Island in the Sea of Time (29 page)

The black woman tucked the sheathed sword edge-up through her belt and went to one knee, her left hand holding it horizontal, right resting on the hilt. A moment of absolute stillness. Then movement, the blade flashing out and up and down in a blurring arc of brightness . . . and frozen stillness again, the sword’s curved cutting edge not quite touching the deck, arms and shoulders upright, legs crouched. No sound but the chuffing pulse of exhaled breath that had accompanied the motion. Another strike, equally swift, the sword reversing and thrusting backward, the wielder’s body swinging to follow it and the sword slicing diagonally with a hiss of cloven air, another turn and a downward cut with the left palm sliding down the back of the sword to add force to the strike. Again the
hunh
of breath at the moment of impact. Swindapa could almost see the target falling away cloven—Daurthunnicar with his forked beard, down, dying.

She clasped her clenched fists to her heart, feeling its beating. This dancing with the sword was a thing of beauty, deadly and lovely like the Eagle chieftain.

I will study harder,
she thought.
When I have learned all the others can teach me, I will ask the captain to show me this thing.
She raised her hands to the night sky in prayer.
Moon Woman, be my friend!

G
od, it
’ll be good to get my ship clean again,
Alston thought. The
Eagle
had a faint but unmistakable barnyard odor of pigshit, despite all they could do with pumps and swabbing. At least with the breeze on the beam most of it was carried off beyond the forecastle deck, little reaching her here on the bridge over the pilothouse forward of the wheels. The
Eagle
’s bowsprit was swinging around to the east; at noon they’d come up past Muskeget, the little islet off Nantucket’s western point.

“I’d better look Cofflin up right away,” she said to Sandy Rapczewicz. “See if we can’t arrange a barbecue or something for our people.”

The XO nodded, a little oddly, she thought. She’d also radioed ahead to have accommodation prepared for Swindapa and Isketerol.
I’ll have to find a place myself,
she noted. Probably not a problem, with so many houses vacant.
And some office space.
She hoped Cofflin was as competent as he’d seemed in the brief time between the Event and the
Eagle
’s departure.

“We’ll have to—” she began, about to order the engines fired up.

“Ma’am, it’s the island. Chief Cofflin.”

Alston blinked surprise and swung down the stairs. She walked back past the helm—only two sailors on the knee-high platforms beside the wheels, on a fair April day with an eight-knot wind—and into the radio shack.

“Eagle
here.”

“Chief Cofflin here,” the familiar voice said. “We’ve got a little surprise for you—a tow, so you don’t have to waste fuel getting into harbor.”

“This ship’s a little heavy for rowboats,” Alston said. Not that the
Eagle
couldn’t be warped in that way, but it would be extremely labor-intensive.

“Too true, Captain. Take a look.” Cofflin’s voice held a smile.

“On deck! A . . . something off the port bow!”

“Eagle
out,” Alston said dryly. She really didn’t much like surprises.

A plume of gray smoke was approaching. She leveled her binoculars.

Well, I will be dipped in shit,
she thought. The hull looked to be a medium-sized powerboat, a forty-footer, cut down to a flush deck. Wooden paddle wheels framed within a steel circle churned on either side. Each was driven by a peculiar arrangement that looked a little like a Texas oil derrick, nodding up and down.
Rocking-beam engine,
she thought; they’d been common on steamships a hundred and fifty years ago. Each rocking beam was moved by a single steam cylinder, mounted with the piston rod upward. Between them was a boiler that looked like welded sheet steel, and a tall chimney of the same material. Crewfolk were throwing split logs into a furnace underneath it; someone pulled on a lanyard, and the unmistakable melancholy hooting of a steam whistle greeted them.

Cadets and crew lined the rail, cheering and waving their hats. Alston let them, for a few minutes; it was a special occasion. Isketerol came up beside her, peering as the tug came closer.

“More diesel magic, Captain?” he asked.

She shook her head absently. “Steam,” she said. “Heated water. The fire heats the water, the water becomes steam, the steam is confined in metal pipes and pushes, doing work.”

The Tartessian blinked and nodded, moving aside and staring hungrily.
Did I do the right thing?
she thought with slight unease.
Just because he’s ignorant doesn’t mean he’s stupid.
Neither of the Bronze Agers was that. But the languages would be so useful. . . .

