by Tina Daniell
Patric drew La Cava to one side and whispered in his ear. The captain nodded in response. “Lurie!” the captain cried out.
A tall, bony man with blotchy skin rushed up to the captain’s side, his expression obsequious. Dressed in leather shorts with a bare chest, he was obviously one of the mates.
“Lurie,” commanded Patric, “give my betrothed my personal quarters and put me in the adjoining room with Strathcoe, the one across the hall. Bring out my mother’s trunk and make sure Kitiara has everything she needs—oils and perfumes, the finest clothing.”
As Lurie listened, he bent his neck at an angle like a bird and darted sharp, curious eyes in her direction. When Patric finished, Lurie extended a bony forearm to Kit. “Follow me, my lovely.”
Kitiara was about to protest—she hardly needed to be spoiled—when Patric touched her on the arm gently and said, “Go now. I will join you for dinner.”
Kit shrugged and grinned. As she was escorted below by Lurie, she knew several dozen pair of eyes were fixed on her. Indeed, she felt like royalty already.
Her cabin was in the gallery below the deck, with wide portholes that showed an expanse of sea. A comfortable looking bed, a chest of drawers, and a small writing table were built into the cabin’s walls. Lurie watched Kit nervously as she walked around and touched things. It was as if she had to be sure they were real, that this wasn’t a dream. When she finally turned to dismiss the captain’s mate, he held up his hand in a gesture, bent down, and pulled a case from under the bed.
Lurie unsnapped the lock, and Kit could see that the trunk was carefully packed with all variety of fine clothing. Lurie, seeming to know just what he wanted, reached into it and drew out a yellow silk dress that had a low neckline and long billowing sleeves.
“Very pretty,” he said, grinning and winking. “Pretty dress for lovely lady.”
Kit snatched the dress from his hands, but she couldn’t help but smile. It was all a little ridiculous, especially Lurie with his bent neck and birdy mannerisms. She had never seen, much less worn, such a dress. But as she took it in her hands and felt the softness of the fabric, Kitiara reveled in the luxury of it.
“Try,” said Lurie.
Kit held it up against her body and saw that it would fit as if made for her. Lurie, his gaze curious, gave her an encouraging smile. He opened the door of a built-in closet, revealing a full-length mirror.
Slowly she approached the mirror. The person in it seemed not to be herself, but some princess. In the reflection she could see Lurie back out the door, his eyes taking one last look at the beautiful betrothed of his master.
“Set sail!”
With its canvas snapping in the wind, the sloop got underway.
Chapter 11
THE SILVER GAR
———
The afternoon heat blistered the deck, relieved only occasionally by a slight breeze. Lurie and Strathcoe had paired off midship, making a contest of throwing knives at a puppet figure tied to one of the masts.
“Bad throw, bad throw, dearie,” said Lurie, clucking his tongue and shaking his head as he ambled up to the puppet. Once his back blocked Strathcoe’s view, Lurie surreptitiously pulled the knife out of the target’s dead center and moved it an inch or so to one side.
His gargantuan opponent stormed up to the mast. Strathcoe cast Lurie a suspicious look, then grunted and pulled out his knife with such force that the puppet came loose and dangled upside-down on a string. Then he circled his arm, as thick as a vallenwood branch, around Lurie’s waist and lifted him up against the mast, miming that the captain’s mate could be the new target.
“No, no, no, no. Not with your aim. Captain La Cava, he need me to sail. If Lurie get hurt, whole ship be hurting, especially captain,” Lurie proclaimed indignantly.
Lurie could afford to brag. La Cava was down below, napping. The captain liked to take the helm at night, alone under a starry sky while everyone else slept. He caught up on his sleep in the afternoon.
Patric, too, was below. He had settled down in his cabin to write in his journal and had waved away Strathcoe, who otherwise would have stayed at his master’s side.
All the other passengers had retreated to their cabins, chased there after lunch by the midday sun. Even most of the crew had made themselves scarce. Only two or three sailors remained above deck. The minotaurs pulled at the oars to keep the ship moving, but did not exert themselves. The sky was hazy with reflected light, the water a deep, sapphire blue. The bow of the ship was pointed north by west.
