Years ago, when Bear and Alexander and I were off chasing down what I sincerely hope and pray was the very last of the Linfield deodands, we followed a twisting trail too far into the depths of Bedegraine, probably no more than a mile from where our attendants had pitched camp, but far enough away that they didn't answer to Alexander's horn.
So, of course, we made camp for the night. Not the easiest thing to do without so much as a pot or blanket between us, and no food save for the jerky and waybread we had in our pouches. Gathering dead wood for the fire was difficult in the gathering dark, with only an occasional trickle of moon shining through the huge trees, but starting the fire was even more so, even though Bear had used his mundane sword as deftly as you could imagine to shave some birch scrapings into tinder.
A real woodsman would probably have been able to rub two sticks together and produce a roaring fire, a trick I've never mastered, and which neither Bear nor Alexander had, and for some reason the small stone that I found couldn't strike a spark off of my mundane sword, nor either of Alexander's, nor Bear's, although we tried, figuring that the scratches on the spines of our blades could be polished out more easily than we could get through a cold night in the Bedegraine Forest without fire.
All we ended up with, though, were scratched swords.
I was looking forward to a cold night shivering in my robes beneath the trees with my usual equanimity—not much—when Bear, just a huge hulking shape in the dark, quietly asked the other two of us to step away, and drew the Nameless.
I had been expecting something dramatic—and had been about to curse Bear for using the Nameless's power for such a mundane task, if indeed he could—and I found myself more outraged than relieved when he knelt in front of the tinder pile, the stone in his hand.
Sparks flickered along the length of the blade, sending the tinder smoking, and quicker than it takes to tell, at least as I remember it, we were sitting before a roaring fire, while Bear, his leather gauntlets still in place, was polishing the Nameless before returning it to its sheath, while Alexander and I just sat, mouths open, while the Khan, at my side, muttered outraged threats at the sacrilege and disrespect—using a White Sword as a sparking iron? How dare he!
Bear just smiled, his face shiny in the firelight. "The Nameless said to remind you that he, like Our Lord, washed beggars' feet. Should we need to dig a latrine-hole, he says he'd be happy to be of service in that, too."
I'll likely never understand the Nameless. I'm sure I'll never understand Bear.—Gray
The afternoon sun gave off light and heat, but, strangely, no warmth. Maybe it was the knight's robes that Niko wore, over the tunic and leggings, and them over the undergarments. It was still strange, if no longer entirely uncomfortable, to have so much cloth between his skin and the sun.
Niko sat cross-legged on the cold stone, the sword lying naked on the blanket in front of him, next to its scabbard and the heavy leather gauntlets.
He smoothed down the front of his robes, then snatched the hand away—it was trembling and sweaty.
The best thing to do, perhaps, would be to strip it all off and fold it carefully—if the single scrap of cloth for his kirtle was expensive, it was hard to imagine what these clothes would have cost—and let the sun warm him, if it would. If it could.
His fingers trembled; he fastened them together in his lap, which didn't help much, and seemed to more transfer the trembling to his chattering teeth than anything else.
"What am I supposed to do?" he asked, more to delay the inevitable than because he had any real doubt. He would grasp the hilt of the sword, and feel the pain and fear again.
"For now, just try to calm yourself," Cully said. "We have enough time. Let's not rush matters without need."
He sat, also cross-legged, on the other side of the blanket. Like Niko, he was dressed in the garments of the Order, and like Niko, he was freshly shorn, and then freshly bathed. His smile was as reassuring as a smile could be, which wasn't much. "I know that's easier said than done, but try. Or don't try—think about something unimportant. What do you think the Abdullahs will serve for dinner? Something good, I'd expect."
"Yes."
Niko wasn't hungry at the moment, but he didn't have to think very hard as to what the centerpiece of the feast would be, nor did he have to guess that Cully was trying to distract him. The wind brought the smell of roasting meat across the water—perhaps overly seasoned with fresh wild onion, as there had been no time to properly hang and then brine it—and it had reached Cully's nose as surely as it had Niko's.
