“I’m half jotunn.”
“Hey! Why didn’t you say so? Rape, of course? But that’s terrific! Was wondering why Number One would buy a faun, even a large economy size. Guys, Rap’s got jotunn blood in him!”
Rap was then congratulated all around on being part jotunn, his back slapped bruisingly, and his hand pumped again, more vigorously and agonizingly than ever. Gradually he made sense out of Kani’s disorganized chatter. Although Stormdancer’s home port was Durthing, on the Imperial island of Kith, all of her officers were jotnar, as were all the rowers except for two imps, one djinn, and a few assorted half-breeds.
“I’m pure jotunn, of course,” Kani said, his eyes daring Rap to contest the point or belittle its importance, “but it’s no secret that I’ve never seen Nordland.”
“Nor your father, nor his before him,” remarked another voice. Kani wheeled, and eyed the speaker. He was a sour-faced jotunn rating named Crunterp, much larger than Kani. Too large, evidently, because Kani did not take offense. He said, “Um.”
Crunterp smirked and went back to coiling a rope.
“O’course jotnar prefer jotnar,” Kani said, squeezing by him. “Only natural. But you being half jotunn helps, and Number One runs a fair ship. Pull your weight and the worst you’ll get is wisecracks and a bit o’ jostling to keep you humble. No real hardship.”
An inexplicable lump had settled in Rap’s throat. Apparently life on Stormdancer would not be the living hell he had been expecting. In fact it might turn out to be dangerously enjoyable. For far too long, he had been deprived of friendly company. Goblins didn’t count, and even before he’d acquired his green shadow, he’d been shunned as a seer in Krasnegar. Just to be smiled at and smile back was a forgotten treat. Let them batter his shoulders and crush his fingers! He’d grown up around jotnar and knew their rough ways. He knew their good points, too.
After much further heaving and pushing, Kani brought Rap to his assigned bench, almost all of it already occupied by his assigned benchmate, a dog-faced rolypoly giant who apparently answered to the name of Ballast.
“Ballast,” Kani said solemnly, “is one-quarter troll and three-quarters jotunn, and therefore mostly troll.”
The big man exploded in bellows of laughter that seemed to rock the ship, while Kani’s eye said plainly that the joke was old and threadbare. Probably it always won the same reaction from the big man, for if Ballast had twice normal bulk, he seemed to combine it with little more than half normal brains. But he was the first man on board to shake Rap’s hand without deliberately squeezing it. Alone among the half-naked crew, he was fully dressed, even his arms being draped in long sleeves. Rap decided that he liked this good-natured colossus and hoped that it was only his clothes that smelled so bad. He would obviously be capable of doing much more than his fair share of the rowing.
Feeling happier by the minute, Rap perched on the tiny corner of bench left to him and began to tear at the loaf and cheese he had been clutching so fondly.
“Here, put your chains on,” Kani said and knelt to shackle Rap’s ankles. When he stood up, he grinned and remarked, “Don’t forget to unfasten ’em if you need go to the heads. You’ll break your neck otherwise. Want anything, just ask Ballast.” And he went wriggling off through the mad chaos of bodies and baggage.
What Rap wanted right away was an explanation of the chains, but he quickly discovered that Ballast was not the man to ask. He turned instead to Ogi, who was one of the two purebred imps—short, swarthy, and almost as wide as a dwarf. Ogi shared the next bench forward with a jotunn named Verg.
He chuckled at the question and rattled the chain on his own ankle. “A sailor’s always chained to his ship. An old jotunn tradition!”
“Not in the north, it isn’t,” Rap said.
Another chuckle. “There’s no slavery in the Impire, right? That’s the legal legend, right? We’re all free men on this ship—or we were until you got here. ’Cept for a couple of rookies, we’re all partners; every man has a share. But there are bought sailors on the Summer Seas, lad.
“You and your friend aren’t the only thralls around. So there’s the tradition—all the hands are chained, always. I’ve heard some farm workers have similar customs, except it’s more of a religious rite with them, symbolizing brotherhood of the soil, or something. We tend to observe ours in Imperial ports, and not elsewhere. Un’erstand now?”
