Yet the captain was correct. As Guild master, he had the right to decide and do what was best for his ship and crew. Daasek could hold no resentment. Still, the grickle had turned to dust in his mouth. What have you done to my homeland, Nyxx? It was yet another affront that needed to be avenged. He left the table in disgust.
When he returned to their cramped quarters, he discovered Alegro practicing, as always. “You honor that instrument with more attention than any woman deserves,” he observed, only half in jest.
Alegro smiled. “Perceptive, dear Daasek. Like a woman she is.” He caressed the intricately-carved head of the mandolin. “Behold. A beautiful face.” He ran his fingers across the fretboard. “A long, slender, sensuous nape.” He plucked a string. “Flowing, silvery hair and a voice to match.” He tenderly cupped the gourd back. “A bountiful, well-formed breast. Even,” he finished with a laugh as he pointed to the soundhole, “an ever-waiting, ever-eager love canal! She is more faithful than any woman I have ever known, Daasek. Although just as temperamental.” He ceased his gaiety. “You look to have a problem.”
“We are not going to Tscheran. We are only going as far as Ferring.”
Alegro pondered a moment. “We paid to go to Tscheran.”
“The captain has new orders. The Usurers are afraid,” he replied. “Apparently much has changed since I was forced from Myniah. It is now the haven of pirates and thieves. I made the mistake of admitting I come from the south. I am now considered as suspect as any cutpurse or corsair.”
“Terrible times when you cannot claim your homeland.” Alegro absently strumming his mandolin. “We should demand repayment.”
“The captain suggested I am fortunate I will not spend our journey in the brig.” Alegro snorted. “It occurs to me that our dear captain is not much better than the pirates he professes to fear.”
“Perhaps. But this ship is hardly equipped to handle a fully-prepared privateer.” “Maybe,” Alegro plucked a single string, “we can persuade the captain elsewise.”
Daasek shook his head in surprise and shock. “I have been born and raised a fisherman. I follow the rules of the sea, of the Guilds. The captain says we sail to Ferring. We sail to Ferring. There will be no further discussion!”
Alegro shrugged. “As you will. Pass me some of that hideous Brayf wine. I've been working on a new song one of the cooks taught me today. I need an audience. You just volunteered.”
Daasek only half-listened to the ballad about a warrior's quest for the Tears of Iofhee, forced to do so by his unrequited love for a witch. How am I to get from Ferring to Myniah? He had much to ponder.
* * * *
“Where did you learn to fish so well?” one of Daasek's crewmates commented admiringly.
Daasek carefully pulled in the net now brimming with grickle. “When I lived ... at Lanou,” he replied, suspicious and angered. Sailors did not talk about themselves, and they certainly did not intrude upon the privacy of others. Had the captain said something to his men?
“You cast overhand, I notice,” a tall, husky deckhand said. “I have been told that is how Myniah fishermen fish.”
Daasek was startled by the information. He had been taught by the Guild and it had never occurred to him that there might be another way. “They visited my homeland often,” he responded quickly. Which was the truth. “They were the best harvesters in the south Horean waters. It would be foolish not to learn from them.”
“Like piracy?” his inquisitor snorted.
Daasek fought his temper. This was neither the time nor place for patriotism. “The men I knew were not pirates,” he said coolly. “I know nothing about the men who live there now.”
“Pray to your gods that does not change. You can only trust a Mynian to break an oath.”
Daasek had not understood until now how completely, how totally his homeland had been destroyed by the reign of Nyxx. Myniah had always been admired for the skill of its fleet and pilots, the hospitality of its shores, the talents and enthusiasm of its harlots. Now we are an insult to Horea, as welcome as Hys at a birthing. He looked up at his accuser. “I have heard tales of an evil magician. If they are true, then perhaps the fishermen have had no choice.”
“Bah,” the man spat. “Those slime of the sea deserve no compassion. Anyone from Myniah should be strung from the masthead and flayed until he is gristle for seamockers.” He approached threateningly. “Or do you still feel warmth for those pimps of Karmela? What else did they teach you?”
