Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (3 page)

“For what?” Genny asked in a thin voice. “What could they have done to warrant such treatment."

Patrick swung his eyes to her. “Just for the hell of it, that's what.” He returned his gaze to the man. He

nodded. “You know what that is?"

Weir looked at his friend.

“That tattoo on his wrist,” Patrick clarified. “The old gent doesn't have one. I checked."

Weir glanced at the odd marking on the man's upturned wrist and shook his head. “I've never seen

anything like it."

“It's a Serenian penal colony identification mark,” Tarnes informed his Captain. He looked over at

Patrick. “Ain't it?"

Patrick nodded, never taking his eyes off the man lying so still in the bunk. “It's the Maze.” He folded his

arms across his chest. “It's the tattoo they give a prisoner whose been incarcerated in the Labyrinth."

Weir flinched, looked sharply at the man in the bunk, and took a step back. He turned his eyes to

Patrick. “They must have been taking him back. He probably escaped."

“That would be my guess,” Paddy snarled.

The Healer shooed them all from the cabin when he boarded. It was an hour before he came above

decks to appraise his Captain of the man's condition.

“He's got the fever from the looks of him, barely alive. If he makes it through the afternoon it would

surprise the hell out of me."

“Isn't there anything you can do?” Genny's eyes leapt to the hatchway leading below decks. “There was

quinine in the galley..."

“He's got Labyrinthine fever, missy,” the Healer snapped. “There isn't any cure for that. Quinine might

help with malaria, but it won't do anything for this kind of fever."

“What will?” Patrick asked, a hard edge to his voice.

“You might try praying,” the Healer shot back.

“What about cleaning him up?” Genny prodded. “Maybe some broth? Will bathing him make him

sicker?"

Looking at her as though he thought her daft, the Healer's chin rose in the air. “It is my opinion you'll be

wasting your time, but if you can find someone willing to bathe that...” He looked back at the hatchway

and shuddered delicately, “...person, then by all means try."

“I'll bathe him,” Patrick growled, rudely shoving the Healer out of the way. The angry Ionarian warrior

headed for the hatchway.

“And I'll help!” Genny echoed.

“The hell you will!” Weir shouted, making a grab for his sister's arm. “You'll keep your ass on deck

here, Genevieve Saur. I'll help Paddy!"

“I'll get water and the like for you!” Tarnes called out as his Captain disappeared down the hatchway.

He turned a jaundiced eye to Genny. “You heard your brother. You stay put. We'll handle this."

“Bring a razor, too, Tarnes,” Weir advised.

Genny turned her fierce scowl to the Healer. “Is this fever contagious?"

Shaking his head, the man seemed to be bored by the whole conversation. “No."

“Then I don't see any reason why I can't..."

“Because your brother said so!” Tarnes snapped. He took hold of her arm and shook her.

“You do what he says for a change!"

[Back to Table of Contents]

The ill man hovered over the fine line between life and death for over a week, and not once in the entire

time did he so much as bat an eyelid or move a muscle. His flesh, now bathed and kept dry, was so hot it

burned the hands that tended him. His face, now shaved, was a deep, dull red color, badly sunburned.

His hair now cut and deloused, was lusterless, with the feel of straw about it. Through cracked and

bleeding lips, his breathing grew labored at times, harsh, rattling in his chest, but would often subside into

shallow normalcy with a hitching gasp and long pause that drew the immediate attention of those at his

bedside.

His back had been seen to, the lash marks salved. His wrists and ankles, as well, for he alone of the two

men, had been heavily weighted down with irons about both wrists and ankles. A thick dog collar of iron

had been removed from his neck where the shackles had been soldered in place.

The old man had lain in a near-stupor for two days, babbling, rambling on and on about people and

places, events; but when he at last came to himself, his first words were for news of his fellow survivor.

“Is he all right? Is the boy alive?” He tried to get up, but Tarnes eased him back down.

“He's as well as can be expected,” Tarnes assured the old man, and watched as still-feverish pale green

eyes had closed in thanksgiving. “He's over there."

