“And next time we may be on the galley,” Terikel pointed out. “By the gods of the moonworlds, I hate the sea. After tonight it’s going to be hard for me to cross a bridge or even step into a bathtub.”
Norrieav went below, leaving Terikel and Roval to the quarterdeck and the rain. Presently Terikel stood up and put an arm around Roval.
“When—when the Shadowmoon surfaced …” she began, then let the words hang there.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “ … should not have shown familiarity that way.”
“I—What? Why not?”
“SWS training and protocols are very strict regarding unsolicited familiarity with women.”
“Roval, this is ludicrous! We stripped off our clothes and got into bed together when the Shadowmoon was boarded.”
“That was a military action, that was espionage. We were warriors.”
“But—Well, why did you embrace me, then, when the Shadowmoon surfaced?”
“I was worried, I wanted to be sure that you were not injured.”
Terikel shook her head. Roval folded his arms very tightly and squirmed.
“So, about Learned Wensomer,” said Terikel casually. “If she lives still, are you—”
Roval made a sound like someone being strangled while attempting to throw up.
“Never!” he gasped as he recovered his voice. “The only occasions on which I have carried her to bed and removed her clothes have been when she managed to get blind drunk and vomit over herself. Actually, there have been quite a few of those, but—Look, she is my friend, I care for her, and I have risked my life for her many times, but bed? Well, once, but the very memory induces a sharp, intense pain just behind my left eye.”
“So you—and she—that is, … ?”
“Hardly ever. The woman is as unstable as a brilliance-casting, however clever she may be. Give me credit for at least some good taste.”
Terikel glowed warm in the cold, soaking rain and flying spray, but then remembered there was a second matter to clarify with Roval.
“Have you ever talked to Laron about his chivalry nonsense?” she now asked.
“I admire Laron for his strong principles—”
“Well, Hazlok has talked to me about what you said during the dive.”
Roval opened his mouth, took a deep breath, worked his jaw soundlessly several times, glanced over the rail, seriously contemplating diving overboard, then decided to put all of his self-control and SWS discipline into stopping his knees from turning to jelly.
“Roval … my last bedmate was Feran Woodbar, in the master cabin that is directly below us. Torea was behind us, all glowing slag, and my family, friends, and Order were all smoke and ash on the winds, yet he just rutted all night until, well, until Laron stood up to him. I swore that I would never bed another man after that.”
“Quite so, my lady, I had deduced that this was precisely the case,” Roval babbled, with the most extreme of relief, “and of course I have the highest respect for your feelings, so—”
“Roval, please shut up and let me finish.”
“Sorry.”
“In the time since then a thought has kept nagging at the back of my mind. Why should Feran be my last memory of a man’s arms and company? He was all lust and no compassion or tenderness, he was—Oh, I can’t speak about it without anger flaring. Then there was you. Funny, charming, gracious, educated, and so handsome when your head is freshly shaven. Look, you seemed too good to be true, but you never showed the slightest interest in me—even when naked and sharing the same bed. I assumed you had a true love somewhere distant, or perhaps somewhat less conventional tastes. How was I to know about the Special Warrior Service and its rules about making border incursions with women?”
“I could not tell you about the SWS rules; you would have known I fancied you,” Roval protested.
Terikel pressed her splayed fingers against her face. “Roval, I am not asking for anything lasting, but will you sleep with me for a night or two?”
“My lady, I could never ask—”
“I know, that’s why I’m bloody well asking you!” Terikel cried, banging both fists against the deck. “Still, why should I complain?” she continued more softly as she got to her feet. She put her hands on Roval’s shoulders. “It means that you are now before me, unencumbered with attachments to some other.”
Terikel drew his face close to hers, then kissed him softly. Roval ceased to be aware of time, then Terikel’s tongue was flickering teasingly over his lips and she was laughing into his face.
“Your arms are around me,” she giggled softly.
“I—I’m sorry, I thought it permissible, my lady.”
