by K. J. Parker
She stood up; he hadn’t seen her. So she walked to the path - even if he got up, she was quite certain she could outrun him, in his condition - and, holding back a comfortable ten yards or so, cleared her throat and said, “Hello.” It seemed a silly thing to say, but she couldn’t think of anything else.
The man lifted his head - it seemed to cost him an absurd amount of effort - and looked at her.
“Hello,” she repeated. “Are you all right?”
His eyes were wide. It was hard to tell, because of all the blood, but she reckoned he couldn’t be much more than nineteen, six years older than her if that. She’d never seen anybody with brown eyes before.
He said something, but she couldn’t understand a word. Not that she needed to; the tone of voice said, “Help me, please.” She hesitated for a moment, then edged forward until she was close enough to reach out and touch him. It was then that she saw his left arm was broken, just below the elbow.
Her brothers always teased her about being strong; much too strong for a girl, they said. She knelt down, put her arms under his, her hands meeting at his solar plexus, and lifted him till he was sitting. It hurt him a lot, she could tell, but he didn’t complain. He even tried to smile at her.
“Stay there,” she said, though she knew he couldn’t understand. “I’ll get the horse.”
It took her a minute or so to untangle the reins. It was a good horse, but thin. With an awful lot of heaving and shoving, she managed to get his foot in the stirrup iron; getting him into the saddle was more of a joint effort. He actually screamed at one point, just like a girl.
“I’m taking you somewhere safe,” she said, slow and loud, as though that was going to make any difference. But he seemed to get the general idea; he smiled again, and said something that was presumably “thank you’.
She led the horse down the road into Cylinder Woods. Each time she glanced back at him, he looked worse. His face was the colour of white clay, and he was clinging to the pommel of the saddle with his good hand; the other lay in his lap, and each time the horse stumbled on the uneven track, he shook all over. “Not far now,” she said, several times, and hoped he understood that, too.
She stopped where the road met the forest brook and tied the horse to a tree with its reins. “We’ve got to walk now,” she said, pointing towards the waterfall. “I’m sorry.” She mimed getting off the horse; he looked at her very sadly, but she shook her head and repeated the mime. He understood. “Nice and slow,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. “It’s not so far really.”
A bare-faced lie if ever there was one. She didn’t make a very good job of helping him down off the horse; he fell, jarred his broken arm and howled quite shamefully, though she told herself to make allowances. How they got up the steep bank and under the waterfall she was never really quite sure. It was a terrible struggle, and of course they were both soaked. But at last they made it, and she helped him lean back against the cave wall and slide down until he was sitting, his legs out in front of him, his broken arm cradled in his lap. “You’ll do,” she told him briskly - it was what her mother said at times like this. He could barely keep his eyes open, but he nodded very gently and smiled.
“I’m going to get us some food,” she said, “and some stuff to make you feel better.” She mimed - looked more like a dog digging up a bone, she couldn’t help thinking, but he seemed to get the message. She took the pudding basin and the tinderbox from her basket, looked back at him to make sure he was where she’d left him, and scrambled out through the curtain of water.
Just as well it was autumn; she found everything she needed quite easily, without having to go far. When she’d gathered enough, she scrabbled together a pile of dead twigs and brash, struck a fire and got it going, then put three large stones round the edge to rest the basin on. She filled it a third full with water from the stream, put in the herbs and mushrooms, and went back to the cave for the rest of the barley cakes. When the water was starting to simmer, she crumbled them in a bit at a time and stirred carefully with a clean twig.
“Here you are,” she said, offering him the basin. “Eat it all up, it’ll do you good.”
As he ate - scooping the mush up with his fingers, then drinking the broth - she hoped it’d be enough. She was fairly sure it would be: four green death caps, two fly agarics and two of the tall, yellow ones that smelt of rotten meat, which people reckoned were the deadliest of all. As it turned out, she needn’t have worried. About ten minutes after he’d finished the broth he started to shake all over. He kept trying to scream, but his mouth opened and shut and nothing came out. After twenty minutes he started rocking slowly backwards and forwards. Then he choked, made a dreadful rattling noise in his chest, and flopped sideways. She watched for another five minutes or so, just to be on the safe side, then leaned forward and touched him. He was already starting to get cold, and when she prodded his open eyeball with the tip of her finger, he never moved at all.