Entertaining guests of such an elevated station was something that any sensible fisherman would wisely turn his hand to, and the Abdullahs were more capable of doing that than most.
"Very well. Now try to clear your mind—yes, I know you can't force yourself to think about nothing. Nobody can. But think of something simple and calming—a pool of water is the classic choice."
A pool of water?
It sounded like a silly thing to think about, but he would try.
A small pool of seawater, perhaps, cupped in a depression in the rocks at the shoreline, left behind by the falling tide. Sometimes the tide left a jellyfish in such, and it was a simple matter to scoop them out with a wicker basket, and carry them high to the ridge above to dry. Mara would crunch the leathery bits between her teeth, and laugh—
Mara. Gentle, clever Mara. And Lina. And Grandfather—all of them now rotting in the cold ground at the bottom of a pit, as though they were shit to be covered over with dirt, not even given the dignity of being returned to the sea from which all had sprung, and to which all would return, to be received by Poseidon at his court, far beneath the waves.
Were they in the cold arms of Hades? Or had Zeus taken them as His own?
He tried to swallow, but couldn't.
"Shhh . . . easy, boy, easy. Just take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Slowly, now—you're not stoking your lungs for a dive beneath the waters. Slowly."
Niko did. It seemed to help, strangely enough, although only a little.
The sword still lay there, the pain and fear waiting for him.
"Better," Cully said. "Are you calm yet?"
"Yes, sir."
"If you're going to lie to me, boy, do a better job of it. Again: are you calm?"
He hesitated, then answered honestly. No point in lying. "No." How could he be calm at a time like this? His hand went to the front of his chest.
"Can you hear your heart beat?" Cully asked.
"No, of course not." A silly question, but . . .
"Hmm . . . well, we'll do it the first-form way, then: cup your hand, your left hand, against your ear."
"Sir Cully—"
"Just do it, boy. Listen carefully to it, and it will slow down. It'll take a few moments, but just be patient."
Niko did, and found that he could hear the lub-dub-lub-dub of his heart, and, even more strangely, that it seemed to slow, that it was slowing, as he listened and willed it to.
Niko found his mind turning to trivialities. It turned out that the distinctive knights' haircut was simply a matter of fastening three fingers, tight against the scalp, in a clump of hair, and cutting off what remained, then repeating until all the hair on the head was of the same length. Cully had showed him how to do it while he was cutting Niko's hair, and then had Niko serve him in turn.
Trimming the beard had been much of the same thing, save that you scissored the beard hair between two fingers. The only difficult part of the preparation had been the shaving of the upper cheeks, which Cully accomplished for both of them with a strange-looking straight knife from a kit in his rucksack.
Even more strange: Niko hadn't been scared, even when Cully had had to put the straight knife against Niko's well-soaped throat.
Lub-dub. Lub-dub.
"Better." Cully's smile seemed sincere, and of a surety, it reminded Niko of Grandfather's. "Now, when you're ready—no rush, no rush at all—reach out and let your hand rest on the sword."
"Not grab it by the hilt?"
"Don't grab it at all. Reach out and touch it, gently, as though you were trying to calm a frightened dog."
Again Cully was talking about things that Niko didn't understand. Why would anybody want to calm a dog? The dogs that lived around Pironesia were just like giant rats, all in all, and about as useful. When you saw a dog, you looked for a stone to chase it away with; you didn't pat it, as you would a frightened child.
He could try to think of it as frightened child, though. That might do, and it was easier than arguing with Cully. Maybe if he thought of it as Mara—not the bloody hunk of meat left dead on the beach, but little Mara, as tiny as she had been, smiling up at him as she sat in his lap, giggling even as she wet herself, splashing him with warmth that echoed with laughter in the hut at his curses.
He smiled. It had washed off. And he had set her in Mother's arms before rushing out to wash himself.
So, Mara it would be. Perhaps that would do.
He reached out his hand to pat the cold steel, and—
She awoke to fear, and to pain. She immediately started to scream again, and—
There is no pain; be still, little one.
