Inda (61 page)

He looked around. No one spoke.

Kodl said, “Whoever is with me, stay; otherwise, go and I hope your life will be long and profitable.”

No one left. Even Testhy stayed, chewing his lip.

Inda, watching him covertly and wondered if he was in contact with Fassun, Faura, and Indutsan. Then he shook his head. He had enough to worry about, with the hands believing him to be some kind of dragoon captain though a dragoon of the sea, not the plains.

Thinking of how long it took to really train people (Gand had been quite fluent about that, back in Inda’s scrub days), and about how ignorant he knew he was compared to the horsetails at the academy, much less the masters, he said, “Then we better begin right now.”

 

 

 

Inda faced his scrubs: Kodl; Scalis and a cluster of big, brawny forecastlemen; Niz and his two topmen, both Olarans from the Nob; Dun, once a carpenter’s mate and now the carpenter for the marines; the mids.

“It will,” Inda said, “take at least half a year before you can use a weapon and expect to do anything but lose against an experienced warrior.”

Surprise, astonishment, dismay met his words. Disbelief, too. And a few shifty side glances and shuffles.

“So let’s get started. Now, here’s your stance . . .”

It actually didn’t take as long as Inda had feared.

As winter closed in, Inda drilled them all in a little cup meadow up behind Lark Ascendant that no one knew about. They spent mornings in weapons training until their muscles felt like unraveled yarn and their clothing was drenched with sweat despite the snow on the ground.

“Break for midday,” Inda called three or four times a week if they’d done well. “But be back at first-bell.”

Groans and curses initially met his announcement, until they established a rhythm. Within a month they expected to spend afternoons clambering over a beached schooner in a dried creek bed in the next inlet over the hill from the pleasure house, or running uphill and down.

Inda worked twice as hard. He still thought of himself as just a scrub, and how much could a scrub really know?

Dun could have answered that. He had seen Inda working at daily drill for well over two years, gaining steadily in strength and speed as he grew; Inda saw his own advancement as having stopped when he left Iasca Leror. Mindful of his promise to Sindan, during those years of forecastle drill Dun had taken care to introduce his own Runner training as suggestions, added so gradually that not just Inda but Niz and Scalis had been unaware of how much they had learned.

After practice invariably Inda came to him, no matter how tired he was. “Dun?” he’d say. “Got plans for the evening?”

“No,” Dun would always reply.

And so at sunset, while the others retreated to well-earned rest and recreation, Inda and Dun moved to the outer court of the pleasure house, and by the light of the lamps along the rooftop, as music and the noise of revelry spilled out, the frosty air smelling of beeswax candles, perfume, and spiced foods, they sparred for bell after bell.

Dun no longer pretended to make suggestions. During those private sessions they worked with sword, staff, and knife, the close-in knife work that the Runners learned that was not quite like the Odni, but related, being shaped around defense of one’s Dal or Edli, and thus adaptable to the confined space of a deck. In turn Inda trained Dun with the Odni, though he never said where he had learned it, and was relieved the man never asked. Dun criticized with fluent precision, and Inda, who wanted to go home as badly as he did, worked all the harder.

He never questioned where Dun’s skills came from, never questioned how Dun was able to make—perfectly—the composite bows and the staffs that snap apart and were used exclusively by Marlovan dragoons.

Neither spoke of anything but the work at hand. The two could have been one another’s greatest support, for they both longed for what they could not have—Dun for his beloved Hibern, Inda for his home. It would have been so comforting to talk about home.

The only tie they had to the possibility of return was their shared conspiracy of silence.

 

 

 

With the other mids, Inda was somewhat more forthcoming.

“I want to find out more about this Ramis,” he said one night when they were all gathered in the mids’ back room at Lark Ascendant while a sleeting thunderstorm roared outside. It was a warm room, and they had expensive hot chocolate in hand—all of which was somehow arranged by Tau in ways they couldn’t guess, though Zimd was always trying to find out. They lived quite well, even though they were trying to be careful with their money. But then Tau sometimes vanished at night, Zimd insisted upstairs, and would appear at practice looking tired but determined to work.

