The Temple Page 11

  So he crawled. It was agonizing, but he had to find someone, because no one was going to find him.

  But the pain was overwhelming, and soon Nolan was unconscious.

  Chapter Five

  The Wandering Blade

  Spray from the sea showered the deck, and Halas struggled to keep his feet. They sailed along the coast, well on their way to the Inigo, already ahead of schedule.

  The Inigo River was not an ordinary river. When Aeon the Great banished the Infernal creatures, the Inigo had sprung up from nothing to be a great border between the Burning Desert and the civilized world. Fifty miles wide and many hundreds long, it did not conform to the normal standards of a river. To begin with, it did not actually run, save for when it wanted to. One minute it could be as still as a calm lake, and the next, thirty foot waves could drag you beneath the raging rapids and keep you there. Cloart assured Halas that that was just a myth—he said that the river was quite like the open sea, but incredibly calm, for the most part. In all his voyages, he himself had witnessed very few storms.

  Cloart approached them, scratching himself as he went. Garek noticed him first. “Hello, sir,” he said.

  “Hey there. Cap’n Brennus wants to see ye. Follow me.”

  They followed across the broad deck and into the belly of the ship. The captain’s room was one of modest size, with a bunk, a desk, and a private washroom. The four stood, waiting for the captain himself to appear. He came into the room after they did, surprising all but Cloart. Halas turned to regard him.

  Captain Brennus was tall, thin, and muscular, as one would expect from someone of his profession. Also expectedly, his skin was a deep tan, from all his days spent in the sun. What seemed out of place, to Halas at least, were the man’s eyes. They were gentle, not rough, and kind. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I am Captain Brennus.”

  They introduced themselves, and Brennus made a point to put faces with names. “I trust Cloart has told you of your duties?”

  “He has, Captain,” said Des.

  “Good. I thought it a good idea to meet the new members of my crew before we got too far out. Cloart, pray excuse us. I would like to take them to the kitchen.”

  “Aye, Cap.”

  The kitchen was larger than the captain’s quarters, with shelves and cupboards filled with food and spices. Brennus then showed them to the storage area just behind it. Much of the supplies were fresh, though Brennus also showed them a large quantity of a thick, tough meat. “Never spoils,” he said. “This is a special sort of jerky. That weird fellow up in King Melick’s court came up with the recipe. He called it spódhla. We run out the fresh stuff quite quickly and live off this. Lucky for you there are plenty of ways to cook it, but you needn’t worry about that right now. For supper, I would like something with chicken. Can you boys cook?”

  “Yes,” Desmond said. “For two summers I was tutored by Chef Merzio himself.”

  “Were you? I have had the occasion to meet Merzio. A fine man.”

  Halas had heard otherwise, and often. He wanted to laugh, but kept his composure. “Yes he was,” Desmond offered.

  “I would like to hear your stories, Mister Mallon. In any case, I’m afraid I have duties to attend to. I’ll assign a guide to take you around the ship.” He led them back to the deck, and called over a tall man with green eyes and a pronounced limp. “This is Martarey,” he said, introducing them next. Martarey bowed his head. “Take them around the ship, will you?”

  “Course,” said Martarey.

  The Wandering Blade was a very big ship. A trom class galley, its hull was unusually thick. The deck was open, with the exception of five ballistae and several smaller scorpions that were positioned around the perimeter, and the many passenger cabins, designed for people who, in either a moment of unrivaled bravery or stupidity, would book passage on such a ship. These cabins were together as a single structure, one story high in the middle of the deck. A single door led below to a beehive of cramped hallways and small rooms. The more senior crewmen had rooms to themselves; junior sailors had to share with one or two others. The galley was the largest room on the ship, with rows of cabinets and stoves in one section and tables in the other. Every surface of every room looked the same: bland, dark wood—and it was very easy to get lost. Luckily, Halas had a good sense of direction, and already a rough map was forming in his mind.