She didn't understand. It wasn't the One Who Smelled Like Food, but its thoughts were almost as gentle—although it was as every bit as frightened as she was.
More, I think.
It smelled like the other one that had touched her, the one that had recoiled in her fear and pain, amplified by its own fear and pain, and then had gone away, leaving her once again alone in the endless dark.
And it wasn't alone—another one was with it! And this one had a knife, too—a big knife, and—
Shhh. It's just Cully.
What was a Cully?
It didn't answer.
And what are you? And where is the One Who Smells Like Food?
I don't know, little one. I don't know much of anything. I'm just Niko the fisherman.
Its answers just led to more questions, and she didn't much like that. What was a Niko, or a fisherman? And where was the One Who Smells Like Food?
It didn't answer that, but she could feel it smiling in reassurance, although she wasn't reassured about anything. The way to reassure her was to feed her, to hold her to the warm flesh of the One Who Smells Like Food, to let her suck and suck at the sweet warmth, while the One Who Smells Like Food made those strange lilting sounds, and acted out the words with her hands:
Dandinidandini dastana
Danalargirmis bostana
Kovbostanci danayl
Yemisinlahanyl
Eh-e nini, eh-e nini,
Eh-e nini, nini,
Nininini nini
Eh-e, eh-e nini eh!
Eh-e, eh-e nini eh!
Eh-e, ninni, ninni, ninni,
Eh-e, ninni, ninni, eh!
Eh-e, ninni.
Sleep, my little Nadide-precious, my tiny Tezer-treasure, the One would say.
I don't understand.
It didn't understand anything important, but it was friendly—not like that huge one, with the knife, the one that hurt, and—
Shh. That one's not here. It's just me and Cully, and we mean you no harm, truly.
Maybe this Niko and this Cully would feed her? But she didn't feel hungry, strangely enough. She didn't feel much of anything at all. Just scared.
I'm scared, too, but there's nothing to fear, not here and now. Shh.
"Enough, Niko. Let go—and gently. That's enough for the moment."
She heard the words, although she couldn't tell where they were coming from, and they didn't make any sense. Ee-nuff? What was an ee-nuff, and why was an enuff important enough to yell about? Was this Cully another mean and cruel—
No. Cully isn't that. He wants to . . . to help you, to help the both of us.
It was strange that she understood that this Cully wanted Niko to let go of her—
Let go of her? No. Don't, please don't.
Shh. Not yet. In a moment. But I'll be—I'll be back, and you'll be with me.
That was nice. She wasn't alone, not really. She didn't mind resting in the cool darkness, where there was no time, no feeling, nothing. It would have been like death, she supposed, but she didn't have any idea what death was, although the idea of this death-thing frightened and angered Niko, and brought forth visions of another big one—of several of them, lying on cold sands, unmoving, although two of the big ones were small, and she didn't understand that, either.
Don't be frightened, Niko. I'm with you. But where is the One Who Smells Like Food?
I don't know, little one.
I'm not "little one." The One Who Smells Like Food called me Nadide-precious, Tezer-treasure.
You want me to call you Nadide, or all of that?
Just make those sounds that the One does. Or bring her here? I think I'm hungry, but I don't feel hungry.
Shh.
Please? Make the sounds?
If you insist.
It started singing, but it didn't have a very good voice, and most of the sounds came out different. She had no trouble understanding them, but there were thoughts under the surface that didn't make any sense—what was a "trading language," or a "Hellenic?"
It didn't matter, though; this Niko was singing, in words that she had never heard, but which somehow made sense to her, just as if they'd been the right ones:
Into the garden the calves did stray.
Gardener quickly turn them away.
They'll eat the cabbages without delay,
—it began, with the same cooing sounds after.
Not as good, of course, but its intentions were comforting, and she would have put her thickfinger in her mouth and sucked on it if she could have.
Strange. Her thickfinger didn't seem to be anywhere around. Where was it? Was it with the One Who Smells Like Food?
She drifted off peacefully into the welcoming, warm darkness, thinking of the One.
