Jimmy the Hand (14 page)

A sailor, some
sort of officer, saw Jimmy the Hand’s face turn pasty-white and
how he clapped a hand to his mouth. ‘The lee rail, you infernal
lubber!’ he snarled, then grabbed the boy by collar and belt
and ran him over to it, getting his head over the side just as the
first heave struck. ‘Feed the fish, and don’t foul our
deck, damn your eyes!’

‘I hate
you,’ Jimmy mumbled feebly, not sure whether he meant himself,
Flora who’d got him into this, the ship, the crew, or all of
them together.

His sides hurt,
his head ached, his eyes felt as if they’d been rolled in hot
sand.
Now I know what the word misery was invented for,
he
thought, as he crawled hand-over-hand toward the rail and another
spell of dry retching heaves until there was nothing left inside to
come up.

And I stink.

So badly that he
spent most of his time on deck letting the high winds blow his funk
away. That meant he was mostly at the stern since the gale came from
the south. He’d learned quickly that spitting wasn’t the
only thing you didn’t do into the wind. The fresh air made it a
little easier to live with himself. Even so, he avoided company.

Sometimes
between bouts of retching he was tormented by memories of his
original plans for this voyage. He’d imagined himself playing
dice with the crew and cleaning them out easily. He’d done it
often enough in Krondor, though most of the sailors were drunk at the
time.

Instead, the
crew were amusing themselves by sidling up to him and saying things
like, ‘Arrgh, sick are ye? Whatcha need laddie-boy is some nice
ham floatin’ in a bowl of warm cream! Or maybe you’d like
some cold fish chowder?’ Then laughing as he swore feebly, not
realizing that he’d be cutting them down right then and there,
if only he weren’t so weak and if only moving didn’t make
him feel worse.

Or maybe they
remember me from the dice and the taverns, and this is some sort of
sick, twisted revenge.

Flora came
staggering up bearing a mug of broth for him and hunched down beside
him where he hid from the wet wind behind a crate secured to the
deck.

‘Flora,’
he said, gasping and trying to drink the salty broth. It seemed to
hurt less if you had something to give the sea. ‘Do you think
they recognize me? Could I have picked someone’s pocket, or won
too much at dice, d’ye think?’ Then he shook his head.
‘But there’s no profit in it, so why bother?’

She shrugged.
‘Well, my friend, if I thought someone who’d robbed or
cheated me was nearby and the only revenge I was going to get was to
make him throw up then I would, and gladly. And I’d consider
that profit aplenty.’ Flora smiled at his expression of abject
horror. ‘But I don’t think they do recognize you, Jimmy.
I hardly knew you myself when I first saw you waiting on the dock,
you looked so respectable!’

She huddled
deeper into her thick shawl and huddled closer to him, shivering with
cold. He welcomed her warmth, and the fact that she blocked the wind
on that side.

‘Actually,
it seems to be something they do whenever someone gets seasick;
sailor or passenger,’ Flora continued. ‘I think it’s
mean and I’ve asked them not to do it any more. But I honestly
don’t think they can resist.’

He tried to dump
the rest of the broth overboard—his shrunken stomach was
starting to protest—but she pushed it right back at him.

So the crew
didn’t want revenge on him, they just wanted to torture him for
the joy of it. That was nice.

It’s a
very good thing I can’t put curses on people or by now the
whole crew would be writhing in agony. Or dying horribly.
And in
the throes of violent sea-sickness a man can think up some very
horrible things indeed.

He knew that if
it weren’t for Flora’s influence the crew would be even
worse. How she kept them off him he didn’t know.

Perhaps he
should.

‘You’re
not giving them . . .’ he hesitated.

‘Giving
them bribes to leave you alone?’ Flora shook her head, smiling.
‘If I were then I’d not be getting much in return for my
efforts, now would I? But no, I’m not doing that any more. I’m
going to be an honest girl if it kills me. At least until I find out
if I do have a family.’

She watched him
look miserably into the cup of cooling broth and gave his shoulder a
pat. ‘Just drink it, Jimmy. You’ve got to get something
down you or you really will be sick.’