  “So,” said Martarey, “you’re the draftees, eh?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Halas said. Did they not know that he and Des had actually volunteered? It might be better to keep it that way, he decided. “How long have you served on this ship?”

  “Ten years,” was the response. “And it’ll be eleven ‘fore we get to Earlsfort. She takes some getting used to, I gotta tell you.”

  “Who?”

  “The ship, the Blade. Cap’n Brennus’ll make sure and do right by you, though. He ain’t the prettiest or the nicest, but he’s sure the best there is. He takes care of us, see. Don’t like no one coming in and mucking up what he got. So take care.”

  Halas closed his eyes and fought back a deep sigh. It was clear that Martarey resented them. He wondered if it was a common feeling, and suspected it was.

  “We don’t mean to step on any toes here,” Garek said.

  “Course not,” said Martarey. “Just keep it in mind. Cap’n Brennus’ll look out for ya, but you’re low priority. Not crew, not even guests. Draftees. Ain’t right, doin that. Lotsa people’d rather serve by their own will than the king’s.”

  They were back in the open air. The waters had settled down for the time being. The sun was shining, but it was still cold. “Tomorrow,” Martarey said, “wrap up. It’s gonna get mighty cold fore it gets warmer.”

  That night they, along with the assistance of twelve other sailors, cooked a thick stew. Des seemed disappointed. Halas thought maybe he had anticipated something more challenging. “Take it to our guests, would you?” ordered the Absolon, the Head Chef. Halas took a tray with two bowls up to the deck. Sailors were scurrying around, busy at work. Wishing he knew what it was they all were doing, Halas walked to the guest’s quarters. The big man answered. Inside, Halas could see the young boy.

  “Hello,” he said, “I was told to bring you supper.”

  “My thanks,” the big man grunted, taking the tray and closing the door.

  It snowed that night, and every day after for two weeks. Halas soon discovered that keeping the deck free of ice was an incredible chore, one where he, Garek, Des, and the other deckhands spent nearly all day on their hands and knees with sharp blades, chipping away at the frozen wood. They were given bags of salt and crushed stone to hold things over, but were encouraged to keep the deck entirely free of ice.

  The gravel sat in the hold, unused.

  It was nearly a week into the voyage. Halas stood up and rubbed his sore arms. He’d broken his blade. Cloart was nearby, shouting at two sailors. Suddenly curious, Halas moved closer to where he could hear. “Cut that out!” he heard. The two sailors looked at the diminutive man. One shrugged, and they both laughed as they walked away. Cloart went below, muttering to himself.

  “What was that about?” Halas asked a sailor nearby.

  “We don’t like him much,” the man answered. The two shoved roughly past Halas, turning separate ways and getting back to work.

  Halas’ own shift was finished, so he went below to find supper. He ate with Des and Garek that night, as they did every night. Desmond looked annoyed. “What’s the matter?” Garek asked him.

  “Absolon,” he answered.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s stupid. Doesn’t know what he’s doing in there. He’s spent too much time cooking spódhla, and not enough time with real food.”

  “So teach him,” Garek offered.

  “He won’t listen! The oaf is so obsessed with his authority that he won’t take my advice.”

  “Then,” the younger Duer continued, “do it without his knowing.”

/>   “I may have to. Not sure I can stand to eat like a beggar for so long.”

  The next morning, Desmond diced up several peaches and slipped them into the porridge, along with more than a little sugar. Halas savored every bite. He had only eaten peaches once before; they were rather expensive in Cordalis. But he was not alone in noticing the improvement. After breakfast, several sailors walked up to Absolon and praised his cooking. Absolon took these compliments to heart, boasting about this and that. He had not even seemed to notice the peaches as he ate, but that didn’t matter. Desmond was the only one that morning who seemed unhappy. He had worked in secret, and Halas had forgotten that the one thing Des loved more than food was attention. He glanced at his friend, who ground his teeth and clenched his fists in anger.

