Arutha looked about and saw other sailors gathering upon the quarterdeck or looking down from the rigging Shouts of “Aye, Captain,” and “He has the truth of it” could be heard.
Amos pulled himself up, gripping the rail of the ship, his legs wobbling a little. He surveyed the men gathered around, then shouted, “Night watch above! Midwatch and day watch stand down.” He turned to Vasco. “Check below for damage to the hull, then open the galley. Set course for Krondor.”
Arutha came awake in his cabin Martin Longbow was sitting by his side. “Here.” The Huntmaster held out a steaming mug of broth.
Arutha levered himself up on his elbow, his bruised and tired body protesting. He sipped at the hot broth. “How long was I asleep?”
“You fell asleep on deck last night, just after sundown. Or passed out, if you want the truth. It’s three hours after sunrise.”
“The weather?”
“Fair, or at least not storming. Amos is back on deck. He thinks it might hold most of the way. The damage below is not too bad, we’ll be all right if we don’t have to withstand another gale. Even so, Amos says there are a few fair anchorages to be found along the Keshian coast should the need arise.”
Arutha pulled himself out of his bunk, put on his cloak, and went up on deck Martin followed. Amos stood by the tiller, his eyes studying the way the sail held the wind. He lowered his gaze to watch as Arutha and Martin climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck. For a moment he studied the pair, as if struck by some thought or another, then smiled as Arutha asked, “How do we fare?”
Amos said, “We’ve a broad reach to the winds; had it since we cleared the straits. If it holds from the northwest, we should reach Krondor quickly enough. But winds rarely do hold, so we may take a bit longer.”
A lookout shouted, “Sail ho!”
“Where away?” shouted Amos.
“Two points abaft port!”
Amos studied the horizon, and soon three tiny white specks appeared. To the lookout he shouted, “What ships?”
“Galleys, Captain!”
Amos mused aloud. “Quegan. This is a bit south for their usual patrols if they’re warships, and I don’t think it likely they’re merchantmen.” He ordered more canvas on the yards. “If the wind holds, we’ll be past before they can close. They’re fat-bottomed tubs under sail, and their rowers can’t maintain speed over this distance.”
Arutha watched in fascination as the ships grew on the horizon. The closest galley turned to cut them off, and after a while he could make out the hulking outline of the galley, its majestic sails above a high fore and aft deck. Arutha could see the sweep of oars, three banks per side, as the captain attempted a short burst of speed. But Amos was right, and soon the galley was falling away behind. As the distance between the Wind of Dawn and the galleys slowly increased, Arutha said, “They were flying the Royal Quegan standard. What would Quegan war galleys be doing this far south?”
“The gods only know,” said Amos. “Could be they’re out looking for pirates, or they could be keeping an eye out for Keshian ships straying north. It’s hard to guess. Queg treats the whole of the Bitter Sea as her pond. I’d as soon avoid finding out what they’re up to as not.”
The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and Arutha enjoyed a sense of respite after the dangers of the last few days. The night brought a clear display of stars; he spent several hours on deck studying the bright array in the heavens. Martin came on deck and found him looking upward. Arutha heard the arrival of the Huntmaster and said, “Kulgan and Tully say the stars are suns much like our own, made small by vast distances.”
Martin said, “An incredible thought, but I think they are right.”
“Have you wondered if one of those is where the Tsurani homeworld lies?”
Martin leaned upon the rail. “Many times, Highness. In the hills you can see the stars like this, after the campfires are out. Undimmed by lights from town or keep, they blaze across the sky. I also have wondered if one of them might be where our enemies live. Charles has told me their sun is brighter than ours, and their world hotter.”
“It seems impossible. To make war across such a void defies all logic.”
They stood quietly together watching the glory of the night, ignoring the bite of the crisp wind that carried them to Krondor. Footfalls behind caused them to turn as one, and Amos Trask appeared. He hesitated a moment, studying the two faces before him, then joined them at the rail. “Stargazing, is it?”
