Exile's Children (30 page)

Davyd said, “I do trust you, Arcole.”

“Then no one shall have this from me. Not even Flysse.”

“I don't suppose it really matters now,” Davyd said. “I dream of sea serpents, so sea serpents will come. And then …”

He sighed. Or perhaps he sobbed: Arcole was not sure, only that this hardened thief seemed at the moment no more than a frightened boy whose odd gift condemned him to secrecy and terror. He squeezed Davyd's hand, smiling with a confidence he no longer felt.

“And then they must face the hexes that guard this ship. And the cannon, and the marines. I think we can withstand even sea serpents, Davyd.”

“Truly?”

There was a plea in the question: Arcole ducked his head solemnly. “Truly.”

“And you'll not tell anyone else?” Davyd hesitated a moment. “Not even Flysse?”

“Not even Flysse,” Arcole promised. And affected an expression of hurt dignity. “Do you doubt my word?”

Davyd shook his head, his face set in such earnest lines, Arcole had to chuckle. “It shall be our secret,” he promised. “Ours alone.”

“Thank you.” Davyd smiled then, as if somehow this sharing of his secret lessened its weight.

Flysse found them like that, the boy settled beside the man with such a look on his face as she'd not seen before. She thought she'd not seen him so calm, so cheerful, since first they'd met. And Arcole … She could not properly interpret his expression: it seemed somehow both content and embarrassed, as if he had recently performed some act of kindness he had sooner be kept hid. They looked, she thought, almost like father and son, and she felt, almost, that she intruded.

The
Pride of the Lord
progressed slowly over the Sea of Sorrows. There were no more disturbances. Apart from the obvious threat of flogging,
the exiles were so wearied by their labors that none had the energy to foment trouble. They ate and slept only when they were not rowing; and, slow it seemed as the schooner's progress, Arcole healed.

He had suffered wounds before—at swordpoint and, twice, by pistol ball—but then he had been attended by surgeons of renown and had convalesced in luxurious surroundings. Faithful Dom had been there to fetch and carry, and acquaintances had visited. Yet even then, in such comfort, he was always impatient to recover; now, in the schooner's heat-baked hold, he grew frustrated beyond endurance. As soon as he was able to rise and walk unaided, he went on deck. Flysse urged him to wait, but he ignored her as he ignored the tugging of his healing wounds and made his way topside with her and Davyd fussing about him as if he were an invalid quite incapable of looking after himself. Which, of course, he was, though he refused to admit it, transforming grimaces of pain into careless smiles. He doubted either Flysse or Davyd believed him when he assured them he felt no pain, but they pretended and for that he was grateful. It was the truth when he told them he felt better for the sun on his back, and that he must surely go mad did he remain in the hold.

And he would study the ocean: awaiting confirmation of Davyd's ability.

They had spoken no more of that talent, and Flysse had no idea they had spoken at all. It was their secret, shared and exclusive, and did Flysse observe a change in their relationship, she assumed only that Arcole mellowed, accepting the young thief.

Arcole did, indeed, mellow. He acknowledged a debt of gratitude to them both, and found that he no longer looked down on them but regarded them as equals in adversity. He realized that he had not known such loyal friends since parting with Dom; he realized that this voyage changed him. He came—to his surprise—to hope they should not be parted when they reached Salvation.

And daily he watched the sea.

It was a featureless expanse, here. There was no swell, no waves, only a bland blue that spread remorseless to all the points of the compass. The sails hung usually limp, and when a breeze arose, it was weak and warm, doing nothing to aid their progress. The longboats scarcely disturbed the surface, and the
Pride of the Lord
seemed scarcely to move but rather hang suspended in timeless limbo. Food and water were rationed, and for the first time it occurred to Arcole that they might starve or die of thirst. He began to think that the proving of Davyd's dream might be a welcome interruption of such monotony.

Meanwhile, he slowly gathered back his strength. His back healed,
and though it would be always scarred, the wounds no longer pained him. He recommenced his exercising, at first carefully but then with steadily increasing vigor. Davyd joined him, initially in those practices that put muscle on his narrow frame but then pleading that Arcole teach him the meaning of the apparently pointless movements that followed. As the days passed, Davyd learnt to box and the rudiments of the fencer's art—though that was difficult without swords.

