Ephemeris reached out and touched the man's throat lightly with the tip of the knife.
"Thrathnog Aut Lurellen," he commanded.
Petrasco's voice broke. He gasped and tried to scream again but no words would come, only muffled gibberish, the sounds a raving fool might make. His unreasoning eyes widened, and panic turned into uncontrollable terror. His head flailing from side to side in mad attempts to bite, he twisted and bucked, his legs thrashing as if he could climb the very air and escape.
Ephemeris nodded to Malor, "Could you quiet him down a bit?"
Still pinning Petrasco's arm with his left hand, Malor let go with his right, swung back, and drove it hard into the man's belly. He bent at the waist a little, but continued struggling. Malor punched him twice in the face and twice more in the guts, the customs man doubling over and falling still.
"Good," Ephemeris said, "now hold out his hands."
He passed the dagger over Petrasco's trembling hands, tapping each one with the flat of the blade, whispering a chant the sailors did not wish to hear.
"Now you will not be able to tell your story, or even write it down," Ephemeris said, looking hard into the eyes of the customs man. He went out onto the deck then came back in immediately with a coil of rope.
"Go ahead and tie him," he said to the sailors, "can't have you holding him all night."
The two seamen did as they were told, Malor glancing nervously at the mate, who looked only to his task.
"Hate me do you?" Ephemeris said to Petrasco, standing close, the knife hovering near the bound man's ear.
The customs man worked his jaw desperately, trying to speak. "Whuh. Wh — "
"Why?" Ephemeris offered, taking a handful of Petrasco's hair and cutting it off at the scalp, careless of any incidental wound it might cause. "Because you think that you have power, the full backing of a kingdom. Now you've seen what true power is, and how, when faced with it, you are truly alone."
Ephemeris looked at the mate. "Hold his head and I'll get him ready."
He cut another handful of hair from the top, another from the front, and another from the other side. Then he began randomly sawing off portions of the man's beard.
"Finest Kazhirradian steel," he said quietly, to no one in particular.
With a long shallow slash, he cut through Petrasco's vest and into his flesh, the customs man making a gargling sound as he twisted and squirmed.
"This would be easier if you did not move," Ephemeris said, cutting him again and again on the chest and stomach and arms. "These are very light cuts. You will hardly even bleed. I just want to make it look like you've been doing harm to yourself."
He stood back and looked at his work. When he told the two sailors the street where they were to take him, the customs man made one last panic-stricken attempt to break free. Malor beat him into submission.
"What if the night watch stops us?" the mate asked.
"Simply say that you just found this man on the docks and turn him over to them. They will likely take him there for you."
"I don't get it Cap'n. What is this place we're taking him anyway?"
Ephemeris sighed, the storm that drove his thoughts finally abating. "That would be the insane asylum."
CHAPTER 9: In the Forecastle
Reyin woke in his hammock to the flickering light of a whale-oil lantern and the murmur of sleepy sailors, as he had done the last six mornings. It was four o'clock, time for the first watch. The men of the midnight watch padded past him to climb into their hammocks and fall almost instantly asleep. Two feet above Reyin, Farlo swung lightly, snoring to the rhythm of the gently-pitching ship.
They had already more than retraced their journey in the skiff, having passed the pinnacles near Lorendal valley a few days before. They had stood at the larboard rail looking eastward across grey-green water that day, but the ship ran too far out from the land, and clouds of mist alighted too thick on the ocean to see even the tallest crags.
Reyin slipped into his boots, out the door, and across the waist to the galley entrance. His kitchen duties didn't start until five, but Lomney, the cook, a stubby man with a long drooping moustache, was always there at four, building a fire in the big iron stove. The Captain had his own sack of coffee beans, and Lomney was required to roast some each morning and have a pot ready at half past four. If Reyin got there early and helped, Lomney would give him a small cup when it was done brewing.
