The Last Knight (13 page)

My own lips twitched as I went on. “Which means we’ll have to double up on Chant. Or hire a horse, or
you’ll
have to walk. ’Tis really”—the laughter rose—“not funny.” I gave up on dignity and joined their merriment.

Fisk was the first to recover.

“We’ll hire a horse,” he announced, wiping his eyes.

Fisk had come a long way in the last few weeks, from the sullen, frightened, “Yes, Noble Sir” criminal I had redeemed. He’d been acting, lately, like the companion and comrade a squire should be. I smiled at him. “We’ll hire a horse.”

We went together to fetch Tipple. The stableboy gave us clear directions to the tavern, near the harbor district. The cobbles were still slick with rain and mud, and the moons played peeking games through the fast-flowing clouds.

Tipple was tethered in the tavern yard, head down, swaying. Her eyes were closed.

“We’re going to have a time of it getting you up those hills, you sot,” I told her severely, and Fisk snickered again.

She blinked foolishly and snuffled my neck.

“Wait till tomorrow,” I said. “You’ll see.”

’Tis a great advantage to have four feet when you’re drunk. I put Fisk on one side of her and I took the other, hoping we could put her upright if she started to fall. But aside from a tendency to lean on us and the occasional stumble over objects that weren’t there, Tipple managed fairly well.

“Will she really be hungover tomorrow?” Fisk asked. Tipple swayed toward him and he shoved her shoulder, hard, before she could overbalance.

“She’ll be as miserable as you’d be, and grumpy with it, too. We really will have to hire a horse.”

Tipple stumbled and came to a stop, looking carefully for the invisible thing that kept tripping her.

“The inn ought to lend us a horse,” said Fisk. “They’re the ones that let her get away.”

“We should have told them of her trouble,” I said ruefully.

Tipple raised her head and peered blearily into the alley to our left, ears pricked—’twas all the warning we had.

Four men in dark clothes burst from the shadows, cudgels in their fists. They split neatly around Tipple—two headed for me and two for Fisk. My heart began to gallop, while time seemed to slow. I could see every detail, from the pattern of stitches in their knit caps to the rough stubble on the bigger one’s chin. One of them rushed me, cudgel lifted, and I surprised him by stepping forward to catch his arm and punching him in the stomach with my free hand.

He doubled over, dropped the cudgel, and grabbed my right wrist with both hands. The other man made a grab for my other arm, but missed. I pivoted, swinging his comrade between us as I tried to twist free.

When that failed, I drew my dagger and slashed at my opponent’s throat, kicking his groin at the same time. This was a mistake, for neither of the blows connected firmly enough. He yelped and leapt back, but he kept his hold and his comrade dodged around him and grabbed my other arm.

I heard a cry of pain and saw one of Fisk’s opponents stagger into a wall, his arm pressed against his side. Fisk had drawn his dagger, holding it low and weaving in the manner of a skilled knife fighter. He
could
fight, curse the bastard.

Thrashing in their grasp, I tried to stamp on the toes of the man who gripped my knife arm, but he danced aside, yelling for help. The man Fisk had injured stumbled toward us, cudgel in hand. I couldn’t defeat three of them.

I aimed a kick at my opponent’s knee—it struck a glancing blow, but it threw him off balance. I twisted my arm again and his grip loosened.

Tipple’s hooves clattered on the rough stones. In the tiny corner of my mind that wasn’t screaming
Fight! Fight!
I hoped that she could manage on her own. After that, there was nothing—not even darkness.

M
y head hurt. For a long time that was all I could think of, but then a memory stirred: Jack, a long time ago, telling me that when you woke up in a strange place after being hit on the head, you should lie still and listen.

Like a lot of Jack’s advice, this was probably sound, but easier said than done—I’d already moaned a couple of times.
Had
I been hit on the head?

