Lords of the Sky (9 page)

I could hear the note of pride in his voice. It was such as a man might use when speaking of some prized animal: a fine hunting dog or a valuable horse. I realized that I thought of the Changed oarsmen as men not unlike myself—save in size and strength—whilst Kerym saw them as possessions, as carefully selected beasts whose prowess reflected credit on him. “Do they not object?” I asked.

His eyes widened at that, fixing on me as if confronted with rank insanity. For a moment he was silent. Then he shook his head, chuckling, and murmured to himself, “Whitefish village! Fishermen!” so that I flushed, less in embarrassment than in anger. I think he saw my vexation, for he moderated his tone and said, “No, they do not. They are Changed, Daviot. Changed do not object, only obey and do their duty.”

I scowled and asked, “Have they any choice in that? I mean—do they choose their duty?”

Kerym sighed wearily and answered me, “They are
Changed”
as if that were all the response necessary. I suppose my expression prompted his amplification, for he shook his head again in an insulting manner and explained, “They are
bred
to the task. In the God’s name, do you ask a horse if it wants to be ridden? An ox if it welcomes the plow harness?”

“I saw Changed drinking in the tavern,” I said, “and for that they need coin, but no one pays a horse or an ox.”

I felt it was a sophisticated argument—that I scored a point—but Kerym only shrugged and returned me, “A beast needs fodder, no? And water. Save I keep these fellows fed and allow them a tot now and again, they’ll weaken.” He repeated his exasperating chuckle. “I’d not have the finest oarsmen on either coast flag.”

“They receive no other pay?” I asked, thinking of the stipend I was promised merely for studying.

“I feed them; and well,” said Kerym grandly. “Three meals a day and a tankard of good ale with every one. When
we’ve the time and they’ve no other work, I give them small coin for the taverns. What more should they want?”

I had no idea. Indeed, when I thought about it, that was as much as I received for working with my father on our boat. Save, it occurred to me, I had anticipated owning my own boat someday, and a cottage, a wife. I frowned and asked him, “Shall they always be oarsmen? May they quit your employ? What happens when they get old? Or are hurt?” The questions came in a rush, compelled as much by my desire to best the man as to learn the answers.

“So many questions.” He favored me with a smile I found patronizing. “Still, you hope to be a Rememberer, eh? Well—no, they shall not always be oarsmen, for they
will
get old, or damaged, and then they’ll be little use on the
Seahorse.
When that happens, they’ll be given other, less arduous employment—about the harbor, or in a warehouse. May they quit my employ? Of course not—I
own
them.”

He seemed to me smugly satisfied with the correctitude of his answer. I pressed my point: “And when they’re too old for even that? What happens to them then?”

Kerym flipped a dismissive wrist. “Do they choose, they are allowed to cross the Slammerkin,” he said. “Or they rely on the charity of their fellows, whatever they’ve managed to save.”

I thought they should not be able to save much, and that the charity of the Changed must of necessity be a precarious living. But his mention of the Slammerkin reminded me of Rekyn’s words, and I said, “They go into Ur-Dharbek to join the wild Changed?”

“Yes,” said Kerym, his tone so different I stared at him, hearing something in his voice I did not understand. I felt as I had with Rekyn—that I ventured into some area that was not … I was not sure …
proper,
or polite to mention. His smile was gone, his face cold: I sensed I had gone too far, though I did not understand why or how. He said, “Enough questions.”

We stood in silence awhile, and then I asked if I might go forrard, to observe our progress from the bow. Kerym responded with a nod, and I quit his company feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

I made my way along the central deck, surreptitiously observing the crew. Save for their great size and their
vaguely taurine physiognomy, they seemed to me quite human. They chattered quietly amongst themselves and several smiled at me as I passed. Some, I saw, played the simpler version of kells known as catch-dice, and for some reason that more than anything else rendered them sympathetic. I decided that, did the opportunity arise, I would speak with them.