He gave her a
piteous look, but all she did was nod encouragingly. He squeezed his
eyes shut and drank the last, lukewarm half. He knew it would come up
again, but at least now it was comfortably warm. Flora would have
waited until he drank it even if the stuff grew a skim of ice.

Then he thought
about what she’d said. ‘I
am
sick,’ he
pointed out.

‘You’re
not dying. But if you don’t keep drinking water or broth,
though, you actually might.’

Well, that was a
pleasant thought.

Jimmy began to
feel the broth dancing in his aching stomach and knew it wouldn’t
be long before the stuff made a break for it. He was too ashamed of
his condition to encourage her presence at such times.

‘Cook says
if you can keep that down, and spend a while just looking at the
horizon, so your senses can adjust, you just might get over this
sickness. Some people do.’ Then with a piteous look she added,
‘And some people don’t.’

‘Maybe you
should go below,’ he suggested.

She looked at
him askance, then nodded. ‘It is getting cold out here.’
Flora tucked a tendril of hair back under her enveloping shawl. ‘I’ll
be back later with something else.’

‘Oh,
gods!’ Jimmy groaned and rushed to the rail.

Flora hurried
away; even then he managed to feel a mute animal gratitude.

Jimmy willed
himself to hold the content of his stomach down. He did as suggested
and watched the horizon and soon noticed that the rise and fall of
the ship was less distressing on his stomach when he could see the
motion as well as feel it. He took slow, deep breaths and attempted
another sip of broth.

Gradually he
became aware that one of the other passengers was watching him. The
man was about thirty; of medium build, but standing with an easy
balance that made some corner of Jimmy’s mind say
swordsman
despite his dress; he was wearing dark clothes of good wool, but
they’d seen hard use and were stained with salt. The sort of
clothes might be worn by a travelling merchant in a small way of
business, or by a ship’s officer.

But that belt
has wear on it,
Jimmy thought, glad of something to distract him
from his wet, chill misery.
Look at the way it’s polished,
and stretched a little. That’s the attachment for a
sword-sling.

Like Jimmy, the
man kept himself to himself, though probably for different reasons,
lending the occasional, very competent, hand to the sailors when the
seas became unusually rough. Otherwise he spent his time either
gazing out to sea or staring at the young thief. Jimmy was beginning
to find it very annoying.

It also worried
him. After separating from Flora in Krondor he’d retrieved his
gold and turned a fair bit of it into silver and copper, much of
which he’d secreted about his person. There were times he
thought the stranger somehow knew that he was carrying well over a
hundred and fifty in silver and gold even though it shouldn’t
have been obvious to anyone.

Unless that
someone had seen him changing his gold to silver.

Certainly Jimmy
didn’t look rich; Flora had outfitted him from a used-clothing
store, one where respectable shopkeepers and craftsmen went. True,
there were a large number of pockets, but that was something common
to all the boys Jimmy knew, town or Mocker. And having a lot of
pockets didn’t necessarily mean that each one was full of
money. Even if, in his case, it was.

The only
bright spot is that if he wants to rob me he’ll have to do it
here on deck in front of the captain and the crew, and Flora, when
she’s here.

It would take a
good long time, too, because as one of the best pickpockets in
Krondor he’d long known the value of spreading your valuables
around. And with no less than twelve pockets, not including the ones
he’d sewn himself, he’d had plenty of places to put his
gold. Of course, if he ever fell overboard he’d sink like a
stone, but you couldn’t have everything. Besides, the way he
was feeling right now the idea actually had some appeal.

Jimmy clung to
the rail and slanted his eyes toward the stranger where the man
squatted with his back against the mainmast. The man caught his
glance and rose in a single graceful movement. As he approached the
stranger took something from his belt pouch.

Jimmy tensed.

The man held out
a strap of leather. ‘Let’s put this on you.’
Without waiting for an answer he grabbed Jimmy’s left wrist and
fastened it on, then positioned it just so. ‘I couldn’t
bear to watch you suffer any more, lad,’ the fellow said. His
voice was deep and mild.

Jimmy could feel
something like a pebble pressing lightly into his wrist. He looked
suspiciously at the stranger.

‘Keep it
just there and in a few hours your problem should be solved.’

