by Chris Bunch
Then one day, on her walk in the garden, she found a diamond. But she could see no one around. The next day, there was another diamond, and on the third day, another.
This went on for half a Time, and the poor princess, in addition to having a growing collection of jewels, was almost beside herself.
But every day she went to that particular garden and always found a beautiful jewel beside a tiny pool.
Then, one day, there was a rather large frog sitting beside the diamond.
She picked up the stone, and wistfully told the frog that she wished he could speak, and tell her about her unknown admirer.
“‘But I can,’ the frog said, and the girl jumped in surprise. ‘I am a noble prince, cursed to become a frog by an evil demon,’” Peirol went on. “‘It was only by the luck of the gods that I hopped into your garden, and was able to see your loveliness.
“‘Frogs have powers,’ the creature went on, ‘or at least I do, and one of them is to conjure up gems. I have no use for such, but thought your beauty deserves presents such as I’ve been giving you.’
“‘You are a lovely frog,’ the princess said, ‘and I wish I could reward you.’
“‘Actually,’ the frog said, ‘there is a way. For the curse can be lifted by the kiss of a beautiful virgin.’
“The princess snuffled a little at this, for she was indeed a virgin, having little chance to be otherwise and not liking her fate greatly.
“‘If I kiss you, frog, you’ll become a great prince again? I assume you were young and handsome when the demon cursed you.’
“‘Of course,’ the frog said.
“So the princess picked up the frog, and considered him, and he was a very ugly frog, even for a frog. But handsome princes didn’t come calling every day, or any day for that matter.
“She puckered up her lips and gave the frog the most passionate kiss of her life.”
Peirol picked up his glass and drank deeply.
“What happened then?”
“She developed a terrible wart on her lower lip,” Peirol said. “Which proves you should never trust a talking frog.” Kima sat up abruptly, nearly losing her eyeband.
“That’s really stupid!”
“You said you didn’t like romances.”
Kima stared at him, then started laughing. She broke off, stared at him for a long while.
“My grandfather is even wiser than he knows,” she said. “You are dangerous. You can make a woman laugh.”
• • •
Peirol shouldered a heavy pack. It held three sets of durable clothing, dress garments, boots, the oilskin pouch with Abbas’s notes, Peirol’s tools, the gems from Thyone, and a heavy bag of Abbas’s gold. Abbas hadn’t offered any explanation of how Peirol’s belongings had been secured, nor did the dwarf get any chance to thank Abbas’s unseen servants. He was somewhat grateful for not having to make their acquaintance.
Abbas had offered Peirol a matched set of pistols, powder, and balls, but he declined — they were too heavy, too unreliable, and would make him look very rich and hence a target the moment he produced them.
He did accept one thing, though. Abbas cast a spell, using herbs muddled in a mortar, then a bit of stone from the far north, mutterings, and rubbing the stone on Peirol’s tongue.
“This’ll give you a gift with words,” Abbas explained. “You’ll understand, and be able to speak, any language — or, rather, any language the person you’re talking to speaks and understands. This means you’ll be able to talk in his dialect, his accent, even.
“You should attempt,” the wizard added dryly, “not to talk to someone who’s tongue-tied or has a cleft palate, at least one with a short temper, since you’ll speak their language exactly as they do, and they might think you’re mocking them. I could cast a more involved incantation that would let you know all of man’s languages and perhaps that of a demon or two, but that takes two days and is a bit painful, since it requires making a dozen or so slits in your tongue.” Peirol hastily said he was most content with the spell already cast.
Peirol looked down the road toward Sennen, then turned back to Kima.
“Well,” he said.
Kima untied the green scarf around her neck, and handed it to him. “Here. A boon … a token.”
Peirol took it, looked into her emerald green eyes, as green as her gift, then touched the scarf to his lips. “Thank you,” he said. “When I return, you’ll wear it again.”
“Maybe,” she said, “when we have our picnic.”
She suddenly leaned over, kissed him on the lips, then pulled away and went inside and closed the door.
