Exile's Children (26 page)

That must be his course, and until he had gleaned all the information he might of his opponent, he would play the part of prisoner, submissive. It would not be easy—in all of this, one thing remained firm: his hatred of the Evanderans and their Autarchy—but he would do his best. And to do that he did not need a dewy-eyed girl clinging to his coattails, even less a stripling thief. Did they continue to attach themselves to him, he would rebuff them.

His mind made up, Arcole did his best to relax.

It was not easy. The bunk was too short, and scarcely more comfortable than his prison cell. The hold was filling up with the smell of unwashed humanity and the noises it made: he was not accustomed to mingling with such people. He wished he had a book to read, a pomander to protect his nostrils. He wished he might take a leisurely bath, or stroll about the deck. He touched his branded cheek, reminding himself that such basic amenities were denied him: he was an exile.

He heard unfamiliar sounds—shouts from the deck above and the creak of timbers—and felt the schooner shift. He was not much familiar with the ways of oceangoing craft, but he guessed the ship was towed from its mooring, out from Bantar's docks to the open sea beyond. He did his best to block out the cries of alarm that rose up to accompany the movement, and the scorn he felt at such caterwauling. There was no point to complaint—exile was inevitable. All that remained was to make the best of it. He hoped he would not be seasick.

He listened carefully awhile, then rose to stand beside the bunks, looking up. Through the grille of the hatch he could see a mast, and sailors clambering like squirrels about the rigging. Then, with a sound like massive sheets shaken by a giant, the sails unfurled and the deck lurched beneath his feet. He clutched unthinking at the rim of the topmost bunk, and felt a hand cover his as Flysse gasped. He turned and found her eyes huge and blue, staring at him as if in search of answers or reassurances.

“We must be under way,” he said, and retrieved his hand. “We depart the harbor.”

Flysse swallowed and nodded, feeling her cheeks grow warm at the cool indifference of his tone. She had hoped … But no. Whatever kindness he had shown her was no more than gentlemanly politeness. She had no right to expect more, nor would she. She directed her eyes upward, marveling at the vast billows of white canvas that filled the sky above, then looked downward as Davyd moaned and stirred, writhing on his bunk as if in nightmare's grip.

Forgetting her own discomfort and ignoring Arcole, she clambered down to perch beside the restive boy. His hand clutched hers, and his eyes opened.

“We're out to sea,” he groaned. “Oh, God protect us.”

Over her shoulder, Arcole said, “We quit the harbor, no more than that.”

“For the sea!” Davyd cried. “We'll all drown! There are monsters there, waiting for us.”

“Sailors' stories,” Arcole said.

“They're true,” said Davyd mournfully. “I know!”

Flysse squeezed his hand. “We're safe, Davyd,” she said. “Why, we must be still in sight of Evander, and everyone knows there are no monsters in these waters. Besides, there are marines on board, all with muskets and swords. They'll surely protect us from any monsters. Did you not hear the captain?”

Davyd shook his head, but Flysse could not tell whether he denied her or told her he had not heard. She feared that he must sicken did he continue stricken by such terror. Barely knowing what she did, she turned to Arcole, her eyes imploring.

Arcole had rather not meet her gaze. It asked that he involve himself; it asked for his help—though for the boy alone, and that prompted his grudging admiration. He thought that this Flysse Cobal was perhaps made of better stuff than the common folk, of sterner mettle. He did not want to admire her; he wanted to ignore her. But he was, after all, a gentleman, and no gentleman could ignore a lady in distress, no matter what her station. He sighed and bent toward Davyd.

“As Mistress Cobal says, there are marines on board, and I saw cannon. Likely those alone would fend off any monsters.” He could not help a slight smile: sea monsters, indeed! “But did you not see the hexes painted about the ship?”

Davyd shook his head or shuddered, Arcole could not tell which.

“Well, they are there, and no doubt are designed to protect all on board. I'd say that should be enough, no?”

Davyd grunted something that might have been a negative. Flysse put an arm about his narrow shoulders, cradling him as she might have done a baby. “Do you hear, Davyd?” she asked gently. “Sieur Blayke tells you we're safe, and he should know, eh?”