Reyin and Farlo as paying passengers worked only six hours a day — Reyin the first watch and the second dogwatch, Farlo the morning watch and the first dogwatch. Reyin had fallen seasick as soon as Tarradid tacked out of Noraggen harbor and spread full canvass. This had brought belly laughs and the usual jibes about hearty meals of undercooked pork. The illness lasted only a day, and on the second night at sea when he took out his mandolin and played just for himself, the whole forecastle listened, those with good voices singing along, and afterward they treated him fairly. Farlo stood aloof of any merriment, as did Tolan.
Captain Eltas came for his coffee himself that morning. "I've heard you are something of a musician,” he said.
Reyin smiled. “I manage to pass as a troubadour from time to time."
"Well, you see, today is Mister Isherwid's birthday, and if you could come to the officer's mess tonight and play a few songs, we would all be very pleased. Of course we'll pass you a few coppers for your trouble."
This man has me earning passage that I've already paid for, thought Reyin, and now he asks for nearly free entertainment. Little wonder that he's barely over thirty and is already a shipmaster.
"No trouble at all, Captain. I welcome the opportunity to play."
"Good. Very good. Come to the wardroom after the evening watch begins."
The day passed in rain but the night fell fair, and an hour past sunset the western sky still glowed faintly. Reyin dug through his clothing to find the yellow vest with the red stitching and the green feathered cap. At parties, folks always tipped better when he dressed in bright colors.
When he entered the wardroom, the four officers spat laughter as Isherwid finished telling a lewd story. On the table, along with the ruins of a baked turkey (which Reyin had plucked with his own hands the night before), rested an empty bottle of wine and an open bottle of brandy. He knew what to do. He played quiet, unobtrusively merry tunes and did not sing while they listened and talked and drank. When he began seeing a little nose-paint, he broke into his best tavern pleasers. By the end of the evening they were serving him cordials and singing along with the most bawdy numbers. At last the two juniors coughed up a few pennies each and went off to bed. Isherwid fell asleep were he sat. Reyin and Captain Eltas stayed at the table until midnight, trading tales of their far travels. When Reyin discovered that Eltas had once lived in Kandin, they spoke of things commonly remembered.
"Do you know," Reyin asked, "the jeweler’s shop on Juniper Square? On the corner, near the perfumery?"
Eltas put his fingers to his lips, nodding weightily, and a little drunkenly, as he considered the question. "I do not."
"Oh. It's just, uh, my father's shop, where I spent my boyhood."
"Do you have an older brother who will take up the family business?"
"No. And I was never interested in the craft of the lapidary myself. I wasn't really fond of music either, but my father claimed that I had a talent for it at an early age. I don't remember that." He waved away the bottle that Eltas held out. "He spent a good amount of money to send me to a music school."
"Ah. That is why you play and sing so well; you were trained by a maestro. I should have known. You are far more skilled than any street minstrel."
"I don't know. I've played many a street."
Captain Eltas chuckled. "Well, I'm afraid I didn't recognized that you were an educated man. I would feel responsible if anything happened to those virtuoso hands of yours. Let us say that you have fulfilled the requirements of your working passage."
"I beg your pard
on?"
"No more work for you." Eltas grinned and shot Reyin a knowing wink. "That is an order, sir."
"I really don't mind helping Lomney."
"Come now my dear fellow, we are both learned men of high profession. I can't have you slaving in the ship's galley. It just isn't done." Eltas stretched his arms behind his head and fought off a yawn. "Besides, you are under shipboard law here. You must obey."
“There must be something suitable for me to do.”
Eltas stood to go. "Come breakfast with me and we'll discuss it then, for now I must find sleep. Goodnight."
The next morning, at the end of first watch, Eltas summoned Reyin to his cabin and served black bread with cream cheese, cold turkey, and coffee. The captain talked of little other than Jakavian art and Baskillian tea, and Reyin thought that the matter of his shipboard work had been dropped, but when the second dogwatch came and he reported to the galley, Lomney said that he was no longer a working passenger, and called him "sir" and treated him more like an officer than a fellow sailor.
The men of the lower deck stopped greeting him with a nod. No one except Farlo spoke to him in the evenings while they idled at the leeward rail. Everyone glanced at him when he entered the forecastle, not hostile stares, but looks that pushed him out of their circle. When he played the mandolin, no one sang along or even seemed to listen. Tolan glared at him.