So Rap was a real slave wearing fake chains. He found that quite ironic—and very realistic. He wasn’t going to do much escaping with seventy or eighty sailors watching him. Not when they all owned a piece of him.
A couple of hours after he boarded, lines were cast off, and the oars run out, but no green hand would be allowed to row while the vessel was still in harbor. Ballast rowed while Rap sat in the gangway and gutted fish.
Only one man was needed on each oar, usually, and in this case it was not for long. As soon as the ship had crossed the bar, the sail was hoisted. There had been no wind in the town and there was little enough even out to sea, but what there was could still move a ship about as fast as rowers could. And always it had to be one or the other; under sail the ship heeled over, making rowing impossible.
Sliding smoothly over the swell, Stormdancer set course for the horizon within a convoy of fourteen.
The awnings were taken down and the chains were thrown off, with no regrets. Sunlight and a fresh breeze made Rap feel even better than before, confident that he had enough jotunn in him that he need never fear seasickness. By then, too, he had realized that neither his faunish appearance nor his slave status was going to matter at all on Stormdancer. His inexperience would, and everyone was going to work very hard at curing him of that, but otherwise he was being accepted as just another new hand. That discovery was so unexpected and so exhilarating that he felt drunk.
Soon after departure, young Kani’s demolished face appeared again, complete with grin. He had been sent to give some lessons, he said, and he thereupon conducted Rap all over the ship, from stem to stem and up the mast, also, naming and explaining. Use the wrong name for anything after this, he warned, and Rap would feel the mate’s fist.
The master was the Old Man, and a truly old man, Gnurr. He left most of the work to Gathmor, who was Number One, and this Number One could lick any man aboard and was willing to prove it at any time. Kani obviously admired his talent greatly, but he did add in passing that Gathmor was a fine mariner, as well.
The tour ended on the catwalk that ran along the top of the line of cabins, and this seemed to be the only clear space on the ship. An elderly couple sat on chairs at the forward end, frowning at the intruders.
“Passengers’ deck,” Kani said. “Don’t come up here without orders. Now, any questions?” He leaned back against the flimsy rail.
“Why did we come up here now?” Rap asked.
“Time to start your exercises. Hey, Verg! Pass up an oar, lad.”
An oar was three spans long and loaded at the handle end with a counterweight of solid lead. Kani dropped it at Rap’s feet.
“What do I do with this?”
“Lift it overhead and then lay down. That’s all.”
“For how long?” Rap asked unhappily.
Kani considered, smirking under his windswept mustache. “Two months and you might risk some arm wrestling. Four months you could try a fight or two. Six months and you may be an oarsman. Now there’s something I didn’t mention—no fighting on board! Save it up for shore, or settle with arm wrestling.”
Rap had heard of the rule; it was why newly docked jotnar were notoriously homicidal. “I’ll try to restrain myself.”
“Except Gathmor, o’course. He’s got to be able to maintain discipline.”
Rap could not imagine himself ever deliberately provoking Gathmor to a fight, afloat or ashore. “Is the culprit allowed to defend himself?”
Kani chuckled. “Against Gathmor? Defend yourself all you want. It won’t make any difference.”
Abou
t to pick up the oar. Rap hesitated. He decided that he liked Kani, except that he was so reminiscent of any one of a dozen or so jotnar back in Krasnegar that he was making Rap homesick. “The goblin?”
“I ’spect he’ll be next. No more questions? Then get moving.” Kani turned away.
“You mentioned arm wrestling?”
Kani turned back, alert. “Ship’s sport.”
“Any side bets?” Rap knew what the answer would be even before the sailor nodded. “Then go lay all the money you can that anyone you like can’t beat the goblin.”
Kani moved a pace closer. Foam-white lashes drooped menacingly over eyes as blue and deadly as the sea. “I would be very, very upset if I lost a bet like that, Rap,” he murmured.
“You won’t. It’s free coin, but you’ll need to do it before you exercise him.” Rap stooped to pick up the oar.
A jotunn’s favorite sport was brawling, always. Whether wenching or gambling came second depended strictly on the opportunities. Rap had just made a friend.
