The Whirlwind in the Thorn Tree

by S. A. Hunt

  I reveled in the warm sun and relaxed, stretching my legs.

  I didn’t have long to luxuriate in the sunbeam, though, because the drumbeat of bootheels came down the hallway and the unarmored man appeared in the doorway. My friends stirred, but didn’t awaken.

  The man beckoned to me, and I obliged simply out of curiosity and a desire to settle what I was convinced was a misunderstanding. He showed me the handle of the sixgun in his crossdraw holster and produced the key to the cell. “I’m going to let you out,” he muttered. Aim gwan lechu-ut. “You try anything foolish, and you’ll be dead before you hit the floor.”

  I put my hands up by my shoulders in surrender. “Hey, your wish is my command, kemosabe. I’m not here to cause any trouble. I’m on your side—I think.”

  He unlocked the door and opened it with a faint squeal, and I stepped out, taking care to keep my hands visible at all times. With a suspicious eye, he turned away and strode down the hallway, leading me past the guard, who gave me a glare just as accusational.

  We passed into a longer corridor that ran perpendicular to the hull, crossing between what turned out to be the galley kitchen and the crew’s quarters. The crew bay was a long and spacious room that fully occupied a level of the ship from starboard to port and from amidships to where I was standing.

  Hammocks were tied to the support beams at regular intervals, rolled up and secured during the day. The darkness was only broken by oil lamps that swayed pendulously back and forth on chains, and sunlight that crashed down through a grate in the ceiling.

  We cut to the right and went through the kitchen, where two men in kilts were standing around chatting and peeling weird vegetables that looked like potatoes with skins like apples.

  As we walked into the room, they stopped talking and stared at me.

  My escort said something to them in his rapid-fire accent, and they reluctantly went back to their task. We went into the pantry, a long and narrow space lined with shelves on either side. They were sparsely stocked with canned food, narrow boxes labeled with words I couldn’t decipher, pickled eggs and vegetables in glass bottles, and sacks of grain.

  The unarmored man closed the door and locked it with a little hook. “Sit down,” he said, pointing at a nearby crate. Set doon.

  So I did. The man stood there, looming over me with his fists on his hips, and then shrugged out of his overcoat and let it drape down his legs from its belt. He was whip-thin outside of it. It hit me that he looked like an unkempt Middle-Eastern version of Nils Asther.

  “I don’t know what to make of you,” he said. “At first, I thought you were the assassin of Lord Eddick, attempting to use the sea to flee the justice of the Kingsmen, but your manner...and your words, they confuse me. Then I decided that you are Lord Sardis, but you sought to disguise yourself by feigning ignorance, taking on a strange affect and style of dress.”

  “I don’t even know who those people are,” I said.

  “And the irritating thing is that I might believe you. You seem honestly without guile. Even clever Lord Sardis could not play the part of an imbecile so well.”

  “Thank you for your—what.”

  “Besides, you are alarmingly pale and as soft about the middle as an infant on the teat,” he noted, much to my mortification. “So if you aren’t he, then who are you? The resemblance is uncanny, although I must admit I see less and less of it as I note the aspects of your unfortunate appearance.”

  “People always tell me I remind them of somebody.”

  “Perhaps,” said the man. “You are quite plain-faced.”

  “Can you answer a question for me?” I took the man’s silence as permission and continued, “This is Ain, isn’t it? Or, the Aemev, rather.”

  “What fanciful hell do you live in? Of course it is. Where else would you be? The Kingsmen have no more ships that can travel to the moons.”

  “You used to have boats that went to the moon?”

  “You are an imbecile, aren’t you, stranger? I was speaking blithely.”

  I sighed as he continued to study the look of frustration on my face. “So if you are not Sardis, then what is your name?” he asked, sitting on one of the shelves. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and fixed me with his piercing green eyes. “And what is your business—I mean, other than being stranded on a raft in the middle of the Aemev?”

  “My name is Ross. Ross Brigham. And I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you.”

  At that, the man stood up, visibly startled. “Brigham? Are you by any chance familiar with the name Bridger?”