The quarterdeck was now open to him, though, and the junior officers were always amiable. Isherwid owned a deck of cards, and on the odd evenings invited Reyin to the wardroom for a few hands of ball-and-chain. The third mate, a barely-grown man named Haffi, sat in on those games, and in a manner unbefitting the dignity of a ship's officer, he unashamedly begged Reyin to go get his strings or fipple and play for them. Haffi was young and in love with music and words and people and work and sky and sea, so Reyin was happy to do it. Yet when he went to the forecastle to fetch an instrument the sailors there marked him in silence, nodding to themselves, and Reyin felt he knew their thoughts. There he goes to entertain his officer friends — thinks he's too good to work like the rest of us.
The tenth morning out of Noraggen, as they crossed the bay of Oriana, catching sight of smoke from Evinna, the ship passed into the tropical current. The new airs from the south came thick and moist, and the ship began tacking ponderously into that heat-spawned wind, a zigzag course toward warm waters of brilliant blue. Jackets went into sea chests. The dogwatch went shirtless. Afternoon in the forecastle became oppressive, so Reyin relaxed on deck and watched Farlo, easily distinguished because he kept his shirt, at work high in the rigging with the other topmen. They climbed quickly from spar to line to yard, sure as spider monkeys in that distant world where a slip could be fatal.
"Ever been aloft then, mate?" A half-friendly, half-sarcastic tone — it was Tolan.
"Not on any ship near this size. Not while under sail"
"Oh, so you can climb. Say, I've got to go up to the crow's perch for a stint, so how's about tagging along with me? It ain't easy, but it's no trouble for a grown man."
Wind and wave seemed not too rough. The climb to the top of the mainmast looked terrifying but not difficult. Reyin wanted to decline. He wanted to see this as a childish game, follow-the-leader with the toughest kid in town. Tolan probably thought he was doing Reyin a favor, giving him a chance to prove himself more worthy than a toad. He had nothing to prove; he had the respect of his own self. Refusal would be the level-headed choice, but then he suddenly found that he was accepting.
"Why not?" he said to Tolan. "I'd bet you can see the mainland from up there."
"Oh aye," Tolan said, grinning fiercely.
They crossed the deck to the rail where the shrouds were secured. Tolan swung himself up with the ease of a circus acrobat, and in a flurry of arms and legs raced up the tar-covered rope ladder. At the halfway mark he stopped and looked back. "The airs are fine up here. Are you coming?"
Reyin took hold, climbed atop the rail, stepped up onto the ratlines, and at once the ship seemed to heel and heave severely. He looked up along the mast to its very top. It appeared to sway and whip about in the upper breeze. Fixing his gaze to the ropes in front of him, he began to climb.
"Whoa there, what are you doing?"
Isherwid came trotting toward him, calling out. "It is absolutely forbidden for passengers to go aloft in the rigging. Please come down at once, sir."
Tolan looked down on the two of them.
"Can you make an exception this once?" Reyin asked.
"Certainly not. The shrouds are far more dangerous to climb than they might look." He pointed at Tolan. "And you should know better than to let him do it, seaman Tolan. I'll have you standing extra watches for this. Off with you now." Isherwid turned back to Reyin. "Come down, sir. I command you."
Reyin obeyed.
The sky was moonless that night. Long after sunset, Reyin went to the forecastle and discovered the strap on his mandolin case unbuckled. He opened it. Lifting up the mandolin gently, as if it were a frightened puppy, he groaned aloud.
Farlo leaned over his shoulder. "The strings are all broken?"
Reyin fingered the remaining strands. "I'd say they've been cut."
They both turned slowly and raised their eyes to the men of the lower deck. The forecastle fell silent, the creaking of timbers and rigging suddenly loud.
No one looked at them except Tolan, who reclined on a large canvas sack full of netting. "Must be the change in weather," he said smugly, swinging a big bare foot up on an empty keg. "Too bad. Can't play for the Captain now. Think he'll put you back to work in the galley?"
