Arutha fought his way to the forward rail of the quarterdeck and shouted Martin’s name. The Huntmaster answered from the main deck below that he was well, though waterlogged. Arutha held tight to the rail as the ship dipped low into a trough and then started to rise as it met a crest. For what seemed minutes the ship strained upward, climbing and climbing, then suddenly water swept over the bow and they were heading downward again. The rail became his only contact with a solid world amid a cold, wet chaos. Arutha’s hands ached from the effort of hanging on.
Hours passed in cacophonous fury, while Amos commanded his crew to answer every challenge of wind and tide. Occasionally the darkness was punctuated by a blinding flash of lightning, bringing every detail into sharp focus, leaving dazzling afterimages in the darkness.
In a sudden lurch, the ship seemed to slip sideways, and Arutha felt his feet go out from under him as the ship heeled over. He held to the rail with all his strength, his ears deafened by a monstrous grinding. The ship righted itself, and Arutha pulled himself around to see, in the flickering glow of the storm lanterns, the tiller swinging wildly back and forth and the helmsman slumped down upon the deck, his face darkened by blood flowing from his open mouth. Amos was desperately scrambling upright, reaching for the lashing tiller. Risking broken ribs as he seized it, he fought desperately to hang on and bring the ship back under control.
Arutha half stumbled to the tiller and threw his weight against it. A long, low grinding sound came from the starboard side, and the ship shuddered.
“Turn, you motherless bitch!” cried Amos as he heaved against the tiller, marshaling what strength he had left. Arutha felt his muscles protesting in pain as he strained against the seemingly immobile tiller. Slowly it moved, first an inch, then another. The grinding rose in volume, until Arutha’s ears rang from the sound of it.
Suddenly the tiller swung free once more. Arutha overbalanced and went flying across the deck. He struck the hard wood and slid along the wet surface until he crashed into the bulwark, gasping as wind exploded from his lungs. A wave drenched him and he spluttered, spitting out a lungful of seawater. Groggily he pulled himself up and staggered back to the tiller.
In the faint light Amos’s face was white from exertion, but it was set in a wide-eyed, manic expression as he laughed. “Thought you’d gone over the side for a moment.”
Arutha leaned into the tiller, and together they forced it to move once more. Amos’s mad laughter rang out, and Arutha said, “What’s so damn funny?”
“Look!”
Panting, Arutha looked where Amos indicated. In the darkness he saw huge forms rearing up alongside the ship, blacker shapes against the blackness. Amos yelled, “We’re clearing the Great South Rocks. Pull, Prince of Crydee! Pull if you wish to ever see dry land again!”
Arutha hauled upon the tiller, forcing the balky ship away from the terrible stone embrace mere yards away. Again they felt the ship shudder as another low grinding sound came from below. Amos whooped. “If this barge has a bottom when we’re through, I’ll be amazed.”
Arutha felt a gut-wrenching stab of panic, followed immediately by a strange exultation. He found himself seized by a nameless, almost joyous feeling as he struggled to hold the ship on course. He heard a strange sound amid the cacophony and discovered he was laughing with Amos, laughing at the fury erupting around him. There was nothing left to fear. He would endure or he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter now. All he could do was give himself over to one task, keeping the ship heading past the jagged rocks. Every fiber of his being laughed in terror, in joy at being reduced to this lower level of existence, this primal state of being. Nothing existed save the need to do this one thing, upon which all was wagered.
Arutha entered a new state of awareness. Seconds, minutes, hours lost all meaning. He struggled, with Amos, to keep the ship under control, but his senses recorded everything around him in minute detail. He could feel the grain of the wood through the wet leather of his gloves. The fabric of his stockings was gathered between his toes in his water-soaked boots. The wind smelled of salt and pitch, wet wool caps, and rain-drenched canvas. Every groan of timber, smack of rope against wood, and shout of men above could be clearly heard. Upon his face he felt the wind and cold touch of melting snow and seawater, and he laughed. Never had he felt so close to death, and never had he felt more alive. Muscles bunched, and he pitted himself against forces primeval and formidable. On and on they plunged, deeper and deeper into the madness of the Straits of Darkness.
