Children of Earth and Sky (11 page)

But he was going. It had been a simple matter to offer his room to a friend sharing someone's crowded space, and there was nothing to packing his clothing, since the privy clerk had undertaken to dress him in a manner befitting a representative of Seressa. That was what Pero was now. A representative of his republic, the Queen of the Sea. He had told them what he needed in the way of supplies for painting. They'd procured them.

Pero had paused for a moment by a window over the canal during the late, loud party last night to think about how his
parents would have been proud. He'd realized that this chance, this sailing, would never have come had his father been alive, and the thought about pride went away, as if out the open window and over the waters below, where a boatman was singing a love song under the two moons in the sky.

As he approached the docks now, where the foreign ships moored, he caught sight of the
Blessed Ingacia
. Men were moving up and down a ramp and along the deck, loading cargo and stowing it. It was a trading vessel, good-sized. He supposed it was trim and ready and other important things, but Pero knew too little about ships to form an opinion. He had never been to sea. Had no idea if he was one of those who handled the waves easily or if he'd be vomiting and green for the duration of the crossing. On reflection, it might not have been wise to have drunk as much as he had last night.

His goods were with him, being rolled in a small cart along the dock. He was bringing his own supplies. Who knew what they had in Asharias? He had a servant, assigned by the council. It would have been inappropriate, it seemed, for the highly esteemed young artist he was now declared to be to travel east alone. The servant's name was Tomo. He was a small, slope-shouldered man, wiry and quick, no longer young. Pero knew nothing about him. Their first encounter had been this morning.

It was difficult to credit, what he was in the midst of doing. It could contort the brain, trying to grasp it. Also, there was the headache.

All the girls in the tavern had kissed him goodbye, some with a squeeze below for luck, and Rosina had taken him to her room for more than that and hadn't charged him for it. It had been a good farewell. He wondered if he'd see this lagoon again. Did sailors always wonder that? You almost had to, setting out to sea, let alone going onward, as he would be, overland from Dubrava to Asharias.

There was talk of war again, the Osmanlis marching and riding, wheeling their heavy cannon towards the fortresses of the emperor.
It was said that their new cannon master was a metalsmith from Obravic itself. It wouldn't be surprising. Men did that, moving back and forth across borders and faiths for gold. For a way to live. The High Patriarch pushed for holy war. Ordinary men pushed for themselves and their families.

The Osmanlis might be going north and west soon. Surely, Pero thought, they'd not harm an artist summoned by the grand khalif? He carried papers. Weren't there protections, immunities? Wouldn't a soldier have his skin flayed or some such if he did violence to a man the khalif wanted?

Some of his friends last night had offered this view; others had disagreed (Seressinis were good at that), suggesting that distances were too great and warfare too disruptive for discipline. With late-night, wine-fuelled concentration, they had debated the likelihood of Pero being castrated or killed on the road. They'd agreed he'd probably survive the short voyage to Dubrava. There was that, at least.

He had been told by the privy clerk to attach himself to any party of merchants going east. They would know the road, war tidings, other dangers. It was also possible an Osmanli official would be in Dubrava when Pero arrived. If so, he was to report to that person, present his documents, ask for an escort. Use his best judgment, in either case.

It was startling to Pero Villani that people believed he might have a best judgment in matters of this sort. It could have been amusing, but it didn't feel that way this morning, looking at the ship he was about to board.

It really was too bright. Sunlight was reflecting in dazzles and sparkles off the lagoon. The breeze was from the west, pushing high white clouds. He supposed that wind was good for the mariners.

He saw two men waiting by the ramp leading up to the
Blessed Ingacia
. One was burly, black-haired, a weathered face, full-bearded,
wearing a red seaman's cap. He was watching the goods being wheeled and carried aboard, rasping orders.

The other was quite gorgeous.

He was better dressed than one needed to be for a ship's voyage, very tall, fair hair worn long. He wore an aristocrat's sword. He held his hat in one hand so that his bright hair gleamed in the unfair light. His beard was fashionably trimmed. He smiled widely as he watched Pero approach. His eyes would surely be blue, Pero decided, and confirmed it as he came up to them.