Cully wasn't happy. Angry, even. He adjusted his robes about him, and gestured at Niko to do the same.
Niko felt stupid.
He wasn't sure what he was supposed to have learned, but—whatever it was—the only thing he was utterly sure of was that he hadn't learned it, other than it was a baby.
"A baby?"
Cully nodded. "A baby. That was the lullabye its—"
"Her."
"—her mother used to sing?"
"Yes."
"Hmph. It doesn't sound familiar to me. Do you recognize it? Your mother didn't happen to sing it to you?"
Niko shook his head. "No. Not that I remember. Not with, with my sisters, either."
"Well, it's Hellenic, not English, and that broad, lazy accent of yours is typical of the eastern islands. More clipped around Athenai, and some swallowed sounds in Thessalonika." He nodded, as though to himself. "She came from somewhere in the islands. That should be good, but it isn't."
"I don't understand."
"Because I don't quite believe it." Cully shook his head as he dug through his knapsack, producing a bottle. He uncorked it and took a long drink, then gave it a long look before shaking his head once again, then absentmindedly recorking it and putting it away without offering Niko a drink.
"Why don't I quite believe it? The timing of this all suggests a presence, but not an immediate presence. Let's say that the Abdullahs were the source of these swords, that it's right here." He rapped his staff on the rock.
"You don't really believe—"
"No, I don't." Cully shook his head. "We'd know of missing children in the islands, for one thing. Their own? I can't believe that. Samir Abdullah impresses me as having great control over his family, yes, but enough to take a baby from its—from her mother's breast and kill it? And where would he come by a priest and a wizard, at the same time?
"But forget all that, for just a moment—if it was them, if it was any of your neighbors, the right time to set upon you and your family was immediately—before the sword was brought to Pironesia, if possible. Not leave any bodies behind, no evidence at all, nothing that a man could hold on to. You, your sisters, and your grandfather would just disappear.
"But that isn't what happened. Word got out, and it took some time for word to reach, well, Them, whoever They are, whatever they are.
"That's easily enough done. Your Abdullahs are traders, as well as fishermen, and it's hard to imagine that their shore stories, of late, haven't featured the cursed sword that killed Niko the Elder, and the same for any of the other traders that stop in these islands, and for islanders traveling to Pironesia themselves.
"And I would bet copper to gold that Andros of the Kalends had many a good, public laugh about how he swindled your family out of the reward—and if he didn't, his sailors surely did, probably accompanied by complaints that their shares were insufficient, if he shared with them at all.
"Gossip travels precisely as fast as the fastest ship, yes, and a cursed sword killing a fisherman is, among other things, a good story, and They certainly took action as soon as They knew, but, still, it took two months for word to get to England and for Cully and Bear to arrive in Pironesia, and the darklings and whoever or whatever carried them weren't much ahead or behind that.
"Enough time, certainly, for word to reach Sfax or Tunis—or Baghdad, for that matter—and to dispatch killers by sea, and even for the killers to arrive here, in some sort of trader guise.
"But darklings? Give the devil his due—the Caliph is as black a villain as there has been since Arthur the Tyrant if not Judas Iscariot, and his courtiers strive to excel in murder as much as conquest, but the Dar has no more trade in the Dark than the Crown does, nor does the Empire." He stood silently for a moment. "Not that that would stop somebody dedicated enough, certainly. But traversing the Zone isn't something to be done lightly, and it certainly can't be done quickly, not from here of a certainty. So, Dar or no Dar, the darklings were waiting in Pironesia before we got there, and that's unlikely to be the only place."
"So, what do you do?"
"We. You should be asking, 'what do we do?' "
"Sir Cully, I don't know anything useful, and the only thing I can use this sword for is singing lullabies or knocking myself out, and—"
"Correct. You don't know anything useful. Neither do I, at the moment."
"So what do you—what do we do?"
"Shush. Let me think, and by God, another drink would help." He extracted the bottle from his rucksack again, and took another drink, this time holding the bottle out to Niko.
