Envy is a sin, and we all are sinners.
I try to avoid sin, but I fail, time and time again. Lust I can usually conquer—always in deed, if not in the occasional momentary thought, as I've not had a woman since I shaved my head as a novice, and the occasional dreams of the flesh that haunt my nights are just demons to be cast out by awakening.
Greed has rarely tempted me; I think that's a gift of my birth and upbringing. I save my wrath for the appropriate. As critical as I can be of myself—and I do try—I don't think of myself as slothful.
But envy, ah, envy. I am filled to bursting with envy.
I envy my brother Michael his birth order; I envy Father his easy laugh. I envy the Abbot General his wisdom and authority, and I envy Gray his devotion—carrying Red is far more of a burden than White, as the Nameless has never other than lightened my load.
The thing that Gray most envies about me, I think, is my home—what he thinks of as my home, although he's wrong. Fallsworth is a wonderful place, granted, and it's been my family's home for many, many years. I think I know every tree in the woods that's bigger around than a man's arm, and while Mother complains about the castle being drafty no matter how often the stones are mudded, it's always seemed warm and homey to me.
But just homey, not home. When Father dies, it will be Michael's home, not mine, and while I'm sure I'll be welcome when I visit, I will be visiting then, just as I do now.
My home, like Gray's, is the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon, and it always is with me, and while it comforts me, it doesn't merely comfort me . . .
In that, I fail again: pride, too, is a sin.
I am a sinner who cannot and will not repent of that.—Bear
He had even started dreaming in English.
That was a good thing, he guessed. Probably.
Whistling in time with his quick pace, Stavros made his way through the twisting streets, down toward the docks, his teabag over his shoulder.
It was a long walk down from the hills to the docks, but he didn't mind, not at the moment. Even from the cluster of sunoikia up in the hills, he could see that there were new ships in port, and that meant work, which meant money—and other things, as well, and it was high time he got back to sea, if only to avoid the long daily walk, although he certainly had better reasons than that.
Sunoikia closer to the water were more convenient, and of better quality than the miserably stuffy room at the edge of town that he shared when ashore, but the ones at the fringe of the city were far cheaper, and he wouldn't have left his few miserable possessions unguarded even in the better ones, not when they would fit in his teabag, and when he could reliably assume that everybody in any of the sunoikia was a thief.
Like everybody else, Stavros used his seabag as a pillow, and was not unusual in making a point to empty and repack it in view of the others, to make sure everybody in the sunoikia understood the scantness of his possessions. Necessary, given how both Hellenes and their English masters tolerated thievery in practice, if not in law.
He would have smiled to himself if he ever much smiled.
Sunoikia, indeed. He was thinking in Hellenic, as usual, which he supposed was a good thing, one way or the other. He talked in his sleep from time to time, Elikina said, but always in English, which she thought strange—although it was unremarkable, under the circumstances.
He certainly thought in one or the other most of the time, and that was, certainly, all for the best. He didn't even think of the ö⇑Κ↔ εζ ΩχΦΚ as the ö⇑Κ↔ εζ ΩχΦΚ, or as hay'at al-amr bilma`ruf wa al-nahi `an al-munkar or even as al-Bilma, but, rather, as "the Committee" when he did, and he tried not to think of it at all, and sometimes he even succeeded.
He thought about himself all the time, but as Stavros Kechiroski—known as "Stavros Andropolounikos" dockside because of his origin; Andropolouniki were not common this far south—and he never even thought of himself as Nissim al-Furat anymore, and, truth to tell, days and even weeks went by without him thinking of Nissim's home.
Once a month, at least when he was in the satrapal capital, he would find some time, privacy, pen, and paper—the privacy was the hardest to come by; time the easiest—and write down everything he had seen that even might be of interest, using the simple substitution code where Hellenic letters substituted for Pharsi ones. Pharsi, of course, not Arabic; even though it was highly unlikely that Royal Navy Intelligence ever would come across any of his writings, much less break the code, it could happen, and the added misdirection might be useful. Let them think that the near-mythical Hassasanites had been reborn, if they would. The Committee traced its lineage from much more reputable origins, even though it was said that there had been an assassin or two involved in the early days, and in the long run would do—it probably had done—far more damage to the Dar al-Harb than a bunch of screaming killers waving swords possibly could.
If he was to be seen writing, or even his writing was seen, what of that? Many a common sailor knew his letters, after all—the Hellenes more so than the English, for some reason—and he wouldn't be the only sailor ever to dream of striking for a purser-clerk's cushy billet and higher pay.
He always folded his reports carefully, then completely wrapped the folded paper in clay. The clay would be deposited in the same spot under an upthrust root of an old oak tree a mile out on the northern road out of the city. He had a woman in the village just beyond the vineyards—more of a whore, really; he was sure that Elikina took on other men when he was away, as she could hardly get by on the few coppers he gave her, despite her smiling protestations to the contrary—which would easily account for his travels, should anybody ever stop and ask him.
