At dawn on the fifth day one of Captain Bodil’s officers thumped on our doors and told us that Kiminge would leave on the ebb, and that we had two hours to get ourselves, our baggage, and our cortege on board. We had time but for bread and cheese and a gulp of ale before we were bundled out of the inn and down to the harbor. The day was gray and squally, with a cold west wind whistling around the corners of the waterfront buildings, and brief spatters of rain showering down from the heavens. A pair of whaleboats waited at the quay, and the crew sped us to where the galleon lay at anchor. The anchor had already been hove short, and was ready to be drawn from the bottom on the captain’s command.
We were bustled to our quarters while whistles blew and the crew rushed about the deck. “We have one other passenger just come on board,” said our escort. “One of you will have to share a cabin with him.”
We were in the aftercastle on the level of the main deck, with our cabins opening left and right off a central room with chairs and a large table. Large windows gazed aft, with small diamond panes interlaced together, and we had an outside balcony that wrapped completely around the stern.
The door of a cabin opened, and the other passenger came out to greet us. We stared at him in shock, and he gazed at us with an amiable expression.
“Sirs,” said our guide. “This is Sir Brynley Wilmot, who will also be our guest on the voyage to Balfoy.”
“I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of meeting these ladies and gentlemen,” said Wilmot.
I looked at the man who had challenged me to a duel before being knocked off his horse by the fire-drake and knew that if he had not recovered his memory yet, he would before the voyage was over. Orlanda would see to that.
“We’ve met,” I said.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I am very sorry,” said Wilmot, “but I suffered an injury when—” He paused, then laughed. “Well, of course two of you gentlemen were present when that happened.” He shook his head. “I recognize your names, of course, and I know that we all journeyed together, and that Sir Quillifer killed the worm.” He nodded at me. “But I’m afraid I don’t recall anything of that journey.”
Dom Nemorino spoke quickly, in hopes of turning the conversation to a safer topic. “Are you traveling to Loretto?” he asked. “Or are you going on to Steggerda?”
“My king has declared war,” said Wilmot. “I go to join the army as a volunteer.”
I remembered those volunteers from the last war. They attached themselves to the headquarters and plagued the queen’s captain-general with their pretension and their quarreling, but they all came from important families, and were too well born to be sent home. Wilmot’s character, from what I knew of it, was ideal for this demi-martial occupation.
Wilmot’s varlet came into the room then, and I saw the shocked look on his face as he recognized me. He recovered swiftly and aided us in stowing our dunnage, but he kept casting looks at me over his shoulder. I wondered if he would find a moment to inform Wilmot that he was obliged to try to kill me, and clearly Prince Alicio and Dom Nemorino wondered the same thing.
Dom Nemorino bravely volunteered to share Wilmot’s cabin, which saved me from wondering every night whether I would have my throat cut. Then I heard, from outside, the cries of the bosun and the stamp of feet on the capstan, and I excused myself, saying that I wished to go on deck and watch the crew make sail.
I put on my old cheviot overcoat and went up onto the poop deck just as the anchor broke free of the bottom, and Kiminge lurched as it fell off the wind, and the main topsail filled with a vast rolling boom. Even though only the spritsail, main topsail, and lateen were set, with the brisk wind and the ebb tide in our favor, we made our way out of the anchorage with good speed.
Rufino Knott joined me on the poop. The wind streamed his hair like a flag as he leaned toward me. “I spoke with Wilmot’s varlet,” he said, “and he’s keeping the knight’s weapons stowed away.”
“I should like mine a little closer at hand,” said I.
“I shall put a dagger and a pocket pistol under your pillow.”
“Arm yourself as well.”
He bowed. “I already have, sir.”
Knott returned to his duties, and Kiminge left the anchorage in its wake. The fore and mizzen topsails were set, along with the forecourse, and Kiminge heeled far over as spray shot over the bow. I stood with my hand on a backstay and enjoyed the brave sight as the galleon swept over the estuary like a king riding in his majesty, with seabirds flocking about us like courtiers. Once the water shifted from brown to blue and we were on the open sea, the ship hove to in order to discharge the pilot, and then the yards were set, and Kiminge shaped a northeasterly course along the coast.