  The world seemed to jigger in the frame, jarred by unreality. “No...who is Bridger?”

  “The King’s scribe, the late Lord Eddick Bridger.”

  That had to be more than a coincidence. I got the distinct feeling that I’d found my father’s other-life. “That must be my father, the man I’ve come to mourn.”

  “Strange. I was not aware that the scribe had more than one son. Are you here to take revenge, then?”

  “Revenge?” I said, and the notion dazzled me. I hadn’t really even considered it, even after what Bayard had told me. I guess I was still too blown away by the whole thing to get ideas of retribution when I didn’t even have all the pieces to the puzzle. “No, I guess I figured the authorities had handled it.”

  The man smiled. “It might please you to know that I am Walter Rollins,” he said, drawing the revolver in his chest rig and spinning it by the trigger-guard. This he did a dozen times, at multiple angles, reversing it, transferring it from hand to hand, tossing it over his shoulder from the back, and finally twirling it sharply back into the holster.

  “The Deon of the Southern Kingsmen and son of Council Chiral Clayton Rollins—the Hero of the Widowforge, and the secondmost legendary gunslinger in the territories of Ain. And I am the leader of the investigation into your father’s disappearance.”

  I rubbed my face. “I understood a couple of those words.”

  “What part of it eluded you, stranger?”

  “Everything but the pronouns.”

  “I feel I must resist the urge to either check your skull for injuries, or give you one. Are your friends as dull-witted as you are, or have we been allotted our full contingent of water-logged simpletons?”

  I wanted to punch this man, but I had the notion that he would shoot me if I tried.

  “None of us are dull-witted, but my friends are more knowledgeable about your country and customs than I am,” I said, and decided to go the Clark Kent route: “I’m not from Ain. We are from an isolated, far-flung settlement deep in K-Set.”

  It felt like bullshit coming out of my mouth, but Walter didn’t seem to be fazed much by my pathetic attempts at being coy.

  “You say you are the son of Eddick, yet you are from the farthest reaches of the colony?”

  “I am...an illegitimate child. My mother and I were exiled from Ain before my birth to spare my father the grief. I heard of his death and came to pay my respects, but on the way over, we were knocked overboard by a storm.”

  “Oh, a bastard. How charming,” said Walter, ushering me back into the kitchen.

  The galley sailors that were leaning against the panel trying to listen to the conversation leapt away from him and went back to peeling the odd-looking potatoes. I noticed that one of them was simply whittling a vegetable that had already been peeled.

  “I believe that in light of this new information, we shall seek an audience with your fellow castaways.”

  _______

  Walter opened the cell door and I went back in. Sawyer and Noreen were awake. He was still lying on the bed, her head on his stomach, and he was languidly stroking her hair as I appeared.

  “I have good news and I have bad news. And then I guess some good news again,” I said, sitting on the bed with them. “You were right about them. Nobody’s going to shoot us. The bad news is, this guy here, Mr. Rollins, thought I was an assassin that killed some guy named Lord Eddick, but
I convinced him that I’m not. And then he assumed I was here to avenge my father. Unfortunately, I’m completely ignorant about nearly everything, and now he just thinks I’m a bastard idiot that fell out of a boat. The good news is, he doesn’t think we’re dangerous and he wants to talk to you guys.”

  “Told you, you should have read the books,” said Noreen. Her voice was unusually raspy.

  I turned to Walter. “Do you have a doctor on board the ship?”

  He shook his head. “Most of us know how to dress wounds, but there are no seplasiaries onboard, no healers, no tussicular medicines. To your fortune, however, we will reach the shores of Ain within a few days’ time, and there your companions will be able to find succor of some measure.”

  Sawyer visibly relaxed, but his face still depicted concern. He leaned forward and spoke in a hushed tone. “Someone killed Lord Eddick?”

  “You know who that is?” I asked.

  “A member of Normand Kaliburn’s traveling party,” he explained. “He was a minor character in the last several books—a nobleman author tagging along with Normand to write his biography. It’s always been common opinion that Eddick was how your dad wrote himself into his series as wish fulfillment. Sidekick to his own protagonist.”