“Why?” Dasta asked. “Most of it sounds like ale talk.”

“And if Ramis is fighting pirates, he’s no threat to us.”

“Anything to do with Norsunder is a threat,” Inda stated. “Norsunder wants power. That means war. He might be taking pirates because they fight hard. What if he wants us for the same reason? We need to find out what we can about him.”

No one argued with that.

Zimd chortled, “If there’s any real news, I’ll find it!”

 

 

 

“So what if there’s snow falling outside?” Kodl roared. “If pirates attack under cover of snow—and I would—are we going to ask them to wait until the weather is better? I said, get outside! It’s nearly sunrise!”

Kodl, Scalis, and Niz, strong and tough and experienced on the sea, took to the training with the ferocious enthusiasm of those who meant never again to face the fears of their recent journey. Kodl was worried at first that they had too large a force. Aware of the costs of hiring, he knew that a large force could only be considered by captains of capital ships, and those mostly had their own protection.
We will have to be not just good, but the best,
he thought, and every day, no matter when he’d retired the night before, he was the first one awake.

Before the snows came and covered the ground Niz and Kodl were even willing to spend time each day scouring the island for the right feathers, the ones that fletched arrows, and to spend evenings learning how to string a bow, aim, and release, arm snapping back in a line from fingertip to fingertip, all in one smooth motion, over and over, though their arms already protested from the morning’s weapons practice.

Scalis and Niz were determined, and Kodl passionate with the peculiar focus of the man with a vision. When the hard snows came at last, and they could not search for fallen feathers, Inda’s drill began to mean all day, sometimes war-gaming all day and night for two or three days.

Kodl was surprised to see the mids all stick with it, even Testhy, who had hoped to replace the purser’s mate in preference to the strenuous outside work. He became the purser of the marines, scrupulously keeping books, and scouting bargains whenever possible when Dun needed more wood and good steel for their weapons; as for his training, he toiled away grimly, never standing out but not falling behind either. Jeje brought to archery the same precision of eye she brought to sailmaking, and she rapidly became the best in the group and stayed that way until one came along who was better. Zimd (who spent most of her free time roaming the King’s Saunter and even less savory dens and listening with unending interest to every bit of gossip anyone would tell her) turned out to have an unexpected flair for staff work, being short and strong and very light on her feet. Yan and Dasta showed steady improvement in all areas. Tau excelled. In part because he was naturally strong and quick, but also because he was a close observer—after each lesson, he withdrew somewhere alone, drilling himself until he had mastery of the new lesson.

“We lost another one last night, sir,” Testhy said after the second snowfall.

“Who?” Kodl asked, with less interest each time; by the end of Firstmonth seven of Scalis’ forecastlemen and one of Niz’s topmen had taken their share of their pay and vanished aboard one or other of the ships coming and going.

Kodl reported each loss to his mates, and though Niz snorted with derision and Scalis cursed each fluently for cowards and traitors, Kodl laughed inwardly at his worries about his marine troop being too large a number.

But no more left during Secondmonth, and by Third-month’s first day the troop had gained four new recruits.

First came a pair of big, smiling, round-faced young men from Sartor, who’d arrived at Lark Ascendant with pockets full of coin from their first journey. Raised to be bakers, they had run away to sea in search of adventure. After a wild weekend at the Lark Ascendant they were down to their last couple of coins, and wondering what to do. They saw the marines leave early in the morning, weapons in hand, to troop over the hill to the meadow and begin practice.

“Hi! Hey! We join ya?” came the pure Sartoran accent, startling them all.

Everyone looked at Inda, who turned to Kodl. “You can try,” Kodl said, and waved back at Inda to take over.

Half a day later both volunteered with enthusiasm. “We do anything,” Rig said. Then frowned. “As long it’s not hire on as cooks.”

Rig, the youngest, was the smart one. Hav, his big, even-tempered older brother, seldom spoke, but he adapted to the training rapidly, exhibiting enormous strength.

