Exile's Children (29 page)

“My thanks.” Arcole ducked his head, smiling at Davyd. “And be so kind as to take my shirt too? I'd not see it needlessly soiled.”

Davyd nodded, quite unable to speak in the face of such magnificent courage. He waited as the shirt was removed, then carefully folded the linen and retreated backward to where Flysse stood, his eyes intent on Arcole all the way.

Arcole stretched leisurely and favored the sergeant with a quizzical smile. “I trust your efforts do not fatigue your arm, sergeant?”

The marine grunted and shook his head. Someone in the crowd laughed nervously, another heartily. In the rigging overhead, a sailor called, “Bravely said!” From his station on the quarterdeck ladder, Tomas Var could not help smiling—though he swiftly hid the expression.

“So, gentlemen.” Arcole stepped to the hatch and rested his weight against the metal frame, his arms upraised. “Shall we commence?”

The two men of his escort secured his wrists. One set a wad of leather between his teeth, murmuring, “Bite hard on this. It'll ease the pain somewhat.”

They stepped clear and the sergeant uncoiled his whip. Davyd felt Flysse's hand clutch his shoulder as the plaited leather swung back. As it fell on Arcole's shoulders, her fingers dug deep, and she gasped as if she shared the pain. Davyd remained silent, only grimacing in sympathy
each time the lash descended. It left long, angry stripes of red across the skin, and at each blow Arcole's body jerked. He did not cry out as Gryme had, but Davyd could hear the stifled grunts the pain elicited.

Tomas Var watched with an impassive face. He was pleased to see his sergeant follow the instructions given—that he place his blows with care, not overlay them but deliver each stripe separately. That would make it easier on the victim, and Blayke recover swifter. It was as much as he could do for the man and still do his duty by the Autarchy.

Down the length of the schooner he saw Captain Bennan watching from the poop deck and noted the look of disapproval on the man's face. He wondered if the shipmaster would find occasion to set his disagreement in the log or make report on his return to Evander. Var thought it likely: Bennan was something of a martinet.

Well, no matter, he decided. The punishment of the exiles was his territory, as was their care; and should his superiors in the God's Militia find cause to question his judgment, then he would justify his lenience with the explanation that he'd not see valuable property needlessly damaged. That he felt a sympathy for Blayke need not be known. That he felt—almost—a kinship with the man, he dared not admit even to himself. He was an officer in the God's Militia, a captain of marines with hope of advancement to come and a sincere belief in the Autarchy. Arcole Blayke was an exile, a criminal—it was not for Tomas Var to question that sentence. Neither to wonder if they might, ever, have been friends.

And so the captain of marines and his men watched in stolid silence, and the exiles nervously, and none there knew they shared a common emotion: admiration for Arcole.

But Arcole knew only pain, and anger that an honorable act be punished with the indignity of a flogging. He bit on the gag, determined to show no sign of weakness to the Evanderans, and it was easier than the branding, for he was sustained by his anger. When the final blow was given and the flogging ended, he still braced himself against the hatch, not knowing it was over.

That awareness came with the saltwater that splashed against his back, a sudden, sharper pain on the fiery throbbing of his ravaged skin. He had not known tears clouded his vision until then, when he gasped and blinked, and grew aware that his wrists were freed. He spat out the gag and forced himself to stand upright, unaided as he moved back from the hatch.

The sergeant was coiling the whip, his face fixed and rigid as a statue's, but as he carefully wound his loops of leather, he murmured,
“The saltwater helps. It hurts, but have someone bathe the wounds each day.”

Arcole looked toward him, but it was as though the man had not spoken, even when—barely moving his lips—he added softly, “You were lucky. The captain ordered I flog you easy.”

Arcole would have asked him why—would know why an Evanderan officer should show mercy to a Levanite exile—but his mouth was too dry to shape words, and the sergeant's blocky figure was suddenly vague, the masts and watching faces beyond him suddenly revolving in a slow and stately whirligig. So he only nodded his head and took a weak-kneed step forward toward where he thought Flysse and Davyd stood. And then he must concentrate on the next movement of his foot, and the one after, for he would not show weakness.