  Walter stepped inside and nodded deferentially to us. “I must admit that...my initial assumption of your nature may have been a hasty assessment. I can see that in spite of your strange manner of speech and odd garments, you are of no consequence to the Kingsmen and you have been rescued from certain death. Consider this my—”

  He almost seemed to have to force himself to utter the next part, “—Sincerest apologies. Until we reach our destination at Salt Point, please consider yourselves my guests. You may rest in the crew cabin, if you like. The accomodations in our brig are...less than hospitable.”

  “Thank you, sir. My name is Sawyer Winton, and this is our friend Noreen Mears. We’re—”

  “We’re grateful for your generosity, Mr. Rollins,” I said, glancing meaningfully at Sawyer. “We were just talking about how we were coming all the way from the farthest settlement on K-Set to mourn my father Eddick.”

  “Yes,” said Sawyer. “It’s been a long trip. Did you say Mr. Rollins?” He looked up at the gunslinger. Even Noreen was looking up at him with a certain amount of queasy fascination.

  “Aye, that’s me. Walter Rollins, Deon of the Southern Kingsmen, at your beckon.”

  “Would you happen to be related to Clayton Rollins?”

  “That’s my father, he is,” said Walter. “Taught me everything he knew and some things he dint.”

  “Very nice to meet you, sir,” Sawyer said, and he made an odd sort of genuflective gesture that consisted of balling his left fist and bowing gently over his forearm like a French waiter. An expression of surprise flashed across Walter’s face and he echoed the salute. “This man is the son of the companion of Normand Kaliburn...and evidently the leader of the gunslingers of the South Territories.”

  “I’m relieved to see at least one of you is prone to fits of intelligence,” said Walter. “Are you here to make sure the scribe’s bastard doesn’t accidentally talk his way into a grave?”

  Sawyer and Noreen got up off the bed, stretching their stiff limbs, and we vacated the brig.

  “Nahhh,” smirked Noreen. I sensed a faint trembling as she walked between us, and it evolved into a hard cough. “We just kinda fell in with him along the way.”

  When we got to the crew cabin, we took her to the nearest hammock. The ropes were coarse—to the point of bristling with tiny prickles—but there was a narrow feather cushion wedged into the curve of the ropes, redolent with the faint scent of vinegar and age.

  Noreen lay down on these, and I offered her my jacket to cover up with. She pulled it over her shoulder to where you could only see her face from the nose up, and curled into a fetal ball, hugging herself. Sawyer sat on the floor next to her, holding the rope, a worried look on his face.

  I asked the Deon if there were any possibility of scoring something to eat at the galley before he left us alone, and with his assent I went and fetched what I could.

  This late in the voyage, they were low on provisions, but I managed to bring back a few slivers of strong cheese, very chalky biscuits, a pickle that we cut in thirds, and some dried meat that looked like the pig-ears you could buy at pet stores back home.

  Sawyer and I glanced at each other in trepidation, but tucked in nevertheless. He gave his third of the pickle to Noreen and busied himself feeding pieces of the rest of his ration to her. He was barely touching it himself, giving her the lion’s share.

  “Eat more,” Noreen murmured from her nest, rocking with the motion of the sea. She coughed, another dry, ragged bray. “Mm go sleep.”

  Sawyer nibbled at the biscuit’s edges, savoring the crusty, greasy rim. I sat back against a pole, my feet flat on the floor and my elbows on my knees, and watched him for a while until I could hear the girl’s breathing slow. I spent the time slowly and methodically eating my pieces of cheese and pickle in tiny bites, watching the sunbeams from the ceiling grate sway back and forth.

  “What was that thing you did back there?” I asked, mimicking the salute.

  “It’s how they shake hands here,” said Sawyer. “It comes from the days before guns were invented, and the Kingsmen carried shields and spears. See how it looks like I’ve got a shield on my arm? Back in the old days, they bowed to each other from behind their shields as they passed on the road.”

  I nodded. “Ahh, okay. I get it. What’s a Deon?”

  “A Sheriff, basically, but he’s m—”

  “ON THE DECK!”

