King's Blood

by Jill Williamson

  Livina grunted, pacified it seemed, since he stepped away from the chart table and regarded Trevn. “Sâr Trevn, how goes the apprenticeship?”

  “Very well. I have learned much from Admiral Vendal.”

  “But you’d like a chance to climb the mast, is that it?”

  Trevn chuckled. “I admit, I am looking forward to it.”

  “Forgive my bluntness, Highness,” Livina said. “You’ve been sailing plenty in your life. You know what kind of ship this is. You know the names for everything and most of the maneuvers. You’ve even steered by tiller and whipstaff. So why play the hard role of seaman when you can sit here with the admiral each day in this fine cabin and learn navigation?”

  Everyone expected a sâr to care only for his own pleasure, but the Five Woes and Trevn’s own brush with death had shown him that living for himself would not help the realm of Armania survive this catastrophe.

  “Captain Livina, while lectures and reading are an invaluable tool in educating a man, I have found hands-on experience enhances comprehension. I want to understand every part of this ship, from your duties all the way down to that of ship’s boy. Once we reach Bakurah Island, Sâr Wilek will send explorers to look for more land. I intend to be on that expedition.”

  “Then you shall, of course,” the admiral said. “It is our duty to serve the throne in any way we can, isn’t that right, Captain?”

  Livina shrugged. “Suit yourself, Highness. But it’s terrible hard work. You might not like it.”

  Trevn’s face burned, but he reminded himself that he had earned his reputation as the firebrand of Castle Everton. “If I fail, I will find some other way to aid my brother in his role as Heir. But I assure you, Captain, I will not fail.”

  Another grunt. “You’ll join the Starboard Watch under Norgam Bussie, my second mate, and report to his master’s mate, Nietz. Start by shadowing Rzasa, one of the apprentice sailors. And since Sâr Wilek took young Ottee to be your servant, the boy can apprise you of his former duties as ship’s boy.”

  It would do to start, but Trevn would not be satisfied with so limited a view. “I will also require the opportunity to learn from the carpenter, the caulker, the cooper, the scrivener, the steward, the cook, the physician, the diver, the navigator, the pilot, and the mates. Admiral Vendal, I’m sure, will have more to teach me in the future, as will you, Captain. I don’t mind starting at the bottom, so long as nothing is omitted from my training. I also bring Sir Cadoc, my shield, with me, which adds another man to the Starboard Watch.”

  Captain Livina folded his arms. “If it’s work you want, it’s work I’ll give you, but understand this: As apprentices under my command, you and your man work for me. That means giving up your authority over me where matters of sailing are concerned. You’re part of my crew. What I say goes. There’ll be no talking back. Understand that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Trevn said, bristling under the man’s authoritative tone.

  The captain grunted. “Sailors are working men. Coarse, rude, and rough. Some’ll shock you, and they’ll do it more if they see they can get a rise out of you. They’ll call you names, to your face and behind your back. They’ll hate your soft hands, which won’t stay soft for long if you truly work hard. You face a hard battle of them accepting you, prince that you are. And I advise against you letting your father or brother or shield fight your battles for you. That will only make the men hate you more.”

  “He’s a sâr, Captain Livina,” the admiral said. “No one would dare hurt him.”

  “I am not afraid of any man,” Trevn said, then grinned. “You assume they will all hate me, Captain. I intend to prove you wrong.”

  And that was how Trevn found himself with Rzasa, the young apprentice assigned to the Starboard Watch. A brown-skinned Blackpool boy with a thick accent, Rzasa wore a faded jacket the color of green olives, tattered gray trousers rolled up to his knee, and red socks pulled up just as high. He wore no boots. Just the socks on his feet. When Trevn asked why, Rzasa shrugged and said his feet chilled easily. He was no older than Trevn, but the wistful deepness of his dark brown eyes gave the impression that he had seen enough trials to last a hundred years.

  “Apprentices are just young sailors without much experience,” Rzasa said, limping on his right leg as they made their way across the main deck. “We do what most sailors do. Wash and sand the decks, paint, make repairs, check ropes and sails, replace or mend bad ones. We also move sails, furl or unfurl ’em. Man the pumps. Lower and raise anchor. And if we’re boarded, we pick up a sword and fight to defend the ship.”