  Winter was quick to fall behind. The snow fell less, the sun stayed in the sky higher and longer, and best of all, it was warm. Each sailor wore less and less fur as the days went on, until finally they stopped altogether. After every meal, Halas took a tray of food to the strange passengers, but was never allowed inside. Walking back to his room after one of these excursions, he felt a pair of hands press against his shoulder, and then he was sprawling on the deck, his breath driven violently from his lungs. He rolled over on his back, gasping up at the stars. Raucous laughter echoed across the deck. Halas looked around, trying to see who had pushed him, but it could have been any of the crew.

  He saw the big man still standing in the doorway, watching with a solemn look etched on his features. It was an expression that looked well at home. He gave a subtle nod, indicating a crewman Halas didn’t know, and then closed his door. The crewman blurred. Halas covered his face with his hands, trying with a stun induced stupidity to hold his breath in that way. It didn’t work.

  This was the first of many assaults to come. Halas knew that he and his friends were on their own. They’d just have to put up with it, he supposed. Six months isn’t that long.

  Yes it is.

  Six months.

  If Captain Brennus or Cloart, or indeed any of the officers onboard, seemed to notice the attacks, they did nothing to prevent them. Halas hoped that they were just ignorant to the goings on, but Brennus was highly involved with his men. He played cards and darts in the hold at night, he ate with the crew each day, he broke open casks of beer and ale for even the most minor of occasions. They were a family. How could he not know?

  It was the middle of the night, and Halas did not hear Garek’s snoring. His brother was awake, then. Well, good, he thought, so am I. “Garek?”

  “Halas. Why’re you up?”

  “Can’t sleep. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” He heard Garek roll over in the bunk below. Halas felt pained, as if the whole mess were his fault. He should have been able to prevent this. Garek never should have been allowed to leave.

  “What do we do about these sailors?”

  “Desmond likened them to schoolyard bullies. I wouldn’t know.”

  “Nor would I, but he’s likely right. How often are you pushed?”

  “Least once a day. Mostly more. I think it’s getting worse.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Garek whistled through his teeth, thinking of what to say. “It’s just a feeling I have. They don’t like us. I don’t really know why. It’s not my fault I was drafted, after all. That’s kind of the whole point of it.”

  “It doesn’t matter much to them. We’re outside their group. We don’t matter. They think we’ve all been drafted. Perhaps we should keep it that way.”

  “Why?” Garek asked. “Maybe they’ll like you and Des better if they find out you signed on willingly.”

  “Maybe,” Halas conceded, “but you’re not going to go it alone.”

  He broached the topic with Cloart the next day.

  “Yeah,” Cloart said. He stood at the railing, gazing off into the blue. He’d just released a falcon, and his leather gauntlet hung about his arm, momentarily useless. Halas leaned against the wall of the cabin behind him, hands in his pockets. The wind was chilly. “They’re bad about it. We’ve been out here for nearly a month; the men get bored, restless. I’ve been the butt of their pranks for years now. ‘S why the cap’n made me First Mate, so they always know there’s a line they can’t cross.” The falcon circled above them for a bit before disappearing. Cloart turned to Halas. “Did you know my father was a gnome?” he asked.

  Halas shook his head. “I did not. Is that why the crew treats you as they do?”

  “Aye. Lots of people hate gnomes, and half gnomes are even worse. When I was a boy, my folks took me out to the theatre for the first time. We never got there. Know why?”

  Halas shook his head. This story had a bad ending. Halas felt nervous, as if it were his fault. These days, he felt responsible for a great deal of things.

  Cloart continued. “We made it almost to the doors, when some rich ones decided we weren’t fit to enter. They called over a dockworker, gave him ten detricots. The dockworker had a bag of fertilizer. Now, my da was a free man, but that didn’t mean much to anyone there. The dock man dumped the bag on my da’s head. Called us ‘shitty little shit people,’ and laughed. Everyone laughed, even the patrolling Badges that passed us by.”

  Halas looked at his feet, suddenly feeling very ashamed, for himself and people in general. “I’m sorry.”

