Honninscrave could not look at her. “Ah, my tale,” he grated. “It is no tale of mine. My brother is dead, and the dromond I cherish lies locked in ice and crippled. It is no tale of mine.” Yet the First's authority held him. Clutching a chart in each fist like a weightless and insufficient cudgel, he directed his voice at Covenant.
“You have offered to sunder the ice. Very good. To Cable Seadreamer my brother who gave his life, you refused the fire of release. But in the name of your mad desire for battle you will attempt a league of ice. Very good. But I say to you that Starfare’s Gem cannot sail. In this maimed state, no. And were the time taken to do what mending lies within our power time which is so precious to you-and were a channel opened to the sea, then still would our plight remain, for the dromond is no longer proof against the stress of the seas. With a kind wind, perchance, we might make way toward Seareach, But any storm would hold us in its mercy A score of days-or tenscore-might find us yet farther from our goal. Starfare's Gem” — he had to swallow heavily to force out the words- “is no longer fit to bear the Search.”
“But- ” Covenant began, then halted. For an instant, he was confused Honninscrave's grief covered an anger which he could not utter and Covenant could not decipher. Why was the Master so bitter?
But suddenly the implications of Honninscrave's speech swept over Covenant like a breaker; and his comprehension tumbled down the riptide. Starfare's Gem could not sail. And the First wanted the Search to leave the Giantship, set out afoot toward the Land. He found himself facing her with a knot of cold clenched around his heart. Dismay was all that kept him from fury.
“Nearly forty Giants.” Foamfollower's people, the kindred of the Unhomed. “You're talking about leaving them here to die.”
She was a Swordmain, trained to battle and difficult choices. Her sternness as she returned Covenant's gaze looked as careless of costs as a weapon. But behind her eyes moved shadows like spectres of pain.
“Aye.” Honninscrave's voice scraped the air. “They must be left to die. Or they must accompany us, and Starfare's Gem itself must be left to die. And from that day forward, no one of us shall ever again set gaze upon the crags and harbourage of Home. We have no means for the making of a new dromond. And our people know not where we are.” He spoke softly, but every word left a weal across Covenant's mind.
It was intolerable. He was no sailor; he could bear to abandon the Giantship. But to leave nearly forty Giants behind without hope or to strand them in the Land as the Unhomed had been stranded-!
The First did not waver: she knew her duty and would not shirk it Covenant swung away from her, confronted Honninscrave down the length of the table. Its height made the Master appear tall and hurt beyond any mitigation. But Covenant could not accept that outcome.
“If we leave the crew here. With the ship.” He drove his gaze up at the Giant until Honninscrave met it. “What will they need? In order to have any chance at all?”
Honninscrave's head jerked in surprise. For a moment, his mouth parted his beard incredulously, as though he half believed he was being taunted. But then with a wrench he mastered himself. “Stores we have in plenty.” His eyes clung to Covenant like an appeal: Be not false to me in this. “But the plight of the Giantship remains. It must have all the mending which Pitchwife may contrive. It must have time.”
Time, Covenant thought He had already been away from the Land for more than sixty days-away from Revelstone for closer to ninety. How many more people had the Clave killed? But the only alternative was to leave Pitchwife behind with the ship. And he would surely refuse. The First herself might refuse. Stiffly, Covenant asked, “How much time?”
“Two days,” replied Honninscrave. “Perhaps three. Much pitch will be required. And the labour itself will be awkward and arduous.”
Damnation! Covenant breathed. Three days. But he did not back down. He was a leper: he knew the folly of trying to purchase the future by selling the present. Grimly, he turned to Pitchwife.
Fatigue seemed to emphasize the Giant's deformities. His back bent as if it had been damaged by the weight of his limbs and head. But his eyes glittered, and his expression had lifted. He looked at Covenant as though he knew what the Unbeliever was about to say-and approved of it.
Covenant felt wooden with failure. He had come here primed for fire; but all he had been able to offer his companions was a patience he did not possess. “Try to do it in one” he muttered. Then he left the cabin so that he would not have to endure the reactions of the Giants.
