The Demon Spirit - Book 2 of the Demon Wars series

by R. A. Salvatore

  "Well, we'll take you, for five pieces of the King's gold," the old man said. "A fair price, Father."

  "Indeed it is, but I've not the gold to pay, I fear," Jojonah replied. "Nor the time to delay."

  "Two days?" the sea dog balked.

  "Two days more than I have to spare," Jojonah answered.

  "I do beg your pardon, Father," came another voice, from the ship next in line, a wide and sturdy caravel. "We shall be sailing north this very day."

  Master Jojonah waved to the two on the damaged vessel and walked around to get a better view of the newest speaker. The man was tall and lean and dark-skinned—not from the sun, but from his heritage. He was Behrenese, and, given his complexion, likely from a region of southern Behren, far south of the Belt-and-Buckle.

  "I am afraid that I have no gold to pay," Jojonah replied.

  The dark man flashed a pearly smile. "But Father," he said, "why would you be needing the gold?"

  "I'll work for my passage, then," Jojonah offered.

  "All on my ship could use a good prayer, Father," the Behrenese man replied. "More, I fear, after our little stop here. Come aboard, I beg you. We were not to leave until late in the day, but I've only one man out and he can be retrieved easily. If you are in a hurry, then we are in a hurry!"

  "Very generous, good sir—"

  "Al'u'met," the man answered. "Captain Al'u'met of the good ship Saudi Jacintha."

  Jojonah cocked his head at that curious name.

  "It means Jewel of the Desert," Al'u'met explained. "A bit of a joke on my father, who wished me to ride the dunes, not the waves."

  "As my own father wanted me to serve ale, not prayer," Jojonah replied with a laugh. He was more than a bit surprised to find a dark-skinned Behrenese in command of an Ursal sailing ship, and even more surprised to see the man pay so much respect to one of the Abellican Order. Jojonah's Church was not prominent in the southern kingdom; indeed, missionaries had many times been slaughtered for trying to impose their vision of divinity on the often intolerant priests—yatols in the Behren tongue—of the deserts.

  Captain Al'u'met helped Jojonah over the last step of gang­plank, then dispatched two of his crewmen to go and find the one missing sailor. "Have you bags to bring aboard?" he asked Jojonah.

  "Only what I carry," the monk replied.

  "And how far north will you be sailing?"

  "Palmaris," Jojonah replied. "Or across the river, actually; I can ride the ferry. I am needed at St.-Mere-Abelle on most urgent matters."

  "We may be sailing past All Saints Bay," Captain Al'u'met said. "Though you will lose a week at least traveling by sea."

  "Then Palmaris it is," the monk said.

  "Exactly where we were going," Captain Al'u'met replied, and, smiling still, he pointed to the cabin door leading under the poop deck. "I have two rooms," he explained. "Surely I can share one with you for a day or two."

  "You are Abellican?"

  Al'u'met's grin widened. "For three years," he explained. "I found your God at St. Gwendolyn of the Sea, and as fine a catch as Al'u'met has ever known."

  "But another disappointment for your father," Jojonah reasoned.

  Al'u'met put a finger to pursed lips. "He does not need to know such things, Father," he said slyly. "Out on the Mirianic, when the storms blow high and the waves break twice the height of a tall man above the forward rail, I choose my own God. Besides," he added with a wink, "they are not so different, you know, the God of your land and the one of mine. A change in robes would make a priest a yatol."

  "So your conversion was one of convenience," Jojonah teased.

  Al'u'met shrugged. "I choose my own God."

  Jojonah nodded and returned the wide smile, then made his slow way toward the captain's cabins.

  "My boy will show you your quarters," Al'u'met called after him.

  The cabin boy was just within the shelter of the room, throwing bones, when Master Jojonah opened the door. The lad, no more than ten years of age, scrambled frantically, collecting his dice and looking very guilty—he had been caught derelict from his chores, the monk knew.

  "Set our friend up, Matthew," Captain Al'u'met called. "See to his needs."

  Jojonah and Matthew stood staring at each other, sizing each other up for a long time. Matthew's clothes were threadbare, as was the lot for anybody working aboard a ship. But they were a fine cut, better than the attire of most crewmen the monk had met. And the boy was cleaner than most cabin boys, his sun-bleached hair neatly trimmed, his skin golden tanned. There was one notable blemish, though, a black patch on the boy's forearm.