2
Stormdancer had set sail from Milflor in a convoy of fourteen. By the next morning only eight were still in sight, and the mountains of Faerie had vanished over the edge of the sea. The wind was fitful and continued to veer too much southerly for the crew’s comfort, but it was strong enough to prohibit rowing.
The galley was little more than a large boat, and tiny for her complement of eighty. She mounted a square sail on her single mast, but her superstructure and shallow draft made her unweatherly, and under sail she could do nothing but run before the wind. In a calm the rowers would be sheltered by awnings, but those were taken down when the wind blew. The spaces below the benches were crammed with baggage, the benches themselves laden with men, either working or sleeping. The only clear places aboard were tiny decks at stem and stern, and the cabin roof that was reserved for passengers.
Little Chicken soon demonstrated that exercises were wasted on him, so Rap had to suffer up there alone each day with the oar. He would not have believed that anything could have hurt more than his run through the forest with the goblin, but now he was far from sure. He ached from fingers to toes. His hands were raw with blisters, although every man aboard had blisters and always would.
On the second day, while he was slumped in a heap on the boards, enjoying a few minutes’ blessed break, he found himself staring at a pair of expensive shoes. He looked up just as Andor crouched down and smiled winningly.
“Hello,” he said.
“Go swim,” Rap panted.
His remark earned an expression of pained reproof. “I got you off Faerie, didn’t I? That was what you wanted?”
Rap ached all over. He was shivering as the sea breeze chilled his sweat. The last thing he wanted was a talk with Andor. “I’d have managed without you.”
“But not on this ship. It’s a good one, Rap. Lots are worse. Gathmor has a good reputation—I checked. Believe me, I checked very carefully!”
Rap scowled at the too-handsome face. “Why’re you leaving? I thought Sagorn wanted to stay?”
Andor snorted. “Crazy old man! Faerie’s obviously swarming with magic. Far too dangerous for us!”
“Including me, or just you and the others?”
“All of us! Sagorn’s a nitwit in some ways. He’ll do anything to gain more learning, but he’d achieve nothing in Faerie except to get us all caught. I saw you talking with Gathmor on the bench. I want to know what happened afterward. Who healed your injuries?”
Already Rap could feel the mastery working on him, softening his resentment, whispering that Andor was a useful friend, that he could be trusted.
“Go away! I don’t want to talk to you.”
“But you should! We can help each other. Listen, Rap. It wasn’t me that sold you to the goblins. It was Darad. I didn’t want to call him. I had no choice.”
“You set that up—”
Andor looked hurt. “No! If I’d planned to loose Darad on you, I could have done it as soon as we left Krasnegar, couldn’t I? God of Villains, I could have done it any time. I had months when I could have trapped you—in your room, or the guards’ gym, or the stables. I really hoped we’d get through the forest without trouble. And if we did meet with the goblins, I honestly thought you’d agree to share, then.” He sighed. “Yes, I was after your word of power, but I ’d have shared mine, also. Believe me!”
Rap knew he could never look Andor in the eye and lie to him. He stared at the hateful oar lying on the deck between them. “I don’t know any word of power!”
“Thinal thinks you do.”
“He’s wrong.”
Andor sighed. “I told you, Thinal’s the best of all of us at detecting lies. He decided that you do know your word of power. That’s good enough for me. Maybe you didn’t once, but you do now.”
Rap did not answer. He was shivering and starting to stiffen up, and any minute now Gathmor would be shouting at him to get back to work. Below him the sailors were noisily arguing, cleaning, tidying, repairing, or just sprawled on benches, snoring.
“Sagorn hoped to find more words in Faerie,” Andor said. “Me, I’m a gambler.”
Now Rap did look up to meet that soulful, earnest gaze. “Gambler?”
Andor smiled triumphantly. “You’re a man of destiny, my friend. I don’t know what that destiny is, but magic seems to collect around you in a way I’ve never met before; that none of us have met before. A witch? A sorceress? How about a warlock, maybe? In Faerie?”
“Go away!” Rap shouted, tearing loose from those hypnotic dark eyes. He stared instead at Andor’s silver-buckled shoes; he heard a hateful chuckle.
“Can’t go very far at the moment. But we’ll see when we get to Kith. You and I will have a talk then. I’ll have to think of some way to get you off this tub, as I did help to get you on. We might encourage our green friend to take up a maritime career permanently, though?”