I had no chance then, however, for no sooner had I reached the foredeck than the wind shifted and Kerym blew his whistle, the piercing note bringing out the sweeps as the oarsmen bent to their duty. I thought then that Kerym’s boasting might contain some element of truth, for the galley swept forward and I tottered an instant as the deck lurched under me. I wondered if the master looked to humble me, clutching at the gunwale as white water foamed around the bow. The foremost rower called, “Take care, master,” in a gruff, kindly voice, and I smiled and waved, regaining my sea legs. I might not have sailed on a galley before, but I was a fisherman’s son and would not grant Kerym the amusement of seeing me fall.

We continued thus until the wind once more picked up and the sail bellied again. Kerym gave some order then, and the two crewmen not engaged on the sweeps set to preparing food. It was plain fare, but filling: fish and rice and hard bread, and everyone on board was passed a tankard brimming with good Cambar ale. I took my ration on the fore-deck, not much wanting to rejoin our captain at the stern. Perhaps I sulked, but also I pondered on all he had said; and what he refused to discuss.

When the meal was done, the sweeps Came out again and we rowed through the afternoon. I watched the coastline pass, seeing villages the twin to my own, once the high column of a keep I thought must be Torbryn, coves and inlets where houses clustered about the shore. There were fishing boats out, but we rode beyond the catch grounds and soon left them behind. The sun westered, the sky to the east a purple pricked through with stars, the moon a butter-yellow crescent. Soon the coast was a shadow, marked by the phosphorescent wash of breaking surf. We ate again (the same fare), and I wondered if Kerym would put in for the night and ride out the dark hours at anchor, but he showed no sign
of slowing and after a while sent a crewman to where I stood to advise me I might make my bed at fore or poopdeck.

I went back astern then and found Kerym in better humor.

“I’m sworn to make Ynisvar no later than the morrow’s noon,” he told me, “so we go on through the night. I’ll find my bed now; do you sleep where you will. But stay out of the way, eh?”

I nodded and he passed the tiller to a Changed, disappearing into his little cabin. The night grew chill, and I broke out my cloak. The crew fetched an array of motley garments from beneath their benches, and I saw that three to each side stretched out asleep. Running lights were hung at prow and stern, and in their light I studied the tillerman. He was older than the rest, with hints of gray in the sleek black hair hanging straight about his weathered face. A small clay pipe was clasped between his teeth, the bowl glowing red in the darkness, smoke drifting from between his heavy lips. I thought this an excellent opportunity to satisfy my curiosity and lounged against the taffrail.

“Have you sailed with Kerym long?” I asked.

“Yes, master,” he said.

“How long?” I asked.

He shrugged, the movement like tree trunks shifting, and said, “Since I was old enough, master.”

“I’ve sailed all my life,” I told him. “I’m a fisherman’s son.”

He only nodded, unspeaking. I asked his name, and he answered, “Bors, master.”

“I’m Daviot,” I returned, to which he nodded again.

He seemed, to say the least, disinclined to converse with me, but I refused to be put off. “Where are you from?” I asked.

“Durbrecht, master,” he said.

“I go there,” I said. “To the College of the Rememberers.”

He nodded. Whether he was unimpressed or uninterested or intent on his duty, I could not tell: his features remained impassive. I am ashamed to admit I thought him distinctly bovine in his placid acceptance. I thought of a cow chewing the cud, instinctively flicking its tail at the swarming
flies represented by my attempts to engage him in conversation. “I love the sea,” I declared. “Do you?”

He offered no response, as if the question were without meaning. I asked, “Do you enjoy life on the
Seahorse!”

His wide eyes narrowed a fraction, as though he struggled to comprehend the inquiry, as though enjoyment were a concept beyond his understanding. Finally he shrugged, still silent.

I opted for bold measures. “What do you know of Ur-Dharbek?” I demanded. “Your people live free there, I’m told.”

That did produce a reaction, albeit fleetingly, for he hid it swift. I saw his eyes widen, then narrow again, and his teeth clenched tighter on his pipe, the tobacco glowing fierce a moment as he sucked in a sharp breath.

“Nothing, master,” he said.

There was a finality in his tone that denied all opportunity for further questions on that particular subject, and for all my curiosity I could not but recognize it was closed—which of course fueled my interest the more.

“Nothing at all?” I asked, unwilling yet to give up.