I vaguely remembered waking several times before, but I’d felt too rotten to notice my surroundings. I now realized I was lying on a wool-stuffed tick spread over what felt like a web of ropes—it was awfully uncomfortable. There was a blanket over me, and the air on my face was fresh despite a strong smell of vomit. Someone was sick. Besides me. Sir Michael?

I opened my eyes and wished I hadn’t, although the sunlight arrowing through half a dozen fist-sized air-holes, high in the opposite wall, wasn’t very bright.

The wooden room held nothing but ten rope beds, one of which I occupied, and an unlit candle lantern suspended from the low ceiling. But the lantern, the whole room, was swaying like…like a ship. I was on a ship.
Cudgel-crewed.
Curse it.

I lifted my aching head and looked for Sir Michael. He lay in another bed, three down from mine. One of the men between us had been sick. The other lay with that absolute stillness that can’t be mistaken for sleep, whatever the ballads say.

Some people would have tried to stand up at that point. Not being an idiot, I rolled carefully out of bed and crawled down the tilting floor, and, as I did, memory leaked back. Cory Port, and the stableboy laughing about Tipple. The men who’d rushed us from the alley. I’d had time to draw my knife and I thought I’d cut one of them, though I wasn’t sure. If I had, I hoped he was a local thug and not one of the crew who’d want blood for blood. On a ship, there’s no place to run.

I gave wide berth to the half-dried pool of vomit, and the whimpering man in the bed above it, but I stopped to check on the still one, just in case. What I could do if he was alive I didn’t know. The question didn’t arise.

Sir Michael wasn’t dead. Drawing nearer, I saw that his brows were crimped with pain, and relief turned my already wobbly limbs to mush. He lifted a shaky hand to his head.

“Owww.”

“Me too,” I said.

“Fisk?” His eyes opened, blinking in the dimness. After a moment they focused on me. “I don’t know what I drank, but the room is moving. I never drink that much.”

“You’re not hungover,” I told him. If he never drank that much, how did he know the symptoms so well? “The room
is
moving. We’re on a ship. We’ve been cudgel-crewed, I think.”

“Oh.” There was a long, pained pause. “Curse it.”

I laughed, which made my head throb, and leaned against the wall—which they probably called something different on ships. I wouldn’t know. I was a landsman, and happy to stay that way.

Sir Michael said nothing. Eventually he opened his eyes and looked around the room. His expression changed when he saw the dead man, but I spoke before he could move.

“There’s nothing to be done there.”

He closed his eyes again. “Do you think
she
arranged this?”

“It’d be a pretty big coincidence for us to get cudgel-crewed accidentally.”

“But how did she know? We didn’t tell anyone why we were there.”

“Except Hackle’s brother,” I said dryly. “Noble Sir, we’ve got to be more subtle about this.”

Sir Michael sighed. “Well, ’tis cursed shabby of her to use poor Tipple’s weakness—Tipple! Chant! What’s going to happen to them?”

He was so agitated he started to sit up. I could have warned him that was a mistake. Sweat broke out on his pale face, but I was pleased to see he didn’t get sick. And I was
very
pleased that the constant roll of the floor (the deck?) wasn’t making me sick, either.

“Don’t worry about the horses,” I told him as color seeped back into his face. “The innkeeper will keep them for a week, then sell them. They’re probably better off than we are.”

“But Chant’s lame! What if—”

“He’s also big, well trained, and gentle. Someone will take him. And there’s nothing you can do about it, anyway.”

Sir Michael closed his eyes and fell silent. Then his eyes opened again, and turned to me. Blazing. “You can fight.”

It sounded like an accusation, and my aching brain took a moment to remember why. “Ah…”

“You
can
fight. You lied to me.”

“I didn’t see that getting beaten up with you would do any good. Noble Sir.”

“That’s not the point! The point is that you
lied.
” Splashes of red appeared on his pale cheeks. I’d never seen Sir Michael angry before. I knew that he didn’t lie, but he wasn’t crazy enough to expect someone else to follow his example. Was he?

“So what? I fought when it was necessary. Not that it helped.”

“That’s
not
the point,” he said again. “The point is…ah, forget it.”