“That won’t be easy.”
“Perhaps not. But I do think Sagorn was wrong. I think our best bet is to stay close to our friend Rap. That way we’ll meet lots of sorcerers, I suspect. And maybe one of them will be willing to lift our curse.”
“Rap!” Gathmor’s voice roared from below. “Get busy!”
Rap rose stiffly and stooped to grasp the accursed oar.
Andor stood up, also. “That would be easy work for an adept.”
Rap heaved the oar overhead, scowled at his companion, and lowered it back to the deck again. He managed not to whimper at the pain.
“Come to my cabin later,” Andor said. “I’ll tell you my word first. I promise that! Mine first, then you tell me yours.”
Again Rap raised the oar, keeping time with the roll of the ship, but this time he closed his eyes. Down …
“I’ll tell you mine first. Rap, if you’ll promise to share.”
Up … And then call Darad, later?
“You’re an honest man, Rap. I’ll trust you.”
Down …
“Even if you won’t trust me, I’ll trust you.”
Up …
Gods, but it was tempting! Andor had been a good friend to him in Krasnegar, when no one else would speak to him. An adept would handle this damnable oar easily.
Down …
Eventually Andor tired of the game and went away.
Up …
Blinking sweat from his eyes. Rap watched him go.
Down …
Had Andor stayed another ten seconds, likely he would have won.
Up …
Rap could no more resist Andor than he could fight Darad.
Down …
3
Year in and year out, Stormdancer shuttled back and forth to Faerie. By playing off the prevailing wind—such as it was—against the prevailing current, on four trips out of five a skilled mariner like Gnurr or Gathmor could manage the run from Milflor to Kith with very little need for oars. But on Rap’s second night aboard, a gale sprang up out of the south-southeast, a very rare e
vent. For four days Gnurr held her head as much to the east and north as he could, but no one liked the resulting course, or where it led. Rowing was impossible in that weather. The crew became crabby; the passengers vanished into the hell of seasickness.
Every day Rap endured longer periods of lonely torment with the oar. As his strength increased, so Gathmor raised his demands, and Rap was amused to find himself savoring nostalgic memories of old Sergeant Thosolin and his petty testings. He was pestered no more by Andor, for Andor was an imp, and imps were poor sailors. Rap had the passengers’ deck to himself as he swung his oar up and down in a mindless fog.
Even Little Chicken rarely bothered him. The goblin, of course, had soon become arm-wrestling champion of the ship, unwittingly earning Kani a year’s wages on his first two bouts. No one had been willing to bet on the third. The sailors quickly accepted him as just another nonjotunn curiosity. They assumed that his unnatural strength was a racial trait and joked about raiding the northlands to collect more like him.
Stormdancer carried seven passengers: Andor the gentleman tourist, an elderly bishop and his wife, a young Imperial playboy who had been visiting his retired parents, a horse-faced, desiccated matron who wrote popular romances and was planning one about Faerie, and a viscount of middle years, honeymooning with a much younger wife. Obviously they must all be wealthy, or they could not have afforded the fare. Obviously they were all either brave or foolish, also, for the crossing from Faerie was never a sure thing. As the days passed, one by one they found their sea legs and emerged again from their cabins.
Night by night the convoy scattered. By the fifth day the last two sails had gone and thereafter Stormdancer was alone under the blue dome of heaven. On the sixth day the wind suddenly failed, having done all the damage it could. Thereafter Rap made muscles and blisters with real rowing. Real rowing was much worse than exercising, and he was grateful for the extra strength he had gained already.
Day by day he settled into the routine life of a sailor. When not rowing, he scrubbed and peeled and baited as he was told. He emptied the passenger’s slop buckets, he cleaned fish, he polished and mopped. Such simple labor he could handle as well as any man alive, always doing the best he could, because that was his way. As he completed each task he was rewarded with another. He received neither punishment nor praise and looked for neither; he was more than happy to be accepted as just another hand. Somewhere between Hononin’s stables and Stormdancer, a boy had become a man. That discovery was enormously welcome, and Rap was determined to do anything at all to live up to his new status.
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