Niko accepted it and took a tentative taste, forcing himself neither to make a face nor spit out the horrible burning liquid.
"Not to your liking?"
"Well, not really."
"It may grow on you."
Cully sat silently for a moment, until a thin smile flickered across his face. "But news travels fast, and interesting news travels faster, and its speed is neither sped nor slowed by the truth of it." He cocked his head at Niko. "I don't take you to be a very good liar, so your task, by and large, will be to keep your mouth shut and look confident."
Niko swallowed heavily, but found his hand reaching to Nadide's hilt for reassurance, and he only stopped himself at the last moment.
"Good boy." Cully smiled. "Unless you feel like swimming back to the Abdullahs, it's probably time to signal for your friend Milos to come and pick us up." He pulled a small leather pouch out of his bag, and tossed it to Niko. "I'll gather more wood—you can start the fire," he said, walking quickly away before Niko could point out that there were ample driftwood scraps on the shoreline, and that they would have to climb down anyway.
Oh, well.
Besides, it was best to deal with the problem at hand, which was starting a fire without getting his fine knightly clothes dirty.
That was simply enough solved, he thought, as he began to undress. He knew how to undress, and he could fold and lay them on a blanket, and he knew how to start a fire. The rest would have to wait.
The food was good, and there was more than enough of it, which didn't surprise Niko.
He had been curious as to exactly who would be at supper at Samir's, and how they would be served. He had, upon occasion, guested on the Abdullah's main island, of course, but he had always stayed in one of the unmarried-men's huts along the windward side of the island. That was far enough away from the cluster of houses and buildings that the young Abdullah men could either have some privacy or, more likely, avoid the constant yowling of the babies. The food for their evening meal had always been brought down the trail by Abdullah girls, properly escorted by at least one of the older men, to avoid the impropriety of Niko being left alone with them.
This was, well, different.
The greeting room of Samir Abdullah's house had been cleared of all its furniture, and a huge table had been mounted and covered with what the Governor had smilingly praised as as fine a linen cloth as he had seen since leaving England.
There was some sleight to the seating—apparently one simply didn't grab the nearest spot on a bench—and the Governor had been ceremoniously shown to one of the three real chairs next to one end of the table—the "head" they called it, where Samir sat—while Cully and then Niko had been seated across from the Governor, Niko on the end of the bench next to Petros Abdullah, and then Henderson, with the two mid-ship-men past him, each with an Abdullah seated between them.
Niko wasn't sure about what the actual functions were of the men the Governor had brought along with him, but judging by their clothes, they were every bit as important as the Governor himself, which probably meant something, as did the conversation that flowed around the table. Mid-ship-man Winston seemingly paid rapt attention to Ari Abdullah's discourse on setting deep-sea nets in heavy wind, plying him with questions whenever he paused to take a breath or a drink—not that Ari Thumbfingers paused terribly often. While Niko had noticed that the wine at the "foot" of the table came from an earthenware jug while that at the "head" came from mottled-glass bottles, he doubted that wine was a common beverage for even the wealthy Abdullahs.
As for him, he could easily count on his fingers and toes the number of times he had been given a taste of wine, and except for two times it had been the horrible pine-tasting stuff used in the One True Church rituals to symbolize, the priests always carefully explained, the blood of the One True Church's god, although it didn't taste anything like blood, as Niko had sucked on enough of his own cuts to know. Blood tasted like the sea.
Niko tried to pay attention to the conversation and put in a question or comment every now and then, mainly because Cully didn't give a private triple-tap on Niko's boot as long as he was doing that, and triple-tapped if he went too long between talking.
They had only three signals: one tap meant "yes" or "go on"; two was "no," or "disagree with me," and three was "talk more." That was more than enough for Niko.
And, in truth, he did find the conversation interesting. He thought he might learn something about the handling of a ship larger than a skiff, and that might be of interest in the coming days.