  The sudden exclamation from every sailor in the room almost made me drop the remainder of my cheese and pickle. I leapt to my feet and looked around in a weird sort of terror. Sawyer’s eyes were as huge as if he’d been shot at.

  I realized what had happened when I saw a man coming toward us from the front of the bay, accompanied by Walter. Sawyer got up as well, and as they approached, we gave them the shield-bow, which they returned in kind. “Friends, this is the captain of the Vociferous,” said Walter, motioning to the man, “Thom Cuevas. Thom, these are the castaways we took on.”

  “May it be,” said Sawyer.

  “May it never end,” said Cuevas. He was a surprisingly small man, with ruddy hair and beard paintstroked with silver, and a large head that made the rest of his scarecrow body look gawky. He was dressed in a similar manner to Walter, wearing no armor, but he was wearing corduroy trousers and there was a pocket watch in his vest. In all, he looked like an Irish whaler.

  I was glad to see that our clothes weren’t as outlandish as I had been afraid of; from what I’d seen so far, Ainean fashion was rather similar to turn-of-the-century Earth clothes, albeit with much more leather.

  “Sera Ross, I hear you are related to the presumably late Lord Bridger,” said Cuevas. “My condolences. I understand that the Deon has been applied to the mystery at hand. I suspect that he will deduce the scribe’s whereabouts—or murderer, should it come to that—in short time.”

  I nodded to him in gratitude.

  “Also, I’m glad we could be of use in rescuing you from a very long and protracted death at sea. That is, of course, if the Saoshoma hadn’t eaten you first.”

  “Impeccable timing on your part,” said Sawyer. He did the shield-bow thing again, and introduced himself. As he spoke, I noticed that the Ain accent had begun to creep into his speech. “My name is Sawyer Winton, captain; my lady and I were accompanying Mr. Bridger here on his voyage. I was visiting relatives in K-Set, and on my way back, I fell in with these two.”

  “Fell in, ‘e says,” remarked Cuevas, chuckling to the Deon. “That you did! Well, no need to explain yourself any further. These things happen, and you are among friends. All that matters now is that you’re safe and dry, and we’re only a few days out. You will be our guests until we make land. We don’t have much in the way of provisions,
but make yourself at home as best you can. There is a seplasiary in Salt Point that can help your ill companion.”

  “Thank you,” I said. Sawyer did the same.

  “Boys, I’ve got to get back to it,” said the captain, rocking on his toes. He clapped the gunslinger on one bare arm and bustled away, giving a salute to a sailor that happened to be standing behind us. “Ensure that our new friends do not fall off of this boat as well, Deon?”

  Normand was sitting on his cot sipping cool water when three men came in and stood in front of his cell. They stared at him, assessing his sun-blistered face and red eyes, and his filthy clothes, tinted green by the mica sands. “May I help you, gentlemen?” is what he wanted to say, but his throat was a raw tube of parched meat and he was too sullen for pleasantries anyway.

  “I hear tell they gonna hang you in the morning,” said the man in the middle.

  “I suppose so,” said Normand.

  “I hear you and your boys have been knockin over coaches out on the border. That’s why they gon’ hang you.”

  He put up his hands, giving them an awkward, supplicating half-smile.

  The men looked at each other, then back at him. The middle one addressed him again. “I also hear you’re the wiliest, and most versed trapper out in the K-Set. Is that right? And you’re the first Ainean to ever survive a siege from them whatcha-callit—Beam-o Ip-nimmy fellas?”

  Normand’s face slowly broke into a grin. “Ayuh.”

  “Congratulations, asshole,” said the middle-man. “You’ve just been drafted.”

  —The Fiddle and the Fire, vol 3 “The Rope and the Riddle”

  The Bright Side

  THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS PASSED at a glacial pace. We were full steam, but after a life of fast cars, jump-cut action movies, and the instant gratification of the Internet, it seemed as if we were sitting dead still. The second half of the first day and the entirety of the day after were spent exploring the ship, marveling at the ship’s intricacies and the efficiency of the crew as they went about their business.