He lay back again, pressing a hand to his head.

“What?” If I was to be blamed for something, I wanted to know what it was. “I don’t see why—”

The door at the end of the room swung open and two men entered, one carrying a tray holding ten steaming mugs. The men wore the rough wool britches and shirts of sailors and their feet were bare. One was long, lean, and young, while the other was short, round, and old. They both looked grim.

They started passing out mugs on the other side of the room. The first man accepted his in grateful silence, but the small man in the second bed grabbed the older man’s arm, demanding to know where he was and what had happened.

“You’ve been cudgel-crewed, mate,” the older man told him, with a kind of rough gentleness. “You’re on a cargo ship, the
Golden Albatross
, and you’re going to be here for a while, so you may’s well stop fretting about it. I’m called Cracker; I’m the cook and the closest thing we’ve got to an herbalist. This tea’ll help your head and your stomach, so drink up. The captain’ll be here in a few minutes, and he’ll be answering your questions.”

The small man burst into tears, but Cracker ignored him and went on to serve the rest of us. He sighed when he saw the dead man, but the look on his face told me he wasn’t surprised.

The tea was bitter and minty and I’d no idea what might be in it, but Sir Michael drank his without hesitation, and since he knew something about medicines I drank too. It had a good effect on my headache, which had gone from nearly intolerable to merely painful by the time the captain came in.

For some reason, Cracker’s words made me expect a big, beefy fellow, but the captain was small and slight, with neat, tiny hands. His bald spot was reaching for his forehead, and his boots, which added two inches to his height, still didn’t make him tall. And none of it mattered. I’ve never seen a man so obviously in command—shrimpy and bald or not.

His eyes swept over the room, gathering ours, before he spoke. “By now you’ll have figured out that you’ve been cudgel-crewed aboard my ship. That means you’ll be crewing for me for the rest of the voyage, like it or not. This isn’t something I usually have to resort to. I’d a bit of trouble a few days back, but I’ve seen a Savant and made sacrifice, so you’ve nothing to fear. This is a fine ship, and you’ll be as safe aboard her as any sailor can be.”

Ten of his crew evidently hadn’t believed that, and I hoped, passionately, that he was right and they were wrong.

“You’ll have the rest of today to recover from your injuries. Tomorrow will see you up on deck learning a bit about the ship, and the next day you’ll start training as seamen. By the end of the trip you’ll
be
seamen.” He paused a moment and studied us, swaying expertly with the roll of the ship.

“I’m sure some of you are thinking of escape. Don’t. Any time we’re within reach of shore, you’ll be locked in this room. Any attempt to escape will be punished with the lash. Work well, and when we reach our final port I’ll pay you a salary, same’s the rest of the crew. Work very well, and if you like I’ll sign you on to come back, and turn you loose one fiefdom short of Cory Port.”

He must have been desperate for crewmen—kidnapping us made it impossible for him to return to Cory Port, since Lord Gerald’s sheriffs would be waiting to arrest him. I hoped again that he was right about this ship being safe from the Furred God’s vengeance—I’d already dealt with the slaying of magica once, and that was once too often. But the captain was continuing.

“The rules on this ship are simple. The penalty for slacking is the lash. The penalty for brawling is the lash. The penalty for theft is the lash. The penalty for disobedience, or disrespect to an officer, is the lash. Mutiny, and I’ll throw you over the side. Kill someone, I’ll throw you over the side. Don’t try anything stupid and you’ll do fine. Any questions?”

Then he turned away, for at that point only an idiot would have asked a question. So I wasn’t surprised when Sir Michael said, “Captain? Where are we going?”

The captain looked surprised, but I was relieved to see that a reasonable question didn’t offend him.

“We’re headed for our home berth, Tallow Port.” A rustle of dismay swept the room. Tallow Port was halfway around the realm. “We should get there in about three months, wind and weather permitting. If you’re smart, you can be back here in six months—your sweethearts won’t have time to miss you, and your kiddies won’t have grown an inch. If you’re not smart…” He shrugged and departed, and Sir Michael and I stared at each other in consternation. In six months Lady Ceciel could hide herself anywhere. And the trail would be cold.