  “No worries,” Cloart said. “Not your doing, and it’s long past. I’m well over it. Never saw that dock man again.” He turned back to the rail. His falcon had become almost invisible. “But it happens. For some it’s worse than others. Folks don’t like what’s not theirs.”

  They stood in silence for a time, watching Cloart’s falcon circle overhead. “I don’t suppose Captain Brennus can make us officers as well,” Halas mused, only half joking. Cloart smiled wanly.

  “S’pose not. Anyhow, we’ll be on naught but spódhla here soon. Some of the men are gonna take sick. Fair warnin.”

  Martarey was on galley duty when he happened to glance in Desmond’s direction, just as Des, looking about as conspicuous as can be, slipped a fistful of spice into the cooking pot. Martarey lunged across the kitchen with the speed unbecoming a cripple and grabbed his wrist, twisting his arm behind his back. “What do you think yer doing!” he demanded, pushing Desmond to the counter. No one else moved. The room was still with confusion.

  “What is going on?” Absolon asked.

  “He’s poisoning our food!”

  That got to them. A few men drew what weapons they had on them: knives and small hammers, mostly. Others put up their fists. One wrapped a short length of chain around his knuckles. All shouted for blood. Desmond looked around, confused, and then laughed. He laughed until his face was red and he couldn’t breathe. Martarey shook him and Des flopped like a rag doll. “What? What’s so funny?”

  Through the laughs, Desmond managed to get out: “It’s cinnamon!”

  A few of the men muttered, “We have cinnamon?”

  When Des had finally stopped laughing, he wiped tears from his eyes and spoke. “There’s quite a lot of spice in the hold. You ever use it, Absolon?”

  “Of course I use spices! I’m a chef,” Absolon stammered.

  Garek was at the back of the crowd. “Then why’s he have to put them in secretly?” he asked.

  Desmond grinned devilishly at the chef. “I know how to cook spódhla, too,” he said.

  For this, Absolon had no words. But from then on, he let Desmond help him, and the food was better. Even the spódhla, when they eventually ran out of fresh stuff. Though they warmed to Desmond, it was not enough to satisfy the bitter dislike the sailors had for the draftees. Halas and Garek were still only spoken to when absolutely necessary and ignored when not. At best.

  While most of the sailors began to like Desmond, others had a reaction that was the polar opposite. Absolon was a trusted member of the crew, and having a draftee show him up was embarrassing. A bunch of the cook’s best boys gathered together on
e night and hatched up a plan.

  Garek was alone when this plan was put into action. One of the best boys came from the aft deck and told him someone had defecated there. Not surprising, as Captain Brennus had allowed the sailors a drunken night. Garek had wanted quite badly to join in, but restrained himself. Drinking with these men would not end well. Now it was late, and most of the crew would be dead asleep. So, grumbling, Garek took up his mop and followed the boy to the mess. The only light was that of the stars; the lamps had been extinguished. Garek set his bucket down and soaked the towel, slapping it down into the mess, grimacing as he did so. He, again, wished this whole thing had never happened.

  Of the three draftees, the only draftee was the smallest, therefore he was naturally the first. Two boys about Garek’s age came up behind him, locking their arms around his and dragging him to his feet. They had thought Garek to be an easy target, and did not expect resistance. Garek surprised them.

  He twisted free immediately, grabbing the first boy and shoving him into the second. They stumbled away, but a third had appeared on the deck. He grabbed Garek by the neck. Garek knocked his arm away and kicked the boy in the gut. The boy doubled over. Garek hit him again and turned to face the first two boys. They grabbed Garek’s shoulders, driving him backward and into the bulkhead. Garek’s arm struck the heavy wood awkwardly and sparked with pain. He hissed. One of the boys had dark red hair. He held his face too near to Garek and suffered for it. A cut opened on the Garek’s forehead, but he hardly felt it. He was in a fury. His arm ablaze, he kicked free of the second boy, only for the third to rejoin the fracas, moving low and wrapping his arms around Garek’s waist. Garek slammed his elbow against the top of the boy’s head. The boy dropped.