Not that anybody ever did, although dropping off his reports was always the most frightening part of what he did; it always felt like curious eyes were watching him from the dark, and it took all his self-control not to look around. If somebody was there, the last thing he ought to be doing was engaging in some furtive looks.
Stavros had no idea who picked up his reports, or when, but whoever it was of necessity knew where he left his reports, and if his unseen brother—surely it would be only one?—fell into Crown hands, and could be made to talk, it would be a simple matter to lie in wait for Stavros. He had heard of an occasional spy of the Dar al-Islam being captured, although had never heard of one being captured alive.
A fist-sized clump of clay wouldn't draw attention by itself even if discovered, and was unlikely to be discovered by accident—particularly since Stavros always made sure to empty his bowels there on any trip, in or out of the city, whether or not he was leaving a message—but the weakness of it all came from the necessity.
The Committee was like one of the wonderful grinding machines that the Hellenes used to make their tasty, wonderful pork sausage—Hellenes loved their filthy swine, and of course, being a Hellene, so did Stavros—in went all sorts of scraps, and out came something useful, he hoped, although it would be a long time, he suspected, before he would know if he had, indeed, ever been of any use.
The only thing he knew for certain was that he had not been recalled, and that he was to continue, and continue he would. He had been pledged to the Committee for a full ten years, not counting his two years of training, and then—
Well, it was best not to think about then. It would only make his present life that much less endurable, and it was certainly a good enough life for the likes of Stavros Kechiroski, eh?
Stavros made his way through the twisting streets in the pre-dawn light, whistling a British sailor's tune, as though it would ward away the Press, were there gangs about this early, which there sometimes were, although usually not.
The tune wouldn't, not by itself; the sealed certificate sewed into the lining of his teabag, however, would and, at least these days, enough of the local sailors had such certificates that the Press rarely bothered any sailor who didn't run from them.
There would be no point in stealing it, although you couldn't count on a thief to be sensible, as it wouldn't do anybody else any good. It described him, as all such certificates did: the mole on his left wrist and the pattern of scars on his back were drawn in ink on the certificate, and while there were more than a few other men of his height, with black hair and short fingers, the scars and mole were distinctive.
There was another thing about him that would have been distinctive. Boys in Tikritiza had by tradition been held off from being circumcised until they joined the Arm at fifteen, and while that was not unique, it was unusual, and Nissim had long since suspected that Shaykh Tzidiki's fatwa on the subject had more to do with the Shaykh's involvement in the Committee than they had with anything else, as holy and learned a man as the Shaykh was.
Instead of participating in the Fitna feast and marching off to join the Arm, Nissim had been sent away to learn other skills, and his foreskin was to be left intact until his work was completed.
Another three years and he would, finally, achieve at least that level of fitnah—of fitness, fitness—and could think of himself as a true man, and not, even in the back of his mind, as an uncircumcised pig of a Hellene.
He patted at the spot on his bag where his certificate was concealed. While his training had included counterfeiting, his release certificate was entirely genuine; he had begun his real service to the Committee by being impressed, dragged off the streets by a press gang less than a mile from these very docks.
It had, of course, been unpleasant, particularly at first. The bosun's mate in whose charge the new landsmen aboard the Holofernes had been placed had taken a particular liking to him, unfortunately.
Not that it was all bad. Sullivan's influence had largely kept him out of the rigging and on the deck crew, which had been just fine with him, and provided him with more than enough gossip that eventually, when they were given leave on Malta—impressed landsmen, no matter how apparently docile, were never given leave where they might find some place to flee until they earned their buttons—went into his reports.
But he had kept his head down—in more ways than one, alas; the mate's appetites were insatiable—and obeyed orders, and accepted every bit of abuse and indignity with neither exceptionally much nor suspiciously little protest, and had received his discharge three months to the day before word had reached Pironesia that impressments were now to be three years instead of two.
But that was in the past, and this was a beautiful day, and there were several new ships in the harbor, and likely a job to be had. What with the activity of the Press of late, masters were paying good wages for experienced seamen, and Stavros' dockside reputation was good enough that he would more than likely not have to produce his record book, much less his discharge papers, before signing on.
Rigger, topman, carpenter, deckhand, cook—he had done it all in the Navy and since, and he knew the waters around at least two dozen ports of call well enough to be a welcome hand at the tiller or wheel in the rocky waters around Malta, or near the sandbars that grounded many a merchantman off Fletesque at low tide to wait until either men in hard-rowing launches, or, more usually, the high tide, pulled them free.