At this point Countess Marcella joined me, and anger blazed in her eyes.
“What is the matter, my lady?” asked I.
“That Wilmot!” said she. “He thinks I am a courtesan. He made me the most ill-bred offer, and I told him that if he were in my own country, I would have him gelded.”
“Were you not introduced to him as a noblewoman?”
“Yes. Of course!” Her fury had not abated.
It is true that there is a class of Aekoi courtesans in our country, as human courtesans are found in the Empire. The two races cannot breed, and this fact is attractive to those who wish to indulge concupiscence without dangers of conception.
“His memory is badly injured, of course,” said I. “But still it was ill-mannered and impudent.”
“I should have slapped his face!” said Marcella.
“I apologize on behalf of my species. If you wish to return to our common room, you may take my arm, and I will offer you protection—”
Scarlet rage blazed up on her golden face, and she took a whirling step away from me. “You offer me your protection?” she cried. “You are no better than Wilmot!”
“I meant it not that way!” I said in haste. “I meant that I will shield you from Wilmot’s insults.”
She examined me with hard pebble eyes, and then she must have judged me sincere, for her anger eased. “If Wilmot insults me again,” she said, “I will stab him to the heart. I am sick to death of the assumptions these humans make, thinking me naught but a whore.”
“I am sorry you are so abused,” I said.
At this point Elisa d’Altrey came onto the deck to say that she had made peace with Wilmot, and that he wished to offer her an apology if she would accept it.
“It’s best, I think,” she added. “For we are boxed up on this ship for a week or more.”
“Well,” said the countess, “if he is of a mind to apologize, I am of a mind to listen.”
The two ladies departed and left me on the quarterdeck. Captain Bodil, who till now had been occupied with the pilot and with getting his ship under way, came down the slanting deck in his big boots to greet me, and I told him I was a shipowner and had recently returned from a trip to the Candara Coast. Bodil had never been so far from home, but he had a great many stories to tell of his years at sea, and we entertained each other with tall tales until it was time for dinner.
“I should perhaps warn you of one of the passengers,” I said, with feigned reluctance. “Sir Brynley Wilmot suffered a recent injury to his head, and has lost part of his memory. I have heard tales of irregular conduct, but I have not seen it myself. I mention this only in case Wilmot should become irrational.”
“No one is rational who sails along the north coast in winter!” laughed Bodil.
“So Kiminge is a ship of lunatics?”
“Oh ay! We reserve the dog watches for our raving, for we are all mad dogs on this ship!”
I ventured back to my quarters and found Countess Marcella, Elisa d’Altrey, one of the maids, and Wilmot playing cards while Alicio, Nemorino, and the second maid were moaning in their cabins, overcome by nausea at the pitching of the ship. The apparent cordiality of the scene eased my nerves, and I let the steward pour me a glass of ale and joined the other
s at the table.
The seasick voyagers declined dinner, which proved to be very good, as the ship was living on supplies purchased in Ferrick. The ale had not spoiled, and the turnips had not rotted in the hold.
Afterward we played cards. Wilmot, I remembered, was a keen player, and his head injury had not affected his skill in any way. After losing two games to him, I put on my overcoat again and went out onto the deck.
Supper was served at nightfall, and Prince Alicio was feeling well enough to eat a chop or two, and join us for cards afterward. Mistress d’Altrey had dropped out of the games, I supposed because she could not afford to lose.
Though my narrow bed was built for a smaller man, I slept well that night, and not merely because I found the knife and pistol that Goodman Knott had left for me. I sleep well on ships, in part because the sea rocks me to sleep in its watery cradle, and also because of a sense that the ship is somehow alive, and will be looking after me. A ship is never silent: The timbers creak; the masts groan; the wind cries among the shrouds and backstays; the canvas rumbles and shivers. The bell rings every half hour, and the watches change every four hours, the crew coming up and down the companionways and tramping along the deck in obedience to the calls of the officers. There is comfort in a life so ordered as that on a ship, and thus comforted, I slept.
