The Lion of Senet (28 page)

Chapter 44

While Johan wasn’t exactly chained in the hold with the rats, Antonov had done his utmost to ensure that he would not enjoy the voyage. He was shackled hand and foot in a cubbyhole not much bigger than a cupboard on the lower deck, just above the waterline. There was no bunk, just a smelly straw mattress. He had a bucket to relieve himself in but no light and no water other than the small jug delivered to him once a day with his barely adequate meal.

His shoulder ached abominably. His stomach growled with hunger and his newly healed broken leg felt like it was made of lead. The shackles had chafed his wrists and ankles raw, and he had developed a racking cough that left him weak and exhausted after each fit shook his body.

They were minor discomforts, really. Johan knew Antonov would not let him die yet, although he certainly wouldn’t care if he suffered. Antonov was a master when it came to playing mind games, he reminded himself, and this was just another game. He had quite deliberately left Johan in Helgin’s tender care while they were in Elcast. And for no better reason than how much more effective it would be when he tore him from such comfort and warmth and plunged him into this damp, dark pit, with no relief from the pain and no hope for anything better at the end of it.

Don’t let it get to you,
Johan told himself firmly.

Look what he had done to poor Morna. Weeks under her roof, knowing Johan was a prisoner there, and Antonov did nothing more sinister than attend the Landfall Festival. It must have torn Morna apart.

He wished he’d had a chance to see her while he was on Elcast. There was little chance that would have happened, though. Wallin Provin might go down in history as the most tolerant and forgiving man on Ranadon, but he drew the line at allowing his errant wife to resume her acquaintance with her former lover. Helgin had told him that Wallin had forbidden Morna to see him. With Antonov in the house, she wasn’t prepared to defy her husband and risk losing his protection.

On the fifth day of the voyage, Antonov sent the Provin boy to check on him. Johan knew it was the fifth day. He had debated scratching a tally on the wall, but decided against it. Antonov would gloat to see such a transparent sign of his battle to retain his sanity. So he consciously kept track of the days in his head. He tried to recite poetry. He made up bizarre mathematical calculations in his head that he had no hope of solving. Anything to keep his mind occupied.

If I can keep my wits about me he won’t defeat me.

He was a little surprised when Dirk entered the cabin bearing a small lantern. He didn’t think it likely that Antonov would allow him any visitors. Contact with the outside world made it that much easier for Johan to hang on; that much easier for him to retain his sanity—but more important, his purpose.

The Lion of Senet wanted to break him, and he knew well that isolation was the most soul-destroying weapon a man could suffer. Isolation and sleep deprivation. The former would drive a man mad. The latter could kill him. Antonov had told him that once, many years ago. He claimed that if you starved a man, it would take him several weeks to die, but if you deprived him of sleep, he’d be dead in ten days. Johan had never been able to get a straight answer from Antonov when he inquired how the prince could be so certain of that fact. He had a bad feeling Antonov knew what sleep deprivation would do to a man, because he’d actually done it to some poor sod. Then again, maybe he hadn’t. Maybe the game was to make Johan think he had.

“I came to see if you’re sick,” Dirk announced, as he stepped into the tiny cabin and placed the lantern on the deck. He was taking shallow breaths through his mouth, as if it would somehow lessen the overpowering stench.

“Ah, that’s right, you’re the apprentice physician, aren’t you?” He squinted at the boy in the flickering light. The sudden brightness hurt his eyes. “Does your mother know you’re here?”

Dirk glanced nervously over his shoulder at the guards posted outside the open door. “What do you mean by that?”

He was very touchy, this boy of Wallin’s. “I mean, this is the Lion of Senet’s ship, boy. Last I heard you were Helgin’s apprentice. What are you doing here?”

“Checking to see if you’re sick,” Dirk replied unhelpfully.

Johan laughed, which precipitated a painful coughing fit that tore through his chest, leaving him weak and shaking. When it was over, he lay back on the stinking mattress wearily. “Antonov’s tortures become increasingly more subtle.”

“Sir?” the boy asked, uncomprehendingly.

He turned his head and smiled at Dirk. “Now he’s sent me a jester. And a bad one at that.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny, sir.” Dirk squatted down beside him, placing a cool hand on his forehead. “You have a fever.”

“I know.”

“Where does it hurt?”

“Where
doesn’t
it hurt?”

Dirk glared at him.

“It hurts here,” Johan conceded, not wishing to antagonize the boy further. “Right across the top of my chest. And I told you to call me Johan.”

“It hurts when you cough?”

“Yes.”

“Are you bringing up any phlegm?”

He nodded, a little surprised to find Dirk taking his responsibility so seriously. The boy looked down at his chafed wrists with a frown.

“Those wrists will get infected if they’re not taken care of soon. And you’re dehydrated,” Dirk diagnosed, sitting back on his heels. He glanced around the dim cabin with concern. “You need to be moved from here. There’s no ventilation. No sanitation.”