He reached the two and halted. Davyd still held his coat and shirt, but when the boy extended the garments he shook his head and mumbled, “Not yet. I'd not spoil a good shirt. When I'm healed … Now, water, if you would.”

Davyd ran instantly to the nearest water butt. Arcole looked at Flysse's horrified face and forced his lips to stretch in semblance of a smile. “Might I borrow your shoulder a moment, Flysse? Else I think I shall fall down.”

She came close, taking one arm and setting it gently about her shoulders. He leant on her, surprised by her strength, and waited until Davyd brought him the water. It was tepid: he thought he had never enjoyed a drink so much.

When the taste of leather was washed from his mouth, he said, “I think I should like to retire now, do none object.”

Davyd came to his other side and, leaning on them both, Arcole made his unsteady way toward the hold. The crowd parted before the trio, none speaking, only watching in silence. Arcole's legs felt simultaneously lead-weighted and insubstantial. Each step was an effort, as if he wore impossibly heavy boots; and yet his knees were rubbery: had Flysse and Davyd not supported him, he should have fallen. He knew he lacked the strength to crawl, and that increased his anger. He forced his head upright and saw Tomas Var watching him. The captain's expression was unreadable. Arcole essayed a brief smile and ducked his head as if bidding the man farewell. He was surprised when Var returned the gesture.

Then he must concentrate on the ladder, which was now becoming a serious obstacle. Flysse went down before him, Davyd behind, and together they got him to the foot where he must rest a moment before
finding his bunk. He was glad it was the bottommost—he did not think he could find the strength to climb.

Gritting his teeth against the pain each movement brought, he eased onto the pallet, stretching out facedown. That was a little better: the fire lit on his flesh became a single throbbing ache. He wondered how Gryme felt, and supposed—a small consolation—that the man experienced far worse.

“Is there anything we can do?”

He turned his head to find Flysse crouched beside him. Her eyes were large with concern, reddened by weeping, and moist with tears.

“I think not.” He found it difficult to construct his thoughts in coherent fashion: he had much rather close his eyes and drift away. “The sergeant said the wounds should be bathed each day in saltwater. But otherwise …”

He realized he had closed his eyes only when he heard her voice again.

“Arcole? Arcole, the ship's surgeon attends you.”

He focused on the breeches standing before his bunk. They stretched tight over an ample belly. It was too much effort to raise his head, so he did not see the man's face, but he thought the fellow's boots would benefit from polish. He grunted.

The surgeon grunted back and Arcole saw a bulky valise set down on the planks, opened by chubby pink hands that extracted a small pot.

“I've seen worse.” The voice was genial, coming from a point above and behind Arcole. “The other fellow, f'r instance. Now …”

Arcole felt his back massaged. He supposed the surgeon applied a salve; certainly the throbbing pain abated.

“That'll help the healing. Tomorrow, wash him with seawater; do that every day until he's mended. Best he doesn't move until then.”

The chubby hands returned the pot to the valise, snapped the bag shut, and lifted it out of sight. Flysse's face came back into view, Davyd close behind her. Arcole tried to speak, but his mouth was dry and his eyes very heavy. Shaping words was too much effort, so he only smiled and retreated into sleep.

When he woke, the hold was dark and filled with night sounds. He could hear Davyd grunting overhead. He was thirsty beyond endurance. He lay still, trying hard to ignore the thirst, but he could not. His mouth was arid and he attempted to rise. Pain lashed his back anew and he groaned. He did not think the sound loud enough to carry through the multitude of other noises, but on the instant he saw a shapely leg de
scend and moonlight fall silvery over Flysse's hair. She drew a shawl about her shoulders as she knelt beside him. Lit by the moon, he thought she resembled an angel.

“What is it?” she asked softly. “Do you hurt?”

Through gummy lips he said, “Water.”

Flysse nodded and was gone. He thought to call her back—he feared for her, wandering the nighttime hold alone and he helpless to protect her—but it was too late and he could only lie there, cursing his weakness. He hoped the lesson of the floggings was taken by the bullies.

Then she was back, bringing a brimming pannikin to his lips.