The wind moderated overnight, and the log-line showed us making six knots on a quarter reach, our best point of sailing. I had convinced Captain Bodil that I was a competent practical sailor, and so I was allowed all over the ship, and went up the shrouds to view the world from the foremast, which obliged me to hang inverted from the futtock shrouds as I made my way first to the foretop, and then again to the crosstrees. I could have gone up by the safer route of the lubber’s hole, but as a true sailor, I disdained it.
The view from the crosstrees, more than a hundred feet above the deck, revealed Kiminge alone on water the color of indigo. We seemed the only ship in the world, alone below the great deep dome of the sky. The hull had carved our wake a shade of darker blue, filled with turbulent shadows, and outlined by a spreading V of foam. Cloud-streamers scudded overhead, and the mast dipped and swooped with the motion of the ship. Below I could see the crew about their duties, and hear the calls of the mates as they gave their orders. So joyous did I find the scene that I remained there until I was called for dinner, and then I sprang for a backstay, and rode down that taut cable in a swift rush, but not so fast as to tear the skin from my palms. This rapid descent, and my earlier use of the futtock shrouds, showed the officers and hands my seaman’s skills, for I hoped to be accepted in their company. The tales of the sailors would be a welcome contrast to the pieties of the prince.
I came into the common room, put my overcoat in my cabin, and washed my hands at the basin. The scent of cooking already filled the room. The other passengers were at table, their pewter plates neatly stacked before them, while cheese, pickled vegetables, and fresh loaves of cheat bread were laid for their pleasure. I sat in an empty place, across from Dom Nemorino. There were eight at the table, for the male servants dined with the crew, whereas the ladies’ maids were housed with us, to keep them safe from the sailors, who—according to Captain Bodil and all custom—lacked an understanding of civility and chivalry where women were concerned.
First came stew, mutton cooked with raisins, prunes, and claret; and then the steward and his assistant came in with platters, and on the largest I saw a great ham, cooked in a honeyed sauce and spangled with dried cherries that had grown plump in a tub of brandy. We applauded this magnificence, and the steward bowed with pleasure. Countess Marcella spoke up.
“Sir Quillifer,” she said. “I have had the pleasure of being your guest at your Savory Supper, and I know your carving skills are without compare. Will you play host and carve for us today?”
I could not help casting a glance at Wilmot to see if the chance occurrence of a ham and my carving of it would have brought back a memory of our quarrel. I saw no sign of danger, but I thought I should not tempt fate.
“I was the host on that occasion, ay,” I said, “but I am not the host here, and I’m sure that our steward knows how to serve the feast that he has so obligingly cooked for us. So let us drink to him, and thank him for his good service.” I raised my glass, and the steward bowed again, but then offered the carving-knife to me.
“If you please, my lord,” he said.
The countess wore a sweet, imploring smile. “Please, Sir Quillifer?” she said. “Won’t you oblige us?”
I felt unable to resist this polite but insistent pressure, and I rose from my chair to stand at the head of the table.
“Can you not tell us what you do?” asked the countess. “It would be useful instruction for those of us who lack the skill.”
Curses chased one another through my head, but I smiled and took the knife. Wilmot sat on my right and would see the carving practically under his nose, as it had been in that camp in the meadow. His varlet might have stowed away his weapons, but he still had his eating-knife, and I did not fancy it plunged between my ribs. I racked my brain to remember what I had said to Wilmot around the campfire, and to invent paraphrases so as not to stimulate his memory too directly. I carved long slices out of the ham, then turned the meat so it sat on this base and began my fine cuts to the shank. The steward had honed his carving-knife to a razor’s keenness, and my slices were thin as parchment. Steam and scent rose from the ham as I cut, and I observed Sir Brynley Wilmot from under my brows as he watched the carving, first with an affable aspect, and then a degree of puzzlement, and then rising anger. His face went red, a blazing contrast to his pale mustache, and I saw his knuckles grow white as he clutched his knife and fork. Then he looked up at me, his eyes blazing.
