She gave a tight smile and nodded. And as they all finally tucked into Cook's fish, Rois began to tell Grinsa and the woman about a few of the more important features of the land south of the Border Range. Pelton put in a word or two along the way, and both Qirsi asked questions now and again. Describing a land so large to strangers without the aid of a map was a bit like guiding a blindfolded man through a rocky shoal, but by the end of the meal, both of them seemed to have a better sense of the Southlands.
The woman's anger faded during the course of the supper, but only slowly, and even as the evening was ending, Rois could see that she remained withdrawn.
"Is there anything else you can tell us about these Blood Wars you mentioned earlier?" Grinsa finally asked, as they lingered over one last cup of wine.
Rois shifted in his chair. He felt the first mate staring at him, but he ignored him for the moment. "There's not a lot t' tell," he said. "There've been Blood Wars in th' Southlands for hundreds o' years."
"Some say there were only th' one," Pelton put in.
"But they've been over for a hundred years," Grinsa said, looking from mate to captain.
Pelton nodded. "They 'ave."
"And still it's not safe for us in Eandi lands."
The first mate looked away. "Joost 'cuz th' wars ended doesn't mean folks like white-hairs any more 'an they did."
"Are you from the Southlands, Pelton?"
The first mate pushed out his cheek with his tongue and nodded, his eyes trained on the table. "Naqbae," he said.
Grinsa frowned.
"Th' southernmost sovereignty," Rois told him. "Th' Horsemen, they're called."
"And yet our Horseman is a sailor," Grinsa said.
Pelton looked up at that, a grin on his round face. "I can ride, too. All us Horsemen can."
"But you don't like our people very much, do you?" Cresenne asked him, a guarded look in those ghostly pale eyes.
"Fighting white-hairs is what my kind are famous fer," he said, not shying from her glare. "No other sovereignty has held back th' Qirsi armies th' way th' Naqbae did. When th' Stelpana were bein' pushed back across th' K'Sand and th' Thraedes and finally th' Silverwater, an' th Qosantians an' Tordjannis were countin' their gold, we were forcin' th' T'Saan back int' th' hills. T' this day, we hold both banks of th' Grand Salt."
"That doesn't answer my question," she said.
"It's as much o' 'n answer as I got," he told her.
The baby had long since fallen asleep, but she stirred now, perhaps sensing her mother's anger, and she began to fuss.
"Perhaps it's time we were getting back to our quarters," Grinsa said, a smile fixed on his lips. "Thank you for a fine meal, Captain, and as well for all you've offered to do on our behalf."
Rois held out a hand, which Grinsa took in a powerful grip. "It's th' least I owed ye." He stood, stepped to the door, and held it open for them. As the woman walked past him, he inclined his head slightly, and said, "Ma'am."
A small smile touched her lips, but she said nothing.
"We'll put int' Yorl by midmornin'," he told Grinsa, as the Qirsi stepped past him. "Once we're in Eagles Inlet, th' waters should be calmer. Th' lady shouldn't have any more troubles, on this trip at least."
"Thank you, Captain. You've been very kind to us." He turned to look at Pelton. "Mister Fent."
The first mate gave a curt nod.
When they'd gone, Rois closed the door and exhaled heavily.
"I'm sorry, Captain," the mate said. "I'd 'ave done better t' keep my mouth shut."
He returned to his seat and poured the rest of the wine into his cup. "Ye did fine." He felt weary. The storm, this supper with the Qirsithey'd worn him out.
"It could be dangerous for 'em in Aelea," Pelton said. "An' Stelpana's even worse. They should sail farther south."
"I know that," Rois said. "But it seems they've made up their minds." He sipped his wine. "I have th' feeling they can take care o' themselves. Seems they came through all tha' trouble in th' Forelands all right. And I'd wager there's more t' both o' them than meets th' eye."
"Maybe," the first mate said. "But th' Eandi sovereignties are no place for a Qirsi family, 'specially one what doesn' know th' ways o' th' land."
They walked back to their cramped quarters without saying a word, except for Bryntelle, who fussed and cried and would have given
both Cresenne and Grinsa an earful had she been able. Once they were alone, a candle lit and the door closed, Cresenne pulled off her shirt, sat on the small bed, and began to nurse the child. Grinsa stood in the center of the chamber, his eyes trained on the floor. After a moment, he looked up at Cresenne and smiled.
"The captain was right. It's calmer."
"You were nicer to them than I would have been," she said.
"It's really not their fault that we know so little about where we're going. It's mine. Entirely."
He was always doing this: finding reasons to forgive people for their failings, be they friends or utter strangers. It was one of the reasons she loved him, and yet she often found it annoying. She did now.
"I'm not so sure I agree with you. I think they were so eager to take our gold that they gave no thought at all to anything else."
"And they should have?"
She frowned. "Yes! Of course they should have! We have a child with us. It should have been clear to them that we were strangers to the Southlands. Our accents alone mark us as being from the Forelands."
"Yes, they do. But I doubt many people embark on a voyage like this one without learning a bit more about their destination. I certainly wouldn't have had we been given the choice."
Cresenne could hardly argue with that. They'd been forced by circumstance to leave the Forelands. She had once been party to a Qirsi conspiracy that very nearly succeeded in toppling the Forelands' Eandi courts. Grinsa was a Weaver, a sorcerer who could bind together the powers of many Qirsi into a single tool. Or a single weapon. Since the Qirsi invasion of the Forelands nine centuries ago, Weavers had been feared, persecuted, and, when captured, put to death, along with their families. Yes, the two of them had allied themselves with the courts, risking their lives to fight the conspiracy, but the law of the land was clear. Eibithar's king had shielded Cresenne from punishment for her earlier crimes against the courts, and he had refused to treat Grinsa as anything other than the hero he was, but his land was riven by conflict and he could not risk civil war by summarily doing away with nine centuries of legal tradition.
They might have made a life for themselves in another realm of the Forelands, but the other Eandi courts were every bit as fearful of Weavers as was Eibithar. And so they chose the Southlands.
There was something romantic in the notion, something mysterious and wonderful. The Southlands. Home of the first Qirsi to come to the Forelands. True, they had come as would-be conquerors, but that did nothing to diminish the allure of the place, at least not as far as Cresenne was concerned. Perhaps here, Grinsa wouldn't have to hide the fact that he was a Weaver, as he had done in the Forelands, making his way through Eibithar with Bohdan's Revel, pretending to be nothing more than a festival gleaner, a Qirsi who used his power to offer others glimpses of their futures. Perhaps here, if Bryntelle grew up to be a Weaver like her father, she could wield her powers with pride rather than fear. Perhaps here, Cresenne could forget the shame of having been labeled a traitor by Eandi and Qirsi alike, of having joined the movement to overthrow the courts only to realize that the man who led it would prove to be a worse despot than any Eandi monarch in the history of the Forelands. She had such great hopes for this journey, all of which made what they had learned tonight from the captain and his first mate that much more disturbing.
"I'm still angry with them," she said at last. "And I still think you're being too…" She trailed off, shaking her head.
Clearly Grinsa knew what she was going to say, because he smiled, looking away.