An Artist's Eye (Dica Series Book 5)

by Clive S. Johnson

  How she hated the isolation of the craulena’s incessant noise, and its lack of privacy. All it really afforded was time to think, time to assuage her guilt.

  What had Breadgrinder seen that seemed to end his quest so abruptly? Something Nephril and maybe even herself had likely seen beneath Ulbracar. If only they knew, perhaps then they’d understand just what the steward was really up to.

  Maybe the voyage back on the ketch would give her a better chance to talk with Nephril, for if not they’d be unprepared when they finally met up with the steward. He’d been like the proverbial bad coin whilst they’d been in the castle, forever turning up wherever they went. She just knew he’d be there when they got to the harbour at Bazarral.

  Eventually light did flood in to the craulena, drawing Prescinda to stare out through the window. The street that passed by at first looked like any in Dica until her eyes adjusted and she saw its dilapidation.

  The buildings ahead formed a sheer clough, framing a distant but narrow view; the shadowed road, the glint of glittering strips of water and the far-off ochre shimmer of desert.

  The defile soon came to an end, the shadowed buildings to the east suddenly giving way to a quayside and a dockland view. A view, though, to deny all reason; a view of long, broad fingers of water between worn and dusty wharves spread out across the vastness of the plain.

  At its nearest edge lay Phaylan’s patient ketch, a bright and garish fleck amidst the desolation. Although the same size as any of its kind, Prescinda noticed it had an unusually large aft-deck.

  Once aboard, Dialwatcher led them through an unusual hatch at the rear of the wheelhouse and down into a surprisingly small mess. A narrow table ran along its centre, fixed benches to either side, onto one of which Prescinda settled herself down.

  She noticed canvas rolls hanging from the deck-head above each wall - five neatly stored hammocks a side. This is going to be interesting, she thought.

  The crew currently thumped about on deck, speedily about their tasks. Dialwatcher explained they were cranking a winch out over the quay, to bring the craulena aboard.

  Before long, Prescinda heard its heavy thump on the deck above and the ratchet of straps. Soon, the small mess seemed even smaller as the crew squeezed in and the wheelhouse door slammed shut above.

  The steermaster’s command, and the dull thud of another hatch being opened towards the stern, soon brought the phut-phut-phut of an engine weaving its way through the mess. Only when the crew were finally seated, and arguing how long it would take to get home, did Prescinda realise they’d already set off. It seemed a late arrival the following day was likely, or early the day after, the prospect again drawing Prescinda’s eyes to the hammocks above.

  ***

  When encroaching night arrived, it came only second hand as a message passed down from the wheelhouse. It stirred one of the older seamen to stand up from where they’d all kept company at the table. He stretched, laced his fingers and cracked their knuckles back before threading his way to the for’ard rib-beam above Prescinda’s head.

  “’Scuse me, ma’am,” he said, reaching up above her, where he opened a locker.

  She watched him slide out a roll of canvas, one corner of which he deftly strung to a hook on the beam. Unrolling it, he periodically tied its edge to yet more hooks, eventually creating a hanging screen around a small corner of the mess.

  “Thee’s bedchamber,” he said to her with a smile. “So t’crew ‘ere don’t get too embarrassed by thee seeing their smalls,” and he grinned before venturing inside.

  She thanked him through the canvas, somewhat taken aback at first but soon feeling relieved. Whilst she listened to her hammock being hung, she wondered if her one-time-husband’s shipmates would have been so considerate. She doubted it.

  There was a problem, though, she realised as her heart sank. The hope she’d had of a whispered chat in the dead of night with Nephril had now fallen victim to propriety.

  The man himself already seemed to have nodded off, his head resting on his folded arms upon the table top. It wouldn’t surprise her, she thought, if she found him in the same position in the morning.

  The prospect of nighttime made her realise how tiring the day had been. The chance to rest her weary bones in the reputed comfort of a hammock now seemed just too enticing.

  She rose and bade them all a goodnight, then slipped into her bedchamber. Preparation for the night came down to little more than the removal of her outer clothes and a lick and a promise to her face and hair.