He always preferred a Malta run, of course, as that was one of the three places he knew to look for signs. He had seen the chalked three wavy lines that meant "find instructions" in more ports than he could count, although they weren't intended for him anywhere except Malta, and here, on the corner of—
Really. The three wavy lines were chalked on the the side of old Nicolou's place. They hadn't been there yesterday; he always made a point of passing by the corner of Dog and Pony at least once a day whenever he was in the city.
He didn't miss a step or a note, of course, although he could feel his pulse quicken, and it was only because he was walking in time to the tune that he didn't have to force himself to maintain the same pace. He hadn't seen that sign in Pironesia in more than a year.
It meant something—one of three things. The best possibility, of course, was that he had been recalled, and the worst that his unseen proctor had been caught and made to talk. If it was the former, it would just be a matter of digging down deep into the soil where he had, when he had first arrived in Pironesia, buried the sealed clay jar containing his merchant's clothes, papers, and money, then walking up the coast far enough that nobody would recognize him as Stavros Andropolounikos, and taking passage to some trucal port where he could find a True Believer trader bound for Sfax, or Algiers, or any port along the coast.
If it was the second, he was likely a dead man, although he would take what pains he could, and hope that the brother had deliberately left out a few details as to how the message would be left—which would be a recall, of sorts, although not the one that he wanted.
And the third . . . well, that would be the most interesting.
He needed to do it as quickly as possible, but there was no reason to seem to be hurrying, and every reason not to. The British were not always as clumsy as he had been taught that they were, but there was some justice in that appraisal, and if he saw a squad of soldiers watching the tavern, he could and would just walk on, and wait until later.
But there were none such at old Ari's, and the common room was crowded with sailors, some getting an early start on their daily drinking, but most of them with their packed sea bags under one foot or clutched between their knees as they sat at their benches, bolting down the last decent meal that was likely to slip down their throats for some time to come. There were good things to be said about shipboard life, if not many, but the quality of the food was not high among them.
Over in the far corner, four were busy in a game of one-thumb, and the small stack of quarterpence in front of Marko the tailor showed that Marko, once again, had found himself some easy prey. Marko met his glance for a moment, then returned to his game, and Stavros let his gaze swing by, not having any particular reason or desire to ruin things for Marko. The others—Pireausians, from the look of them—would learn soon enough, although Stavros didn't understand why a perfectly good cooper would waste his time cheating for pennies in port when there was always work for a man of his skills, any more than he did why a cooper had a tailor's nickname.
Ari himself spotted Stavros, and scurried over, wiping his filthy hands on his not-much-less filthy apron. "Stavros!" he said, greeting him with a quick smile. "Shipping out?"
"I don't know," he said. "I thought I'd get something to eat before I checked down at the docks." He patted at his belly. "I think I can feel my backbone—bread and onions, and some wine, perhaps?"
Ari's broad smile became less real around the edges. "Oh? No berth yet?"
Stavros knew what that meant, and he produced a copper coin, and flipped it to the innkeeper.
The smile changed back. "Some sausage, as well?" The copper still lay on his fat palm, and he was apparently rethinking his concern about Stavros's ability to pay. "I'm sure you'll find a berth—you could sign a chit?"
"I think I'd better see if I can find a berth before I celebrate—as fond as I am of your wonderful sausages."
"As you wish, then," Ari said as he closed his hand around the coin.
A departing sailor always had good credit, at least until the ship left port—Ari's son made it a point to greet incoming merchantmen, a bagful of debt-chits in his hand, to be sure that Fat Ari's was paid off before any debtor sailors were. A sailor sometimes—often—didn't have two quarterpence to clink together, but as long as he had a berth, he had enough credit at Ari's for a good meal, and probably enough more for a quick turn with one of the whores in the back rooms.
Stavros took a seat on one of the benches, as the smell of freshly baked bread wafted in through the open door, followed a moment later by Ari with a head-sized loaf of bread and a bunch of onions on a clay plate, and a tall mug of presumably watered wine clutched in his big fist.
The walk had turned Stavros's normal good appetite into something urgent and painful; he gulped down his food and washed it down with the wine as though he hadn't eaten for a week, rather than just a little less than a day. There was nothing special about the bread, not really, but the one thing you could count on about freshly baked shore-bread was that you'd never take a bite and see half a weevil-worm wiggling back at you, although he had had to eat weevilled bread, and worse, in his time.
Conversation flowed around him, about as usual. It was possible to learn a lot in a waterfront inn; some of it was of use to a sailor, and perhaps to others, as well. The O'Reilly had taken on half a dozen new hands, and the Spirikos even more, and there were sailors on the pumps night and day, most likely because of shipworm, of which the Spirikos was sorely afflicted, and which would only get worse, as Aristides was either too pressed to fulfill some long-standing contracts, or too cheap—or, most likely, both—to spend a month or more on the beach at Athenai for even a patchwork refit, and the worms would likely get to the keel before he did give in and spend the time and money, and he would expect his carpenter to work miracles indefinitely in the interim.
