“He’s got a point,” Johan conceded. “Although, in truth, I half expected him to leave me here to rot.”
“So did I,” the boy admitted. “He surprises me.”
“How?”
Dirk shrugged. “I don’t know. He just doesn’t act the way I thought he would.”
“That’s the danger of him, Dirk.”
The boy studied him thoughtfully. “You used to know him pretty well, didn’t you?”
“I thought I did. I learned the hard way that I didn’t know him at all.”
Dirk didn’t answer for a moment. Johan had the feeling he wanted to say something, ask him something, perhaps.
“I’ll come back later,” the boy announced abruptly, climbing to his feet. Whatever Dirk had been going to say, he’d thought better of it. “I have to speak to Prince Antonov about having you moved. And I’ll need some herbs from Ella, too.”
“Ella Geon? Is that malicious breeding cow still around?”
“She looks after Misha. Do you know her?”
“All too well.” He closed his eyes. “Goddess, I feel like I’ve stepped into a nightmare, and all my old enemies are waiting there to torment me.”
The boy hesitated again. Something was really bothering him. Johan waited for him to say something further, but once again, it seemed as if he’d changed his mind.
“I’ll be back,” Dirk said, finally. “Is there anything you want?”
“You could load me into a lifeboat and let me take my chances on the open sea,” Johan suggested hopefully. When the boy didn’t answer him, he smiled. “Or not.”
“I meant anything to ease your pain.”
“Oh? Well, in that case, would you mind running a fork through Antonov’s left eye at dinner this evening? I’m quite certain that would relieve my suffering.”
“You’re acting like this is a game.”
“It is a game, Dirk. One Antonov and I have been playing for a very long time.” He suffered through another coughing fit, then closed his eyes wearily when it finally abated. “If you truly want to ease my suffering, Dirk, don’t try to save me. Let me die.”
“I couldn’t do that, sir!”
Johan opened his eyes and stared at the boy curiously. “Why not? I mean nothing to you.”
“That’s not the point, sir. I . . . I just don’t think I could take another human life.”
Johan’s eyes narrowed. “Are you certain of that?”
Dirk thought for a moment before answering, then he shrugged. “I don’t really know. Until now, nobody’s ever asked it of me.”
“Every man has the ability to kill, Dirk. How easily he gives in to that ability is the true measure of how civilized he is.”
“You’ve killed men, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “But I’m not claiming to be civilized. You, however, obviously think that you are. I hope you’re not too hard on yourself when you find out one day that you’re just like the rest of us.”
The boy stared at him, obviously unsettled.
Johan closed his eyes with a weary sigh. “Off you go, young Provin. You do what you must. In the meantime, I shall lie here in the darkness and after I’ve recited all three hundred verses of Glonkinal’s epic poem ‘Journey to the Centre of a Volcano,’ I shall endeavor to calculate the square root of five thousand four hundred and eighty-two. I’ve been at it for three days now. I’m confident that today I will discover the solution.” He opened one eye and stared at the boy. “It keeps the mind focused, you see.”
Picking up the lantern cautiously, Dirk stepped out of the tiny cabin.
“Dirk!” Johan called after him.
“What?”
“I wasn’t kidding about the games. To Antonov and Belagren, everything is a game. Before you get too enamored of your new friends, you might want to ask yourself what your role is, because, Dirk Provin, you’re a piece being moved about the board at their whim, just as surely as I am, you can rely on it.”
Dirk stared at him for a long moment. “How accurate are you trying to be?”
“Pardon?”
“The square root of five thousand four hundred and eighty-two is an irrational number. It has infinitely long decimal places—you’ll never calculate it exactly. So how accurate are you trying to be?”
“Are you serious?”
“Completely.”
Johan shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll be satisfied if I can calculate it to the tenth decimal place.”
Dirk hesitated for a moment. “It’s six.”
“What?”
“The tenth decimal place. It’s six.”