Driven from her cabin by boredom, Kitiara climbed on deck in time to observe Strathcoe’s forcible persuasion of Lurie. After almost two weeks of land travel with Strathcoe and a week on board the Silver Gar with Lurie, she knew them well enough to see that the quarrel was not serious. A fundamental camaraderie underlay their every activity.
“Hey! You two look like you need someone with the wisdom of the gods to settle this, and I want you to know that I’m available,” Kitiara called out, grinning as she approached.
Kitiara had never been on any body of water larger than Crystalmir Lake, but she had taken to life at sea. During the first day or two she had thoroughly explored the ship, adapting to the sea swells and moving with her customary agility.
After watching Kit and answering perhaps her hundredth question, La Cava had decided she could be of some use. He had permitted Kitiara to help with some of the shipboard tasks—taking down the sails, climbing the rigging to untangle lines, and even having a turn at day watch in the crow’s nest. The sun had toasted her skin to a warm golden tan, and the physical activity had added more sinew to her slenderness.
The paying passengers gaped and sniffed at her as she clambered around, trading jokes and insults with the crew. La Cava indulged her the way a father would a spirited child. Slowly, most of the sailors, who were unaccustomed to a female behaving as their equal, grew to regard her as such, respecting her willingness to try anything.
Kit found Patric’s reaction difficult to decipher. She often felt his eyes on her as she moved around the ship. At times he seemed bemused by her energy and physicality, at other times proud, almost possessively so, of her and the admiration she attracted from the sailors.
In other ways, though, Patric had drawn apart from her. The longer and farther they sailed, the more protracted became his moods and silences. Kit could not figure out what preoccupied him.
Only at night, when they dined with La Cava, did Patric become animated, telling story after story about Gwynned and his family’s estate, and other tales from the region. With looks and gestures, he included Kit in the embrace of his storytelling. Afterward, though, when they would walk up on deck, he spoke less freely and rarely touched her. Their kisses, which she usually initiated, were oddly chaste.
She shook these thoughts from her mind as she greeted Lurie and Strathcoe. “Show me how to do that,” she asked them.
They nodded, and Lurie handed her the thick-handled knife they were aiming at the makeshift target, a foot-high straw icon of a hobgoblin. Kitiara hefted the knife in one hand, feeling its weight as she squinted at the target, about ten yards down the deck. With her other hand she shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun.
Kitiara had handled plenty of knives growing up, but she had never taken much target practice, nor actual training with a short blade like this. Gilon’s knives were practical ones better suited for butchering meat or carving a table leg than for fighting.
Strathcoe grinned encouragingly at her. He, Lurie, and Kit had become almost friends, a surprising development considering that Strathcoe could not utter a sentence and Lurie had his own idiosyncratic way of expressing himself, not always making sense.
“Here,” said Lurie, “hold it this way.” He put his arm around her shoulder and laid his hand over hers, showing her how to grip the knife with the fingers splayed along the length of the handle. Then he made a sideways, whiplike motion. The knife flew from her hand, missing the puppet target by
several inches and embedding itself in a rain barrel that, fortunately, was empty.
Strathcoe mimed disgust at Lurie for failing to impart a piece of vital information to their pupil. He ran forward to pull the knife out, bringing it back to Kit. Strathcoe made an elaborate point of wiping both sides of the blade on his trousers before handing it to Kit. She glanced at Lurie, puzzled, because the blade had not been wet.
“Strathcoe, he says, ‘keep it dry,’ ” interpreted Lurie.
“Why?” asked Kitiara, as she readied for another try.
Strathcoe made some indeterminate, strangled noises, ending with his characteristic grin. “Truer aim,” said Lurie matter-of-factly. “Water bends the knife. Dry goes in deeper, too. Always dry before big fight or after each throw. Very dry, best.”
This time Kitiara tried the throw by herself. A roll of the ship set her off balance at the last moment, and the toss went astray, clattering to the deck a couple of feet from the target. Exuberantly, Strathcoe hurried to retrieve it.