Reyin said nothing. True magicians did not suffer the indignities of vandalism and bullying.
Quietly, Farlo said, "Were those your only strings?"
"No, I have an entire spare set. But what would be the point? He could simply do it again at his leisure, and replacements are hard to get and not too cheap."
This never would have happened to Artemes. He would have placed ethereal fastenings on his baggage. If he wanted, Artemes could summon an eldritch spirit to keep invisible watch on his goods. Reyin had practiced all these magicks with Ty'kojin on Wind Peak. But here on the common ocean he was like a ship becalmed, sails fully rigged and no breeze to fill them. He was not a true magician, for they carry their own wind.
Farlo walked over to Tolan, who stood to face him.
"Since you told me you speak for the crew," Farlo said with frightening calmness, "I want you to tell me the name of the man that done that."
"Must of been the sudden heat today," Tolan growled back at him.
"Leave it, Farlo," Reyin called out, "it really doesn't matter."
Farlo continued to stare at Tolan. "I will tell you, Mr. Tolan, that it was you who spoilt my friend's lute, and everyone here knows it. You should have to run a gauntlet for that, but I'll make it easier."
"Farlo," Reyin said. "Stop."
"You're not fit to be a shipmate," Farlo continued without pause. "You are a coward and a damned liar."
Tolan balled his hand into a fist and raised it. Fast as a cat, Farlo stepped in close, jabbed a finger into Tolan's shoulder, and suddenly Tolan froze, his arm twitching uselessly as Farlo grabbed him by the hair and tripped him. He fell hard on the deck, and Farlo kneeling swiftly pinned his head there using only a thumb pressed hard between his jaw and ear. Tolan grunted in agony, thrashing like a wounded shark caught in a net. Farlo let it go on for half a minute, until Tolan's struggles turned to pain-inflicted spasms and his groans to cries, till it seemed almost like torture.
"Surprising, isn't it?" Farlo said to him softly. "Not the pain — though that's quite a shock too — no, I mean finding out you're not the biggest fish in your very small pond."
Farlo stood and went back to the place he shared with Reyin, swinging himself up into his hammock as if he had not a care in the world. Tolan, at last, rose on shaky legs. He looked pale.
"He used some sort of dirty trick, not fai
r fighting," Tolan announced. No one seemed to listen.
"It was fair," said one of the topmen. And that was it; Tolan became just another sailor. He shuffled outside and did not return for hours.
"Should have done that the first day out," Farlo whispered to Reyin.
"I wish you hadn't."
"He'll give us no more trouble now."
True, Tolan kept his distance from them, issued no challenges, did nothing vengeful, only tried to regain his old status with the more surly of the crew by working harder than any other crewman. Yet to Reyin it seemed that Tolan never stopped spying on them. Although he never looked them in the eyes, Reyin often spotted him keeping a surreptitious watch on Farlo.
Each afternoon lingered longer and hotter than the last as the ship stayed on a long southern tack. As Tarradid crossed into Syrolian waters, the wind fell and the sails wavered on the lightest of airs, the ship nearly becalmed. The word around the scuttlebutt was that Captain Eltas would make an unscheduled stop at Kandin.
That night, even with the door and ports open, the forecastle was hot and stuffy, and Reyin couldn't sleep. He walked the deck in search of a breeze, and at length settled down in a coil of rope near the jib boom. He was awakened there by the midnight watch and sent back to his own hammock.
Farlo tossed as Reyin approached their niche. By the lantern that provided a dim light for the changing watches, Reyin saw him clearly. In the throes of heated sleep, Farlo had stripped off his shirt.
Reyin suddenly felt hollow. The sweat-stained cloth Farlo used to wrap his forearm had slipped down a little, revealing half of what Reyin already knew to be there — the mark of the brandsman.
"Farlo," he hissed, "Farlo, wake up."
"What is it?"
Reyin pointed. "Your arm."
Farlo quickly found a fresh handkerchief and replaced the binding. "Did anyone see?"
"I don't know, but half the midnight watch had to pass you to get out on deck."
"What time is it now?"
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