Exile's Children (32 page)

Arcole stared long at the bloodied weed, waiting for the beast to surface. It seemed impossible that it should be at last slain. But nothing appeared save the lesser worms that wriggled up to feet on the blood and chunks of riven flesh.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Tomas Var grinning at him. “By God, I thought us dead then. That was a wild venture.”

“But it worked,” Arcole replied.

“Indeed it did.” Var clapped him vigorously on the back. “By God, 'sieur Blayke, you saved us all.”

For the moment there were no differences between them, only the comradeship of shared peril: they were only two men who had faced death together and survived. Arcole answered Var's grin with his own, and when the office extended a hand, he took it. Then there was a crowd about them, soldiers and sailors all shouting Their approval. Evan Captain Bennan came to add his voice to the congratulations. Arcole felt a blanket draped about his shoulders and turned to find Var's sergeant at his back, that impassive face split by a huge smile.

“This calls for celebration,” Var declared. “Sergent, issue a tot to all present.”

The sergeant saluted; his eyes shifted to Arcole, a brow raised in silent question. Var nodded and said, “
Everyone,
sergeant.”

The exiles began to emerge from the hold, and when they saw the serpent was gone they, too, began to cheek. Flysse and Davyd came forward, hesitating as they saw the company about Arcole. He caught sight of them and beckoned them on, and the marines cleared a way until they stood beside him. He put is arms about them both.

“It's gone?” Davyd asked.

Arcole nodded, grinning at the boy. Flysse, her eyes bright with tears of joy that he survived, clung close. Then she sniffed and made a moue of distaste. Arcole realized that the stood soaked, draped with seaweed, and stinking. He laughed, and Tomas Var laughed with him.

Then the sergeant approached, carrying a keg. Rum was issued, but as Var raised his cup in toast, Bennan said, “Captain, this is hardly fitting.” He frowned at Arcole.

“Even so”—Var held out his cup in Arcole's direction—“I drink his health. Exile or no, he saved us all.”

Bennan's frown became a scowl, and he shook his head. “I cannot join in such a toast.”

He turned away, passing his cup to a soldier, and strode back to his position at the helm, from where he watched the proceedings in open disapproval. Var ignored him, holding his cup high. “To 'sieur Blayke,” he cried, the toast echoed by his marines and not a few of the sailors.

Arcole drank deep. The rum was strong, but it seemed only to warm him, and no sooner was his cup emptied than the sergeant refilled it. He raised it, saying, “To Captain Tomas Var.”

At that moment it seemed not at all odd that prisoner and guard should toast one another.

But when that was done the mood shifted subtly. There came an awkwardness, for the moment of danger was passed and now they must look to the future. The marine cleared his throat. “I must change,” he said, “and I imagine you would welcome dry clothes.”

Arcole shrugged. “Unfortunately, I was not able to bring my wardrobe on board.”

“Of course.” Var smiled, somewhat shamefaced. “Forgive me, I was not thinking.” Then he frowned, as if wrestling with a difficult decision. “But I cannot see you remain in those stinking garments, 'sieur Blayke. Do you come with me to my cabin, and I'll see you outfitted.”

Such generosity surprised Arcole, and he bowed, murmuring thanks. Var gestured awkwardly and motioned that Arcole accompany him.

His cabin was small and spartan, but from a sea chest he produced shirt and breeches, clean undergarments. Two soldiers brought in a tub of seawater, boiled clean and now cool. It was a luxury Arcole had not anticipated, and he eagerly washed the stink of the weed from his body.

“This is difficult,” Var said. “I'd sooner we had met under different circumstances.”

“The cards fall as they will,” Arcole replied. “It's up to us how we play them.”

Var nodded, his expression unhappy. “I've little choice in the matter.” As if to emphasize the point, he buttoned on a clean tunic.

Arcole said, “No, I suppose not.”

“Your actions, though …” Var's face grew thoughtful. “They shall not be forgotten. When we reach Salvation, I shall inform the governor of your bravery.”

“My thanks.” Arcole ducked his head in formal salute, then grinned: “And I suspect Captain Bennan will speak of your actions.”