Arutha heard Amos as he shouted orders, orchestrating every man’s move by the second. He played his ship as a master musician played a lute, sensing each vibration and sound, striving for that harmony of motion that kept the Wind of Dawn moving safely through perilous seas. The crew answered his every demand instantly, risking death in the treacherous rigging, for they knew their safe passage rested solely upon his skill.
Then it was over. One moment they were fighting with mad strength to clear the rocks and pass through the fury of the straits, the next they were running before a stiff breeze with the darkness behind.
Ahead the sky was overcast, but the storm that had held them for days was a distant gloom upon the eastern horizon. Arutha looked at his hands, as if at things apart, and willed them to release their hold upon the tiller.
Sailors caught him as he collapsed, and lowered him to the deck. For a time his senses reeled, then he saw Amos sitting a short way off as Vasco took the tiller. Amos’s face was still mirthful as he said, “We did it, boy. We’re in the Bitter Sea.”
Arutha looked about. “Why is it still so dark?”
Amos laughed. “It’s nearly sundown. We were on that tiller for hours.”
Arutha began to laugh too. Never had he felt such triumph. He laughed until tears of exhaustion ran down his face, until his sides hurt. Amos half crawled to his side. “You know what it is to laugh at death, Arutha. You’ll never be the same man again.”
Arutha caught his breath. “I thought you mad there for a time.”
Amos took a wineskin a sailor handed him and drew a deep drink. He passed it to Arutha and said, “Aye, as you were. It is something only a few know in their lives. It is a vision of something so clear, so true, it can only be a madness. You see what life is worth, and you know what death means.”
Arutha looked up at the sailor standing by them, and saw it was the man Amos had pitched over the rail to head off the mutiny. Vasco threw the man a frown as he watched, but the man didn’t move. Amos looked up at him, and the seaman said, “Captain, I just wanted to say…I was wrong. Thirteen years a sailor, and I’d have wagered my soul to Lims-Kragma no master could pilot a ship such as this through the straits.” Lowering his eyes, he said, “I’d willingly stand for flogging for what I done, Captain. But after, I’d sail to the Seven Lower Hells with you, and so would any man here.”
Arutha looked about and saw other sailors gathering upon the quarterdeck or looking down from the rigging. Shouts of “Aye, Captain,” and “He has the truth of it” could be heard.
Amos pulled himself up, gripping the rail of the ship, his legs wobbling a little. He surveyed the men gathered around, then shouted, “Night watch above! Midwatch and day watch stand down.” He turned to Vasco. “Check below for damage to the hull, then open the galley. Set course for Krondor.”
—
ARUTHA CAME AWAKE in his cabin. Martin Longbow was sitting by his side. “Here.” The Huntmaster held out a steaming mug of broth.
Arutha levered himself up on his elbow, his bruised and tired body protesting. He sipped at the hot broth. “How long was I asleep?”
“You fell asleep on deck last night, just after sundown. Or passed out, if you want the truth. It’s three hours after sunrise.”
“The weather?”
“Fair, or at least not storming. Amos is back on deck. He thinks it might hold most of the way. The damage below is not too bad; we’ll be all right if we don’t have to withstand another gale. Even s
o, Amos says there are a few fair anchorages to be found along the Keshian coast should the need arise.”
Arutha pulled himself out of his bunk, put on his cloak, and went up on deck. Martin followed. Amos stood by the tiller, his eyes studying the way the sail held the wind. He lowered his gaze to watch as Arutha and Martin climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck. For a moment he studied the pair, as if struck by some thought or another, then smiled as Arutha asked, “How do we fare?”
Amos said, “We’ve a broad reach to the winds; had it since we cleared the straits. If it holds from the northwest, we should reach Krondor quickly enough. But winds rarely do hold, so we may take a bit longer.”
A lookout shouted, “Sail ho!”
“Where away?” shouted Amos.
“Two points abaft port!”
Amos studied the horizon, and soon three tiny white specks appeared. To the lookout he shouted, “What ships?”