Pitchwife's voice followed him. “Stone and Sea!” the Giant chuckled. “It is a small matter. What need have I of an entire day?”
Glaring at nothing Covenant quickened his pace.
But as he reached the ladder leading to the afterdeck, Linden caught up with him. She gripped his arm as if something had changed between them. Her intent seriousness bore no resemblance to her old severity, and her eyes were damp. Her soft mouth, which he had kissed with such longing, wore the shape of a plea.
Yet he had not forgiven himself; and after a moment she dropped her hand. Her gaze retreated somewhat. When she spoke, she sounded like a woman who did not know the words she needed.
“You keep surprising me. I never know what to expect from you. Just when I think you're too far gone to be reached, you do something like that. Like what you did for Sunder and Hollian.” Abruptly, she stopped, silenced by the inadequacy of what she was saying.
Covenant wanted to cry out. His desire for her was too acute to be suffered. He had already perverted whatever authenticity he might have had with her. And she was a healer. She had more right to his ring than he did. Self-loathing made him harsh.
“Do you really think I just want to throw power around? Is that your opinion of me?”
At that, she winced. Her expression turned inward like a baffled wail. “No,” she murmured. “No. I was just trying to get your attention.” Then her eyes reached toward him again. “But you scared me. If you could see yourself- ”
“If I could see myself,” be rasped so that he would not put his arms around her, “I'd probably puke.”
Savagely, he flung himself up the ladder away from her.
But when he gained the open air and brittle cold of the afterdeck, he had to knot his arms across his chest to hold in the hurt.
While he ate his breakfast in the galley, trying to absorb some of the stoves' warmth, he could hear the sounds of work outside. At first. Sevinhand's voice and Galewrath's commanded alternately. He supervised the preparation of the foredeck; she led the breaking of the ice and the ritual songs for the burial of the three fallen crewmembers. But after a while Pitchwife made himself heard over the scuffle of feet and clatter of gear, the stiff hiss and thud of half-frozen cable. When Covenant had collected what little courage he had left, he went out to watch.
During the night, the crew had cleared and organized the wreckage. Now they were busy readying the truncated foremast. Pitchwife was hunched over a large stone vat of his special pitch; but his eyes and voice followed the sailors as they rigged lines between the intact yard and the splintered end of the mast. Except for the necessary questions and instructions, the Giants were unusually quiet, dispirited. The Dolewind had held them for a long time; and since their encounter with the Soulbiter they had had no rest at all. Now their future had become as fragile and arduous as ice. Even Giants could not carry so much strain indefinitely.
But Covenant had never seen Pitchwife at work before. Grateful for any distraction, he studied Pitchwife with fascination as the First's husband completed his preparations. Consigning his vat to another Giant, he hoisted a slab of setrock in a sling over his shoulder, then went to the ropes and began pulling himself slowly up the foremast.
Below him, the crew set his vat of pitch into a net that they had rigged from a pulley fixed as high as possible on the mast. When he reached that height himself, supported now by a line lashed under his arms and around the mast, two Giants hauled the vat
up to him. His breath plumed crisply in the cold.
At once, he began his work. Scooping up gouts of pitch, he larded them into the jagged crown of the mast. The pitch seemed viscid, but he handled it deftly, fingering it down into the cracks and smoothing it on all sides until he had fashioned a flat butt for the broken stone. Then he reached back to his setrock, snapped a chip from one edge, and tapped the piece into the pitch.
Almost without transition, the pitch became stone, indistinguishable from the mast's granite.
Muttering his satisfaction, he followed his vat back down to the deck.
Sevinhand sent several Giants swarming up to the yard to undo everything which had been rigged to the mast. At the same time, other crewmembers began binding ropes around the ends of the intact spar and preparing new gear up on the yard.
Pitchwife ignored them, turned his attention to the fallen portion of the mast. It had broken into several pieces; but one section was as long as all the rest combined. With pitch and setrock, he formed both ends of this section into flat butts like the new cap of the foremast.
Covenant could not see what all this would accomplish. And his need for haste made him restless. After a time, he realized that he had not seen Galewrath since he had come out on deck. When the dead had been given to the sea, she had gone to some other task. In an effort to keep himself occupied-and to generate some warmth-he tugged his robe tighter and went looking for the Storesmaster.