The next day, we crept up on deck, blinking in the fitful sunlight, for the autumn weather had shifted again. It
was
called a deck, I learned. And though the interior floors were called floors, the interior walls were called bulkheads, the beds were called bunks, and there were many other bits of useless wordplay.

That first day, most of the new “crewmen” sat in a wretched huddle, but Sir Michael wandered around asking questions about this or that, and I did a bit of learning myself.

We ate with our fellows in misery, and the meals added to that misery. Breakfast consisted of a bowl of boiled wheat with dried meat in it, and hard biscuits. Mid-meal was a bowl of boiled, dried meat, with wheat in it, and hard biscuits. Dinner was a bowl of dried meat, with a wedge of cabbage, or a few carrots, or a potato, and hard biscuits. My only consolation was that the captain and his officers fared no better.

As we ate, we learned something of the men who’d been kidnapped with us. One was a carpenter, one an apprentice tanner, and so on. Several were sailors, and they were fairly resigned to their lot, though they’d not have chosen this ship. We also heard, that first day, the story of the seagull that had soared through an open cabin window and snatched a broiled fish right off the captain’s plate like…well, like magic. The captain beat it to death with a chart weight, for he was sensitive about receiving proper respect, even from seagulls. The response when Sir Michael introduced himself as a knight errant, and me as his squire, was tiresome, but it soon passed. The only one of us who really stood out was Willard.

Willard was the man who’d cried when Cracker told him he’d been cudgel-crewed. He was a merchant’s clerk by trade, and physically not unlike the captain—small and slight with thinning hair, though he was only in his early twenties. But far from possessing the captain’s hard competence, Willard couldn’t seem to do anything right. He tried his best, but he dropped so many things that after three days’ trial Cracker banned him from the galley. Perhaps fear made him clumsy, or perhaps that was simply the way Willard was.

The captain finally gave up and assigned Willard to act as ship’s clerk, recording all matters of cargo. There wasn’t much clerking to do while we were at sea, so for most of his work shift the first mate set Willard to scrubbing the deck and cleaning and polishing the metalwork. He still dropped things, but if he screwed up these simple tasks he wouldn’t sink us.

A few questions determined that the crew was loyal, and the officers were the only ones armed, so I resigned myself to my fate. Perhaps when we were released in Tallow Port I could persuade Sir Michael to declare my debt repaid and let me go. Jack once told me that any connie who couldn’t make a fortune in Tallow Port ought to give up and get an honest job.

As the first few weeks of our training passed, I became a reasonably competent apprentice seaman. My hands were deft enough at knots, and the rest of the job consisted of hauling on, or releasing, whatever rope they told you to. Each rope had a specific name and function, and I got them all memorized at about the same time my hands and bare feet grew callused. I learned to ride the pitching deck better than I could ride a horse. I should also mention that all our feet were bare, not through cruelty or stinginess on the captain’s part, but to give us better purchase on the deck—especially when it grew slick with rain or high waves, or when Willard tipped over his wash bucket.

But if I became reasonably competent, Sir Michael took to the sea as if he’d been born to it. Of all the “new crewmen,” he was the only one allowed to climb into the nets of rope that spiderwebbed up from the deck. He seemed to take a special pleasure in this cramped, noisy, tilting world, surrounded by the endless expanse of wind, wave, and open sky.

I wouldn’t have left the safety of the deck for a hundred gold roundels, but I had noticed before that a year of supporting himself with odd jobs had given my noble employer an unusual expertise at manual labor.

Then came the afternoon when Sir Michael summoned me to the railing with a direct look, and a jerk of his head so slight it was almost devious.

I sauntered over to him. It was a good afternoon for sauntering, not a cloud in the sky and the sun so warm our feet stuck to the pitch that sealed the deck planks.