“Galleys, Captain!”
Amos mused aloud. “Quegan. This is a bit south for their usual patrols if they’re warships, and I don’t think it likely they’re merchantmen.” He ordered more canvas on the yards. “If the wind holds, we’ll be past before they can close. They’re fat-bottomed tubs under sail, and their rowers can’t maintain speed over this distance.”
Arutha watched in fascination as the ships grew on the horizon. The closest galley turned to cut them off, and after a while he could make out the hulking outline of the galley, its majestic sails above a high fore and aft deck. Arutha could see the sweep of oars, three banks per side, as the captain attempted a short burst of speed. But Amos was right, and soon the galley was falling away behind. As the distance between the Wind of Dawn and the galleys slowly increased, Arutha said, “They were flying the Royal Quegan standard. What would Quegan war galleys be doing this far south?”
“The gods only know,” said Amos. “Could be they’re out looking for pirates, or they could be keeping an eye out for Keshian ships straying north. It’s hard to guess. Queg treats the whole of the Bitter Sea as her pond. I’d as soon avoid finding out what they’re up to as not.”
The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and Arutha enjoyed a sense of respite after the dangers of the last few days. The night brought a clear display of stars; he spent several hours on deck studying the bright array in the heavens. Martin came on deck and found him looking upward. Arutha heard the arrival of the Huntmaster and said, “Kulgan and Tully say the stars are suns much like our own, made small by vast distances.”
Martin said, “An incredible thought, but I think they are right.”
“Have you wondered if one of those is where the Tsurani homeworld lies?”
Martin leaned upon the rail. “Many times, Highness. In the hills you can see the stars like this, after the campfires are out. Undimmed by lights from town or keep, they blaze across the sky. I also have wondered if one of them might be where our enemies live. Charles has told me their sun is brighter than ours, and their world hotter.”
“It seems impossible. To make war across such a void defies all logic.”
They stood quietly together watching the glory of the night, ignoring the bite of the crisp wind that carried them to Krondor. Footfalls behind caused them to turn as one, and Amos Trask appeared. He hesitated a moment, studying the two faces before him, then joined them at the rail. “Stargazing, is it?”
The others said nothing, and Trask watched the wake of the ship, then the sky. “There is no place like the sea, gentlemen. Those who live on land all their lives can never truly understand. The sea is basic, sometimes cruel, sometimes gentle, and never predictable. But it is nights like this that make me thankful the gods allowed me to be a sailor.”
Arutha said, “And something of a philosopher as well.”
Amos chuckled. “Take any deep-water sailor who’s faced death at sea as many times as I have, and scratch him lightly. Underneath you’ll find a philosopher, Highness. No fancy words, I’ll warrant you, but a deep abiding sense of his place in the world. The oldest known sailor’s prayer is to Ishap. ‘Ishap, thy sea is great and my boat is small; have mercy on me.’ That sums it up.”
Martin spoke quietly, almost to himself. “When I was a boy, among the great trees, I knew such feelings. To stand by a bole so ancient it is older than the oldest living memory of man gives such a sense of place in the world.”
Arutha stretched. “It is late. I shall bid you both a good night.” As he started to leave, he seemed taken by some thought. “I am not given to your philosophies, but…I am pleased to have shared this voyage with you both.”
After he was gone, Martin watched the stars for a time, then became aware Amos was studying him. He faced the seaman and said, “You seem taken by some thought, Amos.”
“Aye, Master Longbow.” Leaning against the rail, he said, “Nearly seven full years have passed since I came to Crydee. Something has tickled my mind since first meeting you.”
“What is that, Amos?”
“You’re a man of mysteries, Martin. There’re many things in my own life I’d not wish recounted now, but with you it’s something else.”
Martin appeared indifferent to the course of conversation, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “There’s little about me not well known in Crydee.”
“True, but it is that little which troubles me.”
“Put your mind at ease, Amos. I am the Duke’s Huntmaster, nothing more.”