Arcole wondered how that should be. The Levan was landlocked, and the only waters he had ever crossed were rivers or lakes, and those by bridge or ferryboat. Horses he knew about, and cities, but the open sea was totally unfamiliar. He wished Flysse would not look at him so
gratefully, but the boy had stopped shaking now and stared at him as if he were the fount of all knowledge. He sighed again and went on.

“We're valuable cargo, no? Exiled and indentured—property of some worth to the Autarchy, which guards its possessions jealously. I doubt me they'd risk losing us, or this ship. No, boy, you'll be safe.”

Now two pairs of eyes studied him as if his words were the cornerstones of their lives. It occurred to him that Flysse was near as frightened as the boy but hid her fear for Davyd's sake. She rose higher in his estimation—which irritated him somewhat. He forced a smile and said, confidently as he was able, “Trust me, eh? You're safe.”

Very soft, less to Arcole or Flysse than to himself, Davyd murmured, “But I dreamed …”

“Dreamed what?” asked Flysse.

Davyd caught himself and shook his head. “Nothing. It was just a dream. Only that.”

His face—already pale—grew ashen, as if some fear greater even than his terror of water leeched the blood from his cheeks. Arcole saw the muscles of his jaw lock tight around clenched teeth and his head drop, eyes averted. Arcole was a gambler and a duelist, skilled in the reading of faces—of those small, unbidden signs that give a man away: he sensed something was hidden. He wondered what greater terror possessed the boy than his fear of the sea.

Flysse said, “Fear makes us dream sometimes, Davyd,” and the boy nodded without looking up and said, “I'm thirsty.”

Arcole thought he deflected further talk of his dreams. Almost, he pursued the matter, but Flysse looked to him and asked, “Would you be kind enough, 'sieur Blayke?”

He frowned, at first not sure what she asked of him—he was not accustomed to fetching and carrying. But then he nodded brusquely and rose, walking to the hatchway ladder, where he recalled a water butt was located.

The deck shifted more steeply under his feet now, and he must adjust his step, balancing the tin cup carefully as he returned. He noticed that several of the human cargo were already sick, and wondered how long it would be before the hold stank of vomit. But he brought the cup back and handed it to Flysse. She smiled thanks and lifted the mug to Davyd's mouth.

When the boy had done drinking, he licked his lips and said huskily, “My thanks, 'sieur Blayke.”

Arcole waved a dismissive hand and took the empty cup, returning it. When he reached their bunks again, Davyd seemed a little calmer. Or
in greater control of his fear. He no longer trembled, but he still clutched Flysse's hand as if it were a rock, anchoring him in a stormy sea.

Flysse said, “You are very kind, 'sieur Blayke.”

Arcole grunted. It seemed an attachment grew, whether he liked it or not. And he could not shake the feeling that Davyd hid something, something about his dreaming. He thought it must be a long voyage. He looked at the young woman and at the boy awhile, and then he said, “We are to be companions on this journey, no? So, do we dispense with formalities? My name is Arcole.”

And against his will, he could not help but feel pleased by Flysse's smile.

Routines became established as the
Pride of the Lord
sailed steadily westward.

The exiles were each issued a bowl, a spoon, and a cup, and soon after dawn each day they were fed. Sailors escorted by armed marines lowered tubs of porridge into the hold and the prisoners formed into lines to partake of the frugal meal. It was thick, unpalatable stuff, but after a few complainers had suffered beatings, there were no more objections. Throughout the day, in groups of twenty, they were allowed on deck to bathe and exercise as best they might in the small space allowed. Tomas Var ordered an arrangement of canvas sheets that afforded a degree of privacy for their ablutions, though sailors leered from the rigging as the women took their turn; and when Arcole pursued those exercises learned in the gymnasiums of the Levan, he attracted the catcalls of mariners and prisoners alike. He ignored them: such common folk could hardly be expected to understand the activities of a gentleman. Around sunset, thick soup and hard bread were issued. If the exiles were lucky, the soup contained pieces of meat. Inevitably, the larger part of each day was spent below decks.

