What in the name of perdition had that been all about? the swordsman wondered.—Once more he cursed Death for blocking his access to the Well of Souls and preventing him from observing the world he had left. There were so many hidden undercurrents in this place—so much was going on that he didn’t understand.—When he had been Commander of the Garrison, for instance, he had never known that Wyvernesse existed—and he would have paid good gold for the information.—These blasted Nightrunners had been a thorn in his side for years, and it had never occurred to him what good people they might be.
That winged girl, too, had been a shock. She had left him reeling. Though he had once glimpsed Raven, Aurian’s former winged companion, in the Well of Souls, that was a far more detached experience than actually meeting one of the legendary Skyfolk face-to-face. And how can I help Aurian if I don’t know the half of what’s going on? he thought despairingly.
Well, he would do what he had always done—his best. Looking around, Forral realized with a twinge of unease that both Grince and the eldritch creature who had once been Finbarr had managed to lose themselves somewhere between this common room and the cavern where the ships were anchored. Then he put them out of his mind. Save for the two great cats, he and Aurian were left alone for the first time since their initial meeting in the Mages’ Tower.—The Mage was gazing bleakly into the fire, and Forral, desperate to comfort her but unsure of her reaction, knelt down beside her and reached out a tentative hand to ruffle her hair, as he had done when she was a child. Aurian turned sharply—but there was gratitude in her eyes, not hostility. With a sigh, she took his hand and rested her head against his shoulder. “I know I find it difficult to show you, Forral,” she said softly, “but truly, I’m glad to have you back.”
Grince had taken advantage of everyone’s preoccupation with the mad old woman to slip away and do a little exploring on his own account. It’s all very well for the Mage to tell me to trust these folk, he thought, but I’d prefer to know a little more about them first. Where would I possibly fit into a place like this?
Retracing his steps, he made his way back to the huge cavern that berthed the Nightrunner fleet. He had been intrigued and entranced by the ships—even before Nexis had lost its river, he had never seen vessels such as these, with their intricate figureheads and sleek, rakish lines. Also, it wouldn’t do any harm to see what was in those bales they had been unloading. .. .
On the busy, crowded beach, no one noticed one small, extra figure. Grince loitered for a time near the men who were unloading cargo, but to his disappointment they did not open any of the boxes and bales, but carried them away just as they were. After a while he lost interest and wandered off along the curving beach, giving a wide berth to an old man who was seated on a low stool at the water’s edge, gutting a pile of slimy, smelly fish. For a time he watched the men and women who mended the nets and sails, but it was a dull activity that soon palled.
The thief was just about to leave them to it and go in search of something to eat when his attention was drawn to a whole spate of swearing coming from one of the ship that was anchored nearby.
“Bugger it! The bloody main gaff’s jammed solid!”
“Well climb up and free the cursed thing then.”
“Me? Not on your life, mate. My mast-climbing days were over long since.—That’s a young man’s game.”
“Well there’s a young man, across on the shore. You! Hey you! Hop in a dinghy and get your lazy backside over here!”
To his horror, Grince realized that they were shouting at him. “Me?” Hastily he backed away from the water’s edge. “But I don’t know how ...”
The two old shipwrights exchanged a look of disgust. “I’m not having this. You go and get him.”
“No, you go.”
The greybeard who was gutting fish looked up from his work and spat into the water. “Don’t strain yourselves, will you?” he said derisively. “I’ll bring the lad.” He grabbed hold of Grince, covering his tunic with smelly fish scales, and bundled him into a small boat. Before the thief knew what was happening, or could explain that he didn’t even know how to swim, he was afloat and heading out into the deeper water of the bay.
Ignoring his protests, they hauled him aboard the smuggler ship. One of the old men looked at him, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “Whose lad are you?” he demanded in puzzled tones. “You know, I can’t quite place you....”
“Oh, come on, Jeskin,” the other cut in, “or we’ll be here all bloody night.—What difference does it make whose lad he is, so long as he can climb.” He turned to Grince. “Lad, can you climb?”
“Can I climb?” The thief couldn’t conceal his grin. Perhaps these Nightrunners would have some use for his unorthodox talents after all. “Can a fish swim?”
The two old men looked thoroughly unimpressed. “Well climb up that mast and cut the gaff free.”
In that moment, Grince regretted showing off. What in the name of all the Gods was a gaff supposed to be? Why and how was it stuck up the mast? And that mast seemed awfully high and spindly, and the ship was rocking on the water in the most unnerving way .. .
But a new feeling had come over the thief. Here he was, in a different place, his previous background unknown, the slate wiped clean. Suddenly he was fired by a newfound determination to prove himself among these folk, to fit in at last with those around him. Grince pulled out his knife and stuck it between his teeth. He spat on his hands, swallowed back his fears, and began to climb the mast.
In fact it was quite easy. The rough, damp wood gave him a good sure hold and there were plenty of ropes and things to help him on his way. He shot up the first part at speed, showing off again, and was more than halfway up the wretched thing when everything changed. Gradually the mast began to narrow, making it more difficult to get a firm grip with his legs. Also, the further he got, the more violently the ship began to rock, and the more he could feel the swaying motion as the top of the mast tipped back and forth through the air. Grince’s stomach lurched and heaved. His palms began to sweat, causing him further difficulties with the climbing. Rashly, he looked down—and froze with a whimper, his teeth clenched tight around the haft of the knife as he clung like a leech with his arms and legs wrapped tightly around the swinging pole.
Only professional pride made the thief continue. Cautiously he inched his way higher, carefully not looking down at the narrow deck and all that water far below. After what seemed like a year or two, his groping hand fell upon a tangle of ropes and a long wooden spar caught up in them so that it drooped at an acute angle that looked wrong even to Grince’s inexperienced landsman’s eye. “This must be that gaff thing, I suppose,” he muttered to himself.—Hanging on tightly with one hand, he sliced through the entangling ropes—and nearly went crashing to the deck with the gaff as it struck him hard on the shoulder in falling, narrowly missing his head.
Afterward, he had no memory whatever of climbing down. Grince came back to himself to find that he was standing on the blessed, solid deck with the two men clapping him on the shoulders hard enough to rattle his teeth.
“Well done, lad!”
“You did a good job up there—it wasn’t easy.”
“Come on, Jeskin—let’s see if we can’t find him a drink somewhere.”
Filled with a warm glow of belonging, Grince managed to conceal his utter relief to be back on shore again. The old men beached their rowing boat and led him off down a different passage that twisted and turned until it reached what was clearly a vast kitchen that fairly hummed with the purposeful bustle of a meal in preparation.
Dodging their way between the busy workers with utter unconcern, Grince’s new friends towed him across the cavern. “Emmie—hey, Emmie? Have you a drop of rum in the pantry for a handy lad?”