Quietly Amos said, “I think more, Martin. In my travels through the town, overseeing the rebuilding, I’ve met a lot of people, and in seven years I’ve heard a lot of gossip about you. Some time back I put the pieces together and came up with an answer. It explains why I see your manner change—only a little, but enough to notice—when you’re around Arutha, and especially when you’re around the Princess.”
Martin laughed. “You spin an old and tired bard’s tale, Amos. You think I am the poor hunter desperate for love of a young Princess? You think me in love with Carline?”
Amos said, “No, though I have no doubt you love her. As much as any brother loves his sister.”
Martin had his belt knife half out when Amos’s hand caught his wrist. The thickset seaman held the hunter’s wrist in a viselike grip, and Martin could not move his arm. “Stay your anger, Martin. I’d not like to have to pitch you over the side to cool you off.”
Martin ceased his struggling against Amos and released his knife, letting it slide back into its sheath. Amos held the hunter’s wrist a moment longer, then let go. After a moment Martin said, “She has no knowledge, nor do her brothers. Until this time I thought only the Duke and one or two others might know. How did you learn of it?”
Amos said, “It was not hard. People most often don’t see what is right before them.” Amos turned and watched the sails above, absently checking each detail of the ship’s crew as he spoke. “I’ve seen the Duke’s likeness in the great hall. Should you grow a beard like his, the resemblance would shout for the world to see. Everyone in the castle remarks how Arutha grows to resemble his mother less and father more each passing year, and I’ve been nagged since we first met why no one else noticed he resembles you as well. I expect they don’t notice because they choose not to. It explains so much: why you were granted special favor by the Duke in placing you with the old Huntmaster, and why you were chosen Huntmaster when a new one was needed. For some time now I’ve suspected, but tonight I was certain. When I came up from the lower deck and you both turned in the darkness, for a moment I couldn’t tell which of you was which.”
Martin spoke with no emotion, just a statement of fact. “It’s your life should you breathe a word of it to anyone.”
Amos settled himself against the rail. “I’m a bad man to threaten, Martin Longbow.”
“It is a matter of honor.”
Amos crossed his arms over his chest. “Lord Borric is not the first noble to father a bastard, nor will he be the last. Many are even given offices and rank. How is the Duke of Crydee’s
honor endangered?”
Martin gripped the rail, standing like a statue in the night. His words seemed to come from a great distance. “Not his honor, Captain. Mine.” He faced Amos, and in the night his eyes seemed alive with inner light as they reflected the lantern hung behind the seaman. “The Duke knows of my birth, and for his own reasons chose to bring me to Crydee when I was still little more than a boy. I am sure Father Tully has been told, for he stands highest in the Duke’s trust, and possibly Kulgan as well. But none of them suspect I know. They think me ignorant of my heritage.”
Amos stroked his beard. “A knotty problem, Martin. Secrets within secrets, and such. Well, you have my word—from friendship, not from threat—I’ll not speak to anyone of this, save by your leave. Still, if I judge Arutha right, he would sooner know as not.”
“That is for me to decide, Amos, no one else. Someday perhaps I’ll tell him, or I may not.”
Amos pushed himself from the rail. “I’ve much to do before I turn in, Martin, but I’ll say one more thing. You’ve plotted a lonely course. I do not envy you your journey upon it. Good night.”
“Good night.” After Amos had returned to the quarterdeck, Martin watched the familiar stars in the sky. All the companions of his solitary travels through the hills of Crydee looked down upon him. The constellations shone in the night, the Beasthunter and the Beasthound, the Dragon, the Kraken, and the Five Jewels. He turned his attention to the sea, staring down into the blackness, lost in thoughts he had once imagined buried forever.
—
“LAND HO!” SHOUTED the lookout.
“Where away?” answered Amos.
“Dead ahead, Captain.”
Arutha, Martin, and Amos left the quarterdeck and quickly made their way to the bow. As they stood waiting for land to heave into sight, Amos said, “Can you feel that trembling each time we breast a trough? It’s that keelson, if I know how a ship’s made, and I do. We’ll need to put in at a shipyard for refitting in Krondor.”
Magician: Master Page 17