  Clambering aboard the hammock, however, proved far more troublesome. It seemed to relish denying her a well-earned rest. Eventually, she did manage to climb on and stay there, although rolled into a ball on her knees. Very carefully, she stretched herself out and onto her back.

  Finally, and warming to the novel feel, she stared up at the dark deck-head close above. Before she knew it, her worries over the steward had quickly dissolved, a swaying slumber soon softly taking her into its close embrace.

  48 To the Common Blood

  Her late rise robbed Prescinda of discovering if Nephril had indeed slept all night at the table. He looked fresh enough at breakfast, having already eaten. She couldn’t understand how she’d slept through what must have been a noisy start to the day, but she had.

  Maybe I ought to sleep in a hammock every night, she wondered, but an ache in her back soon made her think twice.

  “They tell me it be an acquired art,” Nephril said as he passed her a jug of water.

  Prescinda just stared at him.

  “We should reach Dica before the day be out, though,” he went on to inform her, “but before then I need to discuss something with the steermaster.”

  He didn’t elaborate but instead took to prising remnants of breakfast from between his teeth. Prescinda looked away. Perhaps I’ll just have some sugared fruit, she decided, and stiffly reached for the jar.

  This time the tiny engine starting and the steermaster’s shouts of, “Cast off for’ard,” and, “Cast off astern,” well-marked their departure.

  Some of the crew fell to a game of cards as the morning wore on, whereas Dialwatcher became engrossed in a well-leafed book he’d found about the mess. Nephril, on the other hand, seemed entirely lost in his own thoughts.

  Eventually he coughed to clear his throat. “I think mine chat with Phaylan be in order now, something thee too should be a part of.”

  He rose and stepped out from the bench. “I wilt call upon thee shortly,” he said before climbing the ladder to the wheelhouse.

  He’d only been gone a short while when a command came down from above, the steermaster calling for volunteers. The required complement then squeezed past Nephril as he gingerly came back down.

  “Mine timing was perhaps not of the best,” he told her, “for does seems there be an obstruction to get past.”

  For a good hour then, all they could hear were loud clangs, the occasional long shivering groan through the timbers, and the call of numbers. When the crewmen returned, one politely asked Lord Nephril if he wouldn’t mind now going up-top. A glance at Prescinda, and Nephril again climbed the ladder.

  The card game soon continued but Dialwatcher had by now fallen asleep, his book sprawled on the table top. Prescinda leant across, turned it around and read its title: Feminine Forms for the Discerning Man.

  Before she could raise an eyebrow, the steermaster stood before her, clearly surprised at her choice of reading.

  “Mistress Prescinda?”

  “Steermaster?”

  “Could I possibly ask if you wouldn’t mind joining us?”

  His smile seemed thin, a veneer on serious intent. She smiled back as convincingly and nodded, then followed him up to the wheelhouse.

  “Lord Nephril,” the steermaster immediately began, “has called upon our longstanding friendship.”

  Nephril nodded.

  “He’s made a rather unusual request, one I must be honest in saying I do not like at all
. What he proposes is far too dangerous.”

  “I don’t...”

  “Lord Nephril has asked that I put you both ashore before we reach the harbour at Bazarral.”

  “He has? Ashore?”

  “It be the only course open to us, mine dear,” Nephril assured her. “We cannot risk meeting with Melkin, not until we know more.”

  “But we don’t yet know what he’s after...” but then she cast an uncertain eye at Phaylan.

  “Thou may trust the steermaster,” Nephril said. “He cannot fail us, not only as a Galgaverran but also as the free man of honour he has since become.”

  “For which I’m indebted, Lord Nephril,” Phaylan quietly acknowledged.

  “’Tis the very fact that we know not what Melkin seeks,” Nephril finally explained, “that makes it imperative we do not meet. We cannot possibly guard against divulging something when we know not what that something is.”

  “But to put you ashore,” Phaylan objected, “along an uncharted coast, in seas I’m totally unfamiliar with, and at night - well, that’s just plain madness.”