The others said nothing, and Trask watched the wake of the ship, then the sky. “There is no place like the sea, gentlemen. Those who live on land all their lives can never truly understand. The sea is basic, sometimes cruel, sometimes gentle, and never predictable. But it is nights like this that make me thankful the gods allowed me to be a sailor.”
Arutha said, “And something of a philosopher as well.”
Amos chuckled. “Take any deep-water sailor who’s faced death at sea as many times as I have, and scratch him lightly. Underneath you’ll find a philosopher, Highness. No fancy words, I’ll warrant you, but a deep abiding sense of his place in the world. The oldest known sailor’s prayer is to Ishap. ‘Ishap, thy sea is great and my boat is small, have mercy on me.’ That sums it up.”
Martin spoke quietly, almost to himself. “When I was a boy, among the great trees, I knew such feelings. To stand by a bole so ancient it is older than the oldest living memory of man gives such a sense of place in the world.”
Arutha stretched. “It is late. I shall bid you both a good night.” As he started to leave, he seemed taken by some thought. “I am not given to your philosophies, but . . . I am pleased to have shared this voyage with you both.”
After he was gone, Martin watched the stars for a time, then became aware Amos was studying him. He faced the seaman and said, “You seem taken by some thought, Amos.”
“Aye, Master Longbow.” Leaning against the rail, he said, “Nearly seven full years have passed since I came to Crydee. Something has tickled my mind since first meeting you.”
“What is that, Amos?”
“You’re a man of mysteries, Martin. There’re many things in my own life I’d not wish recounted now, but with you it’s something else.”
Martin appeared indifferent to the course of conversation, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “There’s little about me not well known in Crydee.”
“True, but it is that little which troubles me.”
“Put your mind at ease, Amos. I am the Duke’s Huntmaster, nothing more.”
Quietly Amos said, “I think more, Martin. In my travels through the town, overseeing the rebuilding, I’ve met a lot of people, and in seven years I’ve heard a lot of gossip about you. Some time back I put the pieces together and came up with an answer. It explains why I see your manner change—only a little, but enough to notice—when you’re around Arutha, and especially when you’re around the Princess.”
Martin laughed. “You spin an old and tired bard’s tale, Amos. You think I am the poor hunter desperate for love of a young Princess? You think me in love with Carline?”
Amos said, “No, though I have no doubt you love her. As much as any brother loves his sister.”
Martin had his belt knife half out when Amos’s hand caught his wrist. The thickset seaman held the hunter’s wrist in a viselike grip, and Martin could not move his arm. “Stay your anger, Martin. I’d not like to have to pitch you over the side to cool you off.”
Martin ceased his struggling against Amos and released his knife, letting it slide back into its sheath. Amos held the hunter’s wrist a moment longer, then let go. After a moment Martin said, “She has no knowledge, nor do her brothers. Until this time I thought only the Duke and one or two others might know. How did you learn of it?”
Amos said, “It was not hard. People most often don’t see what is right before them.” Amos turned and watched the sails above, absently checking each detail of the ship’s crew as he spoke. “I’ve seen the Duke
’s likeness in the great hall. Should you grow a beard like his, the resemblance would shout for the world to see. Everyone in the castle remarks how Arutha grows to resemble his mother less and father more each passing year, and I’ve been nagged since we first met why no one else noticed he resembles you as well. I expect they don’t notice because they choose not to. It explains so much: why you were granted special favor by the Duke in placing you with the old Huntmaster, and why you were chosen Huntmaster when a new one was needed. For some time now I’ve suspected, but tonight I was certain. When I came up from the lower deck and you both turned in the darkness, for a moment I couldn’t tell which of you was which.”
Martin spoke with no emotion, just a statement of fact. “It’s your life should you breathe a word of it to anyone.”
Amos settled himself against the rail. “I’m a bad man to threaten, Martin Longbow.”
“It is a matter of honor.”
Amos crossed his arms over his chest. “Lord Borric is not the first noble to father a bastard, nor will he be the last. Many are even given offices and rank. How is the Duke of Crydee’s honor endangered?”