As she’d anticipated, her family were so pleased and relieved to see her, they took her story about having to hide from soldiers at face value and didn’t ask any awkward questions, such as what had happened to the barley cakes and the basin. They were also extremely pleased about the horse, which was clearly worth a lot of money.
She didn’t go back to the cave for a very long time. When she eventually did, he was still there, most of him; badgers and rats had been at the body, and ants and woodlice, so there wasn’t a face left to recognise, but nothing bigger had found it, and certainly no other human. She looked at it for some time, feeling so very proud. The war was over now, so it wasn’t quite the same. Still, she knew that when her country was in danger and so many brave men had given their lives, she’d done her bit too, killed one of them for her very own. She knew she’d never tell anybody, because they wouldn’t understand; the nearest she’d come to mentioning it was when she asked if anybody on their side spoke a foreign language, or was it just the enemy? (She was glad to set her mind at rest on that point; she’d been quite sure at the time, but it had worried her nevertheless until her father confirmed it.) After that, she visited him once a year, on the anniversary of his death, right up until the time came for her to marry Muri Achaiois and emigrate to the island of Sphoe.
Loading the ship proved to be bewilderingly complicated.
Kunessin’s original loading plan had been clear, simple and logical: bulk supplies in long-term storage - big barrels they wouldn’t need to touch during the voyage - in first, at the back of the hold. Then the livestock; then the smaller barrels, bales and crates of long-term storage; then everything they’d need for the journey, at the front of the hold where they could get at it; everything else on deck, roped down under tarpaulins.
Aidi disagreed. He pointed out, as the hundred-gallon flour and malt barrels were being hoisted aboard, that Kunessin’s plan would put most of the weight too far back, which would make the ship difficult to handle in bad weather and liable to capsize in extremely heavy seas. Instead, the main weight should be low and as central as possible; which in practice meant putting the bulk stores where Kunessin had planned to put the livestock. Kunessin pointed out that unless the stock was in the most stable part of the ship, they were bound to suffer dreadfully from being thrown about, even in relatively calm conditions; there’d be broken legs and other injuries, not to mention the risk of the animals getting spooked and breaking out, which would cause havoc. Alces suggested a compromise whereby the heavy stores should be distributed round the sides of the hold, to even up the weight, while leaving the livestock where Kunessin wanted them.
They tried that, but none of them (except Muri, who saw the problem but didn’t say anything) realised how awkward that would be; with huge barrels all round the edges, there was hardly enough room to move around, let alone manhandle large, heavy crates down through the hatches. To make matters worse, it started to rain, which meant the perishable and imperfectly sealed and covered goods waiting on the dockside to be loa
ded were in danger of being completely ruined. But most of those stores couldn’t be loaded until the livestock was in place, and the livestock couldn’t go in until the pens had been set up, which couldn’t be done until the heavy stores were on board. Meanwhile, the sailing master was muttering about the wind changing, which might mean that unless they got under way in the next eight hours, they’d be stuck right where they were for a month. Aidi took exception to that: he thought the sailing master was being far too pessimistic and started arguing with him, eventually convincing him that he’d been wrong. By then, unfortunately, rain was pooling in the tarpaulins and seeping through the cracks between the boards of the top layer of crates - mostly clothing, blankets, bedlinen and other fabrics, not to mention Kunessin’s best-quality double-riveted chainmail shirts, which weren’t likely to be improved by spending the journey soaking wet.