  Jojonah recognized the scar, and he imagined the pain the boy must have felt. The patch had been caused by the second of the three "medicinal" liquids—rum, tar, and urine—kept on the sailing ships. The rum was used to kill the worms that inevitably found their way into foodstuffs, to kill the aftereffects of bad food, and simply to forget the long, long, empty hours. The urine was used for washing, clothes and hair, and as disgusting as that thought was, it paled in comparison to the liquid tar. This was used to patch torn skin. The boy, Matthew, had obviously gashed his arm, and so the sailors had applied tar to the wound to seal it.

  "May I?" Jojonah quietly asked, reaching for the arm.

  Matthew hesitated, but dared not disobey, cautiously holding the arm up for inspection.

  A fine job, the monk noted. The tar had been sanded flat with the skin, a perfect patch of black. "Does it hurt?" Jojonah asked.

  Matthew shook his head emphatically.

  "He does not speak," came Captain Al'u'met's voice, the man having moved up right behind the distracted monk.

  "Your work?" Jojonah asked, indicating the arm.

  "Not mine, but Cody Bellaway's," Al'u'met answered. "He serves as healer when we are far from port."

  Master Jojonah nodded and let the issue drop—openly, at least, for in his mind the image of Matthew's blackened arm would not so quickly fade. How many hematites were locked away in St.-Mere-Abelle? Five hundred? A thousand? The number was con­siderable, Jojonah knew, for when he was a younger monk, he had done an inventory of just that stone, easily the most common stone returned from Pimaninicuit over the years. Most of these soul stones were of far less power than the one the caravan to the Barbacan had taken along, but still, Jojonah had to wonder how much good might come of these if they were given to the sailing ships with one or two men on each vessel taught how to bring forth their healing powers. Matthew's wound had been considerable, no doubt, but Jojonah could have easily sealed it with magic, not tar. With hardly an effort, much suffering could have been avoided.

  That line of thinking made the master wonder on a grander scale. Why weren't all the communities, or at least one community in each general region of the kingdom, given a hematite, with their chosen healers trained in its use?

  He had never discussed such a thing with Avelyn, of course, but somehow Master Jojonah understood that Avelyn Desbris, if the choice had been his, would without hesitation have distributed the small hematites to the general populace, would have opened up St.-Mere-Abelle's horde of magic for the betterment of all, or at least distributed the most minor hematites, stones too weak to be used for diabolical purposes such as possession, stones too weak to be used in any real malevolent way.

  Yes, Jojonah knew, Avelyn would have done it if given the chance, but of course Father Abbot Markwart would never have given him the chance!

  Jojonah patted the mop of Matthew's blond hair and motioned for the lad to show him to his room. Al'u'met left them then, calling for his hands to ready the ship for departure.

  Saudi Jacintha slipped out of Bristole soon after, her sails fast filling with wind, pushing her against the considerable current. They would make good time, Al'u'met came and assured the monk, for the south winds were brisk, with no sign of storm, and as the Masur Delaval widened, the pull of the water was not so strong.

  The monk spent the bulk of the day in his cabin, sleeping, gath­eri
ng the strength he knew he would need. He did get up for a short while, and with a friendly nod convinced Matthew to play dice with him, assuring him the captain wouldn't mind if he took a short break from his chores.

  Jojonah wished that the boy could talk, or even laugh, in the hour they spent throwing dice. He wanted to know where the lad had come from and how he had wound up on a ship at so tender an age.

  Likely his parents, poverty-stricken, had sold him, the monk knew, and he winced at the thought. That was how most ships ac­quired cabin boys, though Jojonah hoped that Al'u'met had not been the one to purchase him. The captain claimed to be a religious man, and men of God did not do such things.

  A light rain came up that night, but nothing that impeded Saudi Jacintha's progress. This crew was well-trained and knew every turn in the great river, and on the ship plowed, her prow spray foaming white in the moonlight. It was at that forward rail, in that same night after the rain had stopped, that Master Jojonah fully ac­cepted the truths that were forming in his heart. Alone in the dark­ness with the splash of the prow, the croaking of the animals on the bank, the flutter of the wind in the sails, Master Jojonah found his course come clearer.