Once, Tomas Var came by as they worked and stood awhile watching them. When they halted, he said, “Your back is healed, eh?”

Arcole nodded and returned him, “Yes,” not sure of the officer's interest.

Var said, “Good,” and then: “You teach the boy to fight.”

Again Arcole said only, “Yes,” wondering if he should feel grateful to this Evanderan.

“Who taught you?” Var asked, and when Arcole replied that he had trained with Smiling Jacques, he nodded as if he appreciated what that meant, saying, “He taught you well, I think.”

Arcole gave him another, “Yes,” and Var smiled faintly and strolled on.

When he was gone, Davyd said, “Who's Smiling Jacques?”

“A prizefighter,” Arcole replied. “A famous pugilist.”

“I thought you were a duelist,” Davyd said, “and a gambler.”

With mock solemnity Arcole said, “I was a gentleman. I gambled and fought some duels, yes; but a gentleman commands various accomplishments, don't you know?”

“I don't know much about gentlefolk,” Davyd said, grinning. “Except they usually carry fat purses.”

Some weeks earlier Arcole would not have found that statement so amusing—now he laughed. And Flysse, who watched them from beneath the shade of a limply drooping sail, smiled and thought that they seemed, almost, a family. It seemed to her the best of times. Oh, she had sooner have more to eat and be able to drink when she wished, to wash in private and have a change of clothes, but she was uplifted by the friendship arisen. Arcole had changed—he no longer irritated her—and she sometimes, secretly, thought that did he approach her bed, she would find it impossible to refuse him.

As man and boy returned to their exercising, she moved to the rail, looking out across the empty sea. Save it was no longer empty: in the heat-hazy distance lay a darkness that had not been there before. For an instant she thought to cry out, but then she thought of Davyd's nocturnal terrors, and feared to frighten the boy anew. Of late—since Arcole had accepted him—he had seemed calmer, as if come to terms with his
horror of the sea. She'd not afright him and so she remained silent: the darkness did not seem to offer any threat.

Then a sailor shouted from the masthead and she caught his words: “Weed! Weed!”

The activity the shout produced alarmed Flysse. She turned to Arcole—beside her now, an arm around Davyd's shoulders—as sailors ran to their stations and marines primed the cannon.

“What is it?” she asked.

Arcole shook his head helplessly: it seemed to him only that—seaweed, albeit in vast quantity. He felt Davyd shudder and gave the boy a grin, holding him tighter.

The schooner drew gradually closer to the weed, and by nightfall it was clear that it was far more than some solitary floating mass. It stretched across the horizon, exuding a sulphurous odor that permeated the ship, foul as a midden. When darkness fell it lit the night with an eerie green phosphorescence. It was dense—the oarsmen in the longboats must labor hard to carve a way through, and when they were relieved they came back on board stinking of the stuff. Nor did the night bring any relief, for Captain Bennan feared entrapment and demanded the longboats stay out to maintain their slow passage westward.

The next day the ship lay deep within a sea of green that seemed so thick, a man might walk across it. Crabs scuttled over the weed—great misshapen things with ugly pincers, pursuing a kind of worm that writhed and oozed when taken. On board, folk wound cloths about their mouths and nostrils to fend off the stench and none bathed, for none cared to sample the water here. Men with boathooks were stationed in the longboats, to cut a passage clear.

Worst—for they boded ill for all on board—were the hulks that now became apparent.

They seemed exhibits preserved in a macabre oceanic museum: ships from yesteryear, and others of more recent design, lay becalmed amidst the weed. Their rigging hung empty from masts unpleasantly reminiscent of bones, and weed clung to their hulls, grew up over the bulwarks so that some appeared less wooden constructions of man's making than organic things, creations of this strange sea. On some, human remains rested amidst the weed, skulls and rib cages wound all round like horrid ornaments. Others were of fresher vintage and stood still proud of the engulfing weed, as if halted only recently—but empty, their crews gone, presumably in a final desperate attempt to escape by boat.