He found her in her particular demesne, a warren of holds, watercests, and storage-lockers belowdecks amidships. The dromond carried a surprising amount of wood for use both as fuel for the stoves and as raw material for repairs or replacements which could not be readily achieved with stone at sea. Galewrath and three other Giants were at work in a square hold which served as the ship's carpentry.
They were making two large sleds.
These were rough constructs with high rails and rude planking. But they looked sturdy. And each was big enough to carry a Giant.
Two crewmembers glued and pegged the shells together while Galewrath and the other Giant laboured at the more difficult chore of carving runners. With files, knives, and hand-adzes, they stripped the bark from beams as thick as Covenant's thigh, then slowly shaped the wood to carry weight over ice and snow as easily as possible. The floor was already thick with bark and curlings, and the air smelted of clean resin; but the task was far from finished.
In response to Covenant's question. Galewrath replied that to reach Revelstone Covenant and his company would need more supplies than they could bear on their backs. And the sleds would also transport Covenant and Linden when the terrain permitted the Giants to set a pace the humans could not match.
Once again, Covenant was wanly abashed by the providence of the people who sought to serve him. He had not been able to think farther ahead than the moment when he would leave Starfare's Gem; but the Giants were concerned about more than the stark question of their ship's survival. He would have died long ago if other people had not taken such care of him.
His route back toward the upper decks passed the Master's cabin. The door was shut; but from within he heard the First's voice, raised in vexation. She was urging Honninscrave to stay with the dromond.
The Master's answering silence was eloquent. As ashamed as an eavesdropper Covenant hastened away to see what progress Pitchwife and Sevinhand had made.
When he gained the foredeck, the sun stood above the gap where the midmast should have been, and the deformed Giant's plans were taking shape Covenant was almost able to guess his intent. Pitchwife had finished the long stone shaft on the deck; and he and Sevinhand were watching as the crew wrestled the one unbroken spar up onto the yard. There they stood the spar against the truncated mast and secured it with loop after loop of cable. For two thirds of its length, the spar reached above the end of the mast To the upraised tip had been affixed the pulley of a massive block-and-tackle.
Covenant eyed the lashings and the spar distrustfully. “Is that going to hold.”
Pitchwife shrugged as if his arms had become too heavy for him. His voice was husky with fatigue. “If it does not, the task cannot be accomplished in one day. The spar I can mend. But the mast we hope to raise must then be broken to smaller fragments which I may bear aloft and wive whole again.” He sighed without looking at Covenant. “Pray this will hold. The prospect of that labour I do not relish.”
Wearily, he fell silent.
When the tackle had been attached to one flat end of the mast-shaft Pitchwife had prepared, eight or ten Giants lifted the shaft and positioned it below the yard so that the lines hung as straight as possible in order to minimize the sideward stress on the spar. Creaking in its pulleys, the tackle tightened.
Covenant held his breath unconsciously. That spar looked too slender to sustain the granite shaft. But as the ropes strained tighter and the end of the mast-piece lifted, nothing broke.
Then the shaft hung straight from the spar, brushing against the bole of the mast. As the Giants pulled slowly on the towline of the tackle, the shaft continued to rise.
When its butt reached the level of Covenant's head. Pitchwife coughed, “Hold!”
The Giants on the towline froze. The tackle groaned; the shaft settled slightly as the ropes stretched. But still nothing broke.
His hands full of pitch, the deformed Giant moved to the shaft and gently covered the butt with an even and heavy layer. Then he retreated to the other side of the mast A rope dangled near him. When he had carefully cleaned his hands, he gripped it and let the Giants on the yard haul him upward.
Bracing himself once again within a loop of rope passed around the mast and his back, he laboured foot by foot up toward the maimed stump. Alone above the yard, he looked strangely vulnerable; yet he forced himself upward by main strength. Finally he hung at the rim of the mast.