“I have no love for pirates,” he replied calmly.
The man clenched and unclenched his hands several times. By now they had attracted an expectant crowd. The captain would not be far behind. “See that you don't,” the angry sailor finally said, then pushed his way through the onlookers.
Daasek sighed. He had hoped the voyage would be a welcome respite. Now it appeared it would become one more ordeal. He gathered the grickle and headed below, his shipmates watching suspiciously as he passed.
* * * *
“The Phanadan, lad. Play the Phanadan,” a slightly drunken voice called out. Alegro smiled. Tonight there was no scullery. Tonight he was in his element, entertaining—and occasionally insulting—his shipmates as they celebrated their passage across the equator into the south Horean Sea. Their captain ran a stern ship, but this evening the wine casks were brought out and all save a handful were well under its influence. The Crossing was a tradition that had to be observed, an obligation the Captains Guild embraced enthusiastically. They had learned that the cruelest overseer would be tolerated if an occasional loosening of the reins, such as this celebration, was permitted. Now any captain who failed to honor The Crossing risked banishment from the Guild.
“You ask for a sad tale, sir. What say you, my shipmates? Are we in a mood to shed tears this evening?”
The men laughed and bid him play. To be true, the Phanadan was a sad tale, concerning the plight of a poor sailor who loved, and died for, the phantasm that was the Phanadan, a sea sprite of golden eyes and melon breasts. But many of the verses discussed their courtship and trysts with graphic, if not fanciful, details. Those were the rhymes the men most wanted to hear.
“I shall tell you a tale of a sailor strong and bold,
Who journeyed cross the ocean in search of love and gold,”
Alegro began. So many voices joined him that he soon found himself accompanying them only with his mandolin. He smiled and nodded at the rough-hewn voices, their ear-shattering attempts at harmony and tempo. He was in the arms of Iofhee this evening.
Daasek viewed his comrade with amusement and envy. If he had a bone flute, he could join in the celebration. Instead he contented himself with the diluted wine and stared up at the sky. Above them, the Face of Thren smiled, a constellation he had not seen in years. It was proof that they had indeed made The Crossing and were now nearing the end of their journey to Ferring. The five familiar stars. He had dreamed of them often in the past months.
Suddenly a memory flashed and shocked him from his reverie. The pattern was familiar, yes, but not only the one in the heavens. Then he looked at his arm, and remembered. The burning grasp of Krujj, the oddly-shaped scar he had seared into Daasek's skin. The pattern was exactly the same as the Face of Thren. He suppressed a bitter laugh. Krujj had indeed told him something after all. “I owe you little, Krujj,” he toasted the sky. “But you will be avenged.”
“Only a fool talks to the sky. Or a Mynian. Which be you?”
Daasek turned. The sailor who had insulted him days earlier was wavering beside him. Wine sloshed from his unsteady cup and splattered on Daasek. “Perhaps you should sit. You are wasting good wine.”
The man shook his head, and dampened Daasek again. “Only pigs would drink this slop. Or Mynians. Which be you?”
Daasek sighed. There must be a way he could avoid the confrontation. “I am not accustomed to being called a liar. Perhaps you have drunk too much,” he offered with a friendly smile.
The man
roared loud enough to attract the attention of the others. “Drunk too much? Yes, perhaps I have. In which case I have no further need of this.” He poured the rest of the wine over Daasek.
Daasek was on his feet even as their shipmates formed a circle around them. Alegro stopped playing. He knew from long experience that the fight would be more attractive than his music.
“Your pleasure?” Daasek asked his tormentor.
The man grinned slowly and pulled a knife. “You might be good at catching fish. I'm good at gutting them.”
Without thinking, Daasek reached behind him and withdrew his own blade, the Guild knife which he had so carefully kept from sight since he crossed the Garan desert and which he always carried to better prevent discovery. Almost immediately he realized his mistake.