He didn't think it would be of any use, of course, but he had found the constant shoutings and orders of the captain and first officer on the Wellesley to be incomprehensible, and while he had seen the sailors almost constantly climbing up into the rigging to make adjustments to the sails every time the wind changed, even a little, he had not had any real idea as to why, although he could speculate about some of it. It had been all he could do to learn the sails' names. Apparently, sailing a tall ship required that each sail have a name, and would refuse to cooperate if the top sail on the mizzenmast was called just that, rather than the "topgallant" or the "mizzen royale."
Henderson smiled at him, over the rim of his glass. "Interesting stuff, Sir Niko, eh?" he asked.
"Yes, it is, Lieutenant. I don't know much about the handling of big ships."
"Be that as it may, you and Sir Cully seemed to handle that cutter right smartly, if you don't mind my saying so. Fairly tricky with only two hands aboard."
A knight was probably supposed to sound self-confident without bragging, but Niko wasn't sure how to pull that off, so he just nodded. "We did well enough, I suppose. Most of it, though, was just avoiding being too aggressive, and watching the wind." He shrugged. "I learned not to try to get the last bit of speed out of a boat the first time I capsized our skiff, Lieutenant."
Henderson nodded, and conveyed another bite of lamb to his mouth with his eating prong, as though he had been using such a thing for all his life, as he probably had, come to think of it. Even stranger, he didn't take any apparent offense at Niko calling him by his rank.
Cully had cautioned him that he was to call the officers and mid-ship-men by their rank and never, ever call any of them "Sir" or "Excellency."
If Niko was irritated with one of them—that was what Cully had actually said: "If you are irritated with one of them"—he was to express that without cursing, but by frowning and saying just what he would have said anyway, and just in the way he would have said it, but to call the man by his last name.
He hadn't done that. He was still perplexed by the notion that he would have to be told not to curse the officers and mid-ship-men; Cully apparently didn't think much of Niko's instincts for survival.
"Made good time," Henderson said, "from . . . where was it you set sail out of again?"
Niko hadn't said, but it wasn't a secret, as far as he knew. Still—
Cully's foot tapped three times on his. "Pantelleria," Niko said immediately, and all eyes near him widened. "They—we had a matter that needed to be seen to on the Montagne Grande."
That, too, was surely no secret, but the newfound pressure of Cully's boot on top of Niko's told him that he had said something he shouldn't have, even though he had been most specific that Niko was to find a way to work the word into the conversation if Cully didn't beat him to it. It was all Niko could do not to turn and ask what, but that surely would have been the wrong thing to do.
"Sir Niko," Cully said, turning to him, as all the other conversation stopped, "I'd very much rather you not discuss the events on you-know-where outside of the Order." His foot tapped twice against Niko's, the signal for "no," or "disagree with me."
Well, Niko couldn't claim to understand what Cully was up to, but at least he could count to two. The signal was two taps, he was sure it was, just as the three taps had told him to talk more. But apparently he wasn't supposed to have said what he'd said, and he hesitated for a moment, and Cully's boot came down on his again, harder, and again it was twice.
"With respect," Niko said—surely it wouldn't do any harm to admit respect, would it?—"I disagree, Sir Cully."
He wasn't sure why he was supposed to disagree, and was trying to decide what he should say next when Cully drew himself up straight, started to speak, and then stopped himself and held up his hands in mock surrender.
"Ah, you're quite right, Sir Niko; my apologies to you—to all of you—for my outburst." Cully tilted back his wineglass, then set it down on the table. "There's more than a few matters going on that aren't for general distribution, but the bare bones of what went on there isn't a secret." He chuckled. "Not that it can remain much of a secret, what with a live sword in that sash about your waist, eh?"
Governor Halloran looked like he'd bitten into a bad turtle egg. "I think, perhaps, we should not bore our hosts with such matters?"
"Bore?" Cully snorted. "Bore? The live swords are many things, Governor, but one of the things they're not now and never have been is boring, sir."
There was just a trace of slur to his words, although Niko didn't think it was from the drink; Cully was just acting.
