by Angus Wells
When he was done she said, “But we are safe here, no?”
“Colun said that.”
She took his hand and smiled. “Then all is well. Do we pitch our lodge and begin this new life?”
Rannach said, “In a while,” and took her in his arms.
14 Departure
Militiamen with bayonets fixed threateningly to their muskets lined the wharf from warehouse to waterside, a red-coated corridor from the land the prisoners were leaving forever to the ship that would take them into the unknown future. She was a schooner—the Pride of the Lord—and the sailors hanging from her rigging greeted the exiles with jeers and whistles as the column shuffled miserably toward her. Their catcalls joined the mewing of the swooping gulls in a chorus of derision, but Flysse paid them no heed—she was too concerned for Davyd, whose fear of water threatened to overcome his fear of the Militiamen’s anger. The soldiers brooked no delay, nor hesitated to use musket butt or bayonet to urge on the tardy, as if the exiles were no more than cattle driven to slaughter. Ahead of Flysse, a weeping man turned back, and was forced on at bayonet point, his sobs becoming a shriek of pain as steel pricked his buttocks, decorating his breeches with bloody patches. The perpetrators laughed as if it were a great joke; Flysse felt Davyd’s hand seek hers and grip hard. She looked at his face and saw his lips drawn tight over clenched teeth as he stared fixedly ahead. She thought he looked very young, and very afraid. Glancing around, she saw Arcole Blayke behind her, his expression disdainful as he eyed the chuckling soldiers. He seemed unaware of Davyd’s terror.
The line moved slowly on, across the cobbles to the gangplank. At the head of that gently undulating ramp stood a captain. He held a heavy key with which he unlocked the prisoners’ handcuffs, tossing them to a pile on the deck. More Militiamen stood there, alert as the exiles were freed and herded to the hold. Flysse felt Davyd shudder as he stepped on board. He looked around, wild-eyed, as his manacles were removed, eyes roving over deck and swaying masts to the gunwales, to the sea beyond. He made no move, but for a moment she feared he would attempt to flee, though she could not imagine where.
The officer favored the boy with a contemptuous look and was about to speak, when Arcole forestalled him.
“Go on, lad. Don’t give these bullies the pleasure.”
Flysse turned, smiling gratefully as Davyd moaned and allowed her to lead him toward the hold, but Arcole was staring at the captain and she realized his words were intended less for Davyd than in challenge of the Militiaman.
The captain only sneered and loosed Arcole’s manacles, motioning for him to follow the others. Arcole made a show of adjusting his shirt cuffs, bowed to the officer in a manner that succeeded in being insulting, and strolled leisurely to the ladder descending into the bowels of the ship. Flysse thought him very brave, and very foolish.
For her own part, she was terrified. Perhaps not so much as Davyd—whose fear seemed to rob him of volition, rendering his legs rubbery, his movements disjointed as a poleaxed steer—but still more afraid than she had ever been. She was grateful for the boy’s presence, for his helplessness that enabled her to ignore her own terror to some extent. She concentrated on helping him down the ladder—she thought that he must fall without her hands to guide him.
But when she reached the bottom and saw her charge safely down, she found herself abruptly confused. She had never set foot on board a ship before, and she was immediately disorientated. The hold was a long, dim area divided by stacked ranks of narrow bunks that left barely enough space for passage between. Many of the bunks were already occupied, and Flysse peered around, wondering where she should lead Davyd. He had guided her in the warehouse, but now he only stood blank-eyed and shuddering like a mindless babe. She started as a hand touched her elbow.
What’s wrong with him?” Arcole asked, indicating the trembling boy.
“He’s afraid of water,” she replied.
“As are too many here.” Arcole looked around, his nostrils flaring, and Flysse realized that the hold did, indeed, bear an odor of unwashed bodies. “Still, do you follow me?”
As he moved past her, she blushed and took a firm grip on Davyd’s hand, leading him unprotesting after the tall man.
