Chapter 17
The logs in Waydol’s snug hut crackled pleasantly and gave off a soothing smell of pine.
Those were just two of many pleasant sounds and smells-and sights and tastes-that Pirvan had savored in the days since the trial. He always savored them more after he’d put his life in the balance, and for a time he wondered if he would ever savor anything again.
He sipped from a cup of Sirbones’s mulled wine. It had no effect against great hurts, the priest of Mishakal had said, but it did not slow their healing by proper spells. As to the minor hurts not worth serious magic, it at least makes one forget them for a while.
This time Pirvan drank deeply. He wanted to forget many things besides minor hurts, then sleep beside Haimya, to wake and savor her warmth and the soft sound of her breathing.…
A time would come for all of this, but that time was not yet.
Waydol emptied his goblet, which was larger than Darin’s, and Darin’s was as large as Haimya’s and Pirvan’s put together. He set the goblet down, wiped his mouth with a clean cloth, and, with a delicacy of movement that showed his hands still pained him, he coughed.
“I fear I cannot dismiss the trumpeter,” Waydol said. His voice was hoarse, like a man’s with congestion, but otherwise undiminished. Sirbones was a healer of high skill, and while all of the fighters would have aches and pains reminding them of the trial for some days, none would suffer lasting hurt.
“It would shame him,” the Minotaur added. “He came to my band fleeing from apprenticeship to a harsh master. Playing the trumpet was his only pleasure.”
“It is only pain to all who listen,” Pirvan said. “Let us strike a bargain over the trumpeter. If he goes into the world, I will find him a teacher who can tell him if he has any musical art. If he does, well and good. If not, then we can seek some other work for him.”
“You are firm in your honor,” Darin said. He spoke softly, so that he did not need to move his head. Of the four fighters, he had come closest to death; without a skull thicker than most, he might have gone before Sirbones could heal him.
“I am a Knight of Solamnia,” Pirvan said. “I know that only begins the explanation, but I do not have time to tell you every thought that I have had about honor. Leave it that I will no more abandon your men than I would have abandoned mine, and let us go on to the best way of saving them.”
When he accepted Waydol’s oath of peace, Pirvan demanded only that Waydol agree to allow any of his band who so wished to go free. Jemar the Fair’s ships would bear them to Solamnia, where, if they chose peaceful lives, it was unlikely that Istar would seek them out.
Waydol was not bound by anything save his loyalty to his men. Pirvan suspected that the Minotaur intended to seek his homeland again, with his precious burden of knowledge about human ways.
No doubt the minions of the kingpriest would say that Pirvan ought to halt Waydol, even slay him if necessary. No doubt, also, Pirvan would not lift a finger to stop Waydol, and would offer bare steel to anyone else who attempted it.
The knight’s major regret in letting Waydol sail north was not what he might tell his folk. It was losing the chance to know the Minotaur better. Waydol could teach the knights a thing or two about honor and oaths; Pirvan wanted to learn them.
“What of those who do not wish to flee to Solamnia but wish to give up the outlaw life?” Darin added. “Can you do anything for them?”
“The knights would doubtless honor any pledges I made for them, if they took the field,” Pirvan said. “But I think Aurhinius means to settle matters before that happens. So I would urge that all who wish to flee by land do so before we find ourselves besieged. If they quietly vanish from your band and reappear elsewhere as honest men, I doubt that anyone will trouble them.
“The one thing to be avoided like dishonor is anyone trying to be chief of an outlaw band in your place. Then the Istarians will harry this land until it lies ruined, and their fleet and army will loom over Karthay until that city loses patience.”
Those words were out of Pirvan’s mouth before he realized that, to a minotaur, Karthay and Istar spending each other’s strength in a witless war could be a welcome prospect. Yet he did not fear Waydol thinking along those lines.
Waydol believes in the superiority of the minotaurs, as do all his folk. But he believes that they must show their superiority by winning honorably.
“I will have words with any ambitious little men,” Waydol said. “Darin, are you fit to take Gullwing to sea and seek out Jemar the Fair?”
“I feel well, Waydol.”
“Has Sirbones said you are well?”
“Not yet.”
“Then you remain ashore until he speaks,” Waydol said. There could be no more arguing with him than with a battle-axe.
“Jemar may well find us without Darin’s voyage,” Pirvan suggested. “Also, there are signals that he will recognize. If you can build beacon fires on the headland above the cove, they will be visible far out to sea.”
“To the Istarians, as well as to Jemar,” Darin put in.
“I think the place of our stronghold is no longer much of a secret,” Waydol said. “Now we must help our friends win the race to it, against our enemies.”
* * * * *
Aurhinius awoke to the sounds of a great deal of shouting and running about overhead. This seemed to be his normal manner of waking aboard Winged Lady, or indeed any other ship. Fortunately he was a sound sleeper; his good digestion gave him more than a certain roundness of belly.
The running ceased, but the shouting continued. Aurhinius began to make out words. It seemed there was an unidentified ship in sight.
He decided to dress and go on deck, to see how the captain dealt with this. It was the first such sighting since he had come aboard; all the others had been plainly merchant ships of one nation or another. All except one, a low-built sailing vessel that had darted off into a fogbank at a speed that suggested its crew did not wish to be identified.
Aurhinius made less of a business of dressing than usual. Fond as he was of fine attire, he was fonder still of his own dignity-and dressing aboard a warship as though one were at audience with the kingpriest was a sure way to be laughed at.
In long woolen tunic and linen hose, Aurhinius came on deck, about the time the lookout called from the masthead.
“Deck, there! It’s a light galley, under sail. No flag that I can see, but she’s coming toward us.”
Aurhinius looked at the captain, who shrugged. “None of our scouts are missing. Could be a messenger ship, though if she’s coming from the west, she’s likely to be from Solamnia. Can’t be carrying too many men, though, so I won’t hope for knights joining us.”
“Much as I think,” Aurhinius said.
The next hail from the top surprised everyone. “She’s resting on her oars and raising a truce flag. No banners yet, but there’s something painted on her foresail.”
“Nothing hostile, that’s for certain,” the captain said. “Otherwise she’d be running.” He raised his speaking trumpet and shouted aft.
“Port your helm. I want to run down and speak to this galley. And send the men to quarters.”
“Signal the same to the rest of the fleet,” Aurhinius said.
“Begging your pardon, my lord,” the captain said, “but there’s no call for that. If Winged Lady can’t handle a light galley by herself, then you can take your banner elsewhere with my blessings.”
“I can’t think of that,” Aurhinius said, smiling. “Your figurehead is too enticing.”
The captain returned the smile. The bannership’s figurehead was a life-sized carving of a splendidly proportioned woman, wearing nothing but a pair of spreading wings, with every feather exquisitely carved and gilded. There were many different opinions as to which goddess or heroine the figurehead represented. The one that Aurhinius favored was that it was a likeness of the woodcarver’s mistress.