"Nor," Cully went on, "I'm sure, would anybody find boring the facts and the reasons behind the necessity of knighting a Pironesian fisherboy and giving him a live sword, eh?—although, yes, you and I had best discuss that privately, later, and not . . . inflict that knowledge on anybody else, at least for some time to come." His face was a grim mask. "Enough of this is going to come out sooner than later, although I'd very much appreciate it if as little talk as possible were to reach the Conveyance's wardroom, gentlemen."
"Yes, yes." Henderson ducked his head quickly. "Of course, Sir Cully," he said, looking at the mid-ship-men for a moment before turning back to the knight. "May I have your leave to discuss this with Captain MacKenzie?"
"Well, yes, of course," Cully said, then took another sip of wine. "Just don't go telling rail stories to the crew, eh?" He turned to Samir Abdullah. "Say what you wish to your family, and do ask them to be reasonably discreet . . . but don't worry about it too much—I'm not inflicting Crown secrets on you and your family, Samir."
Abdullah smiled genially over the rim of his wineglass. "We are, of course, loyal to the Crown, but it's good to know that when—and you did say when, Sir Cully; I made a particular note of that—this all becomes common knowledge, my family and I won't be blamed for that."
"Of course not." He waved the idea away. "The best way to keep a secret is not to share it with anybody, and particularly not where it might reach a bunch of chatting seamen—enlisted seamen, I mean, Mr. Henderson; no reflection on your officers and middies. But some things can't be kept secret, without hanging everybody who knows, and maybe not even then." He drained his glass of wine, and when he set it down on the table, Samir himself refilled it with a remarkably steady hand.
"As to what you asked me this morning, Samir, I think that it would be best if your barkentine sets sail at first light—or even before, if your son who commands it . . . would you remind me of his name?"
"Salim. My fourth son," he said, gesturing at Salim, who was sitting next to one of the Governor's assistants.
"If you and Captain Salim think that he can manage the shoals offshore before the sun's fully up."
It probably was difficult to seem offended and ingratiating at the same time, but somehow Samir Abdullah's expression managed it. "He's a clumsy boy, with no head for trade, but I do think he can be counted on not to stave in the hull on familiar rocks. The question of the crew comes to mind, as . . . hesitant as I am to discuss business affairs at table."
Cully laughed. "Well, as for me, I'm a confirmed commoner, and when it comes to discussing business, I've always thought that there's no time like the present," he said, "although at present my head is buzzing with this most excellent wine that you've provided, and talk of numbers is more likely to make my head swim off my shoulders than offend anybody."
"Perhaps I can help with that." Governor Halloran seemed relieved that the talk had turned to less dangerous matters. "I'm sure that Mister Langahan can work out a fair hire-price. If that would be acceptable, Sir Cully? Mister Abdullah?"
Abdullah just nodded, while Cully positively beamed.
"Acceptable?" Cully asked, his voice increasingly loud. "It's bloody generous of you, Governor, and so much so that I'll not even question whether or not your Mr. Langahan is willing, but jump upon the offer like a wolf on a three-legged sheep—and no offense intended by the comparison, Mr. Langahan, no offense intended at all, sir."
"None taken, Sir Cully." Langahan smiled genially. "It would, of course, be my privilege to be of any assistance I could provide."
"Ah, good. Well, then, to finalize this ugly talk of business, Samir, we'll just need the barest sailing crew, and they may leave their nets safely ashore here—I doubt we'll be doing much fishing, all in all. We'll take on more crew in Pironesia—I'm not going to take any more of your grandsons away from you than I need to, as I can't say how long we'll need the barkentine, mind you, but—"
"But the hiring-price will, of course, be by the week—or month?—and I see no problem, Mr. Abdullah," Langahan said. "Provisions, Sir Cully?"
"We'll provision in Pironesia; have to stop there anyway, and my suspicion is that the marines will be happier living on smoked mutton and beef than even the finest of dried fish, all in all—not to mention rum and beer. I don't like it when marines are unhappy—they tend to pout."
Henderson smiled, and Halloran merely nodded at the mention of marines, and old Samir's face was impassive, but Langahan leaned forward. "Marines?"