With that startling announcement, the boy vanished from sight and the guards closed the cabin door, plunging Johan back into darkness.
Chapter 45
Antonov was talking to the helmsman when Belagren emerged from the gloomy depths of the ship. She squinted in the sudden harsh light and headed forward to speak to the prince. The sea was choppy this morning, the wind quite strong. Scattered clouds shadowed the surface of the water and made a mottled pattern of dark and light. Belagren found herself clutching at the railing to maintain her balance as she walked.
As she climbed the companion ladder, the Lion of Senet stepped forward to assist her up the last few steps. He smiled, but it was a pleasant, good-morning sort of smile. There was nothing intimate about it. He’d not been to her cabin either, since they left Elcast. His need for her, the lust inspired by the Landfall Festival, had passed even more quickly this year. Soon he wouldn’t want her at all. Belagren was more concerned about the effect such an event would have on her power than on her libido. She could have a man any time she wanted. Ruling the world took a little more planning and organization.
“Did you sleep well, my lady?” he inquired as he led her to the side of the ship.
“Well enough,” she responded, quite distressed by the banality of the conversation. A few weeks ago he wanted me so badly I had bruises to prove it. Now he talks to me like he’s greeting a foreign ambassador at court. “And you?”
“I always sleep well at sea.”
They reached the port side and stopped for a moment to watch the sea heave and sigh in its own inexplicable design. Antonov clutched at the railing, rubbing the carefully polished wood almost unconsciously. Belagren watched him caressing his ship, thinking she’d feel much more secure if Antonov looked at her even half as fondly as he looked at his damn boat.
“I wanted to speak with you, Anton,” she said, when he made no further attempt at conversation. He seemed far more interested in the distant horizon.
“Hmm?”
“About the Provin boy.”
“An interesting and intelligent young man. I confess I find myself quite taken with him.”
I know you are, Belagren thought. Which is why I need to talk to you.
“I just wanted to make sure that you have informed him that he’ll be coming to the Hall of Shadows with me when we disembark in Avacas.”
Antonov turned to her. “I told his parents he could stay with me until he comes of age.”
“You told Morna that to stop her making a scene, Anton. Nobody seriously expects you to foster the boy.”
“I gave Wallin my word that I would treat him as my own son.”
“You gave me your word that I could have him.”
“And you can have him. When he comes of age.”
“But you said as soon as we arrived in Avacas,” the High Priestess reminded him. I don’t have years for you to play your mind games with Morna Provin.
“I know what I said, Belagren. I’ve changed my mind.” He was calm and sounded quite reasonable. Belagren had never heard him raise his voice, never seen him angry. It was almost as if he enjoyed the fact that the more agitated his opponent was, the more serene he became.
“What do you want with him, Anton? You have no need of him. Other than his entertainment value, perhaps.”
“What I do or do not have a need for i
s mine to decide, my lady.”
“The Goddess will not be pleased if you renege on your promise.”
The power of her threat was somewhat diminished when Antonov caught sight of Dirk coming toward them. He turned away from the High Priestess and smiled warmly. “So, young Dirk, how fares our prisoner?”
“He has an infection of the lungs, your highness,” Dirk told him, as the brisk wind whipped the dark hair across his face. He glanced at Belagren and gave her a short bow, just low enough not to be disrespectful. “My lady.”
“Is he going to die from it?” she asked.
He brushed the hair away, only to have it half blind him again, the moment he lowered his hand. “Not yet.”
“Is his condition liable to worsen?” Antonov inquired.
“If you leave him in that hole much longer, it will.”
The Lion of Senet seemed amused. “Do I detect a note of reproach in your tone, Dirk?”
“He needs to be moved out of that ship’s locker you’ve jammed him into,” Dirk informed him. “He needs fresh air. And more water.”
“You were right, Anton,” the High Priestess remarked as she watched Dirk. The boy was hard to read. He was very guarded for one so young. “He doesn’t approve of your treatment of Johan Thorn.”