“No, master,” he said. And added, “Nothing at all.”

I sighed and tried another tack: “Why do you call me master? I’m not your master.”

“You’re a Trueman,” he said.

“And all Truemen are called master?” I asked.

“Yes, master,” he said.

“Are there many of your people in Durbrecht?” I asked. He said, “Yes, master.”

I saw that I should not get far with Bors; certainly not find answers to my many questions. I wondered if that was a trait of his taurine kind, or of the Changed in general; or if he hid things. Surely he knew more of Ur-Dharbek than he admitted, and no less surely refused to speak of it. I gave up: it seemed a fruitless exercise to question him further. I said, “I think I’ll sleep now,” and he said, “Yes, master,” so I gathered up my bag and carried it to the foredeck, where I rolled myself in my cloak, the bag for a pillow, and fell asleep to the slap of water against the bow. I dreamed of sailing forever on a galley manned by silent Changed, whose only answer, whenever I spoke, was “Yes, master.”

We sighted Ynisvar before noon. It was a place larger than Cambar, which made it the largest place I had ever seen, spread in a semicircle around a gentle bay. Shallow headlands like the lowered horns of a bull ran down to a wide sand beach on which fishing boats were grounded; beyond, houses climbed the slopes, clustering about the keep that dominated the heights. Kerym brought the
Seahorse
in through the shallows to a jetty, and we moored.

I thought I should go ashore, but Kerym told me he would halt only long enough to take his new passenger on board, and so I waited on the foredeck as the midday meal was prepared and passed out. Kerym, it appeared, ate on shore, for it was some time before he reappeared, accompanied by a small crowd that gathered on the jetty as a young man of about my own age said his farewells. He was a little smaller than me, and reddish-haired, with a dramatically freckled face that looked torn between excitement and trepidation. His clothes, I noticed, were similar to my own, though he wore no dagger. When he came on board, I saw instantly that he was no sailor.

Kerym introduced us. The newcomer’s name was Pyrdon. I took him forrard as we cast off, watching his ruddy face turn pale as the galley backed and swung about.

“I’ve not much experience of boats,” he announced.

I nodded sagely, feeling immediately superior, and told him, “You’ll find your sea legs soon enough.”

The Fend was calm, only a gentle swell running, but as we rowed from the bay Pyrdon’s face grew so ashen, it seemed every freckle glowed red as a pox sore. He clutched the gunwale, his knuckles white, and I felt amused until he groaned, “Oh, in the God’s name, why could I not go horseback?”

I remembered my own equestrian experience then and felt abashed. I asked if he could ride, and he nodded and mumbled an affirmative as if such accomplishment were as natural as my own familiarity with the sea. Then he gasped and emptied his belly overboard. I felt immediately sorry for him and brought him a cup of water. “Perhaps Kerym has some remedy,” I said, and, left the unfortunate Pyrdon draped over the forecastle as I made my way to the stern. In any event, Kerym had no such nostrum and expressed only a supercilious amusement at Pyrdon’s plight, advising me to
warn him that he had best avoid fouling the
Seahorse’s
deck. His attitude did nothing to improve my opinion of him, and I returned to the bow wearing an irritated scowl.

“Perhaps we’ll have time to find a herbalist in Madbry,” I suggested, to which Pyrdon answered mournfully, “Madbry’s a day or more distant.”

I was impressed that he owned such knowledge and set to questioning him about his origins, which served to distract his mind somewhat from the—to me—smooth motion of the galley.

His recitation was punctuated with groans and frequent pauses as he hung his head over the side, but I gathered that he was a season older than me, the second son of a tanner, from a town some leagues inland called Sterbek. He took his familiarity with horses as casually as I took mine with boats, and assured me that had he known what a sea voyage was like, he would have endeavored to persuade his father to gift him a horse and made his own way to Durbrecht. That his family could afford so generous a gift suggested he enjoyed a wealth unknown to my parents, and I forbore to elaborate on my humbler background. Pyrdon scarcely noticed, being far more concerned with his misery, but despite his discomfort I thought him a cheerful enough fellow, whose company I should likely enjoy when his seasickness was passed.