  “Thou art the best steermaster, Phaylan, better still, or so I hear, than Sconner ever was. If anybody can land us safely then it has to be thee.”

  “The best may still not be good enough, Nephril. Don’t ask me to do this. I’d risk this boat, even my own life, but not my crew. And you see, as we’re all in this together I can’t ask for volunteers.”

  Nephril looked at Phaylan for a good while before drawing himself up straight. “I could command thee. That thou dost know well enough, but I will not. ‘Twould be unfair on thy crew. So,” he said as he took Prescinda by the arm, “I ask only that thou dost bring us close-in.”

  “Close-in?”

  “Aye, close enough for Prescinda to row us ashore in the cutter.”

  “What?” she gasped.

  Phaylan looked aghast. “Mistress Prescinda? In the dark? On an unknown shoreline? You are mad, Nephril, you really are.” He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “It must be important, that’s all I can say.”

  He looked at Prescinda. “Even assuming you’re as mad as Nephril, could you do such a thing?”

  Her eyes peered narrowly at Nephril who ignored them, but then she nodded, although why she would never know. She could row, certainly; from quay to anchored boat, across Grayden harbour, at low tide, in full daylight.

  Phaylan had had time to think it through.

  “Very well,” he said, “but I’m going to ask for a volunteer rower to take you in. I don’t doubt your skills, Ma’am, but I do your strength. If one of my crew is willing then I’ll agree. I still don’t like it, though.”

  Nephril grasped Phaylan’s hand in both his own. “Thank thee, Phaylan. Thou will be doing Dica an immense service. How, I know not as yet, not for certain, but I am convinced of it nonetheless.”

  His smile somehow winkled one out of Phaylan, making his resignation at least appear more freely given. It vanished quickly enough when Nephril said, “So, all we need do now is get thy crew’s promise not to mention that we were ever here at all.”

  “Ha,” Phaylan laughed, “even with the best will in the world, you’d be lucky for any such agreement to last beyond the first tavern. Fourth or fifth pint and they’d be shushing their audience, currying slurred secrecy.”

  “But if we explain the importance?”

  “They’re seamen, Nephril, and seamen and ale always yield loose tongues. You’d probably have a day at best, maybe two before the steward would hear.”

  “Two days? That would not be enough.”

  “Best you’ll get, I assure you. I know them. As good as their hearts might be, they’ll still spill the beans. They won’t be able to help it.”

  “Unless,” Prescinda said, “unless I tell them.”

  “You, Ma’am? But why should that...”

  “Of what blood is Breadgrinder, Nephril?”

  “Breadgrinder? Well, he was of Nouwelm, as thou rightly know.” Nephril’s eyes now widened. “Ah, indeed, of course, the purest of Bazarral stock.”

  “As are your crew,” Prescinda said, “aren’t they, Steermaster Phaylan?”

  “I still don’t see.”

  “One day, mine young friend, I will tell thee,” Nephril promised. “One day, but not now. Now, I suggest this good lady asks a favour of thy crew, asks with the kind of force Breadgrinder did feel when last she asked a favour of him.”

  49 By the Second Law

  The remainder of the journey along the canal proved uneventful if somewhat tedious. Prescinda managed to see some of it from the wheelhouse, although she found it all too depressing to hold her interest for long. It hadn’t helped that she’d fretted about what she was going to say to the crew.

  The moment came soon enough.

  Towards late afternoon, the steermaster had descended to the mess and announced the approach of open water. He’d said they’d drop anchor in the mouth of the canal first so they could all hear an important message from Mistress Prescinda. At that, her heart had sunk.

  She’d still not decided what to say when the steermaster’s call finally came, and a couple of seamen went up on deck. She was even less sure after she heard the anchor’s splash and the crewmen returned to the mess.

  She rose, slowly, but could think of nothing but the look in the assembled men’s expectant eyes. Her mind remained stubbornly blank.

  “Thou hast an important need of these fine men I believe, Mistress Prescinda,” Nephril calmly said, but she could only stare at him, feeling weak.