  He felt as if Avelyn were with him, hovering about him, re­minding him of the three vows—not just the empty spoken words, but the meaning behind them—that supposedly guided the Abel­lican Order.

  He stayed up all through the night and went to bed again right before the dawn, after coaxing a sleepy-eyed Matthew to go and fetch him a good meal.

  He was up again at dinnertime, dining beside Captain Al'u'met, who informed him they would reach their goal early the next morning.

  "You might not wish to stay up all the night again," the captain said with a smile. "You will be back to land in the morning, and will not travel far, I will guess, if you are asleep."

  Still, later on that evening, Captain Al'u'met found Jojonah again at the forward rail, staring into the darkness, looking into his own heart.

  "You are a thinking man," the captain said, approaching the monk. "I like that."

  "You can tell such things simply because I am standing out here alone?" Jojonah replied. "I might be thinking of nothing at all."

  "Not at the forward rail," Captain Al'u'met said, taking a spot right beside the leaning monk. "I, too, know the inspiration of this place."

  "Where did you get Matthew?" Jojonah asked abruptly, blurting out the words before he could even consider them.

  Al'u'met gave him a sidelong glance, surprised by the question. He looked back to the prow spray and smiled. "You do not wish to think that I, a man of your Church, purchased him from his par­ents," the perceptive man reasoned. "But I did," Al'u'met added, standing straighter and looking directly at the monk.

  Master Jojonah did not return the stare.

  "They were paupers, living near St. Gwendolyn, surviving on the scraps your Abellican brothers bothered to toss out for them," the captain went on, his tone deepening, growing somber.

  Now Jojonah did turn, eyeing the man severely. "Yet this is the Church you chose to join," he stated.

  "That does not mean that I agree with all of those who now ad­minister the doctrine of the Church," Al'u'met calmly replied. "As to Matthew, I purchased him, and at a handsome price, because I came to think of him as my own son. He was always at the docks, you see—or at least, he was there at those times when he could es­cape his wrathful father. The man beat him for no reason, though little Matthew had not seen his seventh birthday at the time. So I purchased him, took him aboard to teach him an honest trade."

  "A difficult life," Jojonah remarked, but all animosity and hints of accusation were gone from his voice.

  "Indeed," the large Behrenese agreed. "A life some love and others loathe. Matthew will make up his own mind when he is old enough to better understand. If he comes to love the sea, as I do, then he will have no choice but to stay aboard ship—and hopefully he will choose to stay with me. Saudi Jacintha will outlive me, I fear, and it would be good to have Matthew to carry on my work."

  Al'u'met turned to face the monk and went quiet, waiting until Jojonah looked at him directly. "And if he does not love the smell and the roll of the waves, he will be free to go," the man said sin­cerely. "And I will make sure that he has a good start wherever he chooses to live. I give you my word on this, Master Jojonah of St.-Mere-Abelle."

  Jojonah believed him, and his return smile was genuine. Among the tough sailors of the day, Captain Al'u'met surely stood tall.

  They both looked back to the water and stood in silence for some time, save for the splashing prow and the wind.

  "I knew Abbot Dobrinion," Captain Al'u'met said at length. "A good man."

  Jojonah looked at him curiously.

  "Your companion, the wagon driver, spread word of the tragedy in Bristole while you were seeking passage," the captain explained.

  "Dobrinion was indeed a good man," Jojonah replied. "And a great loss it is for my Church that he was killed."

  "A great loss for all the world," Al'u'met agreed.

  "How did you know him?"

  "I know many of the Church leaders, for, given my mobile pro­fession, I spend many hours in many different chapels, St. Precious among them."

  "Have you ever been to St.-Mere-Abelle?" Jojonah asked, though he didn't think Al'u'met had, for he believed that he would remember this man.

  "We put in once," the Captain replied. "But the weather was turn­ing, and we had far to go, so I did not get off the docks. St. Gwen­dolyn was not so far away, after all."

  Jojonah smiled.

  "I have met your Father Abbot, though," the Captain went on. "Only once. It was 819, or perhaps 820; the years do seem to blend as they pass. Father Abbot Markwart had put out a call for open-seas sailing ships. I am not really a river-runner, you see, but we took some damage last year—powrie barrelboat, for the wretched dwarves seemed to be everywhere!—and were late getting out of port this spring."