Var snorted. “Bennan's a stiff-necked fellow, for sure.”

“And how,” asked Arcole, “shall your masters take it, that you entertain an exile in your cabin? That you toast him and clothe him?”

Var looked a moment doubtful, then shrugged. “They must take it as they will,” he declared. “And surely take into account that you saved them a ship.”

Arcole felt less confident of the Autarchy's sense of justice, but he held his tongue. Var appeared disposed to talk and there was information to be gleaned that might be useful. Casually, Arcole said, “The hexes did nothing to deter that beast.”

“No.” Var drew a cloth over his sword. “Such magicks as are set on these transport vessels are designed to hold their prisoners, not to deter the monsters of the deep.”

“We're not so valuable, then.” Arcole made his voice careless. “I'd thought us prized cargo.”

“Oh, Salvation needs its servants.” Arcole wondered if it was bitterness he heard in Var's tone. “But exiles are plentiful, and the hexing that would protect a craft of this size is hard to work. What matter if some find a watery grave?”

“And the crews and your marines?” Arcole asked.

Var snorted a sour laugh. “We take our chances with you, no? And the serpents are not so often found.”

“That seems”—Arcole hesitated, not sure how far he could draw Var out—“somewhat careless of your welfare.”

“We do our duty.” Var drove his sword home into the scabbard and faced Arcole. “And I fear I perhaps say too much. Forgive me, but I've matters to attend, and you—”

He broke off, embarrassed again. Arcole finished the sentence for him: “Are an exile.”

“Yes.” Var fidgeted with his sabretache, clearly torn between the refuge of formality and the odd relationship that began to form. “You understand? I cannot …” He shrugged. “I'd have it different, but I must return you to the hold. But you've my word I shall not forget what you've done.”

Arcole bowed. He had expected no less, had perhaps gotten more than he had hoped. He went to the door and strode across the deck to where Flysse and Davyd stood.

Repairs were already begun. Exiles were set to work on the broken railings and damaged planks; the dead were drawn into neat lines, hidden beneath tarpaulins. Var came up and with Bennan at his side, commenced a brief funeral service, after which the corpses were pitched overboard. All the while they watched, Flysse and Davyd stood close by
Arcole, as if they would reassure themselves he lived. Had he thought about it himself, he might have felt the same surprised relief. But he was thinking on what Var had let slip, that the
Pride of the Lord
and, therefore, he presumed, all the transports, were not hexed against external attack. And that Tomas Var, for all he did his duty, seemed not entirely happy with the task. There was food for future thought in that.

And further, Arcole now knew Davyd dreamed true. He was not yet sure how he might fit together such tidbits of knowledge, but like the gambler he was, he felt instinctively that such cards should be held close, against their future use.

As soon as he was able to speak privately to the boy, he asked that Davyd tell him of any future dreams. Davyd promised; now more than ever, Arcole was a hero in his eyes.

Nor less in Flysse's. She had seen little of the battle, and only after it was done learnt of Arcole's reckless venture, but she had known he remained on deck while she was below. She had believed they all might die and realized with a shock that her fear was less for herself, less for Davyd even, than for Arcole. She had not known she cared so much until she came out on deck and saw him safe. Then she had felt her heart pound wildly, and must hold herself back lest she fling herself into his arms and hold him tight. When he hugged her, she had struggled not to blurt out her feelings, afraid she presumed too much and that such declaration embarrass him and drive him from her. To tell him she loved him was too blatant, but to herself she admitted it was true: she loved Arcole.

Davyd's nightmares ended with the destruction of the sea serpent. The ocean still disturbed him: it seemed unnatural to float atop those unknowable depths, but he was able to come to terms with that. The absence of warning dreams assured him no further perils threatened, and had he a fear left, it was that Arcole might let slip some careless word that should condemn him to the Inquisitors' fires. But that was a very small fear—he trusted Arcole as he had trusted no one save Aunt Dory.

Indeed, had he thought about it, he would have realized that the place Aunt Dory had occupied in his life, the place that had been empty since her demise, was now filled by Arcole and Flysse. They were like newfound parents, or elder brother and sister. He had been alone so long, living on his wits and the deftness of his fingers without true friends that it was a joy to know them. He refused to think about their impending landfall, when fate might well separate them.