  “I can do that much,” Cadoc said, glowering. He had worked hard to obtain his honorable position as High Shield and disliked being forced to apprentice as a sailor.

  “Rzasa!” Nietz called down over the quarterdeck rail. The master’s mate was short, exceedingly strong, wore bronze rings in both ears, and had a blue scarf tied over his head that matched his master’s half-cloak. His nose had once been split down the middle and now twisted a bit to one side. “That hawser is dry. The three of you coil it and store it in the locker.” He turned his back on them, and Trevn couldn’t help but think it was as broad as a shield.

  Rzasa led Trevn and Cadoc single file toward the foredeck along the chalk path. “Only ship’s boys are ranked lower than apprentices,” he said, “so everyone else can give us orders. But we’re not slaves. So don’t let the other sailors trick you into personal services. Most of the officers are fair, but watch out for Shinn. He’s master’s mate on the Port Watch and a mean one. If he comes after you, grit your teeth and take it. The less you say, the less you’ll get from him. Usually.”

  “What about Nietz?” Trevn asked.

  “His bark is fierce, but he’s a good-natured fellow. Likes to sing songs about wave women when he drinks too much.”

  The three worked together to coil the thick rope into the hawser locker. They’d barely stored half the line when Trevn’s breath started to heave. His trousers pinched his thighs when he crouched and his sleeves did the same to his arms when he bent them. He shouldn’t be surprised that fine clothing was ill suited for work as a sailor.

  A distant voice from above pulled Trevn’s gaze skyward. A man in the crosstrees quickly vanished behind the fore topsail. “When do we climb the masts?” he asked.

  “We have to climb up there?” Cadoc asked, squinting into the sails.

  “Soon as you can,” Rzasa said. “Climbing the mainmast is what terrifies most first-timers, but you’re not really one of us till you do.”

  Trevn couldn’t wait.

  “Sâr Trevn? What in the Eversea are you doing?”

  Trevn straightened at the familiar voice. Fonu Edekk, his brother Janek’s close friend, walked toward him with Trevn’s half brother Kamran DanSâr and some grizzled commoner.

  “Learning to sail,” Trevn said, continuing to feed the line to Rzasa. The sun cast the three newcomers’ shadows over the hawser as they stopped behind Trevn. “I plan to join the expedition for new land.”

  “Honestly, Trevn, you’ll catch sun sickness if you keep this up,” said Kamran. “It’s madness for a sâr to work so hard.”

  “Thank you for your concern, but I disagree.”

  “It’s the sâr’s choice,” the commoner said, lumbering toward them with an assertive bearing. He had skin the green-gray color of rotten spinach and wore a blue thick wool hat with a rolling brim. He squinted one tawny eye at Rzasa while the other looked crookedly away. “Some passengers are complaining of a stench on the starboard side of the aft hold, Rzasa,” the man said. “No doubt they’ve helped themselves to the cargo and made a mess of it. Leave the hawser to the shield and take Princey to the hold. Find the broken barrel, and clean it up.”

  “Yes, Master Shinn,” Rzasa said.

  Master? It was then that Trevn noticed the blue master’s half-cloak thrown back over the man’s shoulders like a scarf. So this was the foreboding Shinn.

  “Look alive, sailors!” T
he man glared at Trevn and strode away.

  “You heard the man,” Kamran said to Trevn. “Look alive, Princey.” And he and Fonu followed Shinn, chuckling.

  “I don’t like being separated from you,” Cadoc said.

  “We talked about this,” Trevn reminded Cadoc. “I’ll be fine. You keep an eye on those two. Find out why they’re so friendly with Master Shinn.” Trevn walked with Rzasa toward the companionway.

  When they reached the cargo hold, the putrid stench reminded Trevn of the Blackwater Canal in Everton, which had carried wastewater through the city. “Stinks like Gâzar’s garden.”

  “You would know,” Rzasa said, grinning as he entered the cargo hold. “Shinn haunts my dreams. Everyone’s afraid of him. Even the cap’n. They say he lost both his eyes to pirates and his good one come from a sand cat.”

  Trevn laughed at this, but Rzasa’s somber demeanor sucked away all the fun. “Is he sick? His skin looked strange.”

