Lyim loosened his robe and began slipping it over his head. "There!" Frowning, he nudged Guerrand, who was watching him with eyes agog.
"Oh, yes," muttered Guerrand. He, too, removed his robe and began to roll it to a size that would fit in his pack. Looking in the leather sack, he caught sight of the shard of mirror and remembered with a start that Zagarus was still inside and had been for days. He certainly couldn't release him now, with the mate and Lyim watching. Closing the flap quickly before Zagarus could squawk, he resolved to make an opportunity the second the negotiations were over.
"Well, then, that be settled," said Guthrie. "Ye can get started on yer work straight away." He kicked an empty wooden crate forward and nodded toward the wagon upon which they'd ridden. "Start loadin' these spuds so's we can get 'em on deck and the farmer'll get his cart back by mornin'."
"Now?" gulped Lyim. "You want us to load potatoes yet tonight?" He looked wistfully toward the well-lit inn the fanner had entered.
"Do ye know another way to get 'em on deck by sunup?" asked the mate, weatherworn hands on his hips.
"Yes," Lyim muttered under his breath for Guerrand's ears alone.
Afraid that the impulsive apprentice might be driven to a foolish display of magic, Guerrand grabbed a handful of potatoes and tossed them into the crate. "We'll happily get right at it, Guthrie, sir." He tossed another armload of spuds into the box. "Be done in no time."
"Gentle now," warned the mate. "We don't want to be bruisin' the stock afore we sell it." He watched Guerrand for a moment until satisfied with his touch, then walked up the gangplank and boarded the ship.
"Happily, sir," mimicked Lyim, at last joining in. "I didn't know you were a bootlicker, Guerrand. You don't seem the type."
Guerrand looked about anxiously. "Remember, call me Rand." He glared at the other apprentice. "And I'm not the type, Lyim. But I had to do something to reassure him after your gaffs. We're going to be on this ship day and night for more than a fortnight, and the mate can make our lives very easy or very difficult." He arched a brow. "I know which of those I'd prefer."
"I was the one who explained away our robes," sniffed Lyim.
"Yes," agreed Guerrand, "and now we have to remember the details of that lie. Which god was it?"
"Gilean, one of the old gods." Lyim chuckled, ignoring the implied criticism in Guerrand's tone. "I'll take that as a thank-you."
Bent over a crate, Guerrand peered under his arm at Lyim. "Let's just hurry and get these things loaded."
They made short work of the task, filling sixteen crates. Guerrand called to the mate, who showed the young men where to put the crates on the deck. It was long, tedious work, and even patient Guerrand thought he might lose his mind by the time Guthrie released them for the night, with a reminder to report for duty just before sunup.
Lyim wasted no time heading for the light and mirth of the Laughing Lynx Inn, a rambling structure of weathered stone, with wooden cross braces bleached gray by many seasons exposed to the sea. Guerrand begged off, saying he needed to stretch his legs before retiring.
The second he saw Lyim's back disappear into the Laughing Lynx, Guerrand hastened down the shore to a rocky jut of land. Sitting on a boulder, he flipped open the pack.
What on Krynn are you doing, Guerrand? He could hear Zagarus's angry thoughts directly inside his head.
Let me out of here!
Though he knew no one else could hear the sea gull, he couldn't resist the temptation to hiss, "Ssshhh!" He carefully withdrew the mirror, glaring into the glassy surface. There, he could see the shadow-shrouded image of his familiar.
Zagarus sprang forth with a squawk, nearly crashing into Guerrand's face. Before the bird could speak, Guerrand said wearily, "Don't ask. All you need to know is that I found the tower and have a master-"
I figured that, since we're not dead.
"And we're traveling with another mage, so we'll have to be careful. No one can know you're my familiar."
The more things change, the more they stay the same, said Zagarus. Including that I need to eat. How many days was I in there?
Guerrand shook his head. "I'm not sure. Two, maybe? I'm sorry it was so long, but it couldn't be helped."
No wonder I'm starving! With that, Zagarus lifted his wings and soared seaward to find food.
"Stay close!" called Guerrand, knowing it was unnecessary. Zagarus understood the rules better than anyone. Guerrand thought that was strange, when he was on the threshold of learning a whole new set of rules himself.
Chapter Nine
Nineteen days out of Alsip, in the narrows known as the Gates of Paladine, at the mouth of the Bay of Branchala, the Ingrid was besieged by pirates. If that weren't bad enough, Lyim saved the entire crew by casting a web spell and trapping the flailing and frightened pirates aboard their own ship, before they could board the Ingrid.
That was why Guerrand and Lyim spent the evening of the twentieth day out of Alsip in the wastelands of the Palanthas Plains. Without a map, Guerrand couldn't be sure how far Palanthas lay to the south, but he suspected it was at least fifteen leagues, two very long days' walk.
"We're lucky they didn't set us adrift in a skiff without water or food, or, worse still, make us walk the plank with the pirates," said Guerrand, trying to warm himself before the fire. His robes and trousers were soaked, and the night was unseasonably cool.
"Instead, they put us ashore with neither food nor water," snorted Lyim. "Some thanks for saving their miserable lives!"
"I suspect they felt they were showing their appreciation by not killing us."
"You think I was wrong to cast the spell, don't you?"
"Wrong?" Guerrand had to think for a moment about that. "No," he concluded, "I don't believe you were wrong to save everyone before there was bloodshed." In fact, Guerrand admired Lyim's facility with magic. He felt awkward in comparison. "I, however, might have chosen a less flamboyant way of doing it."
Lyim was nonplussed, proud, in fact. "That's because I believe anything worth doing is worth doing with flair." He stood and thumped his chest. "If you ask me, it's just as well that we got kicked off the ship. The work! The confinement! I thought I might lose my mind. I much prefer to have my time my own, my feet planted firmly on the ground, not some rocking ship." Both knew Lyim had spent some green moments on stormy days aboard ship, though Guerrand was kind enough not to mention it to the proud apprentice.
He, too, had suffered from the hard life of a sailor. He feared that several newfound muscles would ache until his last living day. But secretly, he'd welcomed the back-breaking labor. It gave him the opportunity to think. In the evening he'd wait on the bow of the ship for Zagarus, one of dozens of gulls who would hitch rides on the gunwales there. Late at night, when he was finally allowed to retire, he'd read in secret from his spellbook and take notes by moonlight. Despite his servitude, he felt more in control of his life than he ever had at Castle DiThon. In short, he felt like a new person.
He looked like a new person, too. His uncombed hair was longer, and he'd let his beard grow coarse to avoid recognition. Despite his fears, he'd seen no picture of himself from Castle DiThon on the Berwick's ship.
Thinking of the castle always brought one regretful subject to mind: Kirah. Guerrand was consumed with guilt. He missed her desperately. The memory of her wan little face increased his resolve to complete his apprenticeship in record time so that he could send for her. He only hoped she would forgive him. Perhaps he would send her another note, once he got settled in Palanthas.