“Welcome! You will be the artist, Signore Villani?” the tall man said in flawless Batiaran. He sounded amused, for some reason.

“Pero Villani, yes.” Pero bowed. “This is your ship?”

“My family's. Marin Djivo, eternally at your service.”

“Eternally? More than I hope to need.”

The other man laughed. “Indeed. I can be wearying over long periods, my friends often say. Our men will help yours stow your goods. You'll have to share a cabin with your servant or he sleeps on deck. Your choice, of course. I do apologize, but that is the way of things on board.”

“I understand.”

But Pero saw that the golden-haired shipowner's gaze had already moved past him, as if he was dismissed. Aristocrats could be like that. So much for eternal service, he thought. The man's smile grew wider. He had laughter-lines at the corners of his eyes, wasn't as youthful as he'd appeared at first glance. Older than Pero, certainly. Pero noticed the captain—the burly one—observe that smile, and wince. He turned to look.

A man and a woman, two servants with them and a larger cart than Pero's (carrying considerably more belongings), were approaching. One of the servants, a young girl, was holding a green-and-blue sunshade over the woman. Pero wished he had one of those shades.

These would be, he knew, the doctor and his wife headed for Dubrava on one of the contracts for physicians. The man looked sober and serious, as doctors usually tried to appear. If you were going to kill a patient you might as well seem thoughtful in the process.

His wife was small, young, genuinely lovely. She had her hand on her husband's arm. Her eyes were wide, head turning this way and that, taking everything in.

They weren't important to Pero at all; companions on a brief journey across to Dubrava, never to be seen again, most likely.

He wondered if the doctor had remedies for seasickness, should it arise.
Arise
was possibly the right word, Pero thought. He had friends who'd have laughed at that if they'd been here and he'd said it aloud.

Behind him, Marin Djivo did laugh, for some reason.

“Oh, Jad,” Pero heard the ship's captain mutter. He glanced back at them. Djivo had spread his arms wide, one hand still holding the handsome hat.

“
Welcome!
” he cried again, more loudly this time. The word rang out over the commotion of the dockside. Men paused in their morning activity to look. “Be welcome, both of you! You must be this year's Seressini spies!”

“Oh,
Jad
,” the captain repeated under his breath. “Oh, Marin, please!”

The physician stopped abruptly, and so his wife did, of necessity. So did the servants and the wagon. They remained like that, a dozen paces away. Pero felt a small but undeniable anticipation. This was unexpected. He looked again at the shipowner. Marin Djivo's smile seemed guileless, no hint of anything but pleasure in it, despite the words.

His captain looked anguished.

The doctor—his name was Miucci, Pero remembered—disengaged his arm from his wife's and came forward alone. He wasn't smiling.

He said, quietly, “Will I be dealing with further insults if I board your ship, signore?”

Djivo's smile wavered not at all. “So that you know, we say ‘gospodar,' not signore, in Dubrava. Or ‘gospar' will do for tradesmen and such.”

The physician remained grave, but Pero could see anger. “We are not in Dubrava. Is it an uncivilized place, or is it just you?”

“Oh, dear. You feel insulted, doctor?”

“I do,” said Miucci calmly.

Pero was impressed. He had no idea how he would have dealt with this himself.

The doctor added, “Dubrava has asked for a physician. I am acceding to that request. Your words suggest something very different. If I am unwelcome I have no desire to impose or intrude, or to spend two years with my wife in a place where we are not welcome. Please advise me. It is Signore Djivo, is it?”

“It is.” The smile had gone. The man looked as serious as the physician. “How would you like to be advised, doctor?”

“Jacopo! I do believe Gospodar Djivo is amusing himself, no more than that.” The woman came forward, leaving her servant and the sun-covering behind. “Amusements differ so much from city to city. Am I not right?” She smiled, the only one doing so.

There was a hesitation. Then Djivo said, “Also from person to person, Signora Miucci. It will be ‘gosparko,' which means ‘my lady,' when we reach our republic. And you are entirely correct. An observant woman, I note. I am a man whose friends are often unhappy with his notions of diversion.”