“It’s got nothing to do with Johan Thorn, my lady. Nobody should be kept like that. The prince treats his horses better.”
“That’s because my horses are of more use to me.” Ignoring the High Priestess, Antonov placed his arm around Dirk’s shoulder in a fatherly fashion and smiled, moving him across the deck a few paces. “So, what do you prescribe for the patient, Physician Provin?”
“Move him to a proper cabin,” Dirk suggested, obviously uncomfortable with Antonov’s familiarity. “Feed him properly. Give him sufficient water. With that and a poultice, his body should be able to fight off the infection on its own.”
“Or you could just leave him there and let him die,” Belagren suggested behind them. “It would save the cost of a trial and an execution.”
Dirk broke free of Antonov’s paternal embrace and turned to look at her. “If you were planning to let him die, my lady, why do you need my help?”
Antonov’s eyes clouded briefly. “If you wish to continue in my good graces, you would be wise to watch that tongue of yours, young man.”
“I’m sorry, your highness, I didn’t mean to offend the High Priestess.”
“You’re forgiven,” Antonov assured him. Then he frowned, his face a portrait of concern and understanding. “I know how difficult this must be for you, Dirk, and while I’m reluctant to place such a heavy responsibility on your shoulders, I would be most appreciative if you could see to Thorn’s welfare for me until we reach Avacas.”
“Sire, I really think that a Shadowdancer would be . . .”
Antonov held up his hand to halt Dirk’s protests. “Even if she were the last physician on Ranadon, I still wouldn’t put Ella Geon and Johan Thorn alone together in a confined space for more than about thirty seconds. They have something of a...” he glanced at Belagren for a moment before he continued, “feud, I suppose you might call it... going on.”
“What sort of feud?”
“Perhaps you should ask Thorn about it.”
“I’d not mention it to Ella, though,” the High Priestess added.
“Will you move him, sir?” Dirk persisted.
Antonov sighed heavily. “Yes, Dirk. For you, I will move him. Just make certain that Thorn is aware that his improved circumstances are entirely attributable to your intervention. I’d hate for him to think I was getting sentimental in my old age.”
“Somehow, I don’t think that’s likely, your highness.”
Antonov smiled. “You’re a lot like your father, Dirk.”
“Sir?”
“You’re a lot like your father,” Antonov repeated. “You have that same dry sense of humor that he had when he was younger.”
“I never really noticed, sir,” Dirk answered cautiously.
“Well, sometimes we don’t notice these things ourselves, even when they’re obvious to everyone else. Do you like the Calliope?”
“Pardon?” The abrupt change of subject caught him completely unawares. Belagren knew the prince did it deliberately, just to unsettle people.
“My ship, Dirk. Do you like her?”
“She’s magnificent.”
“She’s the fastest barquentine ever built,” Antonov informed him. “The most expensive, too, I suspect. She has over nine thousand square feet of sail. Fully rigged, she can do twelve knots.”
“You must be very proud of her.”
Belagren wasn’t surprised by the pride in Antonov’s voice. From the day they first laid her keel, she’d seen the prince stroke the woodwork, as if he could somehow convey his affection to the ship through her railings. Belagren suspected Antonov Latanya loved his ship almost as much as he loved his sons. Perhaps more. She had often wondered what Antonov would do if given a choice between his crippled son and his ship.
“We’ll be taking her into the Baenlands later this year,” Antonov added. “You should come with us.”
“I didn’t think you could get a ship this size through the delta, your highness.”
“Thorn somehow used to manage it on a regular basis,” Antonov pointed out.
“Surely the pirates don’t have any ships as big as the Calliope?”
“Perhaps not. You’ll have to ask Thorn how he did it for me.”
“You want me to ask him, your highness?”