Arcole made his way between the bunks to a section overlooked by a hatch. The metal grille let in sufficient light, it was easier to see, and the air here was a little fresher. He halted, indicating the tiers.
“Save you object to the observation of the sailors, Mistress Cobal, I suggest you take the topmost. It shall be the airier.” He extended a hand to help her up. “I’ll see the boy settled.”
“Thank you.” Flysse allowed him to aid her climb. She noticed that his hand was very smooth.
She settled herself on the bunk and watched as Davyd took the middle level, and Arcole the lowest place. Each bunk had a straw pallet and a thin gray blanket. They were barely wide enough to accommodate the occupants, and surrounded by raised planks that formed low walls. Looking up through the hatch, Flysse could see a mast and the spars outlined against a blue sky. It occurred to her that it was the sky above Evander and that this should be the last time she would ever see it. She closed her eyes and told herself she would not cry.
“I must confess,” she heard Arcole declare in his Levan drawl, “that I’ve known better quarters.”
She wondered if he sought to cheer her, and then how Davyd fared. At that, she dismissed her own trepidation and hung her head over the bunk’s edge to study the boy. He lay curled on his pallet, a blanket spread over him—had Arcole draped him thus?—so that only his head and the tight-clasped hands he pressed against his mouth were visible. She said his name but he gave no reply, nor offered any sign he heard her. She sighed and directed her gaze along the hold.
From her vantage point atop the tier, she could see the bunks were filling up. She thought there must be a hundred or more. Some exiles carried small bundles that they clutched close, afraid of losing whatever pitiful valuables they had managed to bring with them. Flysse wished she had been able to bring something—a comb would not go amiss, nor a change of clothing. She had no sure idea how long the voyage would last, and the notion of spending weeks at sea in garments not laundered since her arrest was unpleasant. No less that of spending the entire voyage in this dim, malodorous hold.
“Sieur Blayke?” she ventured. And when Arcole’s face appeared below her: “Shall we spend all our time here, or shall they let us out? Shall we be allowed to wash? What shall we do when …”
She fell silent, embarrassed by the flood of questions. She was suddenly afraid he would find them insulting; how should a gentleman be familiar with the procedures of an exile ship?
His smile, albeit faint, put her better at her ease. “I’ve really no idea,” he said. “This is as new an experience for me as it is for you.”
Flysse blushed—she seemed to spend much of her time in his presence blushing—and said, “Of course. I’m sorry; forgive me. I just … I thought … Forgive me, please.”
She was babbling again. She set a hand against her mouth to dam the spate, and bit on a knuckle as she fought the renewed threat of tears.
“Mistress Cobal,” she heard him say, “there’s nothing to forgive, I assure you. I think we are none of us much at our ease here. Our circumstances are unusual to us all. But …” She heard his voice come closer and opened her eyes to find his face looking over the rim of her bunk. “I believe they place some value on our lives—as indentured folk, at least—and so shall likely provide us with the basic amenities. Even the Evanderans tend their animals, no?”
Flysse nodded, taking no offense at his slighting reference to Evanderans. She did not feel she belonged to any particular nation, save that exile was, in itself, a kind of community. She essayed a smile, realizing he sought to comfort her.
“I imagine they’ll see us fed and watered,” he continued. “And I trust they’ll allow us to wash. God knows, we shall have an ocean at our disposal, eh?”
Arcole shrugged. “Wait, I suppose. There seems little we can do, no? I imagine they’ll issue instructions betimes. Meanwhile, I think it wise we remain here, to stake our claim.” He gestured at the filling hold, smiling sardonically. “Should we quit these desirable quarters, we’d likely find them taken on our return.”
Flysse nodded sadly. She thought things came to a sorry pass were folk prepared to squabble over such miserable beds, but still could see the sense of Arcole’s advice. These bunks would be infinitely preferable to those situated away from the ventilation of the hatches, around the edges of the hull, where the light was dimmest and the air thick. She saw him smile and nod, and then his face was gone as he took his own place.
