Palli’s lips were pressed together; his oath would hold him, Cazaril thought. But he made a little unhappy gesture nonetheless. “As you will, but, but . . . damn. Damn.” He stared for long across the dim chamber at Cazaril, as if searching for who-knew-what in his face. “It’s not just that dreadful excuse for a beard. You are much changed.”
“Am I? Well, so.”
“How . . .” Palli looked away, looked back. “How bad was it? Really? In the galleys.”
Cazaril shrugged. “I was fortunate in my misfortunes. I survived. Some did not.”
“One hears all sorts of horrific stories, how the slaves are terrorized, or . . . misused . . .”
Cazaril scratched his slandered beard. It was too filling in, a bit, he fancied. “The stories are not so much untrue as twisted, exaggerated—exceptional events mistaken as daily bread. The best captains treated us as a good farmer treats his animals, with a sort of impersonal kindness. Food, water—heh—exercise—enough cleanliness to keep us free of disease and in good condition. Beating a man senseless makes him unfit to pull his oar, you know. Anyway, that sort of physical . . . discipline was only required in port. Once at sea, the sea supplied all.”
“I don’t understand.”
Cazaril’s brows flicked up. “Why break a man’s skin, or his head, when you can break his heart simply by putting him overboard, in the water with his legs dangling down like worms for the great fishes? The Roknari only had to wait a very little to have us swim after and beg and plead and weep for our slavery again.”
“You were always a strong swimmer. Surely that helped you bear it better than most?” Palli’s voice was hopeful.
“The opposite, I’m afraid. The men who sank like stones went mercifully quickly. Think about it, Palli. I did.” He still did, sitting up bolt upright in the dark in this bed from some nightmare of the water, closing over his head. Or worse . . . not. Once, the wind had come up unexpectedly while the oar-master had been playing this little game with a certain recalcitrant Ibran, and the captain, anxious for port before the storm, had refused to circle back. The Ibran’s fading screams had echoed over the water as the ship drew away, growing fainter and fainter. . . . The captain had docked the oar-master the cost of the slave’s replacement, as punishment for his misjudgment, which had made him surly for weeks.
After a moment Palli said, “Oh.”
Oh indeed. “Grant you, my pride—and my mouth—did win me one beating when I first went aboard, but I still fancied myself a lord of Chalion then. I was broken of that . . . later.”
“But . . . you weren’t . . . they didn’t make you an object of . . . I mean, use you after a degrading . . . um.”
The light was too dim to tell if Palli reddened, but it finally dawned on Cazaril that he was trying to inquire in this worried and tongue-tumbled fashion if Cazaril had been raped. Cazaril’s lips twisted in sympathy. “You are confusing the Roknari fleets with those of Darthaca, I think. I’m afraid those legends represent wishful thinking on someone’s part. The Roknari heresy of the four gods makes a crime of the sort of odd loves the Bastard rules, here. The Roknari theologians say the Bastard is a demon, like his father, and not a god, after his holy mother, and so call us all devil worshippers—which is a deep offense to the Lady of Summer, I think, as well as to the poor Bastard himself, for did he ask to be born? They torture and hang men caught in sodomy, and the better Roknari shipmasters do not tolerate it aboard in either men or slaves.”
“Ah.” Palli settled in relief. But then, being Palli, thought to ask, “And the worse Roknari shipmasters?”
“Their discretion could become deadly. It didn’t happen to me—I fancy I was too bony—but a few of the young men, the softer boys . . . We slaves knew they were our sacrifice, and we tried to be kind to them when they were returned to the benches. Some cried. Some learned to use the mischance for favors . . . few of us begrudged them the extra rations or trivial treats so dearly bought. It was a dangerous game, for the Roknari inclined to them in secret were like to turn on them at any moment, and slay them as if they could so slay their own sin.”
“You make my hair stand on end. I thought I knew my way around the world, but . . . eh. But at least you were spared the worst.”
“I don’t know what is the worst,” said Cazaril thoughtfully. “I was once used after a vile humor for the space of one hellish afternoon that made what happened to some of the boys look like a friendly gesture, but no Roknari risked hanging for it.” Cazaril realized he’d never told anyone of the incident, not the kind acolytes of the temple hospital, not, certainly, anyone in the Provincara’s household. He’d had no one he could talk to, till now. He continued almost eagerly. “My corsair made the mistake of tackling a lumbering Brajaran merchanter, and spotted its escorting galleys too late. As we were being chased off, I failed at my oar, fainted in the heat. To make some use of me despite all, the oar-master hauled me out of my chains, stripped me, and hung me over the stern rail with my hands tied to my ankles, to mock our pursuers. I couldn’t tell if the crossbow bolts that thumped into the rail or the stern around me were good or bad aim on the Brajaran archers’ parts, nor by what god’s mercy I didn’t end my life with a few in my ass. Maybe they thought I was Roknari. Maybe they were trying to end my misery.” For the sake of Palli’s widening eyes, Cazaril skipped certain of the more grotesque details. “You know, we lived with fear for months on end at Gotorget, till we were used to it, a sort of nagging ache in the gut that we learned to ignore, but that never quite went away.”
Palli nodded.
“But I found out that . . . this is odd. I don’t quite know how to say it.” He’d never had a chance to try to put it into words, out where he could see it, till now. “I found there is a place beyond fear. When the body and the mind just can’t sustain it anymore. The world, time . . . reorder themselves. My heartbeat slowed down, I stopped sweating and salivating . . . it was almost like some holy trance. When the Roknari hung me up, I’d been weeping in fear and shame, in agony for the disgust of it all. When the Brajarans finally veered off, and the oar-master took me down, all blistered from the sun . . . I was laughing. The Roknari thought I had gone mad, and so withal did my poor benchmates, but I didn’t think so. The whole world was all . . . new.
“Of course, the whole world was only a few dozen paces long, and made of wood, and rocked on the water . . . all time was the turning of a glass. I planned my life by the hour as closely as one plans a year, and no further than an hour. All men were kind and beautiful, each in his way, Roknari and slave alike, lordly or vile blood, and I was a friend to all, and smiled. I wasn’t afraid anymore. I did take care never to faint at my oar again, though.”
His voice slowed, thoughtfully. “So whenever fear comes back into my heart, I am more pleased than anything, for I take it as a sign that I am not mad after all. Or maybe, at least, getting better. Fear is my friend.” He looked up, with a quick, apologetic smile.
Palli was sitting plastered back against the wall, his legs tense, his dark eyes round as saucers, smiling fixedly. Cazaril laughed out loud.