Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (30 page)

 
          
He
opened his hand, the ring glittering as it fell to the waves. He hoped it was
enough—it was all he could do.

 
          
He
turned away, finding Bracht's eyes on him. The Kem's face was tinted with a
greenish hue and he sucked air as though he thought each breath might be his
last. Calandryll anticipated criticism, but all Bracht said was, "Does
that buy me respite from this malaise? Ahrd, but I'd not thought sea travel
could be so foul."

 
          
Calandryll
was about to reply, but the mercenary turned away, hanging over the rail again,
racked.

 
          
"I've
a nostrum might help," ek'Jemm announced, calmly studying the Kem,
"ana I'll have a bucket placed in your cabin."

 
          
"Thank
you," Calandryll answered on behalf of his comrade: Bracht was in no
condition to speak.

 
          
The
captain grunted a reply and left them, climbing the companionway to the poop
deck. The
Sea Dancer
gathered speed, the deck pitching and rolling as
she gained the open sea, her sails bellying, the masthead pennants snapping
briskly. Sea gulls wheeled overhead, an aerial escort, their shrill cries
cutting through the steady slap of water against her prow and the steady ramble
of the wind-filled canvas. Calandryll clutched a stay, bracing against the
roll, hair streaming in the breeze. He was exhilarated: there was a pure
excitement to sea travel that stretched his mouth in an eager smile as he felt
salt spray dash his face and filled his lungs with air tangy with ozone.

 
          
He
looked to where Bracht hung miserable over the rail and saw that the Kem's
stomach was empty, his retching dry now. Too much of that could damage his
insides, and ek'Jemm had made no mention of carrying a ship's healer: he set a
hand to Bracht's shoulder.

 
          
"We'd
best go below. You'll feel better in your bunk." Bracht nodded dumbly and
Calandryll said, "Wait here," leaving him to climb the companionway.

 
          
Rahamman
ek'Jemm stood straddle-legged behind the wheel, a seaman at his side ready to
take the helm. The captain had shed his cape and stood in portly splendor of
yellow and black, the tails of his headdress fluttering. He glanced at
Calandryll with vague irritation, as though passengers were not welcome in this
lofty place.

 
          
"I'd
see my comrade to his bunk," Calandryll said.

 
          
Ek'Jemm
nodded and bellowed, "Mehemmed!"

 
          
Calandryll
felt his sleeve tugged and turned on the ladder to find a shirtless youth of
about his own age clambering unceremoniously past him. A dark brown face
glanced curiously his way, flashing a toothy grin, and the Kand sprang onto the
poop.

 
          
"Captain?"

 
          
"Show
this one and his puking friend to their cabin. And make sure they've got a
bucket."

 
          
Mehemmed
ducked his head and turned toward Calandryll, who said, "You promised a
nostrum, too, Captain."

 
          
Rahamman
ek'Jemm frowned, taken aback.

 
          
"You
understand the tongue of
Kandahar
?"

 
          
"And
speak it," Calandryll replied in the same language.

 
          
Ek'Jemm
snorted and said, "When you've shown our passengers to their cabin, go to
mine and bring them the blue bottle from my medicine chest. Three drops in a
little water, morning,
noon
, and night."

 
          
This
latter was directed at Calandryll, who smiled his thanks and descended to the
deck, Mehemmed close behind.

 
          
They
fetched Bracht from the rail and helped him across to the hatchway. Calandryll
stooped to collect their gear and Mehemmed eased the pale-faced Kem down into
the bowels of the ship. The air was musty and Calandryll was pleased to find
their cabin had a port: he opened it as Mehemmed settled Bracht on the bunk
below.

 
          
"I'll
bring the nostrum and the bucket," Mehemmed promised.

 
          
"Oh,
Ahrd preserve me," Bracht moaned. "Had I known it would be like this
.. ."

 
          
"Best
hope the sea stays this calm," Mehemmed grinned, and ducked through the
low hatchway.

 
          
Calandryll
tossed their gear onto the second bunk and looked around. The cabin was small,
the two bunks occupying most of its space, storage lockers beneath them and a
narrow aisle between. The ceiling was low enough, he had to stoop and he sat,
tom between amusement and sympathy for Bracht's condition.

 
          
Mehemmed
returned with a bucket and a small flask of blue glass, a carafe and a beaker.
He filled the beaker and carefully measured three drops from the flask into the
water, handing the remedy to Bracht. The Kem drank it and grimaced.

 
          
"It
tastes foul," Mehemmed chuckled. "But it'll cure you."

 
          
"Unless
I die first," Bracht moaned, and fell back.

 
          
"He'd
best eat," the Kand youth advised, "I'll fetch you something."

 
          
He
brought a plate of bread and cold pork: Bracht glanced at it once, shook his
head, and turned away.

 
          
"He
needs something in his stomach." Mehemmed looked to Calandryll for
support. "Shall you feed him?"