When the big slave got back, he showed her his style of grip and throw. Strathcoe’s fingers tightened over the handle. His body tensed as he whirled in a half-circle—despite his bulk, Kitiara was struck by the grace of his motion—and the knife flew from his hand in a blur. An instant later, she saw that the blade had cleaved the chest of the doll target.
Lurie sauntered over to pull it out, came back, and, as he readied his own throw, cast a scornful glance at Strathcoe. It was as if Patric’s slave should have been ashamed of himself for showing off. “Score a mark,” said the captain’s mate drily.
Lurie served as Kitiara’s willing guide to all the workings of the ship, the better, she suspected, to avoid his regular duties. At just over one hundred twenty feet from stem to stern, the Silver Gar was not a particularly big ship. Still, there was an abundance of things to see and explore. The only room barred to Kit’s investigation was La Cava’s private chamber. The captain kept his cabin locked when he was not there, and Lurie, who had a key, dared not trespass. Kit’s cabin, and Patric’s, were near the captain’s, in the stern.
The other passengers were quartered forward of the stern in ten or so cabins that were smaller than Kit’s, but beautifully appointed. One day she and Lurie explored their small section. Several of the doors were open to allow for any wisp of a breeze. Ever curious, Kit glanced inside the cabins when she could and saw each was outfitted with oak paneling, plush velvet cushions, and elegantly functional furniture.
In one, she also saw a plump, veiled lady wearing a woolen dress despite the heat, reclining on her bed and breathing heavily. The young boy traveling with her was doing his best to keep her cool by waving a large peacock feather fan. Both were dressed absurdly for the hot weather, and Kit almost had a mind to say so. But Lurie gave her a nudge, and she moved on.
Through another doorway, Kitiara glimpsed a pale elf, pointed ears showing through longish white-blond hair, sitting on a stool and staring out a window at the sea. Although he sat with his back to the doorway, Kit had the impression that his eyes were closed. She heard murmuring, some kind of incantation it sounded like, from his direction. Next to her, Lurie shifted his weight impatiently and brushed up against the doorway, making a sound that caused the elf to turn sharply. He had such a frown on his face that Kit involuntarily took a step back and hurried on.
On another day, Lurie guided Kitiara down to the hold where a dozen chained minotaurs rowed their oars, during periods of calm, to a rhythmic sea chant. One of La Cava’s men watched over them constantly. Still, Kit knew they were treated relatively well, eating the same rations of food and water as the sailors and rich passengers.
Kit stared at them, fascinated, remembering the first time she had seen a minotaur close up. That had been with Gregor before the battle against Swiftwater. These carried no weapons, of course, but their hulking, hair-covered forms awed her nonetheless. Their sharp horns looked deadly. Their huge eyes seemed to stare ahead at some fixed point invisible to mere humans. Despite the chains that bound their feet to the floor, they exuded an aura of power essentially untamed.
They also exuded a powerful stench. Lurie pulled out a handkerchief and covered his nose with it.
“They seem,” said Kitiara, searching for the right words, “almost regal. Like they should be the ones in the cabins and we all should be down here rowing.”
“Sometimes,” said Lurie, holding his nose, “they act up. Then, they trouble. Mostly, they work hard, do their job. But stink. Very stink.”
“Yes,” Kitiara had to agree. “Very stink.”
After a week at sea, Patric and Kitiara received an invitation to dine with the captain on the occasion of his birthday. Unlike most nights when they ate in the ship’s dining room, this time they were privileged to be invited to La Cava’s quarters.
Patric had seemed particularly remote that day, and in an effort to please him Kitiara planned to dress up for the occasion. She dug through his mother’s trunk and chose a white dress that left her shoulders bare. The diaphanous material swirled gracefully around her figure down to the floor. She wore the chrysanth pendant Patric had given her and fluffed her hair out. When he knocked at her door and she observed his reaction, Kitiara knew she had chosen well.
“A beautiful vision,” he murmured.
For his part, Patric was dressed in a uniform that must have been worn, at one time, by his father, for it fitted him a bit loosely. It was braided at the shoulder and hips and decorated with family emblems. At his waist, Kit noted with some surprise, was the sword she had given him, its precious stones winking in the cabin’s light. He looked, Kit decided, thoroughly dashing. Impulsively, she embraced him and was pleased to feel his warm response. Hand in hand, they crossed over to La Cava’s cabin.