  “Scablands Blight, he says.” Rzasa turned back and whispered, “Watch out for his brother Zaki. He’s without a tongue and half a wit—crazier than Shinn. Wears a red handkerchief tied round his arm to keep him from killing.”

  “Killing who?”

  “Everyone. He’s a murderer. Killed hundreds. Only the red handkerchief keeps him tame.”

  Trevn doubted very much that his father’s ship would employ murderers.

  They had just located the broken barrel when Ottee, Trevn’s new onesent, found them. The slight boy had black skin, brown eyes, a head full of soft, curly hair, and a missing pinky finger on his left hand.

  “I’ve finished every task you gave me, Sâr Trevn,” he said, panting as if he’d done every task while running. “What stinks?”

  “Broken barrel,” Rzasa said. “Grab those buckets and help us clean it up.”

  The barrel, which had been filled with salted whitefish, had toppled off the end and cracked. Most of the fish were now spoiled. They scooped up the mess with the buckets and hauled it to the main deck, where they dumped it into the sea.

  Halfway through the job, the bells tolled for the start of the evening one watch, but Rzasa said they must finish. Once they did, they went up to the deck to report. As it was a new watch, they found the first mate, Quen, manning the whip, Cadoc loitering beside him. Rzasa gave Quen his report of the spill, and Quen dismissed them.

  “Just like that we’re off duty?” Trevn asked as they walked away.

  “Unless you want to climb the mainmast,” Rzasa said.

  “No thank you,” Cadoc said.

  But Trevn did, even with his entire body sore from work. “It’s got to be the mainmast?”

  “Yep,” Rzasa said. “Best if you go it alone your first time. You can take the mast or the ratlines.”

  Trevn peered up to the mainmast. There wasn’t much to hold on to but some stays that ran up the sides and a yard at the top of each section. He glanced to the ratlines, which began at the outer railings. “How far up?”

  “All the way to the masthead,” Ottee said. “There’s something written there, and you gotta tell the cap’n what it says to prove you done the climb. If you’re going to climb the rigging, always go on the windward side so you don’t get blown off into the water.”

  “That’s good sense,” Trevn said.

  “Which way you going?” Rzasa asked.

  “Ratlines.” Trevn took the stairs to the main deck and wove through the pockets of people clogging up his path to the ratlines on the windward side of the ship. A sailor coiling rope saw him coming and paused to watch. The dull buzz of conversation from the commoners eased off as they too fixed their gazes on the Third Arm of Armania.

  The rigging rose in sets, each reaching to a different height on the mainmast. Trevn stepped toward the middle set, which stretched all the way to the top. He grabbed the shroud just above the deadeye and leapt up on the rail, swinging himself around and placing one foot on the ratlines. Instantly he could feel the tilt of the ship and how the wind pushed his weight into the rigging. Always climb on the windward side. Thanks, Ottee.

  The ratlines gave surprisingly little slack as he pulled himself up from one to the next. He moved quickly, knowing he had an audience to impress. He climbed through the lubber’s hole at the maintop platform and up, up, up until the ratlines ended at the topsail yard. There he took hold of the rigging farthest out so he could keep his body close to the mast, then climbed up to the crosstrees. The roll of the ship felt even more pronounced now. How much harder might this be in a storm?

  Still he climbed, hand over hand. There was no longer any purchase for his boots, and he realized now why sailors went barefoot in the rigging. Tomorrow he’d leave his boots in his cabin.

  He scrambled easily onto the lookout platform. The raven cage was attached to the side, and one of the birds watched him. The wind this high up chilled the sweat on his arms, making him shiver. The ship dipped and rose in the slow pitch of the sea, a constant rolling. At this height Trevn felt like a bee perched on a swaying flower.

  He had only a little ways to go, so he wrapped his hands in the rigging and climbed to the top, where he hooked one arm around the masthead so he wouldn’t slip, and took in the view. He could see for leagues on all sides. He marveled at the size of the fleet. Hundreds of ships carrying the survivors of the Five Realms. Beyond, the vastness of the Eversea made this ship seem small, even after so great a climb.