Turning his head, the old man looked at the still figure on the bunk across from his for a long time and

then finally closed his eyes again.

“They tried to do him in, they did,” the old man mumbled, his lips quivering as though he were in great

pain. “They didn't want him to make it back alive."

“Back to the Labyrinth, you mean?” Tarnes questioned, wiping a cool rag down the old man's

weathered cheek.

“Aye,” the soft word came. “They wanted him to die."

“Why?” Tarnes removed the rag and dipped it into the basin of water that sat on the floor at his feet,

rung it out, and then placed it across the old man's wrinkled brow.

“He'd caused the Captain a heap of trouble."

“How?"

There was a long pause and then the green eyes opened and stared into Tarnes’ very soul.

“By living.” The cracked lips trembled. “Simply by living, son."

Tarnes felt a great pity well up inside him for the man lying on the bunk across the cabin. The scars on

the young man's back, Tarnes reckoned the count to be about sixty, had caused the Second Mate many

a restless moment. One didn't have to experience a lashing to imagine how bad it could be. He glanced

over at the unconscious man and then looked back down at the older one.

“You weren't a prisoner, were you?"

The old man shook his head. “I was one of the crew of the Vortex."

“The Vortex? Is that the name of the ship?"

“No,” was the reply. “The ship you found us on was the Tamarind. She was a privately owned bark.

The Vortex was in dock at Ghurn for repairs when they brought him back, so they commandeered

Captain Janssen's bark, the Tamarind."

“Brought who back?"

“Him,” the old man, jutting his chin toward the unconscious man. “They caught him down near Hellstrom

Point and was bringing him back to the Labyrinth. Only two ships sail to that godawful place; the Vortex

is one of ’em. The other ship was already on her way back to Boreas."

“I take it this Captain Janssen wasn't too pleased at having his ship taken over,” Tarnes remarked as he

lifted the old man's head and placed a cup of cool water to the chapped lips.

After taking a few sips of the quenching coolness, the old man nodded, putting his head back down to

the soft pillow. “Was downright pissed, he was. He didn't like sailing down to Tyber's Isle.” He looked

into Tarnes’ eyes. “That's where the Labyrinth is."

“I know,” Tarnes replied. He narrowed his eyes. “I thought the charts to that place are only in the hands

of a very few men. How'd this Captain Janssen know where to find Tyber's Isle?"

“Oh, he didn't take his ship out, Sir,” the old man told him. “Captain Linstrom did; he was the Captain of

the Vortex. The entire crew on board the Tamarind when we left Ghurn Harbor was from the Vortex;

but Captain Janssen was made to go along because he'd put up such a fuss about his ship being

commandeered and all. Captain Linstrom was going to blindfold him once we got to the sea lanes that

lead into Tyber's Isle."

“What happened to your crew?” Tarnes asked. “Pirates?"

The old man nodded. “That and the fever what took hold of a third of us before we'd cleared land good.

Captain Linstrom was the first to die of it, but that was after we was well out to sea.” He turned his head

and gazed at the man on the other bunk. “That's when Janssen tried to kill him, you see. He figured if the

boy was dead, there'd be no reason to go to Tyber's Isle.” He looked back at Tarnes. “There were sea

charts that had belonged to Captain Linstrom for Janssen to use. Janssen didn't know that until I told him

where to find them; they was in the Captain's sea chest. When Janssen found out he could still make it to

Tyber's Isle, he was pissed even more."

“So he tried to kill your friend to keep from having to make the trip."

“We ain't rightly friends, Sir,” the old man informed him. “I don't even know the boy's name, but I tried

to help him all I could.” The lips trembled again. “He escaped that gods-be-damned prison; he shouldn't

have ever been caught. No man should ever be caught what escapes that hellhole. If you'd have seen

what they did to him when they caught him, you'd have thought so, too."

“I agree,” Tarnes confirmed. “Most of the men sent there don't have any right being there."

The old man looked hard at Tarnes. “You seen his hands?"

Tarnes nodded.