Peirol stood a moment, feeling the morning breeze ruffle his hair, and was ready for a crusade, any crusade, but felt the Empire Stone somewhere out there, somewhere beyond, waiting for him to seize it.
If I were anything but an imbecile, he thought, I’d take the mage’s gold and flee hard to the east. Only a fool takes a wizard’s errand, Peirol.
“You’re right,” he said aloud. “A fool indeed.”
Whistling merrily in the winter sunlight, he started down the road toward Sennen’s harbor, where the promised merchantman would sail west within the day.
3
OF STORMS AND INTRIGUES
For the first two days, the wind bore fair, carrying them quickly across the Ismai’n Sea to the east.
One seaman growled that dwarves were bad luck, and two others looked worried. One said something about mayhap it’d be best to tip him overboard.
Peirol had quickly spiked that tale by saying he’d always heard men of small stature were quite good luck, and the mate, a darkly handsome rogue named Edirne, agreed, showing only Peirol his raised eyebrow and a grin, saying their quick passage proved the dwarf right.
That ended that, but Peirol still kept a dagger close by.
The merchantman, the Petrel, was a well-built three-masted caravel, with a lateen sail on each mast. In addition to its cargo, the Petrel had fairly luxurious cabins for six passengers, of which two were occupied.
Its master and only other officer was a very experienced elderly woman named Todolia. The crew was a dozen men, the cargo assorted luxury goods for the great city of Arzamas, which, according to Abbas’s maps — which grew vaguer and vaguer the farther from Sennen they got — was about a quarter of the way to Restormel, where the Empire Stone supposedly was.
Pride of place aboard the Petrel went to Zaimis Nagyagite, just eighteen, wildly beautiful, the intended bride of Baron Aulard, a very rich man who lived somewhere south of Arzamas. She was fairly small, slender but with full breasts, no more than a head and a half over Peirol, blond, green-eyed, with a perfect complexion.
Zaimis had almost everything else besides the great dowry carried in two of the other cabins — charm, poise, a purring voice, and the ability to give total attention to any man who spoke to her. Peirol thought her somewhat lacking in intellect, but most rich men didn’t seem so much interested in a woman as companion rather than accoutrement.
Zaimis was of course a virgin, he was told, and Peirol nodded solemn agreement — the wealthy never married otherwise unless the bride-to-be was richer or higher-placed than the man. To keep it that way, Zaimis was guarded by a large, scowling eunuch named Libat.
Zaimis admired Peirol’s strength one afternoon on deck when he was exercising, and after that he never missed daily training, no matter what the weather, just outside the great cabin. He was acting a bit of the fool, he knew, but almost all the men did the same, going out of their way to pass by her quarters and be growled at by the eunuch, who hovered around his charge and slept across her doorway at night. Only Edirne seemed oblivious.
They reached the far shore of the Ismai’n Sea, threaded their way through the maze of islands.
Three times small boats put out from shabby villages, shouting dimly heard threats, but the Petrel, with a favoring wind, easily outsailed them. Peirol made sure when these would-be pirates appeared that he was
on deck, armed, ready to defend himself and Zaimis, and hoped she noticed his prospective bravery.
He also took a private precaution, finding a small leather bag with double ties. He put the best of his gems in it and tied it behind his left kneecap, where no searcher would likely chance upon it.
No one slept much when they were among the islands, and when they cleared them, entering the Sea of Cotehl, they celebrated with a small feast.
Edirne sang two songs of his homeland, mournful melodies accompanied by tapping feet and crewmen echoing and holding the last word of each line; Peirol told three stories, two funny and one romantically tragic that pleased Zaimis, for she patted his hand when he finished, and left her hand on his. Emboldened, he slid a little closer to her along the bench, saw Libat frown and touch the handle of his sword. Peirol moved back to his former place.
They turned south to follow the chain for a week or so, then make an open-water crossing at the Straits of Susa, not daring the Sea of Wrath further south, to reach the Manoleon Peninsula, then north again, around the curve of a great bay to Arzamas.