“Ms. Rapczewicz, strike all sail, if you please,” she said aloud. “Rig for tow. We’re home.”

 

“. . . and you’ve done a good job, one that’s important in the survival of thousands of our people,” Alston said, finishing the brief speech. It wasn’t a part of her role that she enjoyed, but they deserved to hear it. The waist was packed solid, orderly ranks as if for Quarters. “I’m proud of you all.”

The crew of the
Eagle
cheered. “Chief Cofflin tells me that he’s declared today and tomorrow public holidays, and I’ve arranged for everyone to draw some of the Town chits we’re using for money these days; they’re good for beer, at least. Liberty for everyone but the posted skeleton crew. Behave yourselves—but have fun. You deserve it. Dismissed from quarters!” The cheers grew wilder, and hats flew into the air.

Alston looked grimly at what awaited them on the dock. The noise had alerted her first, as the
Eagle
came through the harbor entrance. Cofflin had said that the Town Meeting had voted a public holiday; she’d expected the harbor to be quiet. Instead there was a surf-roar of noise, and the quays were crowded with people.

“They did say some people would be on hand to say hello,” Tom Hiller said.

“Some people . . . Cofflin didn’t say anything about
this
, the lying hound,” Alston snapped.

A huge banner stretched across the steamship dock, WELCOME EAGLETS, with a big gold-painted wooden eagle above it. The quays and streets were densely packed with people; there was even a high school band, complete with drum majorettes and trombones tootling away.

She stood glowering at the three-ring circus. The crew were hiding smiles. Swindapa looked impressed; she suspected Isketerol had seen ceremonies more grand, traveling about the Mediterranean. Alston turned an accusing eye on her sailing master.

“You knew about this, didn’t you?” she said.

“Well, the chief, the XO, and I discussed things a bit,” Hiller said, grinning.

“Traitor. You
all
knew.”

“We knew you don’t like public occasions, at least in theory, Skipper. Consider it a surprise party.”

She snorted and relaxed.
No use in fighting the inevitable,
she decided. Cofflin and most of the Council were waiting to greet her on the dock. And the crew certainly deserved a rousing public reception and cookout.

That reminded her. “Mr. Isketerol, Ms. Swindapa, we’ll arrange quarters for you ashore,” she said.

Isketerol bowed silently. Swindapa frowned, an edge of panic in her face. “Not stay captain’s with . . . place?” she said. “Send away?”

The Tartessian had reverted to his native dress for the occasion, saffron tunic with a complex folded belt holding knife and short sword of bronze, and a long blue cloak. Swindapa kept to the
Eagle
working blues she’d been given, the spare pair of a cadet about her size. The hands that clenched the baseball cap were quivering slightly now, matching the desperate look on her face.

“I’m sure there will be room,” Alston said hastily.
Damn. I
’m a sailor, not a trauma therapist! This is as bad as having a chick imprint on you when it hatches.
Swindapa relaxed and put on the cap.

Not much choice in the matter.
Have to get her some things,
Alston noted. She’d have to organize a good deal, get a regular shore establishment going, if she was going to run Nantucket’s maritime endeavors as well as captain the
Eagle
herself. A number of ideas had occurred to her, along those lines.
I need a good long talk with Chief Cofflin.

“Ms. Swindapa.” The blue eyes turned to her, pools the color of hyacinth flowers. “I’d like you to see the doctor here,” she said.

“Already seen Eagle doctor, ma’am. Feel goods—I mean, better.”

“All the same, I’d like you to see the one here, please.” The Fiernan girl ducked her head in a shy nod. She had an appealing face, really . . .
Careful,
Alston reminded herself.

The gangplank swung out and crunched into place ashore. Alston set her own hat in place and walked down the gangway to the waist, past the rows of sailors and cadets now braced to attention. The boatswain’s pipe sang out:

“
Eagle
departing!” The bells rang. Cofflin shook her hand at the bottom of the gangway and handed her a microphone.

“A few words, Captain,” he said.

“Ah—” Alston cleared her throat, and Swindapa and Isketerol jumped and started at the amplified sound. “It’s all right,” she said, flicking the thing off for a second.