“You cullion!” he cried, and lunged at me with his knife. I was ready, and I leaped clear of the first stroke, but there was little opportunity for jumping or dodging, for the table took up most of the room, and there were passengers and chairs occupying much of what was left. My carving knife was a superior weapon, but I wished not to use it even in self-defense, and I backed away as Wilmot made one rush after another while the steward and passengers tried to escape the slashing of Wilmot’s steel.
Fortunately, I had not been alone in anticipating this turn of events. As Wilmot rushed at me, Prince Alicio rose and seized him by his arm. At this I stepped in close and brought the hilt of my knife up under Wilmot’s jaw and knocked him senseless. One of the ladies’ maids, thinking I had stabbed him, gave a shriek.
Prince Alicio drew the knife from Wilmot’s nerveless fingers as he sagged to his knees, and Dom Nemorino and the steward both came up behind him to take him by the arms and shoulders. One of the cabin servants ran off to fetch help.
Wilmot was only stunned for a few seconds, and as soon as he realized his situation he began to bellow and thrash and threaten, and to make a lunge for the dinner-table in order to seize a weapon. Nemorino, Alicio, and the steward managed to wrestle him to the deck and pin him on his face until Captain Bodil and his mates came, bound Wilmot hand and foot, and threw him without ceremony into the cable tier, on a pile of sodden, weed-covered anchor cable. His unnerving howls and cries resounded through the ship and impeded the digestion of everyone on board.
Our common room was set to rights, apologies were made for the interruption, the captain returned to his own dinner, and I resumed my task of carving for a very subdued audience. Dom Nemorino explained the circumstances to the others, but the distant cries and threats from the cable tier echoed Wilmot’s words, and his words fell into numb silence like pebbles into a deep, dark well.
“Perhaps some music would serve,” I suggested, and sent for Goodman Knott and his guitar. I don’t know that he managed to gladden the mood, but at least he helped to drown out Wilmot’s bellowing.
Countess Marcella turned to me as the plates were carried away. “Please forgive me, Sir Quillifer,” she said. “Had I known what happened between you and Si
r Brynley, I wouldn’t have asked you to carve.”
“There is nothing to forgive, my lady,” I said. “You couldn’t have known.” But Orlanda could have, I thought, and I was confident that malefic nymph had whispered the suggestion into Marcella’s ear.
Some time later, Captain Bodil spoke with us. “I have just seen Wilmot,” he said. “And if I had spent another minute with him, I would have fought him myself.”
“He is resolute?” asked Nemorino.
“He insists he must fight Sir Quillifer,” Bodil said. “He says that if he can’t fight him here and now, he will pursue him in Loretto and challenge him in public, when honor will not permit him to refuse.”
“While I hope to preserve my honor,” said I, “I hardly think my honor would be served by a reputation for killing lunatics.”
“If he is a lunatic,” said Elisa d’Altrey, “can he not be confined to some convenient asylum?”
“He would not stay there long,” said Dom Nemorino. “Remember he is the son of a duque. His family would have him out, and then he would be on Sir Keely-Fay’s trail again.”
“Dom Nemorino,” said I. “You were a member of our expedition. Do you think that Sir Brynley has a just cause to challenge me?”
“He was insolent,” said Nemorino. “You answered his insolence with your own. He set out to shame you, and you shamed him instead, and that drove him to a challenge. But I think the fault lies with him, not so much with you.”
“Can you try to reason with Wilmot, then? Point out that he has no reason for a challenge?”
“I will make the attempt,” said Nemorino.
“I shall try, also,” said Prince Alicio. “There is no just cause for any such fight, and it is a stain on honor itself that our misplaced honor compels us to dishonor that honor. If there is to be fighting, let it be against the enemies of our king.”
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