“Of course it is, but how are you steering the Shadowmoon?”
“Oh shit!”
With the steering pole locked, they again stood with their arms around each other on the quarterdeck. A head appeared in a hatchway, then vanished. Presently the sounds of laughter and the clink of coins could just be heard above the splash of the waves and creaking timbers and ropes.
“I believe we have just caused sundry wagers to be won and lost,” said Roval.
“You care for me—you are charming and gracious,” said Terikel.
“You are my princess, my true love, my goddess of beauty, and my angel of wisdom. And you have the wit to understand my jokes. Most women do not.”
Terikel squeezed him as tightly as she could. “This is just wonderful. Now I shall take sweet memories of you as my last bedmate into the future, rather than those of Feran. You have lifted my curse, you have slain my demon. There is nobody in all the world that I would rather dwell upon than you.”
“The thought of you and Feran, I—I … It makes me feel so ill, it squeezes my hearts like a pair of cold, taloned hands. I did not show it, because it is not my place.”
“Do you think I have felt any happier about it?” Terikel sighed. “It was spy work. Dirty work. Filthy work. I am haunted by the thought of it.”
They kissed again, for a moment that lingered like a polar sunset. In spite of the rolling waves, heaving deck, flying spray, and rainswept darkness, Terikel was not aware of any trace of her seasickness.
“Think you can beg someone to take your shift?” asked Terikel.
“I have favors that I can call in.”
“Then I shall meet you in the master cabin.”
Roval went below to where the others were playing at dice, beckoned to Hazlok, and led him to the middeck.
“I gather you made quite a tidy profit by your not entirely discreet words to Worthy Terikel,” he said quietly.
“Learned sir, I meant no harm,” whispered the grizzled sailor. “I’ll make it up ter ye, just tell me how—”
“Oh, good, you can take over my watch. Now.”
“I—What? Er, yeah, that I’ll do. A pleasure. Gracious and mighty sir, my thanks and apologies. Are you sure that’s all?”
Roval’s hand snaked out to seize Hazlok’s thin but wiry arm.
“Had money not been involved …” Roval began.
“Ah … I’d have told her just the same,” admitted Hazlok.
Roval released him, leaned against the foremast, closed his eyes, and began laughing softly. Then he straightened and bowed to the sailor.
“There must be hope for the world if even you harbor a trace of romance, Hazlok. If ever you are trying to impress some tavern marm and want a few words spoken about your bold and brave deeds, just let me know.”
“Ah—Oh. Kind of ye, sir. That I might.”
About an hour later Hazlok was alone on the quarterdeck when Norrieav emerged and joined him. Below their feet, a lot of giggling and scuffling was coming from the master cabin.
“Sir, one thing worries me,” confessed Hazlok.
“I may not have an answer, but ask anyway,” said the boatmaster.
“Roval, like, has big muscles, is handsome as a prince, can probably fight better than any warrior in the world, brave as a sea dragon, ri
ght?”
“Well, aye.”
“Terikel’s got a figure that a goddess would kill for, she’s more beautiful than any woman I’ve ever set eyes on, and by the sound of what’s going on down there she bangs like a privy door in a really bad storm.”
“Repeat that in front of Roval and you would probably find yourself overboard with a broken neck, but go on.”
“Well, remember how like when we sat hidin’, listenin’ to them talk, they said they loved each other because they had nice manners, made each other laugh, that sort of thing?”
“Aye.”
“But they said nothin’ about either bein’ strong, brave, beautiful, handsome, powerful, or any such-like.”
“True.”
“But—but … Were I chattin’ with the likes of her, the first thing I’d say is, ‘Hie there, ladyship, fine set o’ norgs ye have there.’”
Norrieav put a hand to his forehead and massaged the skin while he thought about how he might bridge the chasm between the outlook of Hazlok, and the likes of Terikel and Roval. Presently he put a hand on the sailor’s shoulder and gestured to the sea ahead of them.
