Scattered groups of the Deneith warriors still fought. Cimozjen had expected no less, and he respected them for it. Some of the Iron Band contained them, distracted them, while others charged headlong for the vulnerable archers and engine crew.
Cimozjen ran unevenly for the nearest knot of Deneith resistance, intending to add his spear to the fray. As he ran, he heard rolling thunder approaching him from behind, and then the cavalry stampeded past him, havoc and fury and flashing blades.
Cimozjen laughed as he ran. “Too late!” he yelled. “We’ll get them first!”
Then, limping on his wounded leg, he laid into the remaining resistance. It was grim, exhausting work, chopping the hopeless, but it had to be done.
Chapter SEVEN
Soundings
Zor, the 11th day of Sypheros, 998
Cimozjen shook his head to clear it. “No, of course not. As I told someone just last night, I have seen more than enough fighting to last me the rest of my life.” He waved a hand dismissively and started to continue aft, then paused and looked at the man again. “Why do you ask?”
The man smiled. He was a large man, over a hand’s span taller than Cimozjen and robust bordering on the rotund, with bags under his eyes and a slight jowl to his chin. His facial features were shaped pleasantly enough, however it seemed that they had never acquired the same size as the rest of his body. They were slightly too small, grouped just a tad too close to look agreeable on a head his size, thus his smile, too, looked constrained. A thick red surcoat embroidered with gold only added to his apparent size. It broadened his shoulders and swept the deck as he walked.
“My apologies,” said the man, running a hand through his mouse-brown hair. “I speak without considering my manners. My name is Rophis Raanel’s Son, of Fairhaven, though most call me Rophis the Winemonger.” He extended his hand.
“Cimozjen Hellekanus, at your service,” he said, shaking Rophis’s large palm with a firm grip.
“And is this lovely creature your wife?” Rophis asked, gently taking Minrah’s hand and bowing deeply.
“Minrah, and pleased to meet you,” she said, blushing and nestling up against Cimozjen’s arm.
“She’s not my wife,” added Cimozjen. Then he felt a sudden sharp pinch in the crook of his elbow, just under the hem of his chain mail shirt. He drew a sharp breath between his teeth, but managed to avoid vocalizing the unexpected pain. He glanced down at Minrah, who gazed back up at him, her face beaming.
“Not yet,” she said, looking back to Rophis. “But a girl can always hope.”
“Indeed,” said Rophis. “With a radiant face like yours, I would think that your hope would be enough to spur any suitor to the chase. Be that as it may, uh, Cimozjen, again let me offer my apologies. I spoke thusly only because, well, it took me aback to see someone wearing chain aboard ship. It’s a dangerous gambit to wear heavy mail on the water, even when sailing the relatively calm waters of Scions Sound. Were you to fall overboard, you’d find those extra pounds to be a very unwelcome weight.”
Cimozjen looked down at his mail hauberk, largely concealed by his tunic. “I had not considered that possibility,” he said. “I wear it only because I find the weight easier to bear when the chain’s on my body rather than in my pack.”
Rophis rubbed his nose. “At the risk of seeming improper, good warrior, I would also suggest that you not wear your pack strapped to your back in such a manner, especially with a heavy sword lashed to the very top. Again, were you to fall overboard, you’d be dragged down by your shoulders. A very difficult situation in any waters. You’ll take heed that most tars carry their bag slung over one shoulder, so that it can be readily shucked. I only bring this to your attention because the seas can be dangerous, and it would grieve me to see ill befall you or your lovely … companion.”
“How do you know so much about sailing?” asked Minrah. “You don’t have the build of a sailor.”
“Minrah!” scolded Cimozjen.
“Well, he doesn’t.”
Rophis laughed. “It’s all true, of course,” he said. “You’d not catch me climbing the ropes, not on your life. Not unless the ship had sunk that far beneath the waves, eh?” He laughed again. “But I have done a lot of sailing, my dear, from here, where I can buy Nightwood pale, to Fairhaven for Windshire rainbow wine, to Flamekeep for their thrakel-and-berry brandy. Once in a while, I’ll even go to Droaam. The Droaamites have this … this … I don’t know what to call it. It’s heavily distilled, and they won’t tell me what it’s made from, but their name for it translates roughly as Brain Sledge.”
“So you buy and sell spirits.”
Rophis shrugged. “It keeps me in coin. There are a lot of veteran soldiers these days who seem to think they have nothing better to do than duel a bottle of spirits to see who’ll come out the victor. Although it seems you’ve managed to avoid that fate thus far.”
“I’ve more important things to do,” said Cimozjen. “And when I complete them, I may take a single glass for celebration.”
“Just one glass?” asked Minrah. “Then we’d best keep you away from the Brain Sledge. Come, let’s go find our room.”
“If you will excuse us, Rophis,” said Cimozjen with a slight bow.
“We’ll be aboard several days,” Rophis said with a wave. “I’m sure we’ll speak again.”
They found a suitable cabin belowdecks. Like all the others available to them, it was equipped with four berths, several squat candles, and a door with a latch but no lock.
“Hammocks!” squealed Minrah, happily hopping into one and setting it swinging.
Cimozjen grumbled deep in his throat.
Minrah slung her pack across the small room to land in another hammock. “We’re here, and on the trail,” she said triumphantly, crossing her legs and smoothing her skirt.
Cimozjen peered out into the narrow hallway to ensure there were no others within earshot, then closed the door. “We are,” he said.
“So let’s take stock of what we know.”
“First, I think it would be best for us to clear up some misconceptions before they bring us more difficulties,” said Cimozjen. “For starters, you need to understand that you cannot be my wife. You see-”
“Of course I can!” said Minrah. “I assure you my parents wouldn’t object.”
“No, you cannot,” insisted Cimozjen, “for-”
“Am I too young for you?” asked Minrah. “I’m not as young as I look, you know. I’ll bet I outpace you by a good twenty, thirty years.”
“Wh-what?” asked Cimozjen.
“I’ve seen over eighty winters now,” she said. “More than you, isn’t it?”
“But you-you look-”
“Elves grow slowly,” she said. “I won’t be considered an adult until I start my one hundred and eleventh year.”
“An adult has to be one hundred and eleven years old?”
“No, silly man, one hundred and ten.”
“But you just said-”
“I said you’re an adult when you start your one hundred and eleventh year. Think about it. How old are you when you start your first year of life?”
“Just born,” said Cimozjen.
“Right. So you’re zero years old, and at the end of your first year, you’re one year old, right? So when you turn one hundred and ten, you start your one hundred and eleventh year of life. And that’s when you become an adult.”
“It seems an odd number …”
“It has something to do with Aerenal numerology,” said Minrah with a shrug. “That’s all my father ever told me about it. I don’t think he ever knew any more than that, to be candid.”
Cimozjen nodded and marshaled his thoughts. “I understand. However, you’ve run off with our conversation here. Your age has nothing to do with-”
“You don’t care about how old I am?”