“I think that’s the whole point, Dirk.”

Dirk’s brows drew together in concern, reminding Johan sharply of Morna. She used to pull that face when she was worried about something.

“Prince Antonov doesn’t want you to die, sir.”

“Oh, yes he does,” Johan assured him. “Make no mistake about that. He just doesn’t want nature to rob him of the pleasure of killing me himself.”

“Then I’ll arrange to have you moved, otherwise he
will
be robbed of the pleasure,” the boy retorted.

Johan studied him skeptically. “Do you really think the Lion of Senet will act on
your
advice?”

“Why not? He was the one who sent me here.”

Johan frowned.
Now why would Antonov send this boy to
me? He’s got his own physician to attend me if he is so concerned
about my health
.

“What were his instructions exactly?” he asked.

Dirk smiled faintly. “To see if you’re sick.”

Johan smiled back. This boy was pretty quick for a Provin, who in Johan’s experience were a dour lot. There wasn’t a lot of Wallin in him.

“Actually, he said that it would be a pity if you died from a cough, having survived a tidal wave.”

“He’s got a point,” Johan conceded. “Although, in truth, I half expected him to leave me here to rot.”

“So did I,” the boy admitted. “He surprises me.”

“How?”

Dirk shrugged. “I don’t know. He just doesn’t act the way I thought he would.”

“That’s the danger of him, Dirk.”

The boy studied him thoughtfully. “You used to know him pretty well, didn’t you?”

“I thought I did. I learned the hard way that I didn’t know him at all.”

Dirk didn’t answer for a moment. Johan had the feeling he wanted to say something, ask him something, perhaps.

“I’ll come back later,” the boy announced abruptly, climbing to his feet. Whatever Dirk had been going to say, he’d thought better of it. “I have to speak to Prince Antonov about having you moved. And I’ll need some herbs from Ella, too.”

“Ella Geon? Is that malicious breeding cow still around?”

“She looks after Misha. Do you know her?”

“All too well.” He closed his eyes. “Goddess, I feel like I’ve stepped into a nightmare, and all my old enemies are waiting there to torment me.”

The boy hesitated again. Something was really bothering him. Johan waited for him to say something further, but once again, it seemed as if he’d changed his mind.

“I’ll be back,” Dirk said, finally. “Is there anything you want?”

“You could load me into a lifeboat and let me take my chances on the open sea,” Johan suggested hopefully. When the boy didn’t answer him, he smiled. “Or not.”

“I meant anything to ease your pain.”

“Oh? Well, in that case, would you mind running a fork through Antonov’s left eye at dinner this evening? I’m quite certain that would relieve my suffering.”

“You’re acting like this is a game.”

“It is a game, Dirk. One Antonov and I have been playing for a very long time.” He suffered through another coughing fit, then closed his eyes wearily when it finally abated. “If you truly want to ease my suffering, Dirk, don’t try to save me. Let me die.”

“I couldn’t do that, sir!”

Johan opened his eyes and stared at the boy curiously. “Why not? I mean nothing to you.”

“That’s not the point, sir. I . . . I just don’t think I could take another human life.”

Johan’s eyes narrowed. “Are you certain of that?”

Dirk thought for a moment before answering, then he shrugged. “I don’t really know. Until now, nobody’s ever asked it of me.”

“Every man has the ability to kill, Dirk. How easily he gives in to that ability is the true measure of how civilized he is.”

“You’ve killed men, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But I’m not claiming to be civilized. You, however, obviously think that you are. I hope you’re not too hard on yourself when you find out one day that you’re just like the rest of us.”

The boy stared at him, obviously unsettled.

Johan closed his eyes with a weary sigh. “Off you go, young Provin. You do what you must. In the meantime, I shall lie here in the darkness and after I’ve recited all three hundred verses of Glonkinal’s epic poem ‘Journey to the Centre of a Volcano,’ I shall endeavor to calculate the square root of five thousand four hundred and eighty-two. I’ve been at it for three days now. I’m confident that today I will discover the solution.” He opened one eye and stared at the boy. “It keeps the mind focused, you see.”

Picking up the lantern cautiously, Dirk stepped out of the tiny cabin.

“Dirk!” Johan called after him.

“What?”

“I wasn’t kidding about the games. To Antonov and Belagren, everything is a game. Before you get too enamored of your new friends, you might want to ask yourself what
your
role is, because, Dirk Provin, you’re a piece being moved about the board at their whim, just as surely as I am, you can rely on it.”

Dirk stared at him for a long moment. “How accurate are you trying to be?”

“Pardon?”

“The square root of five thousand four hundred and eighty-two is an irrational number. It has infinitely long decimal places—you’ll never calculate it exactly. So how accurate are you trying to be?”

“Are you serious?”

“Completely.”

Johan shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll be satisfied if I can calculate it to the tenth decimal place.”