"You know," Cully said, his voice now definitely slurred, "those fellows in the blue uniforms? I'll definitely need a good company, and—oh, excuse me, Mr. Langahan, I'm an old man, and I've dined far too well tonight for a man of my age. God takes pity, so it's said, on drunkards and fools, and I fully qualify on both accounts, the latter in particular at the moment." He clapped a hand to Niko's shoulder. "Thankfully, another of our Order is behaving properly. Not that I'm surprised, mind you. The Order's always been lucky when it comes to our oddities—and no offense is intended, Sir Niko, but your knighthood is every bit as much an oddity as Lady Ellen's is or Sister Mary's was, may her soul rest in peace—and more so than the Saracen's." He stopped himself. His face was ashen white, and he looked like he was about to cry. "Damn me, I once swore I'd never speak Mary's name without remembering her properly, and here I am too old and too drunk, and . . ."
He held up a hand as he fought for control of himself, and the English all looked away, while the Abdullahs, understandably, stared.
"By your leave, sir." Mid-ship-man Turnbull, who had been silently watching, pushed back from the bench and stood himself straight. "I'm the senior midshipman, Sir Cully; it's my privilege, I believe."
"Indeed it is," Cully said, wiping at his eyes. "Please. If you would, if you know . . ."
"My privilege, sir," he repeated. The only criticism of Cully's drunken state that Niko could see was in the repetition, and in the way Turnbull held himself. He found himself more than a little jealous of Turnbull's self-confidence; Turnbull was, after all, no more than a year older than Niko, and still beardless—a boy, who held himself, at least for the moment, like a man.
"I'll need but a moment. Gentlemen, charge your glasses, if you please," Turnbull said, holding out his own. The Navy officers and the Governor were immediately on their feet, the Abdullahs only a little slower, and Niko the slowest of all.
Turnbull waited patiently until all the glasses were filled, then raised his own.
"Gentlemen, I give you Lady Mary Catherine de Camp et du Maurier," he said, pronouncing the name with a curious lilt to his voice, "late of the Abbey of St. Almesbury; sealed Knight of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon. Lady Mary, who protected the infant crown-prince-that-was and king-to-be from the traitors' knives and swords with her own body, having no more armor to offer His Majesty than her own back; Lady Mary, who bore her scars and her pain—and the cursed Sandoval—with courage and grace and unfailing courtesy to all for years after, until her last day; Lady Mary, most foully murdered by the cursed false knight Alexander Smith, while she slept in her bed.
"I don't ask that she rest in peace, gentlemen, because I know that she does. I know that God Himself rose to greet her upon her arrival at the Pearly Gates, and I say that any God who would not gather Lady Mary to His Bosom is no God I'd care to worship.
"Lady Mary." He raised his glass and drained it.
"Lady Mary."
"Lady Mary."
Niko had expected Cully to stop leaning on him the moment that they rounded the bend, but Cully surprised him.
"Easy, boy," he said. "Let me rest for a moment." Using his stick to steady himself, he lowered himself to an awkward crouch, teetered, and would have fallen if Niko hadn't rushed to grab hold of his shoulders.
"Shit, boy, I'm getting too old for this." His voice was still slurred, although there was no need to keep up the pretense. "Think that it worked?"
"Worked, Sir Cully?" Niko didn't understand.
"Worked. It's a simple English word. Worked, as in, did they believe that I know far more than I'm saying, that I've figured out what the source of these swords is, and that all that's needed is to kill those responsible. Shit, boy, shit I hope it did. Gossip travels fast, but gossip about an old man making up stories won't do any good at all.
"Drank like a man who knows something awful—and that I do, that I am—but nothing useful, dammit all, nothing useful, nothing to do except paint a bright target on both of our backs and see whose arrows sprout out of it."
The drinking hadn't been some sort of ruse? "You're really drunk, Sir Cully?"
"If you know some way to down more than two bottles of wine without getting drunk, boy, you be sure to let me know. In the morning, in the morning. Now help me up."