Wumma appeared next, brought by Niz. Wumma and the Delf had engaged in a drinking contest the night before, and though few could beat Delfs in that regard, Wumma was one of those few. He was welcomed by Dun as he’d had training in woodworking. He was even faster than Dun at making smooth, straight arrows for their stash. Dun had more than enough work for a mate. Wumma was tall, lean, strong, tough, dark of face and hair with startling pale blue eyes. He hated pirates with the passion of someone with personal experience.

 

 

 

“I heard you be training to fight pirates.”

The soft voice was almost inaudible, carried away by the cold winter wind, but Tau’s hearing was acute. He lowered his weapon when he saw the tiny, platter-faced Chwahir girl by a scraggly tree, her lank black hair half-hiding her face.

She looked about twelve.

The others also stopped, and Kodl looked pained, calling out, “We don’t hire children.”

A thin hand pointed at Jeje, who wore her old winter smock to fight in, and then opened toward Inda.

Zimd muttered behind her hand, “I know who that is. Got stranded here by
Windskimmer
. Picked up from a pirate wreck.”

And Yan said, almost a whisper, “Her family was destroyed and she was forced on a pirate ship.”

Zimd snickered. “So you’re the one who’s been slipping her extra coins to keep her out of the workhouse. I heard about that. You tell her about us?”

“Everyone knows about us,” Tau said in Dock Talk, sparing Yan, who studied the ground. “They all think us crazy.”

Kodl snapped his fingers and they fell silent. He faced the girl. “Look, you’re just too small, too young.”

“You want to die?” Scalis shouted, hoarse, derisive.

She lifted her voice. “I want to fight pirates.” That voice, so cold, so quiet, gave them all pause.

Kodl waved to Inda to resume the session. Inda sent a sympathetic glance at the girl, who just stood there, watching, no expression on her round face, and he snapped his staff out and tapped Dasta’s.

The girl stood there all day. Next day she was back, and the next. The fourth, Inda said, “At least let her show us what she can do.”

Kodl rolled his eyes upward.

The girl did not smile, or frown. She just ran down, held out her hand for Jeje’s composite bow and a handful of arrows. Then, with a speed and exquisite precision of form that silenced them all, she sent all six shots squarely into the center of the clout.

“What’s your name?” Inda asked, glancing Kodl’s way.

Her chin lifted. “Thog. Daughter of Pirog.”

Kodl said, “Welcome, Thog, daughter of Pirog.”

Jeje said kindly, “You can stay with us, if you don’t have a better place.”

 

 

 

Flower Day.

In Iasca Leror, the first day of spring was celebrated with the last of the winter’s hot spiced wine, with cakes and dancing and song. To the Marlovans spring had meant the year’s first war games. In Sartor and Colend, the first day of spring brought out flower boxes and flowered silks; on that day, all distinctions of rank ended, and anyone could flirt with anyone else. And where Sartor and Colend led, the rest of the eastern end of the continent followed.

“Why would anyone here care?” Inda asked, as they met just after dawn on the hillside above their meadow. He looked in some bemusement at Freeport Harbor down below; rails and balconies draped, flower boxes put out overnight, people strolling about dressed in formal fashions of different lands. “Why celebrate? There isn’t any rank here. Or any one custom. People do what they want anyway.”

Tau laughed. “Why does anyone celebrate anything? It’s an excuse to have fun.” His brows twitched upward on “fun.”

Dasta hunched his bony shoulders and began swinging his sword. “No consequences.” His voice had of late taken to growling more than squeaking. Tau had noticed, with private amusement, that Jeje no longer had the lowest voice among their particular group.

Inda hadn’t seen any evidence of consequences either, but then he didn’t really understand what Tau meant. He was fourteen, busy running drills by day and roaming the docks by night, studying the ships that came in, from round-hulled merchant vessels to narrow-built, rake-masted pirate ships with overlong jib booms with sharpened steel affixed to the end, as were the other boom-ends, to cut up the rigging of their prey. Sometimes, for a coin or two to the mate of the watch, Inda was even able to get on board and climbed the masts, so he could look down, envisioning where one might strike—and where one might repel strikes—and then he’d apply what he’d seen to the drills on their hulk. He was too busy to think, to dream.