Grival offered me a little plate with pieces of dark meat in a dark red sauce.
“Very good,” Sezarre nodded approvingly.
I managed a weak smile and touched a little of the sauce to my lips. To my surprise, it was sweet, almost honeyed with a hint of aromatic spices. At least I wouldn’t starve here, I thought as I emptied the dish hungrily.
“What became of my lady’s slave before me?” I asked.
Sezarre shrugged with an air of resignation. “Bone fever, very bad.”
I looked at my plate. I might not starve but there were a myriad other dangers that could leave me dead in the Archipelago.
A narrow strait between two steeply forested islands set in the heart of the far ocean.
Temar woke with a sudden start, disorientation clouding his senses, dense blackness pressing down on him. He shoved the stifling blanket off his head in a convulsive heave, blinked and the world returned to normal, the lantern of the unhurried sentry circling the camp a swinging pin-prick of light, soft noises of other sleepers all around him. Temar sat up and put his hands on the cool grass either side of him, taking a deep breath as the sensation of still being aboard a swaying ship gradually faded. He looked up at the increasingly unfamiliar stars and wondered how long it would be before dawn broke.
“Not long enough, at any rate,” he smiled to himself and rolled himself up to get as much rest as he could before facing the demands of another busy day. This was certainly no pleasure cruise, he mused as he drifted easily off to sleep.
The clatter of cooking pots and a rising murmur of conversation stirred him next. The sun was climbing over the dense trees on a spit of land at the far end of the strait and the camp was busying itself with breakfast, fires dotted across the grassy strip separating the water from the dense scrub. Temar sniffed appreciatively at the smell of biscuits on griddles mingling with the lush-green scents of the anchorage.
“Good morning.” Vahil shoved his head out of a tangle of blankets, wiry hair sticking up in all directions, a thick crease printed across one ruddy cheek.
Temar yawned and reached for his boots, checking them for opportunist crawlers before putting them on, wincing at the clammy touch of the damp leather. “I’m going for a wash,” he announced, heading for the brook that wound its way across the sward down to the shingle beach.
Cold water did much to drive the lingering sleep out of Temar’s eyes and he began to take in some of the details of the scene around him. His gaze fixed on Guinalle as she sat braiding her hair in front of a tent, face pink from her own ablutions, a thick shawl over her crisp linen shift.
“Feeling better for a night on dry land?” inquired Temar, pausing to clip back his own hair with his father’s silver clasp, now tarnished from salt and spray.
Guinalle managed a faint smile. “Yes, thank you. I must admit, I didn’t think it would take me so long to get my sea legs.”
“Do you know how long we’ll be stopping here?” he asked.
“We need to take on water, any fresh food we can find, make some repairs,” Guinalle grimaced. “I’d say we’ll be here just long enough for me to get used to being ashore again, so I can spend another handful of days with my head in a bowl once we set sail again, Larasion grant me strength.”
Temar smiled at her, thinking how even more attractive she was with her enviable self-possession just a little dented like this. “Shall we find some breakfast?”
“Not just at the moment.” Guinalle shook her head with a theatrical shudder. She pushed her braid back over her shoulder and reached for her gown, laid ready on a stool. “Could you lace me up? Elsire’s not up yet and the maids are busy.”
Temar watched with carefully concealed appreciation as Guinalle pulled the sensible brown gown over her head and settled it on her hips before turning her back to him. He pulled the laces tight and breathed in the scent of the pennymint she used in her linen as he tied them off securely.
“Do you know where Messire Den Fellaemion is?” Guinalle was all business now, dignity put on along with her clothes.
“Let’s see.” Temar scanned the camp. “There, by that stack of water casks.”
Guinalle stood on tiptoe and squinted uncertainly. “Oh yes, I see him.”
With a touch of regret Temar watched her go and then turned to look for some food, waving off a tenant who was heading his way with a disgruntled expression and a waterskin clutched in one hand.
Breakfast was all too soon over and Temar found himself scooping the last of his porridge out of his bowl as he took a seat at a rough trestle table where his ship’s steward was waiting with an array of ledgers and wax tablets. The sun had climbed high over the glassy waters of the strait, burning the morning mists from the trees, by the time Temar had an up-to-date record of stores remaining, water required and all the various minor injuries and disputes on the five ships that were carrying D’Alsennin tenants to their new home.
“Do you have a report for me?”
Temar looked up to see Messire Den Fellaemion pulling up a stool. The commander had a definite touch of color on his thin cheeks and his eyes were bright, the rough clothes of a sailor suiting him far more than the elegant dress he had worn in Zyoutessela.
“I should have it written up in a chime or so.” Temar hastily drew his scribbled notes together and reached for an ink-pot.
“That will be fine,” Den Fellaemion nodded easily. “After that, if you’ve no other calls on your time, you might like to see what game you can find for the cook-pots tonight. Take young Den Rannion with you.”
Temar couldn’t restrain a surprised smile and the older man laughed. “I think you’ve both earned a little recreation and since we’re going to be here for a handful of days, everyone would appreciate some fresh meat.”
“How long is the second half of the crossing?” Temar looked up, pen poised.
“With good winds, another twenty days or so.” Den Fellaemion rose. “We’ve done the worst of it.”
Temar nodded at the memory of some of the foul weather the ships had had to contend with.
“These islands are certainly a blessing from Dastennin, Messire,” he commented a little hesitantly. “I don’t recall you mentioning them before we set sail.”
Den Fellaemion grinned down at the younger man. “No, I didn’t. I’d rather any other would-be explorers continued to put my ability to cross the ocean down to my consummate seamanship and Dastennin’s particular favor. Once we have got the colony established, we can set up a permanent settlement here; that’ll be time enough to let the secret be known.”
“My compliments on your wisdom, Messire.” Temar sketched a ceremonious bow and the commander chuckled.
“My gratitude for your appreciation, Esquire,” he replied in the same mock formal tone before striding off to consult with the captain of one of the other vessels.
Temar bent to his notes with renewed zeal and finished his report in less time than he had anticipated. Carefully sanding the document and checking the ink was dry, he folded it neatly and tucked it in the breast of his jerkin before going in search of Den Fellaemion. The commander was standing by the stack of water casks again, deep in conversation with Guinalle and two of the ships’ captains.
“Thank you, Temar,” he said as he reached for the proffered parchment. “I think that’s all we need, Guinalle; why don’t you take some time for yourself this afternoon? You’ve been so busy lately, what with taking sightings and keeping the charts. Make the most of the stop, before we take ship again.”
“Thank you, Uncle.” Guinalle looked a little surprised. “I’ll just see to that milch cow, though.”
“Anything I can do to help?” asked Temar quickly.
“Perhaps; come on.” Guinalle led the way to a sturdy corral on the far side of the camp where the expedition’s precious livestock was securely confined.
“There you are, my lady.” One of the stockmen bustled up, relief palpable on his blunt face. “We’re all ready for you.”