She settled back, watching the hold fill up as the enormity of her situation sank in. There were other women present, but the majority of the human cargo was male and she saw more than one pair of eyes turned her way, some merely curious, others openly speculative. She knew such looks from the taproom of the Flying Horse, but at least there she had been able to deflect the attentions of admirers. Here, she was not sure any rules could govern, save those the strongest saw fit to impose. She saw the massive black-bearded fellow who had entered the warehouse with Arcole watching her and turned away, not wishing to give him any encouragement. She remembered Arcole’s reference to animals and wondered why men and women were not separated. The answer came with the memory of an overheard conversation between Master Banlyn and a sea captain, and with it a horrid quickening of fear.
The mariner had captained such a ship as this, and Master Banlyn had asked him, winking lewdly, what provision was made for the quartering of women and men. The captain had chuckled and reminded him that such folk as the exile ships carried were all indentured, and did they breed during the voyage, why, their children were born indentured and thus to lifelong service in Salvation.
Flysse felt her mouth go dry. She knew she lacked the strength to repel such attentions as might be forced on her. She could fight—would fight—but did some man look to rape her, she knew in her heart she should be helpless. Davyd might try to defend her, but he was only a boy. And Arcole? Would he protect her honor? She was nothing to him save a chance companion in hardship. Had he laid eyes on her in the Flying Horse, he’d likely not have noticed her at all, save perhaps as another tavern wench, beneath his dignity. She felt a lump grow in her throat and her eyes water. She squeezed them tight shut, telling herself she must be strong: she must not cry, show weakness. She could not help a stifled sob.
“What ails you now?”
There was a faint hint of irritation in Arcole’s voice that added to Flysse’s desolation. She swallowed and rubbed at her eyes. “I’m afraid,” she said, and when Arcole sighed: “I’m sorry.”
His tone sounded mollified somewhat. “What is it you fear? The Sea of Sorrows, monsters of the deep?”
Flysse stared at him in horror. Those dangers had been farthest from her mind, and she had rather he not remind her of them. She shook her head, annoyed now that she could not entirely stem the tears. “No,” she said, and waved a hand at the hold in general. “It’s this. All of it. These people.”
Arcole turned, surveying the hold as if he looked over some unsavory gaming room. “Not, I’ll admit, the company I’d choose.” He gave her an ironic grin. “But still … comrades in adversity, no?”
“No,” said Flysse. “You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me,” he said.
Flysse thought he spoke out of politeness and nothing more. He seemed indifferent to her upset, even slightly bored, as if he saw her as inferior, or tiresome. She shook her head, afraid her tone was querulous as she said, “No; it’s nothing.”
When he sighed and she saw his brows rise a fraction, she scowled and turned her back, revising her opinion of him. Handsome he might be, but also arrogant, and she would not show him weakness. All around, she heard the sounds of her fellow exiles: their low-voiced conversations, some weeping, some chanting prayers, the shifting of bodies, the creaking of the bunks. There were unfamiliar noises, too, that came from the timbers of the ship and the sea beyond its hull, the sailors overhead. She heard the tramp of boots and the faint shout of orders, and then a growing silence that prompted her to open her eyes and sit up.
Descending the ladder granting access to the hold, she saw a man. An officer in the God’s Militia by his uniform, but that not one she recognized. He did not wear the familiar scarlet, but a jacket of dark blue, crossed by white straps that supported a sword and a holstered pistol. He held a tricorn hat with a cockade of scarlet and white beneath one arm, one hand rested on the butt of the pistol. It was difficult to make out his face clearly, but she saw that his hair was fair and his features regular. He halted a few steps from the bottom and surveyed the hold as the silence spread.
When all was quiet he said, “I am Tomas Var, Captain of Marines in the God’s Militia. I command fifty men, whose duty is to defend this vessel against all harm—be it from without or within.”