“I can see that.” Signora Miucci nodded towards the captain, whose face reflected his distress. “Assuming your captain is also a friend.”

“Probably not in his own mind just now,” Marin Djivo said, laughing. “Come, doctor. I jest too much and not always wisely. You
are
welcome on board, and I promise you will be pleased with your welcome in Dubrava.”

“May I reserve the right to decide that?” the physician said. His pretty wife had taken his arm again, Pero saw. He was, he realized, enjoying himself, even with a steady pain behind his eyes.

“We always have such a right,” Marin Djivo said.

Miucci nodded. “I also have no doubt you and your captain have been carefully observing Seressa while trading here, and every time before. That you will share your thoughts with each other and with the Rector's Council when we reach Dubrava. Would you suggest otherwise?”

Marin Djivo could look forbidding, Pero saw, not just frivolous. Tall men had an advantage in that way. The merchant said, “Your contention is that Seressinis in Dubrava can hardly not do the same?”

Miucci nodded again, briskly. “That is my thesis, yes. There are other cities with physicians—if you distrust Seressa.”

“To be honest, doctor? The entire world distrusts Seressa.”

To his great surprise, Pero saw Jacopo Miucci's face relax into a grin.

“With cause, I daresay. What shall I report in my first letter home about the merchant who took us across?”

Marin Djivo laughed again. You could see where the laughter-lines came from. Pero thought this might be a face worth sketching.

“That he had a wretched sense of what might amuse, but offered Candarian wine, kept back for his own use, to guests aboard ship.”

“Very good,” said the doctor, and “
Good!
” said his wife in the same moment. They looked at each other. The physician smiled; the woman laughed and squeezed her husband's arm.

They went aboard.

—

MARIN WATCHE
S THEM
go up the ramp. He has a number of thoughts taking shape. He is also waiting on Drago. They've known each other a long time and, yes, his captain is his friend.
Or, he thinks of it that way. He suspects the other man might hesitate before using the word.

Drago says, not looking at him, eyes on the crates and sacks being brought past, “You had to do that?”

Marin puts his hat back on his head. He likes the hat. He just bought it here. It is a sunny day. Not hot, a brisk wind. A good wind, which is why his captain is pushing the crew; he wants to catch that breeze before evening if they can.

He says, “Do what, Drago?”

The other man swears. Marin laughs.

“Why do you need to complicate things?”

“I do that?”

“Yes!”

“You think I was being irresponsible?”

“Yes.”

Marin sighs. The doctor and his wife are being helped onto the deck. The artist follows. He is quite young. Marin thinks about that, draws tentative conclusions.

“I wasn't, Drago. I wanted to test a few things.”

The captain turns to him, his expression skeptical. “Is it so?”

“Yes it is. And I did.”

“And what do you know from this testing?”

No harm in sharing. Drago Ostaja is both the best captain the Djivos have ever had and discreet as a statue.

“That the doctor is no spy, beyond the usual questions he'll be asked when he returns. But the wife has her own tasks. I have almost no doubt about it.”

Drago swears again. He is inventive that way. “And
how
did you decide this?”

“Because I challenged them and watched. What you called being irresponsible. Miucci's anger was protective. He was thinking of her. Then she defused the matter so smoothly it just . . . went away.
Did you notice? It was impressive. She's better-born than him, knows courts from somewhere. Not Seressa, from her accent. We should find out where.”

“
She
is the spy?”

“I'd say so. Nothing unusual, of course.”

“Fucking Seressinis.”

Marin grins. “As to that, I never did ask—how was last night?”

Drago flushes crimson, which is all the reward a man ought to ever need for a clever line. Unless he'd said it to a woman, perhaps.

His captain declines to answer, turning back to the ramp. “Easy with the crates, you! The sacks you can sling around, but not the crates!” He takes his time monitoring (unnecessarily) what is happening. They are nearly done, and this crew, Drago's crew, knows what they are doing.