“Hazlok, I may be your boatmaster, but I’m also your mate.”
“Aye.”
“When we get to Diomeda—if it’s not been blown off the charts—trust me, and do as I am about to say.”
“Er, aye?”
“Do not say ‘shit,’ ‘bang,’ or ‘norgs.’”
“What? Why?”
“Trust me. Pour a bucket of seawater over yourself, shave, wear clean gear, and run a cloth over your teeth and a brush over your hair-and not the decking brush! When you meet with a woman, ask her about herself. Then listen. When she asks about you, don’t go on for too long. Try to make her laugh. Scabby tar though you be, you will seem very like Roval in charm and manners, and look at where it got him.” Norrieav pointed downward.
“That’s all?”
“Aye.”
“Well, shit me—I mean, I’ll be buggered—I mean, I’ll be f—I mean, er, ah … Goodness me?”
“Very good.”
Two days later the Megazoid was sighted, and Lisgar, Terikel, and Roval transferred to the far bigger and more stable ship. All trace of Terikel’s seasickness had vanished. The Shadowmoon followed behind the warship as it set a course for the Acreman coast.
Chapter Ten
VOYAGE TO DIOMEDA
A fanfare echoed out across the sodden city of Diomeda, announcing that the court of Queen Sairet and Prince Forteron was being held and receiving guests. A short time later three captured monarchs swore fealty to the royal house of Diomeda, as they knelt before its rulers. Wealth and ships would be bought by the ransom of the other captured princes and nobles, and soon Diomeda would control three times its former population. By the time Sairet discovered she was pregnant, she would be queen of half of the Acreman east coast, and in alliance with the newly restored King Druskarl of Vindic and the emperor of Sargol. All of that was still in the future, however, as Laron, Druskarl, and Wensomer watched the torchlight procession of Alliance prisoners, wading past on their way to newly built shelters above the floodwaters. They were at a window of her lower tower, and each held a goblet of mulled wine.
“I shall say this for Forteron—the man be as objectionable as a cow pat on a feasting table, but he is still a brilliant tactician,” Laron remarked.
“I was dragged out of a hot bath to be a bridesmaid,” said Wensomer, her throat inflamed and her skin flushed with fever. “Then I had to stand in the rain for a half hour while they were married—oh, and waved, and flung coins to the rabble.”
“I secured a small stealth boat and hid it near the river,” said Druskarl. “If you could spare me provisions for a few days and a handful of silver I really should flee north.”
“So, you have what you wanted, yet the price was reasonable?” Laron said with a frown.
“You are hardly in a position to preach about ethics,” retorted Druskarl.
“Were it not for Feran, you would currently be master of Silverdeath.”
“I only ever sought it to be healed and restored.”
“Yes, and at the cost of lives. Silverdeath only releases people to do fire-circles, and fire-circles are only done to kill people.”
“So? All I would have needed was a small island and half a dozen condemned criminals chained to a palm tree.”
“That is monstrous! You would buy your balls at the cost of lives?”
“Why is that any different from you when you were a vampyre? Whenever your stomach rumbled, well, whatever bully-boy, pimp, or wifebeater was to hand would be straight into the gutter with his throat torn out and his blood drained.”
“I had ethical motives, it was a form of philanthropic work—”
“Just as vaporizing half a dozen murderers on an isolated island would have been.”
“Just to restore your balls.”
“Would you have killed so many miscreants had you not needed to drink their blood and vitality? What do you do these days, now that you’re alive again? ‘Whoops, I’ve not done anything to improve society this week, think I’ll pop out and knife some slaver to make the world a better place’?”
“Gentlefolk, if you please,” croaked Wensomer.
“He can say what he likes,” declared Druskarl. “I am going back to Vindic, to reclaim my throne and sire an heir.”
“Thanks to Silverdeath,” jeered Laron.