Martin gripped the rail, standing like a statue in the night. His words seemed to come from a great distance. “Not his honor, Captain. Mine.” He faced Amos, and in the night his eyes seemed alive with inner light as they reflected the lantern hung behind the seaman. “The Duke knows of my birth, and for his own reasons chose to bring me to Crydee when I was still little more than a boy. I am sure Father Tully has been told, for he stands highest in the Duke’s trust, and possibly Kulgan as well. But none of them suspect I know. They think me ignorant of my heritage.”
Amos stroked his beard. “A knotty problem, Martin. Secrets within secrets, and such. Well, you have my word—from friendship, not from threat—I’ll not speak to anyone of this, save by your leave. Still, if I judge Arutha right, he would sooner know as not.”
“That is for me to decide, Amos, no one else. Someday perhaps I’ll tell him, or I may not.”
Amos pushed himself from the rail. “I’ve much to do before I turn in, Martin, but I’ll say one more thing. You’ve plotted a lonely course. I do not envy you your journey upon it Good night.”
“Good night.” After Amos had returned to the quarterdeck, Martin watched the familiar stars in the sky. All the companions of his solitary travels through the hills of Crydee looked down upon him. The constellations shone in the night, the Beasthunter and the Beasthound, the Dragon, the Kraken, and the Five Jewels. He turned his attention to the sea, staring down into the blackness, lost in thoughts he had once imagined buried forever.
“Land ho!” shouted the lookout.
“Where away?” answered Amos.
“Dead ahead, Captain.”
Arutha, Martin, and Amos left the quarterdeck and quickly made their way to the bow. As they stood waiting for land to heave into sight, Amos said, “Can you feel that trembling each time we breast a trough? It’s that keelson, if I know how a ship’s made, and I do. We’ll need to put in at a shipyard for refitting in Krondor.”
Arutha watched as the thin strip of land in the distance grew clearer in the afternoon light. While not bright, the day was relatively fair, only slightly overcast. “We should have time. I’ll want to return to Crydee as soon as Erland’s convinced of the risk, but even if he agrees at once, it will take some time to gather the men and ships.”
Martin said, dryly, “And I for one would not care to pass the Straits of Darkness again until the weather is a bit more agreeable.”
Amos said, “Man of faint heart. You’ve already done it the hard way. Going to the Far Coast in the dead of winter is only slightly suicidal.”
Arutha waited in silence as the distant landfall began to resolve in detail. In less than an hour they could clearly make out the sights of Krondor’s towers rising into the air, and ships at anchor in the harbor.
“Well,” said Amos, “if you wish a state welcome, I’d better have your banner broken out and run up the mast.”
Arutha held him back, saying, “Wait, Amos. Do you mark that ship by the harbor’s mouth?”
As they closed upon the harbor, Amos studied the ship in question. “She’s a beastly bitch. Look at the size of her. The Prince’s building them a damn sight bigger than when I was last in Krondor. Three-masted, and rigged for thirty or better sail from flying jib to spanker. From the lines of her hull, she’s a greyhound, no doubt. I’d not want to run up against her with less than three Quegan galleys. You’d need the rowers, for those oversized crossbows she mounts fore and aft would quickly make a hash of your rigging.
“Now we know why those Quegan galleys were so far from home. If the Kingdom’s bringing warships like this to the Bitter Sea, Queg’s—”
“Mark the banner at her masthead, Amos,” said Arutha.
Entering the harbor, they passed near the ship. On her bow was painted her name, Royal Griffin. Amos said, “A Kingdom warship, no doubt, but I’ve never seen one under any banner but Krondor’s.” Atop the ship’s highest mast a black banner emblazoned with a golden eagle snapped in the breeze. “I thought I knew every banner seen on the Bitter Sea, but that one is new to me.”
“The same banner lies above the docks, Arutha,” said Martin, pointing toward the distant city.
Quietly Arutha said, “That banner has never been seen on the Bitter Sea before.” His expression turned grim as he said, “Unless I say otherwise, we are Natalese traders, nothing more.”