Kit didn’t know what she expected, but what she found were richly furnished quarters displaying a mixture of fastidious good taste with unruly evidence of a life spent at sea. La Cava had shelves lined with books and the occasional piece of driftwood, drawings framed on the wall alongside colorful navigational maps. Through the doorway into his sleeping chamber, Kit saw that his bed was covered with a finely sewn, multicolored quilt. In the sitting room, where they were to eat, a pedestal occupied a place of honor. Draped around it was a gray-green tentacled creature, the size of a large dog, with bulging eyes and razor-sharp spines covering its body.
“That thing got washed aboard during a storm,” La Cava said when he noticed Kit eyeing the creature. “Wrapped itself around the helm. Those tentacles and spines shoot poison, and I had to fight it to regain control of the wheel. After I killed it, I had Lurie preserve the thing. It’s not often I come that close to losing a fight,” he said, winking at Kit.
La Cava, too, had dressed handsomely in a fitted short jacket and dark pants, with a red sash tied at his waist and a red and white striped scarf knotted around his neck.
With a small bow, he invited Kitiara and Patric to be seated across from each other at a wooden table set with china and illuminated by candles. La Cava seated himself at the head of the table. The three of them smiled at each other a little awkwardly in this unfamiliar situation.
Any tension was relieved by Figgis, the ship’s cook, who made a show of carrying in a tray of cooked pigeon, birds Kit had seen earlier in the day, caged among some of the other food supplies. The resourceful Figgis was followed by a small cabin boy who could barely balance a tray heavy with pieces of fish, marinated kelp, nut pudding, and dried fruit.
Ample portions of wine from the captain’s private stock loosened them up as the evening wore on. La Cava was in good temper, but as usual spoke little, always choosing his words judiciously. Patric had warmed to the special occasion and ensured there were no gaps in the conversation. He talked expansively, telling story after story in a way that reminded Kit of the week they had spent together in Solace. Patric could be a bit of a bore, Kit acknowledged to herself, but he certainly was the most handsome man she had ever known—after Gregor,
that is. She grinned at him beguilingly over the table.
“So my mother says …” It was past midnight, and Patric was in the middle of a long tale about how his father had tricked his mother into marrying him. La Cava was listening politely, though he no doubt had heard this one more than once before. Kit could tell that the captain was growing tired.
“ ‘I can’t marry you, Alwith, I am betrothed to another.’ ‘Well,’ says my father, ‘either I will kill your betrothed or myself. I won’t be unhappy. You may choose. Him or me.’
“Needless to say, it seemed an impossible choice. Both were handsome, both were from good families, and both would do anything to win her, for she was the fairest of the sisters in her family and stood to gain a fortune when her father died.
“Alwith counted on the fact that Maryn, my mother, would speak to her favorite—a kender—and ask his advice. Now, this kender, name of Sampler, not only made maps for my mother’s family, but also acted as soothsayer for Ravetch, my father’s chief rival. Sampler was as honest as most kender and actually believed he had a modest gift for predicting the future. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. It doesn’t matter to what happened.
“When my mother told Sampler about my father’s threat to kill either himself or Ravetch, Sampler did what any normal kender would do, he ran and told Ravetch. Kender have certain talents, but keeping a secret isn’t one of them. Now Ravetch—though equal in looks and breeding—was not as brave as my father, nor as smart. Immediately he grew frightened and asked Sampler to read his palm. Sampler, no doubt caught up in the drama of the situation, predicted that someone was bound to die, but which of the suitors it would be, he couldn’t be sure. He would know afterward, but not necessarily beforehand.
“Ravetch was willing to do anything to marry my mother, except die. And he wasn’t going to take any chances. So he disappeared, leaving a note saying he had been called away on a hobgoblin-hunting expedition far to the north. The expedition took nine months. When he returned, Maryn and Alwith were already married. And, with only minor awkwardness, Ravetch switched his attentions to one of Maryn’s sisters.”