For a long moment, he did not move; and Covenant found himself panting as if he sought to breathe for the Giant, send Pitchwife strength. The First had come to the foredeck. Her gaze was clenched on her husband. If the spar snapped, only a miracle could save him from being ripped down by falling stone and flying tackle.
Then he signalled to the Giants below Sevinhand whispered a command; the crew began to raise the shaft again.
Now the bowing of the spar was unmistakable Covenant could hardly believe that it was still intact.
By wary degrees, the shaft was drawn upward. Soon its flat crown ascended above Pitchwife's head. Then its butt reached the level of his chest.
He looked too weak to support his own weight; but somehow he braced himself, reached out his arms to prevent the shaft from swinging over the end of the mast-from scraping off its layer of pitch or mating crookedly. The Giants fisted the lines tighter, raised the shaft another foot; then Sevinhand stopped them. Slowly, Pitchwife shifted his position, aligned the stone with the mast.
He gave an urgent gasp of readiness. Fervently careful, the Giants began to lower the shaft. Alone, he guided it downward.
The flat ends met. At once, he thumbed a sliver of setrock into place; and the line separating stone from stone vanished as if it had never existed. The First let relief hiss through her teeth. A raw cheer sprang from the Giants as they let the tackle go.
The mast stood. It was not as tall as the aftermast but it was tall enough now to carry a second spar. And two spans of canvas forward might give the dromond the balance it needed to survive.
The task was not yet done: the spar had to be attached to the new foremast. But most of the afternoon remained, and the necessary repairs were clearly possible now. Two Giants swarmed upward and helped Pitchwife down to the yard, then lowered him to his jubilant comrades. The First greeted him with a hug which looked urgent enough to crack his spine. A jug of diamondraught appeared from somewhere and was pressed into his hands. He drank hugely, and another cheer was raised around him.
Weak with relief Covenant watched them and let his gratitude for Pitchwife's safety and success wash over
him.
A moment later, Pitchwife emerged from the crowd of Giants. He was made unsteady on his feet by exhaustion and sudden diamondraught', but he moved purposefully toward Covenant. He gave the Unbeliever a florid bow which nearly cost him his balance. Then he said, “I will rest now. But ere nightfall I will set the spar. That will complete the labour I can do for Starfare's Gem.” The raw rims of his eyes and the sway of his stance were acute reminders that he had saved the dromond from sinking before this day's work began But he was not done. His voice softened as he added, “Giantfriend, I thank you that you accorded to me this opportunity to be of service to the Giantship.”
Bright in the sunshine and the reflections of me ice, he turned away. Chuckling at the murmured jests and praise of the crew, he linked arms with the First and left the foredeck like a drunken hero. In spite of his deformed stature, he seemed as tall as any Giant.
The sight eased Covenant in a way that made his eyes burn. Gratitude loosened his tension. Pitchwife had proved his fear and anger unnecessary. As Sevinhand and his crew went back to work, stringing new tackle so that they could hoist the spar into place against the foremast Covenant moved away in search of Linden. He wanted to show her what the Giant had accomplished. And to apologize for his earlier harshness.
He found her almost at once. She was in the galley, asleep like a waif on her pallet. Her dreams made her frown with the solemn concentration of a child; but she showed no sign of awakening. She was still recuperating from the abusive cold of the Soulbiter. He let her sleep.
The warmth of the galley reminded him of his own chilled weariness. He stretched out on his pallet, intending to rest for a while and then go back to watch the Giants. But as soon as he closed his eyes, his fatigue arose and carried him away.
Later, in a period of half-consciousness, he thought he heard singing. At first, the songs were ones of gladness and praise, of endurance against exigent seas and safe arrival Home. But after a while the melodies began to grieve, and the songs became ones of parting, of ships lost and kindred sundered; and through them ran a sound like the crackle of flames, the anguish of a caamora, auguring doom. Covenant had attempted a caamora once, on the headrock of Coercri. But that bonfire had not been violent enough to touch him in the night of the Unhomed's dismay, he had succoured everyone but himself. Now as he sank back into dreams he thought perhaps a more absolute blaze was needed, a more searching and destructive conflagration. And he knew where to find that fire. He slept like a man who feared to face what was coming.
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