  His soft, grey eyes seemed the only fixed thing in her world right now, somehow reassuring. She swallowed, although with difficulty.

  “I,” she began, but no more words would come, not until she’d turned to the sailor who’d fashioned her bedchamber. He smiled, as though there was all the time in the world.

  “The best ale in the whole of Dica comes from Bazarral, doesn’t it?” she found herself saying. “There’s nothing better than its Palmaeppel Porter or a refreshing pint of Guybaldinn’s.”

  They looked surprised, no more so than she herself felt, but agreement soon murmured around the mess.

  “Just imagine then if there were no more to drink o be had when you got back.” They all blinked at her.

  If they hadn’t been paying attention before, they were now, and in a way that somehow firmed her resolve.

  “And if that wasn’t bad enough, imagine what else might be denied you.” She picked up the book Dialwatcher had been reading and threw it down the table between them.

  “You’ve all felt it yourselves haven’t you? How so much in Dica doesn’t seem quite right anymore. I mean, take these new licenses to trade. What’s all that about then? And what’s likely to be next, eh? It’s hard enough as it is getting a mariner’s ticket, but what if they tighten that up as well?”

  “She’s right,” Dialwatcher said. “Things ‘ave been going awry for quite a while now. Summat ain’t right.”

  “The thing is,” Prescinda continued, “Lord Nephril and myself think we know why. We think we have a chance to put things right, but we need your help to do it.”

  “So, what do you need the men to do for you, Mistress?” Dialwatcher asked, looking far happier now than she’d ever seen him before.

  An odd feeling came over her. Her mind had somehow cleared, an edge of anger slipping into her voice. It frightened her, but she couldn’t resist. It felt as though a whole lifetime of disappointment now welled in her heart.

  “What I need is simple, Master Dialwatcher. What I need from all of you, without exception, is your utter obedience.” The crew began to look uncertain but Prescinda firmly said, “Not one of you must ever make mention of the fact that Lord Nephril and I were with you. Do you understand? NEVER.”

  She now found that not only could she stare straight into each man’s eyes, but also somehow felt their hearts, as though her fist had gathered them, beating as one in her hand.

&nbs
p; “YOU WILL TELL NO ONE THAT WE WERE EVER WITH YOU,” and she felt those hearts pause, a mess of wide eyes staring back at her amongst open mouths.

  Silence stung the air. Taut and sharp and cold, as though it would shatter at the touch. Every stare clung to her face, even Dialwatchers, and not a man amongst them breathed a single breath.

  Prescinda began to shake, as though chilled, her strength steadily sapping until she had to sit down. She felt sick, but calmed at Nephril’s touch.

  “Thank thee, Mistress,” he said, softly, his hand reassuringly upon her shoulder. “Somehow, I think thou hast made thy mark, though how I truly do not know.” He passed his gaze over the crew, none of whom had yet moved, nor even seemed to breathe.

  “Glad I am,” he quietly added, “that Falmeard saw fit to demand that thou came with us, although I suspect he knew not why himself. Somehow, though, I think time will eventually tell.”

  The crew slowly stirred, as though they’d only momentarily been distracted by a sudden noise. The card game recommenced, and with it the usual hubbub of chatter steadily arose as Nephril’s hand slowly slipped from Prescinda’s shoulder.

  He smiled. “I will let the steermaster know thou hast finished. He will need to call for a volunteer. Something I no longer think will be a problem. Not now.”

  50 Foundling Bay

  Ragged cloud had slipped in from the east, thickening to a dark blanket across the nighttime sky above Foundling Bay. It had boded well for their crossing, obscuring what little light a newly risen moon could bring. Steermaster Phaylan had hoped it would keep the ketch’s passage unnoticed by watching eyes in the castle.

  He’d cast their course well to the north of the Stepney Isle Rocks, wary of their dark treachery. Only when sure Mount Esnadac’s summit rose due east did he bring the prow about and onto the same heading.

  The crew had certainly done well to set canvas in such poor light. They’d repeatedly trimmed the sails, tacking the ketch towards the east until Phaylan felt they’d gone far enough.