The
Pride of the Lord
moved with an agonizing languor, inch by slow inch. The longboat crews were soon exhausted and must be re
placed sooner. Even the marines took their turn, and Arcole was deemed sufficiently recovered that he found himself ordered to the oars.

This alarmed Davyd, for he was convinced his dreams should soon come true, and he feared for Arcole's safety—the open boats were very vulnerable. Flysse must encourage him as best she could for all the time Arcole labored in the boats, and when he returned—sweat-drenched and reeking of the weed—Davyd would smile as if he came back alive from a dreadful war. She was herself by no means at ease—none were, for this horrid weed-strewn sea momentarily threatened to hold them in its embrace forever.

Tension gripped the schooner, not least because the cannon remained always manned and the sailors were issued cutlasses, as if some danger greater even than the weed were expected.

Had Arcole not come back on board exhausted, wishing only to eat and sleep until he must go out again, he might have questioned Davyd, asked after the boy's dreams. But he did not; and Davyd did not tell him that the dreams returned manifold. Neither did Tomas Var see fit to speak to the prisoners, save to issue the orders that sent them out to the boats. They were, after all, only exiles.

The weed continued thick for several days, closing astern of the
Pride of the Lord
as if to obliterate all sign of her passage, while ahead it stretched dense, seemingly to the ends of the world. The entrapped hulks dwindled as the schooner labored on, until finally there were none; only the green, crab-infested wrack. Then, when it seemed it must be their fate to forever sail this horrid sea, the strange vegetation began to thin. That should have been a relief, but Arcole noticed that Var's marines and Bennan's sailors grew more tense. Cannoneers stood ready by their weapons and the seamen watched the ocean with increased vigilance. Bennan stationed extra lookouts on the mastheads, and the officers wore both swords and pistols, as if they readied against ambuscade.

Arcole observes all this with a strange fascination. He said nothing to either Flysse or Davyd, but he saw that the schooner prepared for danger and could not help wondering if Davyd's gloomy predictions should soon be proven true. It seemed to him that such monsters as the boy dreamed of would more likely infest the depths of the weed-sea than this perimeter, where the open ocean should likely soon appear, but still he wondered. Almost, he hoped for the materialization of Davyd's nightmares, for that would irrevocably prove the boy's ability, and he still believed that talent might somehow benefit him in the days to come.

Then one day, as the weed continued to thin out and the ship began
to move swifter, Davyd beckoned him aside. He pulled down the cloth covering his nose and mouth that he might be heard. On his face Arcole saw a warning.

“I think,” Davyd whispered, glancing around to be sure none might overhear him, “that it shall come soon.”

“You sea serpent?” Arcole frowned. “You're sure?”

“Not when exactly.” Davyd shrugged helplessly. “The dreams don't tell me that. Only that … something … approaches.”

All the while he spoke, his eyes roamed over the sea. Arcole felt his nervousness as a cold prickling down his own back, as if the scars of his whipping tingled in anticipation. Like Davyd, he studied the weed shimmering green under the relentless sun. It shifted now, undulating slightly. That meant, he thought, a current, a swell beginning, and that must surely mean the weed would soon end.

“Can you not say it clearer?” He did not mean to speak so sharp: it was a product of Davyd's nervousness, the tension of the crew and the marines. He smiled to soften the words. “What shall this beast do?”

“I don't know,” Davyd answered. “I know only that we're in danger.”

“Arcole set a hand on the boy's shoulder. “Then best stand ready,” he said. “But I tell you again, we've much protection on this vessel.”

“I hope it's enough,” Davyd said.

Then Flysse approached and Arcole forced a smile, saying, “Put on a cheerful face, eh? We'd not want Flysse alarmed.”

Davyd tried a smile: it looked to Arcole more like a grimace of pain.

Flysse said, “What ails you, Davyd?”

He drew the Protective cloth closer about his face and from behind that camouflage said, “This stink. It sickens me.”

He was, Arcole thought, a good liar.

“It afflicts us all,” Flysse said. “But surely it shall soon be gone? Folk say the weed must end soon.”