Three Guild ships were in port, as well, and they were all taking on hands for a trip out to Darmosh Kowayes, a place that Stavros Andropolounikos had no particular interest in going, and Nissim al-Furat even less.
"You ever sail on a Guild ship, Stavros?" Fat Egidio more lisped than asked, as his mouth was full with at least his third fist-sized loaf of bread, to which he quickly added a swallow of wine. His mouth split in a grin that dribbled some of the glop into his thick black beard. Egidio—known as Egidio Aristides, as he claimed, at least when sufficiently drunk, to be the bastard of a Thessalonikan grandee, although which grandee his supposed father was did have a tendency to change, depending on just how drunk he was—was another ex-impressee, whose time of service had overlapped Stavros's, although they'd never served together on the same ship. "I understand life on a Guild ship can be . . . very interesting."
Stavros allowed himself to show some anger. "Well, I'm told that it is, and that you'd better know than I would how interesting it all can be, from how Bosun Flaherty used to say about how you had the prettiest mouth he'd ever had the pleasure of."
There probably was a Bosun Flaherty somewhere in the Navy, but Stavros didn't know one, and he couldn't, offhand, remember any of the names of the officers and bosuns and mates aboard either of the two ships that Egidio had been on, although he had at the time, of course, included what names and other information he'd had in his reports.
Egidio's face darkened, and he drew himself up straight, not quite rising from the bench. "I—"
"Oh, sit down, Aristides," another of the sailors said. "Or go outside—if the two of you knock over my wine fighting, you can each find out how interesting it is to have a foot up your back passage—and I don't have to take the time to tear my toenails ragged before I do, as I already did that last night." His tone was light, but he was a big man, and there was a serious undercurrent, and Stavros raised his hands, fingers spread, in surrender, smiling broadly.
"Ah," Stavros said, "I'm not looking for a fight—just a ship, and—" he let a pained expression come over his face, "—and my bread and onions are going through me like grain through a duck." He rose and scooped up his teabag, and quickly made his way through the back door and down the steps, across the stones, then up the steps to the pergula, the laughter trailing off behind him.
It was a four-holer, closed on all four sides but open to the sky, probably to help the odors escape on the wind—but from the smell, the slop barrels beneath hadn't been emptied in too long. More important, the chalk marks were in the right place on the door, and it was, at the moment, unoccupied, leaving him free from the necessity of grunting and loitering on the seat until he could have a moment of privacy.
Not that he needed much time. The second floorboard from the wall was disgustingly damp, but loose, and the fresh clay holding the folded sheet of paper was quickly in his hand.
He listened for the sound of footsteps, and hearing none, opened it.
Most of the symbols he could read at a glance, but it took a moment for him to puzzle out the words that had been spelled phonetically. Ah: "Marienios," and "hiring."
The Marienios is hiring, it said. There are two knights aboard. Sign on. Important.
There was still no sound of footsteps, so he quickly urinated on the paper and then folded the soggy mess in roughly the same way that it had been, mashed the clay around it, and put it back where it had been, then seated himself on the bench.
Interesting, and as interesting for what the note didn't say as what it did, although the symbol for "important" was very unusual, as though it was necessary to emphasize to somebody with Nissim's harsh training that a specific instruction was to be obeyed.
But it didn't say for him to report. Was that because his brother would trust him to report, as always? Or was it because, just possibly, he wouldn't need to, that he would be found, that his unseen brother would finally identify himself to Stavros?
That would be wonderful. He couldn't be left out in the Dar al-Harb with such knowledge. If that was to happen, he would either have to be recalled—or killed, of course, and if that was the will of the Committee, he would go to his grave with the same smile on his face that he would otherwise take to his hidden cache.
But enough of that. For now, the question was how to get hired on aboard the Marienios. That shouldn't be difficult. Stavros kept a careful eye on the coming and goings of ships in the port, which was perfectly natural for a sailor without a permanent berth, so he didn't even have to think about affecting ignorance.
The Marienios hadn't been in port the night before, so it must be freshly arrived, and that meant that it had been at most a scant few hours since his unseen brother had seen it, decided for himself that it would be useful for Stavros to be on it, then left both the note and the chalk mark, alerting Stavros.
Very interesting. The Marienios belonged to the Abdullah family, and while Stavros had had no reason to suspect that they were other than the heretic dogs that they affected to be, it wasn't impossible—
No, it was. A clan that large couldn't keep such a secret, not for even one generation, and certainly not for many.
Still, he thought, as he hefted his teabag to his shoulder, he wasn't alone, anymore. His elder brother was near, and watching.
Although it did feel otherwise most of the time, it gave him a warm feeling to know that he was not alone.
Stavros whistled as he headed down toward the docks, where the Marienios waited for him.