But not immediately enough. Suddenly he felt men grab his arms and one wrested his weapon away. Other men were on him in seconds and there were too many for him to break free. The knife suddenly thrust within inches of his throat stilled his protests completely.
His assaulter stood before him, all guise of drunkenness gone. The knife was steady and only a swallow from slashing skin. The man looked to his comrades. “What did you find?”
One stepped forward and handed him Daasek's knife. The sailor studied it briefly, then smiled. “Captain,” he yelled. “We have a pirate among us.”
Men made way as the officer approached. “What is the problem here? Since when must I intervene in the petty spats among swabs like you?”
Daasek's accuser held up the knife. “This is a Mynian weapon. The blade, I've heard tell, is made from warback spine. The man is either from Myniah, which means he is a pirate, or stole it from a Mynian, which means he is a thief.” He smiled at Daasek. “We demand he die tonight.”
“No one dies on my ship,” the captain replied. “How do you know this man is from Myniah?”
“Adak and I have sailed Horea for many years,” another sailor stepped forward. “Only Mynian fishermen carry these knives. Adak is right. This man has to be from Myniah.”
The captain glared at Daasek. “You told me you were a fisherman, yes, but from Lanou. Yet I recognize the blade as well. If you are indeed a member of the Guild, I should have been told. That is common courtesy among Guild members everywhere. I have to agree with my men. I believe you are from Myniah.”
“He must die,” Adak added. Voices, some sober, most not, rose in agreement. “He's not from Myniah.” Alegro pushed his way through the crowd. “I am from Myniah.” He glared at the accuser. “I gave him the knife. I have no use for it.”
Adak smiled at the captain. “Then the minstrel harbors a pirate. This is a worse offense. They should both die.”
The captain looked at Alegro, Daasek, Adak, finally the knife. “If I had known,” he studied the accused, “I would have never let you befoul my ship. And as a Captain of the Guild, the safety of my ship comes first.” He nodded at Adak. “Bind them.”
Adak and his friends obeyed eagerly. Within minutes the accused were thoroughly trussed. “You don't deserve the cleansing of the lash,” he said after they were through. “Like I told you, Daasek, I will have no man killed on my ship. But you both deserve to die.” He turned away. “Bo'sun, lower a boat.” He glared at Daasek. “There are warbacks in these waters. You and the minstrel will make a nice snack for them.” He nodded at Adak. The two prisoners were quickly ushered to the side of the ship.
“You have no need of my knife,” Daasek said, fighting to keep the fear and anger from his voice. “Is it not enough you set us adrift? Must we starve to death as well?” “You will not starve. The warbacks will see to that,” Adak snarled.
“I have no fear of warbacks,” Daasek addressed his accuser. He stood as straight as his bonds would allow. “Yes, I am from Myniah. I left there when the magician came. I am going back. To kill him.”
“Brave words from a dead man,” Adak said and snorted.
The captain, however, remained silent and thoughtful. “His knife cannot harm us. Throw it in the bottom of the boat. Let us show Myniah we, at least, still feel compassion.”
“And my mandolin,” Alegro cried out eagerly. “It's the only thing I have.” Adak shrugged, nodded to a comrade, then smiled as he was handed the instrument. “Yes, let it not be said that we cannot feel compassion.” He smashed it against the gunwale but the gourd back only cracked. With a snarl he tossed it in the small boat as well.
“Throw them in and lower away.” The two men were dropped painfully into the craft. Eager hands manned the winches and they were quickly deposited in the ocean. Ropes were hastily cut and they were set adrift. By the time Daasek managed to struggle to his knees, the large ship was disappearing rapidly into the night.
“Perhaps the captain considers this boat just compensation for our stolen payment to Tscheran,” Alegro said.
Daasek said nothing, he was busy severing his bonds on his knife. He cut himself more than once before he was free. “You should have kept quiet,” he said as he untied Alegro.
“I did not like the way some of those men looked at me,” Alegro explained. “We boarded together, remember. With you gone, I fear I would have been warding off their advances the rest of the voyage.”
“You may long for their affection by the time this trip is over.”
