‘Would he do that?’
Flute smiled roguishly. ‘I’ll coax him, Vanion,’ she said, ‘and you know how good I am at that. If I really want something, I almost always get it.’
‘You there! Look lively!’ Sorgi’s bull-necked bo’sun bellowed, popping his whip at Stragen’s heels.
Stragen, who now wore the braids and sweeping mustaches of a blond Genidian Knight, dropped the bale he was carrying across the deck and reached for his dagger.
‘No!’ Sparhawk hissed at him. ‘Pick up that bale!’
Stragen glared at him for a moment, then bent and lifted the bale again. ‘This wasn’t part of the agreement,’ he muttered.
‘He’s not really going to hit you with that whip,’ Talen assured the fuming Thalesian. ‘Sailors all complain about it, but the whip’s just for show. A bo’sun who really hits his men with his whip usually gets thrown over the side some night during the voyage.’
‘Maybe,’ Stragen growled darkly, ‘but I’ll tell you this right now. If that cretin so much as touches me with that whip of his, he won’t live long enough to go swimming. I’ll have his guts in a pile on the deck before he can even blink.’
‘You new men!’ the bo’sun shouted. ‘Do your talking on your own time! You’re here to work, not to discuss the weather!’ And he cracked his whip again.
* * *
‘She could do it, Khalad,’ Berit insisted.
‘I think you’ve been out in the sun too long,’ Khalad replied. They were riding south along a lonely beach under an overcast sky. The beach was backed by an uninviting salt marsh where dry reeds clattered against each other in the stiff onshore breeze. Khalad rose in his stirrups and looked around. Then he settled back in his saddle again. ‘It’s a ridiculous idea, my Lord.’
‘Try to keep an open mind, Khalad. Aphrael’s a Goddess. She can do anything.’
I’m sure she can, but why would she want to?’
‘Well –’ Berit struggled with it. ‘She could have a reason, couldn’t she? Something that you and I wouldn’t even understand?’
‘Is this what all that Styric training does to a man? You’re starting to see Gods under every bush. It was only a coincidence. The two of them look a little bit alike, but that’s all.’
‘You can be as skeptical as you want, Khalad, but I still think that something very strange is going on.’
‘And I think that what you’re suggesting is an absurdity.’
‘Absurd or not, their mannerisms are the same, their expressions are identical, and they’ve both got that same air of smug superiority about them.’
‘Of course they do. Aphrael’s a Goddess, and Danae’s a Crown Princess. They are superior – at least in their own minds – and I think you’re overlooking the fact that we saw them both in the same room and at the same time. They even talked to each other, for God’s sake.’
‘Khalad, that doesn’t mean anything. Aphrael’s a Goddess. She can probably be in a dozen different places all at the same time if she really wants to be.’
‘That still brings us right back to the question of why? What would be the purpose of it? Not even a God does things without any reason.’
‘We don’t know that, Khalad. Maybe she’s doing it just to amuse herself.’
‘Are you really all that desperate to witness miracles, Berit?’
‘She could do it,’ Berit insisted.
‘All right. So what?’
‘Aren’t you the least bit curious about it?’
‘Not particularly,’ Khalad shrugged.
Ulath and Tynian wore bits and pieces of the uniforms of one of the few units of the Tamul army that accepted volunteers from the Elene kingdoms of western Daresia. The faces they had borrowed were those of grizzled, middle-aged knights, the faces of hard-bitten veterans. The vessel aboard which they sailed was one of those battered, ill-maintained ships that ply coastal waters. The small amount of money they had paid for their passage bought them exactly that – passage, and nothing else. They had brought their own food and drink and their patched blankets, and they ate and slept on the deck. Their destination was a small coastal village some twenty-five leagues east of the foothills of the Tamul mountains. They lounged on the deck in the daytime, drinking cheap wine and rolling dice for pennies.
The sky was overcast when the ship’s longboat deposited them on the rickety wharf of the village. The day was cool, and the Tamul Mountains were little more than a low smudge on the horizon.
‘What was that horse-trader’s name again?’ Tynian asked.
‘Sablis,’ Ulath grunted.
‘I hope Oscagne was right,’ Tynian said. ‘If this Sablis has gone out of business, we’ll have to walk to those mountains.’
Ulath stepped across the wharf to speak to a pinch-faced fellow who was mending a fish net. ‘Tell me, friend,’ he said politely in Tamul, ‘where can we find Sablis the horse-trader?’
‘What if I don’t feel like telling you?’ the scrawny net-mender replied in a whining, nasal voice that identified him as one of those mean-spirited men who would rather die than be helpful, or even polite. Tynian had encountered his kind before, small men, usually, with an inflated notion of their own worth, men who delighted in irritating others just for the fun of it. ‘Let me,’ he murmured, laying one gently restraining hand on his Thalesian companion’s arm. Ulath’s bunched muscles clearly spoke of impending violence.
‘Nice net,’ Tynian noted casually, picking up one edge of it. Then he drew his dagger and began cutting the strings.
‘What are you doing?’ the pinch-faced fisherman screamed.
‘I’m showing you what,’ Tynian explained. ‘You said, “what if I don’t feel like telling you?” This is what. Think it over. My friend and I aren’t in any hurry, so take your time.’ He took a fistful of net and sawed through it with his knife.
‘Stop!’ the fellow shrieked in horror.
‘Ah – where was it you said we might find Sablis?’ Ulath asked innocently.
‘His corrals are on the eastern edge of town.’ The words came tumbling out. Then the scrawny fellow gathered up his net in both arms and held it to his chest, almost like a mother shielding a child from harm.
‘Have a pleasant day, neighbor,’ Tynian said, sheathing his dagger. ‘I can’t begin to tell you how much we’ve appreciated your help here. You’ve been absolutely splendid about the whole affair.’ And the two knights turned and walked along the wharf toward the shabby-looking village.
* * *
Their camp was neat and orderly with a place for everything and everything exactly where it belonged. Berit had noticed that Khalad always set up camp in exactly the same way. He seemed to have some concept of the ideal camp etched in his mind and, since it was perfect, he never altered it. Khalad was very rigid in some ways.
‘How far did we come today?’ Berit asked as they washed up their supper dishes.
‘Ten leagues,’ Khalad shrugged, ‘the same as always. Ten leagues is standard on level terrain.’
‘This is going to take forever,’ Berit complained.
‘No. It might seem like it, though.’ Khalad looked around and then lowered his voice until it was hardly more than a whisper. ‘We’re not really in any hurry, Berit,’ he said. ‘We might even want to slow down a bit.’
‘What?’
‘Keep your voice down. Sparhawk and the others have a long way to go, and we want to be sure they’re in place before Krager – or whoever it is – makes contact with us. We don’t know when or where that’s going to happen, so the best way to delay it is to slow down.’ Khalad looked out into the darkness beyond the circle of firelight. ‘How good are you at magic?’
