Ship of Magic

Page 163

The thought that came floating to the top of his mind shocked him. With great clarity, he saw his own gullibility. He had seen the beauty of the city, and interpreted it to mean that folk of beautiful spirit lived here. He had come here expecting to be greeted and welcomed in the light of Sa. So strong had been his pre-judgment that he had failed to heed any of the warnings that now glared so plainly. His crew-mates had warned him, the city guard's hostility had been a warning, the baleful glances from the townspeople . . . he had been like an overly friendly child approaching a growling dog. It was his own fault he'd been bitten.

A wave of desolation deeper than anything he'd ever felt swept over him. He was unprepared for it and sank with it, letting it sweep away his balance from him. Hopeless, it was all hopeless. He'd never regain his monastery, never return to the life of meditation he so missed. He would become like so many others he'd met, convinced that all men were born his enemy and that only crass gain created friendship or love. So often he'd heard folk mock Sa's ideal that all folk had been created to become creatures of goodness and beauty. Where, he asked himself bitterly, was the goodness in the young guard who'd taken such pleasure in roughing him up today? Where was the beauty in the ulcer-lipped woman who had wanted to lie with him for the sake of money? He suddenly felt young and stupid, gullible in the worst way. A fool. A stupid fool. The pain of this hurt was as real as his bruises, his heart actually felt heavy in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut to it, wishing he could be somewhere else, be someone else who didn't feel this way.

After a moment he opened his eyes and stood up. The worst of it was that he still had to go back to the ship. This experience would have been hard enough even if he had had the safety and peace of the monastery to return to. To go from this to the stupid squabbling aboard the Vivacia, to return to Torg's gleeful brutality and his father's disparagement of him was almost more than his heart could bear. Yet what was the alternative? To hide himself and remain in Cress as a penniless and despised vagabond? He sighed heavily but his heart only sank deeper in his chest. He waded through softening garbage to the mouth of the alley and then glanced up at the westering sun. The time that had seemed so brief for sight-seeing was now a long empty stretch until sundown. He decided to find the rest of the Vivacia's crew. He could think of nothing else he wanted to see or do in Cress.

He trudged shirtless down the street, ignoring the grins of those who remarked his fresh bruises and scrapes. He came upon a group of men, obviously part of the crew of another ship enjoying some free time. They all wore head scarves that once had been white with a black bird marked on the front. They were laughing and shouting congenial insults to one another as they moved as a group from a brothel to a tavern. Their eyes fell upon Wintrow. “Oh, poor lad!” One exclaimed in mock sympathy. “Turned you down, did she? And kept your shirt to boot?” This witticism brought a general chorus of guffaws. He walked on.

He turned a corner and was suddenly sure he'd found the Sailors Walk. Not only the Blowing Scarf was on this street, with a signboard depicting a woman clad only in a scarf that the wind was blowing away from her, but the signboards on the other erstwhile taverns were equally suggestive. The crudity of the signboards signaled the specialties of those who worked within the brothels. Obviously the makers had had small faith in any sailor's ability to read.

There were other, cheaper amusements fronting the street. One stall offered lucky charms, potions and amulets: dried cauls to protect a man from drowning, bits of horn to ensure virility, magic oils that could soothe a storm to stillness. Win trow passed the stall by with a look of pity for those gullible enough to be seeking its wares. Further down the street, in a marked-off square, a beast-tamer was offering passers-by the chance to wrestle his bear for a purse of gold. Even muzzled as he was with his claws blunted to stubs, the bear looked formidable. A short chain hobbled his hind legs, while a heavier chain led from his collar to his owner's fist. The bear shifted constantly, an anxious, restless mountain. His small eyes prowled the crowd. Win-trow wondered what sort of an idiot would be talked into accepting such a challenge. Then with a sinking heart he recognized a grinning Comfrey leaning on a companion and talking to the beast-tamer. A small crowd of on-lookers, most of them sailors, were excitedly placing side bets.

He was tempted to walk on by and look for Mild. Then he recognized Mild amongst those placing bets. With a sigh, he went to join him. Mild recognized him with a grin of delight as he approached. “Hey, come on, Wintrow, you're in luck. Comfrey's going to wrestle the bear. Put your money down, and you can double it. ” He leaned closer to Wintrow. “It's a sure thing. We just saw a man win. All he had to do was get up on the bear's back and the bear gave up right away. The beastmaster didn't want to let anyone else wrestle him after that, but Comfrey insisted. ” Mild suddenly goggled at Wintrow. “Hey. What happened to your shirt?”