He turned as a human head broke the water, a head with straight, fair hair hanging down all about it and eyes without color in the darkness, but with a familiar shape.
“Well met, my lady.”
“It seems a bath was in both our thoughts,” Haimya said.
“Indeed,” Pirvan replied. Although that was no longer his only thought; even cold water had its limits when he shared it with Haimya.
She took him by the hand and led him toward shore. As the water reached their waists, he put his arms around her from behind and kissed the back of her neck, wet hair and all. She turned to face him-and very little was said thereafter, for so long that what finally awoke them was the sound of searching parties from the camp.
They slept again soon after reaching their own tent, and Pirvan’s last thought before slipping down into oblivion was: All warriors should have mates like Haimya. But then, if they did, they would never want to leave them to go to war.
Is that a way of making peace everywhere, one that even the gods have overlooked?
Chapter 11
Tarothin was not the world’s happiest sailor, even aboard a large ship such as Golden Cup. He was even less happy now, clinging desperately to any handhold that offered itself, as the boat thrashed its way out of the west port of Karthay. The wind was blowing half a gale, the rain slashed his face like tiny knives, spray soaked everything the rain left dry, and Pride of the Mountains, the “Karthayan loyalists’ ” chartered ship, might have been on Nuitari for all Tarothin could see of it.
He had the modest consolation that he was standing up to the rough ride better than a good many of his boat-mates. The new recruits looked like the cheaper sort of sell-sword, the scrapings of every tavern in Karthay.
They also looked as if they would gladly sink to the bottom of the harbor if that would end their misery. How miserable they were, Tarothin’s nose told him plainly.
Then something cut off the wind, the sails flapped, someone shouted “Out oars!” and those few aboard fit to handle or even recognize an oar lurched to their task. Tarothin decided that it was not beneath his dignity to handle an oar himself, and he had worked up a good sweat by the time the boat slid alongside Pride of the Mountains.
He was sweating harder by the time he finished helping unload the boat. Both cargo and passengers had to be swung up on deck in nets, and Tarothin’s sweat stung the fresh blisters on his hands.
Eventually the last barrel and sack was stowed below, leaving the decks to the crew and the groaning, prostrate forms of the recruits. Somebody with what looked like a mate’s sash summoned Tarothin over to the break of the aftercastle.
“Can you do anything by way of healing for those poor clowns?” the man asked, pointing at the deckload of seasick victims.
Tarothin frowned. He didn’t want to use major healing spells this soon or on minor ailments such as seasickness. He needed to conserve his strength, the more so in that he knew Pride of the Mountains was very ill-provisioned and he would be doing all of his magic on scant rations. Also, the less these people knew about his real powers, the better his chances of surprising them when it came time to use them.
“Well, these lads can heal themselves, for the most part, if I can bring them to where they’ll keep down water and broth. If someone will show me the galley, I can mix up a kettle of any of two or three potions that will settle stomachs. All the magic I’d need is a little spell any hedge-wizard could do in his sleep.”
The mate looked dubious. Tarothin shrugged. “I can enspell them all back to health, but do you want that much magic hanging over the ship when we’re about to put to sea?”
“Who told you we’re about to put to sea?” The mate still looked dubious about whether he should call for help and have Tarothin clapped in irons.
Tarothin feigned total indifference to this fate and the mate’s goodwill. “Nobody told me, but I’ve eyes in my head, and this isn’t the first time I’ve been to sea. Also, ugly as this wind may be, it’s fair for heading offshore. Wait for the spells to blow away, and they could be blowing away on a dead foul wind.”
“Aye,” the mate said with a sour look. “And our Istarian masters will not be thanking us for that.”
Tarothin memorized the directions to the galley and left the mate trying to get a few of the seasick newcomers to help their worse-off mates. He also wondered if the mate’s remarks indicated some discontent on the part of the crew, or merely a sailor’s age-old reluctance to be at the beck and call of landlubbers.
At least he could do himself no harm with anyone aboard Pride, if his first work aboard was bringing twoscore seasick recruits back to a semblance of health!
* * * * *
Some days’ sailing to the northwest, Jemar the Fair peered out of a port in the aftercastle of Windsword and also contemplated a scene on deck. If he had been able to compare his emotions with those of Pride’s mate, they might well have found themselves kindred spirits.
Not that Windsword’s waist was littered with green-faced recruits too seasick to care whether they lived or died. It held, apart from the usual hands at work preparing to get under way, three women sensibly clad in hooded cloaks over tunics, trousers, and low boots, and surrounded by a modest ring of bags, trunks, and crates.
One of the women, even clad loosely, was plainly with child. And there was what soured Jemar’s mood. The woman he loved as much as life itself and almost as much as the sea was proposing to embark with him while halfway to bearing their fourth child.
At least no harm ever came of a civil greeting, even to a blood enemy, let alone to one’s own wife. Jemar took a deep breath and stepped out on deck.
A moment later he could hardly breathe at all, because Eskaia was hugging him so hard. She had surprising strength for a woman who barely came up to his shoulder, and warmth flowed through him from her embrace, even as he felt her roundness amidships.
“To what do I owe this greeting?” Jemar said with raised eyebrows.
“To your giving permission for me to come aboard and sail with you,” Eskaia said, her smile dazzling white in her olive-hued face.
“Indeed,” Jemar said, trying to avoid even a tone, let alone words, that would bring on a public quarrel. “And to whom do I owe the honor of your fellow passengers?”
Eskaia stepped back and punched her husband lightly in the ribs. “If you have forgotten Amalya, my first maid, then I wonder that you propose to command the fleet. It is as well that I am here to take your place, if your wits-”
Jemar could not hold in his laughter. It was not quite a joking matter; had Eskaia been born to a family like her husband’s, she might indeed be striding the deck of her own ship (although, one hoped, not so far along with child) and aspire to fly her own banner someday. She had taken to the life of a sea barbarian’s lady as if she had been born to it, instead of heiress to one of the great merchant houses of Istar.
Jemar stopped laughing when he realized that Eskaia was still speaking. “-is Delia, a Red Robe with special command of healing spells and midwifery. To be sure, I do not expect us to be at sea long enough for the babe to be born, but Delia also has it in her to prevent mishaps.”
Miscarriages is what you will not say, Jemar thought.
They had been lucky with their brood: three healthy babes in succession, and remaining healthy through all the years since the midwives held them up for the proud parents to contemplate. But sailing on this voyage seemed to Jemar to be tempting fate.