One afternoon, Zaimis fell into conversation with Peirol, admitting that she knew nothing about dwarves and had only seen them in exhibitions.
“Some of my less fortunate brothers and sisters end there,” Peirol said, angry at the implication he was some sort of freak or monstrosity.
Zaimis seemed oblivious. She looked up and down the deck, saw no one close enough to be listening.
“I’ve heard great lords — such as my intended, Lord Aulard — sometimes keep dwarves in their bedchambers, and fondle them before going in to their ladies. I have heard it increases desire.”
“Not dwarves, my lady,” Peirol said, his anger broken by amusement. “Hunchbacks is what you’re thinking of. And it does increase desire — for the hunchback.”
She giggled. “You’re clever. What is it you do?”
“I’m a man who travels in gems.”
“A jeweler?”
“Sometimes a lapidarist, sometimes a trader.”
“You know gems really, really well?”
“I like to think I have a certain familiarity.”
“Come with me.” Peirol, interested, obeyed, and the eunuch silently trailed behind. They went below into the great cabin, then into Zaimis’s cabin, a flounce of pinned-up silks and cashmere. Zaimis bade the eunuch open a triple-locked case with keys from a chain around her neck. Peirol chanced peering, saw a promising-looking bosom. Zaimis saw him, giggled, made no move to discourage him.
She opened a soft cloth envelope, took out a necklace, and held it out to Peirol.
He gasped at the dazzle that caught the light from the two portholes, sent it flashing around the room.
“Blue diamonds,” he murmured. “I’ve but seen those two or three times, and never more than singly, generally mounted as the centerpiece of a tiara or in a ring.”
“Aren’t they gorgeous? It’s an engagement present from my husband-to-be, and he said it’s but a small part of the jewels that’ll bedeck me after we’re married.” She handed the necklace to Peirol. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to tell me what it might be worth — though I have no concern about that, but mere curiosity.”
Her eyes gleamed with a most uncasual interest.
“Blue,” Peirol muttered to himself, his suspicions automatically prickling. “Gold chain, of course, nicely turned, each link hand-forged, pure gold here, very soft. Thirty-two stones, from, oh, eight varjas down to one near the clasp — mine-cut, a bit old-fashioned, but still lovely — blue, oh so blue, aren’t they.” He lit a candle, pulled a curtain. “Still very blue.”
“Is there something wrong with that?”
“Not at all,” Peirol said. “Increases the value, and for me, the beauty. Just a minute. Let me fetch some of my devices, so I may give you a proper valuation.”
He returned with his roll, opened it, took out a glass, examined each of the gems.
“Each stone is quite flawless — your lord must love you very much.”
Zaimis simpered. Peirol scratched his chin, took another glass from his roll. This one was old, tarnished silver, a bit battered, with obscure letters around it. It’d cost Peirol half a dozen emeralds and a week’s work setting them for the trader who brought him the glass and taught him the spell that went with it.
He screwed it into his eye and whispered its spell under his breath as he touched the glass to the smallest diamond.
“See clear
See fair
Honest light
Honest work.”
The stone instantly lost its incandescence, was no more than a well-polished piece of, probably, quartz.
“Well, well, well,” Peirol said, taking away the jewel, which instantly took on its former radiance.
“What do you think?”
“I think,” Peirol said, picking his words carefully, “I think you have a totally unique work here, whose price is beyond value, and your lord-to-be should be taken as a man of most unusual qualities.”
Zaimis beamed more brightly than her false gems.
• • •
The day afterward the skies were dark and threatening and a wind built, keening through the rigging.
Peirol sought the captain.
“Not good,” Todolia muttered. “I’d suggest you lash down your gear, young man. There’ll be a blow, coming down from the Sea of Wrath, and all we’ll be able to do is reef sail, set a sea anchor, run before the tempest, and hope not to be driven too far north.
“Get yourself to the galley and eat hearty, for there’ll be no warm food when the storm strikes.”
Peirol obeyed, eating the thick pea soup the cook served until he could hold no more, then made sure his pack was filled and sword belt ready, in case they had to take to the cork rafts on either side of the poop deck.