  He glanced down to the tiny faces below. Ottee whooped and waved, jumping up and down as if Trevn had been his champion on the tournament field. Rzasa and Cadoc stood with him. Master Quen was still at the helm, Nietz beside him.

  At the quarterdeck rail overlooking the main deck, Trevn caught sight of a woman in a familiar red-and-yellow dress on the arm of a man. He squinted, his pulse suddenly throbbing in his chest. It was Mielle. She was looking up at him, holding on to the arm of Kamran DanSâr!

  That Miss Amala held Kamran’s other arm did not faze Trevn. The memory of Mielle dancing with Kamran at Rosârah Brelenah’s court back in Everton obliterated all caution. He needed to be on the deck, as soon as possible.

  Trevn shimmied back down to the lookout platform. He had spent years watching sailors slide down the backstays. He not only felt he could do it, he was sure that doing so would impress Mielle and the watch. He wasn’t wearing gloves, so he removed the handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around his palm. He grabbed hold of the stay through the handkerchief and hooked his opposite knee around it as well, then jumped off.

  He shot down the slick rope, realizing too late that the backstay had been recently coated in tar. He wrapped his other arm around the stay at his elbow and hooked both ankles as well. He was already gaining speed. He squeezed with his hand, hoping to slow himself, but the heat burned right through the handkerchief. Two-thirds of the way down, when he conceded that his firebrand ways had finally killed him, he set his boots against one another at an angle and felt himself slow as his soles scraped back the tar. This helped, and he slammed feet-first against the quarterdeck, just managing to stick the landing in a low squat.

  Ottee raced toward him, cheering. “Down the backstays, whoopee!”

  “Well, ain’t you the skylark?” Rzasa said.

  Nietz grunted. “The sâr has a death wish the gods almost granted.”

  “Indeed,” Master Quen said.

  “Trevn!” From his left a creature clad in red-and-yellow silk tackled him. Mielle felt solid in his arms and smelled like flowers. She squeezed from him what little breath remained, then let go and punched his arm. “What were you thinking jumping off the lookout tower?”

  Trevn caught sight of Kamran and Miss Amala still standing by the inner rail. “I saw you with Kamran.”

  “Oh tuhsh, Trevn.” She rolled her eyes, but he could tell from the twist of her lips that she was pleased. “You saw me chaperoning my foolish sister with a man twice her age, a pair that, unfortunately, I must return to immediately.” She kissed Trevn’s chee
k and strode away.

  “A fine show of bravery, Sâr Trevn, and a decent first climb. You see the mark at the top of the masthead?”

  At the sound of Captain Livina’s voice, Trevn regarded the man, who was standing at the port rail. He gaped, abashed. He’d been so taken by the view, then jealous seeing Mielle with Kamran . . . “No, sir. I forgot to look.”

  “It’s a mighty nice view up there, sailor,” the captain said, “but when I send a man into the rigging with a job to do, he’d better not forget to do it. You could have killed yourself wearing boots in the rigging, and you scraped half the tar off that stay coming down, so you’ll be the one to re-tar it next watch. Ottee, show the skylark where the tar is kept.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ottee said, dragging Trevn away by the arm.

  Rzasa limped up to join them. “There’s to be dancing on the lower deck tonight,” he said. “You could come during the first watch. There’ll be women there. You probably got better things to do, though, being a prince and all.”

  See there, Captain? Rzasa had accepted him already. “I thank you for the invitation, Rzasa. I shall come, and bring a woman of my own.”

  Rzasa grinned broadly. “You mean Miss Mielle, don’t you? Everybody says you’re going to marry her.”

  Such a comment startled Trevn. “Do they?”

  “I’ve heard that too,” Ottee said.

  Trevn didn’t know what to make of this revelation, so he dodged the serious topic with a joke. “Master Mielle Allard . . . I suppose it has a nice sound to it.”

  That evening, Mielle on his arm, Trevn arrived in the sailors’ berth on the lower deck charged with excitement. Lanterns hung swinging from the deck head on the perimeter walls. In the middle a group was dancing, the taller men hunched slightly to keep from hitting their heads. Trevn led Mielle to dance straightaway, and they quickly became the center of attention. The crowd cheered them on, and they danced until they could no longer stand. Rzasa found them and led the way to the opposite end of the berth and to a circle of sea chests.