 
          
Calandryll
nodded and took the plate. The Kand seemed reluctant to leave, lingering by the
door with a curious expression on his narrow face.

 
          
"He's
your bodyguard?" he asked.

 
          
It
was the simplest explanation: Calandryll nodded.

 
          
"And
who are you?"

 
          
"My
name is Calandryll."

 
          
He
thought it best not to give his family name, for fear his father had sent word
of some kind to Aldarin: there might be a reward for his return.

 
          
"You're
a merchant?"

 
          
They
had discussed this with Varent, deciding that their journey should be explained
away as a trade mission, he an emissary sent to establish business links with
the merchants of
Kandahar
, Bracht his bodyguard: he said as much.

 
          
Mehemmed
grinned: “He's a poor bodyguard if you're to travel by sea. You'd have done
better to hire a Kand. Burash put salt in our blood."

 
          
"He's
capable enough," Calandryll replied defensively. "At least on
land."

 
          
"Then
best hope no corsairs cross our path," the youth declared cheerfully, and
left them.

 
          
Calandryll
stowed their gear and settled to persuading Bracht to eat. The Kern succeeded
in swallowing a few mouthfuls before he pushed the plate away and bent over the
bucket.

 
          
"We
should've ridden overland," he groaned when he was done.

 
          
"That
would take months," Calandryll protested. "We'd need to cross half
Lysse, then swing south through Eyl. And then the
Shann
Desert
would lie before us. This way, we'll tread
dry land in Mhemt'yi in little more than a week.”

 
          
"A
week!" Bracht mumbled. "Shall I live so long?"

 
          
"You'll
survive," Calandryll promised.

 
          
Bracht
moaned again and turned his face to the wall.

 
          
In
a while he slept and Calandryll left him to go back on deck. The
Sea Dancer
moved at a brisk pace, the coastline of Lysse fading to stem, lost in the
fusion of sea and sky. The wind blew steady from the northeast and ek'Jemm had
set all his canvas to take full advantage of the blow. Whatever cargo he
carried back to Kandahar provided solid ballast, for the ship sat low in the
water, that thought provoking a grin as Calandryll wondered how Bracht might
have fared had the vessel sailed with empty holds, riding high and rolling like
a wave-tossed cork. He did his best to stay out of the sailors' way, although
his natural curiosity prompted him to inspect the craft as much as possible and
he roamed the deck and lower levels until a gong informed him that food was
served.

 
          
He
ate on deck with the crew, Rahamman ek'Jemm dining alone on the poop, and found
himself the object of curious glances, though only Mehemmed made any attempt at
conversation, that mostly a string of questions about the cities of Lysse. He
realized that these men spent the larger part of their lives on the water,
plying the trade routes between
Kandahar
and his homeland or the coast of the great
peninsula. The food was simple after the luxurious fare of Varent's mansion,
but he enjoyed it, his appetite sharp, and when he was done carried a platter
below to Bracht. The freesword was awake again, accepting a further dose of the
nostrum and even holding down a few mouthfuls of beef, though his humor was not
improved and when he declared himself unable to eat more Calandryll left him to
sleep.

 
          
He
went back on deck, wishing he had been able to bring at least one book with
him, for boredom threatened as the crew went about their duties, too busy to
spare time for a passenger, and he realized that the crossing likely meant days
of enforced idleness. He fetched his sword from the cabin and engaged in the
exercises Bracht had taught him, ignoring the embarrassment induced by the
crew's obvious amusement as he slashed and cut the empty air.

 
          
Then
his practice was interrupted by Mehemmed.

 
          
"The
captain wants you," the youth announced. "Quick."

 
          
Curious,
Callandryll sheathed his blade and climbed to the poop. Ek'Jemm had given the
wheel to his helmsman and stood beside the stem arbalest, a spyglass raised.

 
          
"Lord
Varent said you act as his emissary," he declared. "That you travel
to Mherut'yi on merchant's business."

 
          
"Yes,"
Calandryll agreed.

 
          
"To
negotiate contracts," the captain said.

 
          
"Yes."

 
          
Calandryll
wondered what disturbed the Kand seaman.

 
          
"Secret
business."

 
          
"Yes."

 
          
"Might
you have rivals in this venture? Might they know of your departure?"

 
          
Calandryll
stared at the man's plump face, an ugly suspicion dawning. He shrugged:
"Perhaps. Why?"

 
          
Ek'Jemm
handed him the spyglass and pointed astern.

 
          
"You
see it?"

 
          
He
peered down the leather-bound tube, the lenses producing a blurred
magnification that at first defeated his inexperienced eye. Then he focused on
a dark shape resting low in the water, the image growing clearer as he
concentrated. A single mast supported a square sail, the prow curving high,
carved in semblance of some ocean creature; the body of the craft low and lean.
It had a rakish look, as if designed for speed.