“Whose banner is that?” asked Amos.
Gripping the rail, Arutha replied, “It is the banner of the second-oldest house in the Kingdom. It announces that my distant cousin, Guy, the Duke of Bas-Tyra, is in Krondor.”
TWENTY-FOUR - Krondor
The inn was crowded.
Amos led Arutha and Martin through the common room to an empty table near the fireplace. Snatches of conversation reached Arutha’s ears as they took their seats. On close inspection the mood in the room was more restrained than it had first appeared.
Arutha’s thoughts raced His plans for securing Erland’s help had been crushed within minutes of reaching the harbor Everywhere in the city were signs that Guy du Bas-Tyra was not simply guesting in Krondor, but was now fully in control. Men of the city watch followed officers wearing the black and gold of Bas-Tyra, and Guy’s banner flew over every tower in the city.
When a dowdy serving wench came, Amos ordered three mugs of ale, and the men waited in silence until they were brought When the servingwoman was gone, Amos said, “We’ll have to pick our way carefully now.”
Arutha’s expression remained fixed. “How long before we can sail?”
“Weeks, at least three. We’ve got to get the hull repaired, and the keelson replaced correctly. How long will depend on the shipwrights. Winter’s a bad time: the fair-weather traders haul out their ships, so they’ll be fit come spring. I’ll begin inquiries first thing tomorrow.”
“That may take too long. If needs be, buy another.”
Amos raised an eyebrow “You’ve funds?”
“In my chest aboard ship.” With a grim smile he said, “The Tsurani aren’t the only ones who play politics with war. To many of the nobles in Krondor and the East, the war is a distant thing, hardly imaginable. It has gone on for nearly nine years, and all they ever see is dispatches.
“And our loyal Kingdom merchants don’t donate supplies and ships out of love for King Rodric. My gold is a hedge against underwriting the cost of bringing Krondorian soldiers to Crydee, both in expenses and bribes.”
“Well then,” said Amos, “even so it will be a week or two. You don’t usually stroll into a ship’s brokerage and pay gold for the first ship offered, not if you wish to avoid notice. And most of the ships sold are fairly worthless. It will take time.”
“And,” put in Martin, “there’re the straits.”
“That’s true,” agreed Amos, “though we could take a leisurely turn up the coast to Sarth and wait to time
our run through the straits.”
“No,” said Arutha. “Sarth is still in the Principality. If Guy’s in control of Krondor, he’ll have agents and soldiers there. We won’t be safe until we’re out of the Bitter Sea. We’ll attract less attention in Krondor than in Sarth: strangers are not uncommon here.”
Amos looked long at Arutha, then said, “Now, I don’t claim to know you as well as some men I’ve met, but I don’t think you’re as concerned for your own skin as something else.”
Arutha glanced about the room. “We’d better find a less public place to talk.”
With a sound between a sigh and a groan, Amos heaved himself out of his chair. “The Sailor’s Ease is not where I’d prefer to stay, but for our purposes it will serve.” He made his way to the long bar and spoke at length to the innkeeper. The heavyset owner of the inn pointed up the stairs, and Amos nodded. He signed for his companions to accompany him and led them through the press of the common room, up the stairs, and down a long hall to the last door. Pushing it aside, he motioned for them to enter.
Inside they found a room with little to recommend itself by way of comforts. Four straw-stuffed pallets rested on the floor. A large box in the corner served as a common closet. A crude lamp, a simple wick floating in a bowl of oil, sat upon a rude table, it burned with a pungent odor when Longbow struck a spark to it.
Amos closed the door as Arutha said, “I can see what you meant about choices in rooms.”
“I’ve slept in far worse,” answered Amos, settling down on one of the pallets. “If we’re to keep our liberty, we’d best establish believable identities. For the time being, we’ll call you Arthur. It’s close enough to your own to afford a passable explanation should someone call out your real name and cause you to turn or answer. Also, it will be easy to remember.”