When this was brought to Kunessin’s attention, he lost patience with the finer points and ordered the dockers to get everything on board and under cover as soon as possible: livestock first, then fit in all the rest of the stuff wherever it would go. Muri scrambled down into the hold and gave directions; he turned out to have a natural flair for sliding and stacking and double-banking, and he made scribbled notes as he went along so they’d have at least a rough idea of where everything was. Kudei dealt with the livestock (by this stage they’d been cramped up in temporary pens on the dockside for six hours and were in no mood to co-operate, but Kudei was a born stockman, and with the help of some fourteen-foot gates, stout willow hurdles and lots of rope, he managed to crowd and chivvy them out of the pen, up the ramp and into the crane-sling for lowering into the hold). In spite of Muri’s efforts, there was a huge amount of stuff that couldn’t be crammed into the hold. Alces took charge of stacking, roping and covering it on deck, and made a fine job of it in a surprisingly short time. A few minutes after the last barrel had been rolled into place, the rain stopped and the sun came out.
Aidi, meanwhile, had been taking an inventory of spoiled and damaged items. He negotiated an extra two hours from the sailing master, then rushed round Faralia buying replacements and persuading tradesmen and dockers to drop whatever they were doing and get the new stores aboard ship. There was no time to extricate the ruined stores and dump them, which meant the ship would be sailing somewhat over weight; Aidi talked it through with the sailing master and agreed a number of minor course and schedule changes, before reporting to Kunessin that everything was more or less in order, and there weren’t likely to be any additional problems that they wouldn’t be able to handle. The women and the indentured hands then boarded, and the ship finally left Faralia harbour, four hours late but helped by an unexpectedly fresh easterly breeze that promised to make up most of the lost time by nightfall.
“Well?” Chaere demanded.
Dorun was clinging to the rail with both hands. “Well what?”
“You know.”
“Oh,” Dorun replied, “that.” A gentle wave nudged the ship against its direction of travel, and she jerked as though she’d been stabbed. “What about it?”
Chaere was looking revoltingly healthy and robust. “Well?” she repeated.
Dorun shrugged; the gesture cost her dearly. “If you must know,” she said, “he fell asleep in his chair, in the middle of taking his boots off. Woke up this morning with a crick in his neck. Just tired out, I guess.” The back of her throat was burning and her eyes hurt, but she knew Chaere would be mightily put out if she didn’t ask. “You?”
Chaere smiled; probably been rehearsing that smile in a mirror since she was fourteen. “Let’s say the jury’s still out, but there are definite positive signs. Practice makes perfect, I guess.” She frowned. “You look awful,” she said.
Dorun didn’t dare nod. “I think it’s being on the sea,” she said.
“You get used to it, apparently,” Chaere said. “I think Aidi’s got it too. He was massively sick over the side of the boat, and then he said he was going down into the hold to check the stores weren’t shifting. Looked like death. Strange,” she added, with a sweet smile. “A war hero and everything, you’d think he’d be able to cope with a bit of joggling about.”
There were two reasons why Dorun didn’t push Chaere into the sea just then. One was that she couldn’t face the effort. The other was that she hoped she was a better person than that. “Teuche’s fine,” she said, “but he’s used to sea travel.” Slowly and bravely, she turned around, resting the small of her back against the rail. “What do you know about what they did in the war?” she asked. “Everybody seems to know some dark and deadly secret except me.”
Chaere shrugged. “I’ve heard things, but it was all a bit technical for me. They were definitely heroes, though. Right there in the thick of it in every battle.”
“I’d heard that too,” Dorun said guardedly. “But you’d have thought, if they were so brave and did all sorts of glorious deeds and so forth, people would be, well, a bit more enthusiastic about them. The impression I get is, everyone’s quite polite to their faces, but they aren’t sorry to see the back of them.”
Chaere nodded gravely. “You mean, if there’s not something badly wrong with them, why did they end up having to marry us?” Dorun opened her mouth, but Chaere went straight on: “I don’t know, is the honest answer. After all, think about it, we’re the last people anybody’d tell. I know Muri Achaiois was married before, and his wife died. And when Aidi asked me the first time, you should’ve seen the way my parents reacted. Honestly, if I hadn’t already turned him down, I’d probably have married him just to piss them off.”