“I saw them do that to him.” The rheumy green eyes shifted. “I've seen it done a number of times, but

won't ever get use to it. When they brought him on board the Vortex, they did it. They spread-eagle him

to a yardarm and nailed his hands to the wood, and then left him hanging there the rest of the morning."

Tarnes nodded. He had once seen a man punished in the same way the unconscious man had been. The

unfortunate prisoner had suffocated due to the strain of hanging in such a position. The constriction had

finally halted the air going into his lungs. It had not been a pleasant sight and had greatly effected a much

younger Norbert Tarnes. “I've heard crucifixion is the usual punishment for running away from the

Labyrinth. I guess he knew what could happen to him if he got caught."

“Aye, he knew,” the old man agreed, “but he wasn't expecting what else Janssen done to him, though.

He sure as hell didn't deserve it, either!"

“What was that?"

A low groan from the other bunk made both men turn. Tarnes shot up from his place beside the old man

and bent over the other man, peering closely into his flushed face.

“Can you hear me?” Tarnes asked, gently shaking his charge. The question was answered by another

low groan, dry and wispy, heavy with pain. He looked around at the old man. “What's your name?"

“Me? Stevens, Sir. Jarl Stevens.” He struggled weakly to sit up in the bunk, but his head swam

unmercifully and he laid back down, closing his eyes to the wave of nausea that washed over him.

“Does he know who you are?"

Swallowing against the bile riding up his parched throat, the old man waved a dismissing hand. “I don't

think I ever got the chance to tell him."

Tarnes soothed a fall of limp blond hair over the young man's brow and was relieved to find his flesh

cooler to the touch. He watched closely as the closed eyes tried to open, the parched lips part as another

groan was forced out.

“You're safe, lad,” Tarnes assured him. “You're aboard the Wind Lass bound for Montyne Cay.” He

stroked the damp cheeks, wiping away the dotting of sweat. “You're safe. Just rest easy.” He tugged the

covers up closer and sat back on his haunches, closely observing the flicker of movement now beginning

to stir on the man's face.

“He waking up?” Stevens called out.

“Appears so."

“Wish I knowed his name for sure. I know he's from Virago, was a Lord or some such rank."

Tarnes glanced around. “How do you know that?"

Stevens opened his eyes and looked at the Second Mate. “They wouldn't have taken so much trouble to

go looking for him and bring him back if he wasn't. Only them what the Tribunal wants to keep get

tracked down so."

Norbert Tarnes thought about that for a moment and then nodded. There was a man he knew who had

been sent to the Labyrinth. That man had made good his escape. No one had bothered to go looking for

him; he hadn't been anyone of importance, just a common criminal. Such men were considered

expendable and when the penal colony officials and the Tribunal spoke of “no man ever having escaped

the Labyrinth"; they meant men of consequence, men who mattered.

“I wonder what the poor bastard did to warrant being sent there, then,” Tarnes remarked.

“Made a mighty powerful enemy of somebody,” Stevens told him.

“Tarnes?"

The Second Mate looked up, grinned at Patrick Kasella. “He's coming around, Paddy."

“How's his fever?"

“He's cooling down a mite.” Tarnes stood, moved out of Patrick's way as Kasella hunkered down

beside the bunk. “Ain't opened his eyes yet, though, but he's trying."

Patrick reached out a hand and gently touched the man's flushed face. “You're going to be all right,” he

whispered. “You're with friends, now."

“I told him he's safe.” Norbert Tarnes stretched, his hands going to the small of his back as he popped

his spine. “I reckon I'll go get some sleep if you're going to be here awhile."

“Go on. I'll watch him."

“This other gent's name is Stevens. He was one of the crew. He doesn't know this lad's name."

Paddy flashed the old man a quick look. “Is that so?” he growled, then settled his blue gaze on the man

trying to swim up out of the depths of unconsciousness.

“That wasn't a prison ship you were manning, Mr. Stevens,” Paddy stated. “What were you doing

transporting prisoner's to the Labyrinth?"

“They were hauling just the one,” Tarnes told him, concerned with the harsh tone of voice Paddy used in

questioning the old man. “Stevens says the lad is from Virago. He thinks he's a Lord or something."