Then: “We’re all happy to be back, and back with the food the island needed. The trip was . . . interesting . . . and there’ll be a report, film, and photographs handed out. We accomplished our mission, and we’ll probably be able to trade in Britain again later this year. The crew of the Eagle have worked very hard for the community, and in their name I’m honored to accept your thanks.” She paused. “That’s all. Thank you again.”

“Short but to the point,” Cofflin murmured, and took the microphone from her. “Three cheers for Captain Alston and the
Eagle
!”

At least nobody can see me blush, Alston thought as she endured it.

Cofflin led the way. Trestle tables had been set up on Main Street, and from the looks of it Nantucket’s abundant cooks had been at work. Mostly seafood, of couse, but well prepared, and a surprising abundance of poultry, roast goose and duck, and big plump birds that looked a little like chickens but weren’t. They’d raided the accumulated stores, too; there was even a butter sculpture of the
Eagle.
Sitting in crisp brown glory with an apple in its mouth was proof of why Cofflin had been so considerate in getting the first load of pigs off the
Eagle
via the tug; glazed with the honey that had also been a part of the cargo, it waited on a bed of rice. Alston shrugged with a rueful chuckle, sat next to the chief, and poured herself a glass of wine—the island’s own vintage, she noticed. Cadets and crew were already pouring ashore and filling the tables below her, interspersed with the townsfolk.

“Thanks—my boys and girls deserve a blowout,” she said to Cofflin.

“They and the town,” Cofflin said, sharpening a carving knife and falling to.

“What’s this?” she added, looking at a bowl surrounded with crackers, full of a jellylike substance. Daubed on a cracker, it had a creamy, salty taste. “Tastes interestin’ . . . some sort of seafood?”

“Caviar,” Cofflin said. “It’s sturgeon-spawning time over on the mainland. We sent some boats to the mouth of the Connecticut River.” He nodded down the table.

Alston looked and gave a silent whistle. “Now, that’s a
big
fish.” The section sitting in the middle of one of the trestle tables was three feet thick and ten long, resting on a base of steamed seaweed.

“Half a ton,” Cofflin said, smiling a little. “We had to harpoon it, and nearly lost the first boat that tried. Things’ve been a bit . . . hairy here at times. It’s a good idea to give everyone some time off, throw a party, celebrate—and you’ve given us a fair bit
to
celebrate.”

“Starting with this most excellent pig,” she said, loading her plate; the mashed potatoes were the instant type, but edible. “Pass those drumsticks too, please. . . . Ms. Swindapa, Mr. Isketerol, Mr. Jared Cofflin, our chief executive officer.”

Hell,
I
deserve a holiday,
she thought, as the two Bronze Agers leaned across her to shake hands with him.
And here’s everything necessary. Of attainable things,
she thought, looking wistfully at a young man and woman freed of the
Eagle
’s rule on Public Displays of Affection and holding hands as they ate.
It would be nice to have someone myself. Or even just to get laid.

 

Isketerol of Tartessos sipped at the odd-tasting, bubbly beer and watched silently as the feast wound down into the night. He’d left the public square when most of the others did, finding his way to this half-underground tavern in the basement of another of the strange, magnificent houses; he could tell what it was, from the sounds and scents making their way out the door. He sounded out the words written on the wooden sign above.

Brotherhood of Thieves.
The sign pictured a man with short bullhorns on his head, holding a small chained woman on one hand and a sack on the other. A god of trade, perhaps? But it was a Brotherhood of
Thieves
. . . .

His eyebrows rose at the thought. The Amurrukan seemed like far too orderly a folk to have an open thieves’ den flaunting itself here in this impossibly clean city . . . but he was confident enough of what he’d read. His English was as good as his Egyptian now, and he’d spent many months, in visits over the years, to learn
that.

“Brotherhood of Thieves,” he sounded out aloud, and looked around. This street was one of the ones with the strange smooth dark substance coating it, not the honest cobblestones of Main Street. The buildings were mostly wood, covered in shingles and white or gray paint; some had little courtyard gardens. He could see the spire of a temple . . . no, they called it a
church . . .
not far away. Large trees grew on either side of the street, which was broad—enough for two loaded wagons to pass abreast, at least. The temple tower had another one of the
clocks
in it. He shuddered. Cutting away your life, second by second, the way the Crone’s knife did at the last when she put you in the Cauldron.
Seconds,
he thought. Only the Amurrukan would divide time up into pieces like that, like a cook dicing onions for soup.