It was not easy, drinking prone, endeavoring to lift only his head, for any other movement inflamed him. He must sip when he would have gulped, but Flysse was patient—more than he—and knelt holding the cup until it was emptied.

“Enough?” she asked. “Or shall I fetch you more?”

“No,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

She smiled and stroked his hair. He remembered she had stroked Davyd's hair, and wondered if the touch had comforted the boy as much. When she clambered back up to her own bunk, he felt a pang of guilt as he watched her ankles. They were very trim, and he recalled the touch of her body when he had held her.

In the days that followed, the order that had become established was reversed. Flysse and Davyd nursed the helpless Arcole. They brought him food and water, and once daily carried a bucket from the deck, bathing his wounds. One or the other was always with him, talking when he wished, silent as he slept, but always there when he woke. He came to take it for granted and would have missed their presence had they been less attentive.

He was, if anything, more in Davyd's company than in Flysse's, for the boy seemed loath to risk the deck without Arcole, as if the man had become a kind of talisman. It afforded him the chance to speak somewhat of Davyd's dreams—cautiously, for he remembered his promise to Flysse, and felt newly guilty that he broke it. He told himself it was for all their good—that if Davyd was a Dreamer, then that talent might benefit them all. But he was careful to make his inquiries casual, so that it should seem, almost, that Davyd spoke of his own free will, not through inducement.

“How do you sleep now?” he asked as if he did not lie listening to the boy's nocturnal cries. And when Davyd shook his head and lowered his eyes, “The nightmares still?”

Davyd nodded and Arcole laughed and said, “You saw Gryme try to jump the rail? You saw the magic that halted him? Strong magic, no?”

It was a slow process, but Arcole had little else to occupy his time as the
Pride of the Lord
entered the Sea of Sorrows and the easterly winds died away. Indeed, as the schooner ventured deeper into those latitudes, it was often necessary to put the ship's longboats over the side and have them tow the larger vessel. On those occasions the boats were crewed by exiles, marines stationed at tiller and bow. Arcole and Davyd were excused this exercise—the one because he was still weak, the other because he was too scrawny, too young. Then the hold was emptied, and Arcole might easier draw Davyd out.

“We've come to no harm yet,” he said. “Surely you cannot still think we're in danger.”

Davyd shrugged, and softly, looking not at Arcole but at the deck beneath his feet, said, “It will come. I know.”

“Then best I mend,” Arcole declared, “so that I can protect you.”

Davyd smiled at that: a forlorn expression that denied solace, as if he knew better than to question the warnings of his dreams. “What comes comes,” he said.

“How,” asked Arcole, “can you be so sure?”

“Because I've dreamed it,” Davyd whispered.

“And your dreams are true?” Arcole said. “Always?”

Davyd ducked his head as if he would sooner it were not so, and said, “Always.”

He gasped then, aware that he had made such admission as could bring him to the flames. He swallowed and licked his lips, staring with tormented eyes at Arcole.

The man said, “I wondered. But … are they always true, how were you caught? Did they not warn you then?”

Wordlessly, Davyd lowered his head. The movement seemed to Arcole as much surrender to implacable fate as gesture of agreement. He felt momentarily ashamed that he forced the boy to this. He said, “I'll speak of this to no one. No one, Davyd! On that you've my solemn word.”

Not looking up, Davyd said, “I dreamed of danger—I knew I shouldn't try to crack that crib. But I was short of coin, so I took the chance—and was caught.”

Arcole said, “And now you dream of perils from the ocean.”

Davyd nodded. Slowly, as if he lifted a great weight, he raised his head, facing Arcole at last. His eyes were haunted. He said, “Aunt Dory warned me not to tell anyone. They burn people like me.”

“Only if they find out,” Arcole declared, and reached out to take the boy's hand. “Do you trust me, Davyd?”

“Of course.” There was such simple faith in the statement, Arcole felt embarrassment. “You saved me, no? And Flysse too. Without you those bastards would have …”

He shuddered, lip curling in distaste. Arcole said, “Then trust me now when I tell you your secret's safe with me. I swear on my honor as a gentleman.”