He helped Libat the eunuch and Zaimis secure their possessions, wanting to stay and reassure her everything would be fine, but knowing better than to think he could convince the eunuch to leave them alone, and went on deck and began helping the crew.
The sailor who’d wanted to pitch him overboard found himself heaving on a line with the dwarf. He grudgingly admitted he’d seldom seen anyone as strong as Peirol and guessed he’d been wrong, “Though we’ll see what this tempest brings.”
The winds grew, and Todolia, Edirne, the bosun, and the doubled steersmen fought the rudder, turning the ship north, back the way it’d come, and east.
“Better the open sea,” Edirne shouted, “than being blown on a headland.”
They streamed a long length of rope, tied in a bight, from the stern as a sea anchor, reefed all sail except for a hank on the foremast to hold the bow with the wind, and then waited.
The storm smashed down, and there was nothing to do but go below and hang on. Peirol was pitched out of his bunk twice, snarled at the gods, pulled his bedding down onto the floor, borrowed some rope, tied himself into a corner, and tried to sleep.
He couldn’t — the caravel was pitching, yawing, its wooden sides shrieking protest, trying to tear itself apart. He went into the passageway, stumbling, bounced from bulkhead to bulkhead, found seamen being sick in buckets and on themselves, almost threw up himself.
He pushed the hatch open, looked at the deck buried in green water, saw a greater wave coming aboard, hastily slammed the hatch, and went back to his cabin.
Eventually he slept, woke, went out, found some dry ship’s biscuit to gnaw on, knocked on Zaimis’s door to see if he could do anything, and was told to go away, with a groan added. He put on his heavy coat and went on deck, up the companionway to the poop deck. It’d been sea-swept, and the railings were gone, as were the rafts. Edirne stood at the binnacle, two seamen behind him at the rudder. They were soaked, eyes red from salt spray and lack of sleep.
Peirol asked if he could help and wondered why he was such an idiot.
Edirne leaned close and shouted over the wind’s howl: “Good! Spell one
man on the rudder. The other one’ll keep the course. That’ll give the other two of us a chance to go below for a breather.”
Peirol obeyed, and the universe shrank to his watchmate, whose name he never learned; the leather-wrapped boom that was the tiller; smashing seas and winds howling about fear and drowning; fighting, working for an hour, a week; and then somebody was pulling him away, saying it was her watch.
He stumbled below, ate something, pulled off his sodden boots, slept, woke, stupidly put his boots back on, and went back on deck to that damnable rudder.
He didn’t know if it was day or night. The crashing waves were phosphorescent, the skies always dark. Twice he heard a faint scream, once saw a man lifted high by a wave, dashed into blackness. The world was sleeping, eating, and nearly drowning, day after day after day.
Peirol didn’t know if he was getting used to the tearing muscles, the crashing waves, or if the storm was lightening. Then Edirne told the other man on the tiller to go below, Peirol could handle it.
He felt a flash of real pride, grinned at Edirne, saw an answering smile. The mate clapped him on the back, went to the binnacle, peered at the swinging compass rose.
Peirol looked off to port at the choppy waves, tops still torn away by the wind, the water a frothing white. Then there was something else, something dark, and Peirol started to scream there were rocks, they were about to be wrecked, and that something dark lifted its head, and two huge eyes two feet or more in diameter — wise, knowing, below a curling red feathered crest like a monstrous rooster — looked at him. They saw the depths of his soul, then the monster was gone.
Edirne was beside him, shaking him, shouting, “What’s the matter, man?”
Peirol was about to explain, shook his head.
“Keep the damned course,” the mate snarled, and Peirol nodded.
Then one day he awoke and the wind was gone, and the seas were calming. He made his way on deck and saw that the Petrel, under light sail, was closing on land.
“Where are we, captain?” he called to Todolia.
“I don’t know,” she said. “We’ll anchor inshore, and I’ll see if it’s on any of my charts while we make and mend from the storm.”