Jakulos selected a sword from the pile waiting to be sharpened. The singing of the sword on the whetstone made it impossible to speak.
As there didn't seem to be anything Fyn could do, he looked around. Everyone had a role, everyone knew their place, except him. Even the ten-year-old cabin boy knew more than him and, at nearly seventeen, that rankled.
Back at Halcyon Abbey, he'd completed ten years' training as an acolyte, and been due to get his final scalp tattoo and shave off his top-knot this spring cusp. Now, he suspected he'd never become a monk. To disguise himself, he'd cut the betraying top-knot and his hair was growing out, obscuring his abbey tattoos.
The Wyvern's Whelp reminded him of the abbey in some ways. Everyone had a task, from the ship's carpenter who kept her sea-worthy, to the helmsman who handled the wheel, to the navigator, a true artist who read the sea's subtle signs and took the readings to work out their position relative to the sun. They all worked like the clock in the guildhall bell tower, cogs fitting into other cogs to create a greater whole. And, right now, that whole was intent on escaping the Utland raiders.
Jakulos lifted the blade to study it. Satisfied, he placed it on the sharpened pile.
'We're making good time,' Fyn said. 'I don't think they've gained since we put up all our canvas.'
Jakulos sent him a weighing look, then selected a pouch of knives from the table at his side. He ran his finger over each to test their edge, speaking softly. 'They're Utland raiders. We're sea-hounds, their sworn enemies. We've protected merchant convoys. We've hunted down, attacked and sunk more Utland ships than you've had hot dinners. Nothing is going to put them off the chase.' He lifted his head and glanced out to sea. 'And we're too far from Ostron Isle to make it to port. Barring a convenient storm or mist, they'll catch us. Here, take these down to the ship's surgeon.' Jakulos rolled up the leather pouch and handed it to Fyn. 'We're lucky the cap'n believes in keeping a healthy crew. We've a real, Ostron Isle-trained surgeon, nothing like the butchering carpenter who doubled as a surgeon on my last ship.'
Fyn accepted the pouch. Down below deck he found the surgeon's assistant scrubbing the work-table with lye. Its sharp scent stung Fyn's eyes. Meanwhile the surgeon checked his supplies, which were stored in bags or glass jars, labelled in faded, spidery writing.
'Master Jakulos sends your pouch,' Fyn said. The old surgeon took it with an absent-minded nod. Fyn registered no Affinity from him. Nothing to hasten healing. The least of the abbey's healers had Affinity to hasten healing or ease pain or fight festering. Each trained to hone their gift, then worked as a team to save lives. Very different from here.
'What are you staring at?' the surgeon's apprentice asked.
As Fyn opened his mouth to reply, a cry from above cut him off.
'Utlanders to starboard.'
Weren't they to port? For a heartbeat he didn't understand.
Then the surgeon cursed. 'Another scavenger. Just what we need.'
There were two Utland raiders on their tail? Fyn ran up on deck, hurrying up the steps to the rear deck where Captain Nefysto held the farseer to his eye. The wind flung the captain's long black hair over his shoulder.
The younger son of one of the great families of Ostron Isle, Nefysto wore onyx stones threaded through his hair and these glinted in the sunlight. Their countries had never been more than trading partners, but Fyn had more in common with the captain than anyone else. They were both educated men on a ship of scoundrels.
The captain swore softly under his breath, slamming the farseer closed.
'Can we outrun them?' Fyn asked, joining him to watch the converging sails.
'We would stand a better chance if we dumped our cargo over the side. But that would rather defeat the purpose.' He grinned at Fyn. Even on ship, while fleeing Utlanders, Nefysto dressed like the Ostronite noble he was. Velvet knee-length coat, black lace at his throat and boots, when everyone else aboard went barefoot. The light in his dark eyes, however, was anything but civilised.
Nefysto might enjoy the challenge, but Fyn just wanted to survive long enough to get home and find Byren.
Chapter Three
For Piro the day passed in a blur. As a noble from an old family, Dunstany's mansion was built in a prime position overlooking the Landlocked Sea, not far from the king's palace.
His servants prepared a bath scented with rose oil, then led her to a chamber fit for a queen. Chests lay open, heaped with glittering clothes. There were dresses embroidered with gold thread and inset with jewels, wraps of the finest silk from Ostron Isle, slippers of exquisite wyvern skin and bolts of delicate Rolencian lace.
Judging from all this, Dunstany's wealth easily equalled her father's, and the scholar was only a noble of Merofynia. Piro's mother had never said anything, but her old nurse had often complained about the way they lived in Rolenhold, saying they were little better than barbarian spar warlords. Now Piro saw the truth in this.
Servants dressed her in a gown of dark red velvet. It was laced down her back, the bodice embroidered in gold thread. A gold-trimmed cap was pinned to her head and matching slippers tied around her ankles. All too soon she was ready. She sat and waited, gnawing her bottom lip.
A tray of fruit and sweet wine was sent to Piro's room, but she was too nervous to eat or drink. What was Isolt Merofyn Kingsdaughter like? Would she make Piro's life unbearable?
At last the servants came to say Lord Dunstany was waiting in the entrance foyer. Piro paused at the top of the stairs.
The noble scholar looked up and smiled, the corners of his wispy moustache lifting. 'You look every bit a kingsdaughter, Seelon. I suppose I should call you Seela, now that you have resumed your true gender.'
As she glided down the steps, grateful for her mother's interminable lessons in court etiquette, Piro noted that Dunstany had changed out of his usual woollen scholarly attire. For the feast, he wore indigo silk, so dark it was almost black. His robes touched the floor and his iron-grey hair glinted loose on his shoulders. A single pendant, a star-within-a-circle — the Dunstany noble symbol — hung on his chest. She guessed the amber pendant was under his robe, and once again her resentment surfaced.
'Ready, Seela?'
'Do I have any choice?'
'Do any of us?' he asked gently and offered his hand. Surprised by his courtly gesture, she accepted his touch.
They rode in a carriage around the slope of Mount Mero to the palace. Piro was nervous about meeting King Merofyn and his daughter. Isolt had agreed to marry her brother, Lence, with no intention of honouring that betrothal. What sort of people were these Merofynians, who valued their word so lightly?
The walk from carriage to feasting hall seemed endless. Jewel-bright mosaics covered the floor. Piro could feel the heat rising up from the tiles. The palace builders had harnessed Mulcibar's blessing by piping hot water from deep within the earth to run under the floor. Her people used Halcyon's blessing to provide hot bathing water, but they really could have done with under-floor heating, especially during the Rolencian winters.
At last they came to the feasting hall. The air was heavy here with the scent of candles. A lapis lazuli mosaic of a beautifully stylised wyvern glittered on the wall behind the high table. From the king's table, two long tables ran out at right angles. Every seat was taken. Servants scurried about, answering summons.
Piro's first impression was of a cage of exquisite birds, a multitude of chattering people and no forest of columns to obscure the hall's magnificence. How did the roof stay up? She looked up to discover great ribs running from the walls to points above her. The ceiling was so high it took her breath away.