Antonov frowned at him. “Dirk, there are only two things that can happen to Johan Thorn. The first is that I torture the information I want from him, then try him and burn him as a heretic. The second is for him to volunteer the information, after which I will still try him and then burn him as a heretic. Now, as you seem so concerned that my treatment is going to kill your patient, I must, for the time being at least, halt my efforts to soften him up for the Prefect awaiting him in Avacas.”
Belagren didn’t like the way this conversation was going. When did Thorn become Dirk’s patient?
“Your highness, I only said that he needs water and fresh air. I wasn’t—”
Antonov ignored the interruption. “And as it’s your interference that will make the job harder for my Prefect to break him, I think it only fair that you make yourself useful in the meantime. Besides, if you are able to extract the information I want from Thorn—if you could get him to open up to you— then perhaps Prefect Welacin won’t have to use those methods of interrogation for which he is so rightly famous.”
What’s he up to? Belagren wondered. Is he playing with the boy? Or is it Johan he’s tormenting? Does it amuse him to watch Johanbeing tended by Morna’s son?
And who is the game about, anyway? Dirk? Morna? Johan Thorn?
“Why should I care, one way or another, what you do to Johan Thorn?” Dirk replied. He was keeping his voice deliberately emotionless, Belagren thought.
Antonov hesitated for a fraction of a second. “I’m not sure, Dirk. I suppose I just assumed your mother had passed on some of her own . . . feelings, regarding the man.”
“She never spoke of him, sire. Neither did my father.”
Antonov studied him closely for a moment.
“Did you know he was once your mother’s lover?” Belagren asked.
Dirk met her gaze evenly. “All the more reason, my lady, for me not to care what happens to him.”
The prince looked rather smug suddenly. “Then why do you want me to make him more comfortable?”
“I don’t,” Dirk said evenly. “You asked if he’d die if you left him there for the rest of the voyage. I said he would. You’ll move him because you want him to live, your highness. Not because it pleases me.”
The Lion of Senet gave Dirk a long, considered look, and then waved his arm dismissively. “Make whatever arrangements you need to ensure Thorn survives the voyage.”
It was a small v
ictory, but a significant one. Dirk bowed to the prince and the High Priestess, then turned away. As he walked toward the ladder, she turned on Antonov.
“Anton, I must insist...”
“Not now, Bela.”
“But don’t you see? He must be sent to us.”
Antonov was playing some game with the boy that she didn’t understand. She did understand, though, that in order to get her hands on Dirk Provin, she was going to have to find a reason for Antonov to want to send him away.
“He’s definitely his father’s son.”
“What?”
“Dirk Provin. He’s his father’s son, don’t you think?”
“I couldn’t say,” she replied with a sigh. “I never really knew Wallin that well.”
Chapter 46
Kirsh sat himself down on the deck beside Dirk, as he was prompting the young thief through the painful process of sounding out each word of the child’s primer he had found for her in the Library on Elcast. She had mastered the alphabet, finally, and was working her way painstakingly through the simple text. Marqel stumbled, and then stopped reading completely, blushing under the prince’s scrutiny.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Kirsh told her brightly. “You’re doing very well.”
“I’m trying,” she assured him, with a coy smile.
“Very trying,” Dirk mumbled.
“Come on, Dirk! Have some patience with the poor girl! Learning anything new takes time. It’s like training horses. You have to be patient and kind to get any results.”
Dirk glanced at Marqel, wondering how she would react to being compared with a horse, but the thief only had eyes for Kirshov. The wind of their passage had mussed her thick blonde hair and her eyes were glowing as she stared at the prince.
“Well, since you’re such an authority, you can teach her,” he said, tossing the small leatherbound volume at Kirsh and climbing to his feet. “I have to go check on my patient, anyway.”
“How is he?”
“He’ll live.”
Kirsh glanced at Marqel, then grinned up at Dirk. “Off you go, then. I’ll look after Marqel.”
“Where’s Alenor?”
“In her cabin. She said something about a headache. Perhaps once you’ve tended the prisoner you should check in on her.”
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