“Thanks to Silverdeath you are no longer undead, and have been proving it with every woman foolish enough to—”
“Fine talk coming from a reconstructed eunuch who—”
“Gentlefolk!” Wensomer cried, in a badly damaged voice. “We are all monsters, but those who do not feel guilty about it are the only ones who are damned. Druskarl, here are three gold pagols and some silver. Take what you will from the kitchen but leave the cook, and Fortune attend your plans.”
Druskarl left to pack, then returned to thank Wensomer. Standing in the doorway, he bowed to Wensomer and Laron for a last time.
“Gracious and learned lady, you have only my thanks for now. Should you ever be in need in years to come, do remember that I am in your debt, and that I always pay my debts. Laron, one day, somehow, you may find yourself very dead, and very, very hungry. When that day comes, and you are sinking your fangs into some plump and succulent throat, remember me, and what I said to you here, in this room.”
With Druskarl gone, Laron and Wensomer returned to the window and watched the prisoners still shuffling past below in the rain.
“Speaking for myself, if I am going to be rained on I would prefer it to be in Scalticar,” Wensomer announced.
“So, the rain is better there?” asked Laron.
“No, but in Scalticar I have my home, friends, colleagues, tenure in an academy, and two thousand miles to separate me from my mother. What of you?”
“I have been looking after Ninth, in the Academy. Perhaps I shall continue to do just that as I study for the next level of initiation.”
“How is she?”
“Gone.”
“As I suspected, but not as I hoped.”
“What do you think happened?”
“Ninth was an etheric machine. Silverdeath could not repair a body that did not have a real spirit, yet it kept trying because the auton had the semblance of life. Perhaps it destroyed Ninth to try to release itself, but the link to the very distant world drained it.”
Laron said nothing.
“Again, I can only beg forgiveness,” Wensomer added.
“What is there to forgive?—you had no choice,” said Laron, sounding almost surprised. “Ninth was a mechanism, just a small bundle of memories and motivations that could learn simple tricks.”
“For the love of all moonworlds, Laron, I am just a large bundle of memories that can learn clever tricks,” she shouted, raising her hands to her head. “We all are. You, me, Druskarl. You attack Druskarl, yet you defend me for doing t
he same thing.”
“All right, all right, perhaps that was indelicately phrased. He was saving his balls, but you were saving the world.”
Wensomer sneezed, then sniffled. The line of prisoners finally came to an end.
“Ninth had the mind of a baby, she was not a warrior,” said Wensomer.
Laron clasped his hands, leaned on the edge of the window, and stared out into the rain and darkness. After a time he had another thought.
“Wensomer, I was once a dark and evil creature, I feasted on people for centuries, yet I tried to do good. Often I succeeded. Ninth may have been an auton, but she was very sophisticated and she volunteered to shatter Silverdeath as she did.”
“Ninth had no will, she was built to serve.”
“The Metrologan Order built the auton that was Ninth. How can you be so sure that she was not so well crafted that she really did have her own will?”
“Laron, that makes her death worse.”
“Indeed, and it also makes her a brave and loyal warrior who happened to be under your command.”
Wensomer considered this. The logic was built on untestable premises, but it was good logic. Was it correct, then? She would never know, yet she had related to Ninth as if she were a sentient and very intelligent being. Quite probably she was just that.
“Damn you, vampyre,” she finally concluded.
“Ex-vampyre.”
“Still, my hearts considered her as a baby.”
“Then your head was right, and your hearts must go to the slateboard and write ‘WE WERE WRONG’ a thousand times before they can have dinner.”
“Thank you,” Wensomer said warmly. She sniffled, then blew her nose.
“Laron, in the corrak, when I was angry: I said cruel things about Pellien, Lavenci, and you.”
“Yes?” Laron said hopefully.
“I’m afraid it was all true.”
Laron left Wensomer’s mansion and waded back to Yvendel’s Academy. When he arrived, the body of Ninth was lying quietly in a bed, while one of the younger initiates read from a book of simple castings.
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