When such glum prospect did intrude on his happiness, he dismissed it, telling himself that Grostheim could not be so large a place they be parted. Sometimes he allowed himself to imagine them together there, that Arcole would take Flysse to wife and they would adopt him. Even did that not happen, he would surely see them often enough. Arcole would surely arrange it so.

Davyd had absolute faith in Arcole: he thought there could be nothing Arcole could not do. By God, he had slain the sea serpent! He had saved Flysse from rape, and even the marines—stern agents of the God's Militia—had hailed him hero. Now even Captain Var treated him with respect and had promised to speak out on his behalf when they reached their destination. He hoped Arcole would arrange it that they three remain together. It did not occur to him, dazzled by his admiration, that Arcole might entertain other plans.

And the
Pride of the Lord
continued on across the Sea of Sorrows, laboring slowly through the final limits of the weed sea, then swifter as the clinging wrack gave up its hold and freshened breezes filled the sails. No more serpents attacked, though three were sighted and the remaining cannon primed and aimed. Had Davyd dared speak out, he would have told Tomas Var there was no danger, but Arcole was the only one to share his knowledge and so he only watched, pretending a trepidation he no longer felt.

Then one day, when the sky spread bright above and the sea blue all around, three gulls came swooping overhead, their mewing answered by the sailors who shouted that landfall was nigh. The next day a line of darkness lay across the western horizon, and on the day after that the schooner came in sight of Salvation's coast.

The New Grass Moon was flattened like a shield dented in battle as the Commacht returned home. The clan had ridden a distance with the mass of the People and then, when the Aparhaso and the Naiche went their ways, somewhat farther with Yazte's Lakanti. But that trail parted in a few days and the doubled strength of the two clans was split. Consequently, the Commacht akaman rode wary, knowing Chakthi's promise and the man's temper. He set his warriors about the defenseless ones as the column wove homeward, with scouts and outriders and a rearguard about the main body of the clan. It was, for all Yazte's promises of support, a sadder journey than was usual, and Racharran looked constantly for sign of ambush and all the time hoped Chakthi might see sense.

Forlorn hope, he knew, but still could not resist.

They came down a grassy avenue banded by tall oaks, sloping toward a river with the sun lowering, shedding red light over the treetops, all the clan spread out in long defile with the scouts ahead and the outriders pressed in close by the timber, the rearguard watchful behind. Racharran thought to camp that night beside the water.

Then horsemen came out from the trees. Their shields carried the buffalo-head emblems of the Tachyn and their faces were war-painted: all bands of black and red, with daubs of white on the cheeks. They
came screaming their battle cries and firing bows that took three of the outriders from their ribs and chests, and then were gone still howling back into the wood. The Commacht warriors slew two of them, but then a second wave came from ahead, cutting in behind the scouts to send shafts like savage rain onto the column before turning back to the safety of the timber.

Racharran rallied his clan, calling in his warriors tight about the column, and urged them to a gallop for the river. He shouted down the younger men who would go after the ambushers and bade them hold the flanks. By the time they reached the water, the Tachyn were gone.

Four Commacht were dead, and more wounded. A dog snapped, howling, at the black and red Tachyn shaft driven through its ribs until a warrior ended its misery with an ax. All looked to Racharran for guidance.

He could do no more than bid them camp in tight formation beside the river, which should protect their backs, and set his warriors guardian about the camp, more ringing the horse herd. The young men and not a few of the older warriors were for riding out in search of the enemy. They pointed out—and rightly—that to attack a clan homebound from Matakwa was open breach of the Will, and had Chakthi himself not, by his action, set himself beyond the Will? Racharran could tell them only yes, and no—that did Chakthi elect to ignore the Ahsa-tye-Patiko, that was his choice, but that the Commacht would not thus soil their hands. And when they asked him must they then ride all the way home in fear of Tachyn raids, he could only say yes, and bid them fight only defensive, adding, “On our own grass, the Will no longer ties our hands, and are we attacked, it shall be war.”