Alegro sat back and caressed his mandolin. “That man should have his maleness removed for treating you so shamefully,” he cooed to it. “But we'll be fine now.” He strummed the mandolin and a plaintive melody, almost tearful, cried out. Alegro sighed. “She may not sing again this evening. Her feelings have been hurt. Still, we have much to be thankful for. The stars overhead, a sturdy craft beneath. Companionship. What more could we ask for?”
“Not that sturdy,” Daasek said, noting the water already seeping aboard. “But since you ask, a strong net and a tall sail.”
“Yes. Well, Hys helps those who help themselves.” Abruptly, Alegro began serenading the sky with a chaotic yet oddly haunting melody.
Daasek shook his head and searched for a comfortable place within the bowels of their small boat. He was sure that if the hangman was tightening the noose, the musician would be commenting upon the fine texture of the rope. Tomorrow he would repair their boat as best he could. Tonight he would let Alegro sing him to sleep.
* * * *
“What is that?”
Daasek shielded his eyes from the sun and looked where Alegro was pointing. Whatever “that” was was many kines’ distance. He could barely distinguish the large flock of seamockers hovering above. But their presence told him enough. “Only two things can attract a flock that size. A dead warback or a wrecked ship.” He hoped dearly it wasn't the latter.
Alegro lazed back in the noonday sun. “Perhaps our prayers have been answered.”
“A dead warback won't be of much help.”
“If that is indeed the case.” He gazed innocently at Daasek. “We must find out.”
Daasek glared at him, then dipped the oars in the water and changed their course toward the cloud of seamockers and whatever floated below.
Their approach was not welcomed. Dozens of the scavengers tried to deter them. Alegro flailed at them futilely with his mandolin while Daasek killed several with an oar. The birds finally decided there was enough to share and retreated.
As Daasek feared, it was not a dead warback they had discovered. It was the remains of a warback assault. By the amount of wreckage, specifically the lack of it, Daasek guessed that the warback had struck amidships, tearing a great hole in the bottom and bringing the craft down rapidly, rather than battering her to pieces. The harpoon launcher would have been no weapon against such an attack. And he only needed to see one body to know what ship it was.
“Do you see any survivors?” Alegro asked while surveying the carnage.
“There rarely are. Sailors are a favorite food of warbacks.” He sighed. “I could have prevented this.”
“How? You are good with a knife, I gra
nt you. But no one man can stop a warback assault.”
“If I had been aboard, there would have been no assault.” Then he bit his tongue. The heartstone was a closely held confidence among Myniah fishermen. Although the rumors concerning the cause of their mystical safety in the ocean were near as fanciful as the truth. Instead, he said, “Do you see any canvass? Any netting?”
“Over there, I think. Right, starboard, whatever.”
There was part of the mast still floating. Daasek dove in and swam toward it. Perching seamockers screamed insults at his approach, then reluctantly flew off. He easily guided it back to their craft and the two were able to wrestle it aboard. Further scrounging garnered them several smaller poles and some netting. And one barrel half filled with wine.
Alegro was positively buoyant as they drifted among the wreckage. “Fortunate, are we not, friend Daasek?” he toasted with a mug of wine. “Lucky we are that our erstwhile comrades evicted us. Otherwise we would be warback grist as well.”
Daasek looked up from the netting he was repairing. “Yes, fortunate.” He surveyed the cluttered bottom of their boat. The canvas was sufficient for a small sail and he had the poles and rope to lash together a mast. They now had a net to catch their dinner. Wine and, of course, plenty of fresh Horean Sea water to drink. There remained one final task. “May I see your mandolin?”
Alegro frowned. “Why? Did you suddenly remember how to play? Do you wish instruction?”
“I just want to admire it. If you would.”
With a shrug Alegro handed him the instrument. Daasek looked at the gourd back. There was no sign that the mandolin had been nearly destroyed the previous evening. Surely no Horean wood would stand up to such punishment. “We don't need this anymore,” and he made to throw it out to sea.
The Thirteenth Magician Page 16