by Dave Duncan
"What'd you want?"
Andor's smile became tinged with sadness, or possibly pity. "Thinal thinks you're lying. Rap."
"What?"
"Thinal's very good at detecting lies, you know. Best of the lot of us. He thought you were lying when you said you didn't know your word of power. Not nice to lie to your friends, Rap!"
So Andor was still after Rap's word, and if Rap was now capable of telling it, then Darad could be called to encourage the telling and arrange the unfortunate consequences.
Andor watched Rap's reaction, and his smile grew even wider. "Rowing is fine exercise! Better even than running, I'm told."
"But you won't be trying it."
"Er, no." Andor sighed regretfully. "I'm often told that my hands are one of my best features. But I'll be in Cabin One. Do drop in for a chat sometime. Ah . . . Looks like your fare has been paid. Well, see you on board, old buddy. Bon voyage!"
4
Andor led the way along the quay. Rap followed, with Little Chicken hobbling behind him, and the sailor bringing up the rear; having just paid out much good gold for two healthy thralls, Gathmor was taking no chances on losing them before they even reached Stormdancer.
A thrall with farsight, an occult slave . . . to sailors. Rap was beyond price. Shuffling along in his awkward trussed posture, he lamented the irony of his new situation. Minutes ago he had been congratulating himself on escaping from Faerie. Faerie was a good place to escape out of, but what had he escaped into?
What chance would he ever have of escaping from sailors who knew of his occult talent? A pilot who could see in fog, in the dark? The crew would guard him like a chest of rubies, the most precious thing aboard.
So the sailors wanted his talent, but Andor was still after his word of power. Perhaps Rap had been unfair in his attitude to Thinal, for whatever his suspicions, the little alleyrat had at least refrained from calling Darad. Andor was not so picky. The gentleman had fewer scruples than the thief.
And Little Chicken wanted his hide. Having been hailed as a king by a coven of sorcerers, the goblin saw himself as nobody's trash now. Now he was the worst danger of all. Given a fraction of a chance, he was going to toss Rap over his shoulder and lay course for the taiga, for Raven Totem and his destiny.
Bystanders on the Milflor dock saw a gentleman and a sailor escorting two convicts, and they paid slim heed. What Rap saw was three jailers escorting him. He wondered which one was going to get him.
He wondered if they might all kill one another off and leave him free to go.
Of it they might end up with one-third apiece.
Then he was following Andor down the plank to Stormdancer's deck and a future as a galley slave.
Dead yesterday:
Ah, fill the Cup:—what boots it to repeat
How time is slipping underneath our Feet:
Unborn Tomorrow, and dead Yesterday,
Why fret about them if Today be sweet!
Fitzgerald, Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam (§37, 1859)
TEN
Water willy-nilly
1
The helmsman's deck aft was very tiny and presently crowded. Still clattering chains, Rap was handed over to Kani, a wiry young fellow with the hopelessly battered face of a jotunn who couldn't fight well. That was not his only surprising quality. His sea-blue eyes twinkling happily through a straggling mop of silver-blond hair, his lopsided, gap-toothed grin was half hidden by a matching mustache, and yet he chattered like a purebred imp.
He began by shaking Rap's hand crushingly—a noisy and awkward procedure because of the chains—and thereafter he just kept talking. Wind's from the west, unusual, he said as he set to work removing Rap's fetters, be underway in an hour. What's that round your eyes? he asked. Makes you look like a raccoon. Ever done any rowing? Is that other one really a goblin? Heard of them, never seen one. Are you left-handed or right-handed? Can't row bare-assed like that, get you some decent gear. Grab some chow from that basket if you're hungry and come along and meet the lads. And as soon as Rap was unshackled, Kani led the way into the chaos of a hot, dim, and very crowded tunnel.
On one hand the walls and doors of the passengers' cabins stood taller than a man. On the other, shade awnings slanted steeply down to the ship's side, ending barely high enough to clear the heads of men sitting there. More air and light could have struggled in from both ends of this awkward gut, had not it been so completely packed with bodies: men on benches, men on the baggage between the benches, men sitting or kneeling in the gangway, men walking and standing and passing bundles and bags around. In all there were at least forty sailors scrambling about in the narrow space, and it was dark and hot and unpleasant, filled with odors of men and ancient spills of every fluid the human body could produce.
Bewildered by the friendly reception. Rap followed Kani as best he could, banging knees and elbows, stubbing toes, squeezing past people, and clambering over oars and benches and stacks of supplies, all of which were being crammed into completely inadequate storage below the seats. And Kani was continually introducing him, so he must cling greedily to his treasure of victuals with his left arm, while at the same time trying to smile convincingly as his right hand was deliberately juiced by the boisterous grips of professional oarsmen.
At times he found himself squashed breathless inside a pack of six or seven sweaty sailors while someone or something important went by. One of these close encounters put him nose to nose with Kani, who peered through his dangling flaxen thatch and exclaimed, "You've got gray eyes! Never saw a faun with gray eyes."
"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. Bu
t 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."
About 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?"
R
ap 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."