“But they agreed this time?”
“Yes.” Chaere frowned. “But it was definitely anything’s-better-than-nothing, and if I’d said no, they’d have backed me up. But I’ve been so desperate to get out of there . . .”
“Is that how you see it?” Dorun asked. “Anything’s better than nothing?”
Chaere thought for a moment. “Not really,” she said. “I mean, if it’d been one of the others, no disrespect intended to Teuche, I’m not sure which way I’d have gone. But I like Aidi,” she said, sounding faintly surprised. “A bit,” she added. “And it’s not like he’s a complete stranger or anything.” She fingered a twist of damp hair out of her eyes. “Let’s say I’m curious enough to be interested in seeing what happens. You?”
“Like you,” she said. “Anything’s got to be better than home. Except,” she added, “being on a boat. If I’d known about this . . .” She coughed, spluttered, swallowed four times. “What do you know about the others?” she said hoarsely. “I’ve heard a few things about Clea—”
“Who hasn’t?”
“But the other two are just names.” Dorun half turned back towards the sea, got stuck and kept perfectly still, gripping the rail as though trying to strangle it. “Anything?”
“Enyo Aspida, as she was before she married, is a farm girl from the Ashmoor district. Menin Aeide’s a complete mystery to everybody, except,” Chaere added, suddenly looking thoughtful, “my cousin Thoas said he seemed to remember hearing she’d been on trial for manslaughter about five years ago.”
“Manslaughter?”
Chaere shrugged. “Or arson, he wasn’t sure. But she was acquitted,” she went on, “and not long afterwards they caught whoever it was who really did it, and it was proved beyond all doubt that Menin had nothing to do with it. So Thoas said,” she added, “and personally, I wouldn’t take Thoas’ word for it if he told me my name. But presumably that’s why she landed up on the shelf,” she went on, “because I can’t see anything else wrong with her. Quiet, all-right-looking. Well, you can judge as well as I can. I overheard Kudei Gaeon just now asking where she was, and someone said she’s down in the hold helping muck out the stock.” Chaere shuddered just a little. “I suppose I’m going to have to learn how to do all that sort of thing.”
Dorun grinned at her. “It’s not so bad,” she said.
“Easy for you to say, you we
re born to it.” Chaere looked away. “I wasn’t. And it’s not my fault I’m not physically strong. I’ve got no strength in my arms at all. I tried doing exercises once, but it was a waste of time, loads of tiresome effort for nothing. So lugging buckets about and shovelling . . .” She made a complicated gesture with her arms. “I’m not even going to think about that,” she said. “They can’t make me do what I’m not physically capable of doing, and that’s all there is to it. Besides, we’ve got servants for all that, so the question won’t arise.”
Dorun decided not to say anything. Instead: “I don’t like the look of those clouds,” she said. “Presumably if it rains we all go down into the hold.”
“Presumably,” Chaere replied, clearly preoccupied. “They can’t expect us to stay up here and get soaked to the skin. Really, I wouldn’t have thought it’d have been beyond the wit of man to put up a bit of shelter on the deck. Just a sort of shed thing with a roof and four walls would’ve done; it wouldn’t have had to be anything fancy. And then we wouldn’t be crammed in with all the animals.” Her voice was high, loud, slightly brittle. “Actually, it might be worth having a word with somebody,” she went on. “I mean, they’ve got loads of planks of wood and nails and tools and things down in the stores, and it wouldn’t take them five minutes just to knock something up. What do you think? Should I suggest it?”
“See how things go,” Dorun said sagely.
“Hmm.” Chaere was looking at her hands. Town hands, Dorun thought; oh dear. “I really do think we need to start as we mean to go on,” Chaere said. “I mean, they’re dragging us out here to the ends of the earth; the very least they can do is have a little tiny bit of consideration. Really, I’m not the sort of person who complains all the time, but it’s just common sense: how can anybody be expected to know what we’re thinking unless we tell them?”