And there hierarchies began to form.

The strongest, or the most vicious, of the prisoners attracted coteries of sycophants, and those groups carved out tiny kingdoms within the hold's small world. Had they not already claimed the most propitious areas for themselves, they set about the conquest. Those too weak to
oppose them were banished to the less favorable sections: around the perimeter of the hull, where the air circulated slower and thicker and the journey to water butt or soup tub was longer. Some were required to pay a toll for the journey, in food or physical favors.

Arcole had not looked to establish himself as a leader—he had far rather been left alone—but early in the voyage a ruffian with broad shoulders and a wide chest, one of Karyl Oster's group, suggested he vacate his position beneath the airy hatch, taking the boy with him. The woman he could leave.

Arcole told him, “No. Why should I?”

The man—Arcole never bothered to learn his name—said, “Because I want it.”

Arcole digested this and smiled. It was, on a level beneath his dignity, akin to the challenge of a duelist. He thought that he must adjust his attitudes in this new environment. Still smiling, he drove his fist into the man's stomach, and then, as the fellow doubled over, struck him twice—very precisely, just as he had been taught by Smiling Jacques, the prizefighter—about the head. The man fell down and did not get up. Arcole suggested to his minions that they carry him away, which they did instantly and nervously. After that, none others attempted to take over that section of the bunks, and Arcole found himself something of a hero.

Certainly Flysse saw him as such, and Davyd; and consequently he found himself further entangled with them, the which he found irritating and flattering in equal measure. The boy had calmed somewhat, but was still clearly troubled. He ate and drank automatically, as if from habit rather than desire, but when he slept he tossed and turned and cried out about sea monsters and destruction and then, on waking, denied memory of the dreams with averted eyes and new-paled face. He looked to Flysse for comfort and Arcole for protection, and when he walked on deck it was always with anxious looks toward the sea.

Arcole's curiosity about this went some way to fixing their relationship. He felt that Davyd possessed some knowledge he kept hid, and as much to escape the inevitable boredom of the journey as for any other reason, he determined to unlock the boy's secrets.

Flysse was another matter entirely.

He could not deny her beauty, but neither the differences between them. He respected her courage—especially that bravery that had prompted her to strike an officer in the God's Militia—and he admired the way she concealed her own fears in support of Davyd, but he could not forget that she had been a tavern wench. For all she spoke well, and possessed manners unusual for a serving woman—imitating the gen
tlefolk in whose mansion she'd once worked, he supposed—he could not help but think of her as beneath his station. Nor did he seek such entanglements as must surely hamper his advancement in Salvation. He looked on them both as curiosities: common folk come somehow under his protection, not properly understood, like inherited servants. And yet, when he saw the scar decorating Davyd's cheek exactly like his own, and the brand on Flysse's arm, he must remember that they were all of them exiles and in the eyes of the Autarchy no different.

For all he had told himself he must accept the situation and make the best of it, it was not easy to consider himself one with the other inmates of the hold, one with the human cargo of the
Pride of the Lord
. In too many ways he felt a greater kinship with the marines who watched him as he exercised and understood better than his fellow exiles what he did and why. He had sooner dined with Tomas Var—for all the man was an officer of the Autarchy, and an Evanderan—than take his bowl and eat on his bunk with folk who spoke in common accents and smelled of sweat and vomit. And yet he was consigned with them to exile: he wore the brand, and faced only a life of slavery, indentured. And those secret hopes he held—well, perhaps it did not hurt to make friends amongst his fellows.

And—a constant, growing curiosity—there were Davyd's dreams.

He knew of Dreamers. The Autarchy destroyed them mercilessly: they possessed some measure of that magic power that won Evander its wars. It was a strength greater than muskets or blades, and jealously guarded. He had not lied when he told Davyd of the hexes that warded the
Pride of the Lord
—they were strong, likely set there by Evanderan Inquisitors who were the strongest of all the magically gifted. Those sigils could hold a man back from jumping ship, or an exile from electing to drown rather than become a servant in Salvation. They would—did sea serpents exist—hold off those monsters. They were the truest strength of the Autarchy.