  "You answered the Father Abbot's call," Jojonah prompted.

  "Yes, but my ship was not chosen," Al'u'met replied casually. "Truthfully, I think it had something to do with the color of my skin. I do not believe that your Father Abbot trusted a Behrenese sailor, especially one who was not, at that time, an anointed member of your Church."

  Jojonah nodded his agreement; there was no way that Markwart would have accepted a man of the southern religion for the journey to Pimaninicuit. The monk found that notion ironic, laughable even, given the carefully planned murderous end of the voyage.

  "Captain Adjonas and his Windrunner were the better choice," Al'u'met admitted. "He was riding the open Mirianic before I ever learned to work an oar."

  "You know of Adjonas, then?" Jojonah asked. "And of the end of the Windrunner?"

  "Every seaman on the Broken Coast knows of the loss," Captain Al'u'met replied. "Happened just outside of All Saints Bay, so they say. A rough bit of water, to be sure, though I am amazed that a man as sea-seasoned as Adjonas got caught too near the shoal."

  Jojonah only nodded; he could not bring himself to reveal the awful truth, to tell this man that Adjonas and his crew had been slaughtered in the sheltered waters of All Saints Bay by the holy men of the religion Al'u'met had freely joined. Looking back at that now, Master Jojonah could hardly believe that he had gone along with the plan, the terrible tradition. Had it always been that way, as the Church insisted?

  "A fine ship and crew," Al'u'met finished reverently.

  Jojonah nodded his agreement, though in truth, he hardly knew any of the sailors, had met only Captain Adjonas and the first hand, Bunkus Smealy, a man he did not like at all.

  "Go and get your sleep, Father," Captain Al'u'met said. "You've a hard day of walking ahead of you."

  Jojonah, too, thought that to be a good time to break the conver­sation. Al'u'met had inadvertently given him much to think about, had rekindled memories and put them in a new light. That does not mean that I agree with all of those who now ad
minister the doctrine of the Church, Al'u'met had said, words that rang as truly pro­phetic to the disillusioned master.

  Jojonah slept well that night, better than he had since he had first arrived in Palmaris, since all the world had spun completely over. A cry concerning dock lights woke him with the sun and he gath­ered his few possessions and raced onto the deck, thinking to see the long wharves of Palmaris.

  All that he saw was fog, a heavy gray blanket. All the crew was abovedecks, most at the rail, holding lanterns and peering intently into the gloom. Looking for rocks, or even other ships, Jojonah realized, and a shudder coursed his spine. The sight of Captain Al'u'met calmed him, though, the tall man standing serenely, as though this situation was nothing out of the ordinary. Jojonah made his way to join him.

  "I heard a cry for dock lights," the monk explained, "though I doubt that any might have been spotted in this fog."

  "We saw," Al'u'met assured him, smiling. "We are close, and getting closer by the second."

  Jojonah followed the captain's gaze out over the forward rail, to the gloom. Something—he couldn't quite identify it—seemed out of place to him, as though his internal direction sense was askew. He stood quiet for a long while, trying to sort it out, noting the posi­tion of the sun, a lighter splotch of grayness ahead of the ship.

  "We are traveling east," he said suddenly, turning to Al'u'met. "But Palmaris is on the western bank."

  "I thought that I would save you the hours on the crowded ferry," Al'u'met explained. "Though they might not even run the ferry in this gloom."

  "Captain, you did not have to—"

  "No trouble, my friend," Al'u'met replied. "We would not be al­lowed into Palmaris port until the fog rolled back anyway, so rather than set anchor, we turned to Amvoy, a smaller port and one with less rules."

  "Land to forward!" came a call from above.

  "Amvoy's long dock!" another sailor agreed.

  Jojonah looked to Al'u'met, who only winked and smiled.

  Soon after, Saudi Jacintha glided easily into position beside the one long dock at Amvoy, the skilled sailors expertly tying her in place.

  "I wish you well, Master Jojonah of St.-Mere-Abelle," Al'u'met said sincerely as he led the monk to the gangplank. "May the loss of good Abbot Dobrinion strengthen us all." He shook Jojonah's hand firmly, and the monk turned to go.