He paused, allowing the significance of his words to sink in. Flysse heard Arcole murmur. “Our guards, by God.”
Var let his gaze wander across the watching faces, then went on: “Do you give offense, do any of you think to foment mutiny or any kind of trouble, know that my men will shoot you down. You will obey such orders as I or any of my men give you, or those issued by Captain Bennan, who is master of this ship. Do you refuse, you will be flogged. Do you raise a hand against any soldier or sailor, you will be executed. Do you raise hand against one another, you will be flogged. Neither will I tolerate rape. Any who offend will be flogged within an inch of their life.
“Do you follow these rules, this voyage shall not be overly unpleasant. But remember always—you are the outcasts of decent society. You are exiles and you have no rights, only such charity as we elect to grant you.
“You will be fed twice a day, and, does the weather allow, come in groups on deck to exercise and bathe …”
He proceeded to outline those routines by which they must live. Flysse listened intently, seeking to persuade herself that the regime, and the presence of the marines, would impose order and a degree of safety. She thought this captain, this Tomas Var, seemed a decent man, whose care of his charges extended to delivering them whole and undamaged to Salvation. Or so she hoped …
Arcole listened to the clipped Evanderan voice with a cynical half-smile. Fifty marines should certainly be sufficient to maintain order and discipline amongst the exiles, nor did he doubt that Var would make good his promises of executions and floggings. He knew something of the Autarchy’s marines. They had been the spearhead of the Evanderan armies, and a sharp, swift spear at that. They were undoubtedly fine soldiers, and likely no less efficient as warders. He did not share Flysse’s optimism: to him Var’s men represented the same authority that defiled his land and sent him into unjust exile.
He waited until Var was finished speaking and had gone back up the ladder, then stretched—as best his height allowed—on the bunk, staring morosely at the slats a few scant inches above. He anticipated a long and boring voyage. He wondered how many of the prisoners would survive unscathed. He could not believe all there would adhere to Var’s rules. Indeed, were his companions on the journey to Bantar typical of his fellow exiles, he shared this miserable hold with a crew of ruffians. Save perhaps the young woman, Flysse, though even she represented something of an unwelcome problem.
He had acted instinctively when he helped her with the young thief, and she appeared to have taken that as some kind of commitment. He hoped she would not seek to attach herself to him: it would be an embarrassment. She was, he must admit, pretty enough, b
ut a tavern wench—even one who had struck an officer of the God’s Militia—was beneath his dignity. His friends would scorn him were he to dally there.
He chuckled then. Dom was his only real friend, and all those others who called themselves his friends should soon be left far behind. He would never see them again, so why should their opinion matter? It did not, he decided, save insofar as it reflected and echoed his own, and that did not permit attachments to tavern wenches, no matter how appealing. He was Arcole Blayke, gentleman, and must hold on to that concept of himself, else he descend to the level of the common folk around him. Besides, the girls was obviously vulnerable, and did he allow her to perceive him as her champion, it could only lead to her ultimate disappointment. He did not seek emotional attachments, but to survive this tedious voyage and make the best of his unwelcome fate.
He did not think that should prove too difficult once landed in Salvation. The place must surely be a wilderness—the God knew, it lay on the far side of the world—and there must surely be opportunities there for a gentleman, even one branded and indentured. He could read and write, which he doubted were attributes owned by many of his companions. He was a master swordsman, though he wondered if the Evanderans would trust him in reach of a blade. He could read music and play the harpsichord, and his singing voice was considered melodious. He was an able pugilist. His work with sketchpad and watercolors was more than efficient. And, of course, he was most handy with the cards. Was there a town of some kind, and inland farms, he supposed there must be some kind of society. There was, he believed, a governor, and he supposed that authority would entertain some kind of court. Therefore—surely—there would be a place for a gentleman of Arcole’s talents. Perhaps as a tutor, something of that ilk. Surely even the uncouth Evanderans could not ignore his skills, but put them to use at something other than rough manual labor.