cloudy and gray, his wounds healing over, his muscles firm and round. He had been assigned heavy labor, lifting and carrying things, mostly, which suited him, and he went on occasional hunting forays to supplement the food stores from the Restless Heart.
“Your hands hurt.” It was an observation, not a question.
“Yes,” she said. “So do Donial’s.”
“His will toughen up,” Kral said. “He will get calluses on them. He’ll be fine.”
“We all
will be,” Alanya said hopefully.
Kral nodded and touched her arm sympathetically. “I should have fought harder.”
“There was nothing more you could have done,” Alanya said. “No one could have defeated enough pirates to make the difference.”
“Your brother killed a man,” Kral said. “Has he talked about it to you?”
Alanya had tried to raise the subject a couple of times, in the brief periods they’d had together. So far, without success. “No,” she replied. “He has not wanted to. I think he’s embarrassed that it made him sick.”
“He shouldn’t be,” Kral said. “I have done it many more times than him, and I still don’t like it. Anyway, it was not just the killing that made him sick. It was battle nerves. I have seen that happen many times. Everyone’s stomach is churning during a fight like that. Some can contain it better than others, that’s all. Especially if they have done it before.”
A question Alanya had never asked Kral—because she had been afraid of the answer—sprang to her lips before she could stop it. “How many . . . how many people have you killed, Kral?”
He looked off to sea and contemplated the question. “I lost count during the battle the other day,” he said after a time. “But probably seven, or eight, then. Before that, the soldier in Tarantia. A few at Koronaka, at the wall there. Maybe fifteen in all.”
“But you do not know for sure.”
“No,” he said simply.
She didn’t understand how that could be. She thought that the taking of another human’s life should leave a mark on a person, like a tattoo or a brand. It should not be something done lightly, without serious understanding of its consequence.
The marks on Kral, if they were there at all, were internal. She couldn’t look at them and tote them up.
Apparently, neither could he.
“You will not like hearing this,” he said, after they had both sat in silence a few minutes. The late-afternoon sun gleamed off his flesh, making him look like a golden statue by the beach. “But I would kill fifteen more, to protect you. Or to get the Teeth back. And I would do it happily.”
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