‘Is it
magic?’ Jimmy asked.

The man snorted.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘The trick of it
was shown to me by an old Keshian sailor, and I’d bet my last
silver he had nothing magical about him.’ He held out his hand.
‘My name is Jarvis Coe.’

Jimmy shook his
hand weakly. ‘If this works, Master Coe, I’ll be
eternally in your debt.’ At that moment the ship rose, then
fell steeply and so did Jimmy’s stomach. When he turned around
again Jarvis Coe was gone. He looked goggle-eyed at the bracelet.
Doesn’t seem to be working,
he thought miserably, as he
turned his eyes back to the horizon and contemplated another sip of
broth. Maybe between staring at the horizon and the pebble on his
wrist he just might survive the journey . . .

But it does
work!
Jimmy thought exultantly, an hour later. ‘Oh, gods,
it works!’ he mumbled aloud.

He looked down
at his bowl. In it was some stew, the inevitable traveller’s
food, and there were beans and dried tomato and bits of salt fish
floating around in it, and it didn’t make him want to crawl
groaning toward the leeward rail!

Even the
wiggling thing that had dropped out of his hard biscuit when he
tapped it on the table like everyone else didn’t revolt him,
and it would have back in Krondor. Now he just felt . . .

‘Hungry,’
he whispered to himself. ‘It’s been so long, I’d
forgotten what it felt like!’

Flora was
looking at him oddly. The passengers took their meals at a table set
up in the passageway in front of the captain’s cabin; he gave
her a smile and saw her match it as he dipped his spoon into the bowl
and methodically ate everything in it. That wasn’t a big
serving, and he felt stuffed—no wonder, after three days of
nothing but water—but it stayed down.

Flora’s
hand jerked him awake just before he went face-down in the bowl.

‘Come
along, brother,’ she said, helping him up.

When he came to
under the coarse brown blankets that covered his bunk, an inner sense
told him he’d more than slept the clock around. That was no
wonder either, since he’d no more been able to sleep than to
eat.

If that’s
what feeling old is like, I hope I die young,
he thought,
shuddering. His clothes were damp and clammy as he pulled them on in
the little box miscalled a cabin, but he was no stranger to that, and
his feet almost danced as he headed down the passageway and up the
steep ladder-stairs to the deck, looking for his benefactor. He
walked about watching the sailors work: it was always a pleasant
activity watching someone else sweat.

Pleased as he
was with the miracle of not being sea-sick, the whole world took on a
rosier hue. The young thief decided that travel to Land’s End
just might be something to look forward to after all. He’d
simply been startled by the Nightmaster’s demand that he leave,
that was it, and for a while he’d been worried because he
wouldn’t have anything or anybody familiar to fall back on. It
wasn’t fear he’d felt at all, he’d just been . . .
taken by surprise.

Besides, he’d
managed the rubes right handily when they’d made their way to
Krondor; why would he have problems just because they’d stayed
at home?
This is going to be an adventure, by Ruthia!
he
thought.
I’ll have some fine tales to tell when I get home.

That he looked
forward to getting home before he’d even reached his
destination brought a wry smile to his face. Jimmy could fool most
people, but he never could fool himself.
All right,
he
thought, so
it’s not something I would have chosen to do.
But I’ve turned bad luck to good advantage before now. I don’t
see why this should be any different.

He looked about:
still no sign of Coe and he’d been on deck for most of the
morning by now.

‘Where’s
that fellow who was propping up the main mast yesterday?’ he
asked a passing sailor.

‘In ‘is
cabin, I s’pose,’ the man barked, brushing past. ‘I’m
not ‘is nanny that I’d know.’

Guess I’m
not as much fun to talk to now that you can’t make me vomit,
Jimmy thought snidely.

Even so, it was
strange. One day the man was unavoidable, the next day he’d
disappeared. Jimmy didn’t like it, such behaviour was
suspicious. It reminded him too much of Radburn’s men.

His abused
stomach lurched horribly and he thought,
Oh, gods! Not again, I
thought I was cured.
But it wasn’t sea-sickness that had
caused the sensation. It was the idea that he might have been
followed by one of Bas-Tyra’s secret police that had given him
such a qualm.