Dirk hesitated for a moment. “It’s six.”

“What?”

“The tenth decimal place. It’s six.”

With that startling announcement, the boy vanished from sight and the guards closed the cabin door, plunging Johan back into darkness.

Chapter 45

Antonov was talking to the helmsman when Belagren emerged from the gloomy depths of the ship. She squinted in the sudden harsh light and headed forward to speak to the prince. The sea was choppy this morning, the wind quite strong. Scattered clouds shadowed the surface of the water and made a mottled pattern of dark and light. Belagren found herself clutching at the railing to maintain her balance as she walked.

As she climbed the companion ladder, the Lion of Senet stepped forward to assist her up the last few steps. He smiled, but it was a pleasant, good-morning sort of smile. There was nothing intimate about it. He’d not been to her cabin either, since they left Elcast. His need for her, the lust inspired by the Landfall Festival, had passed even more quickly this year. Soon he wouldn’t want her at all. Belagren was more concerned about the effect such an event would have on her power than on her libido. She could have a man any time she wanted. Ruling the world took a little more planning and organization.

“Did you sleep well, my lady?” he inquired as he led her to the side of the ship.

“Well enough,” she responded, quite distressed by the banality of the conversation.
A few weeks ago he wanted me so badly
I had bruises to prove it. Now he talks to me like he’s greeting a foreign ambassador at court
. “And you?”

“I always sleep well at sea.”

They reached the port side and stopped for a moment to watch the sea heave and sigh in its own inexplicable design. Antonov clutched at the railing, rubbing the carefully polished wood almost unconsciously. Belagren watched him caressing his ship, thinking she’d feel much more secure if Antonov looked at her even half as fondly as he looked at his damn boat.

“I wanted to speak with you, Anton,” she said, when he made no further attempt at conversation. He seemed far more interested in the distant horizon.

“Hmm?”

“About the Provin boy.”

“An interesting and intelligent young man. I confess I find myself quite taken with him.”

I know you are,
Belagren thought.
Which is why I need to
talk to you.

“I just wanted to make sure that you have informed him that he’ll be coming to the Hall of Shadows with me when we disembark in Avacas.”

Antonov turned to her. “I told his parents he could stay with me until he comes of age.”

“You told Morna that to stop her making a scene, Anton. Nobody seriously expects you to foster the boy.”

“I gave Wallin my word that I would treat him as my own son.”

“You gave
me
your word that I could have him.”

“And you can have him. When he comes of age.”

“But you said as soon as we arrived in Avacas,” the High Priestess reminded him.
I don’t have years for you to play your
mind games with Morna Provin
.

“I know what I said, Belagren. I’ve changed my mind.” He was calm and sounded quite reasonable. Belagren had never heard him raise his voice, never seen him angry. It was almost as if he enjoyed the fact that the more agitated his opponent was, the more serene he became.

“What do you want with him, Anton? You have no need of him. Other than his entertainment value, perhaps.”

“What I do or do not have a need for is mine to decide, my lady.”

“The Goddess will not be pleased if you renege on your promise.”

The power of her threat was somewhat diminished when Antonov caught sight of Dirk coming toward them. He turned away from the High Priestess and smiled warmly. “So, young Dirk, how fares our prisoner?”

“He has an infection of the lungs, your highness,” Dirk told him, as the brisk wind whipped the dark hair across his face. He glanced at Belagren and gave her a short bow, just low enough not to be disrespectful. “My lady.”

“Is he going to die from it?” she asked.

He brushed the hair away, only to have it half blind him again, the moment he lowered his hand. “Not yet.”

“Is his condition liable to worsen?” Antonov inquired.

“If you leave him in that hole much longer, it will.”

The Lion of Senet seemed amused. “Do I detect a note of reproach in your tone, Dirk?”

“He needs to be moved out of that ship’s locker you’ve jammed him into,” Dirk informed him. “He needs fresh air. And more water.”

“You were right, Anton,” the High Priestess remarked as she watched Dirk. The boy was hard to read. He was very guarded for one so young. “He doesn’t approve of your treatment of Johan Thorn.”

“It’s got nothing to do with Johan Thorn, my lady. Nobody should be kept like that. The prince treats his horses better.”

“That’s because my horses are of more use to me.” Ignoring the High Priestess, Antonov placed his arm around Dirk’s shoulder in a fatherly fashion and smiled, moving him across the deck a few paces. “So, what do you prescribe for the patient, Physician Provin?”

“Move him to a proper cabin,” Dirk suggested, obviously uncomfortable with Antonov’s familiarity. “Feed him properly. Give him sufficient water. With that and a poultice, his body should be able to fight off the infection on its own.”

“Or you could just leave him there and let him die,” Belagren suggested behind them. “It would save the cost of a trial and an execution.”

Dirk broke free of Antonov’s paternal embrace and turned to look at her. “If you were planning to let him die, my lady, why do you need my help?”

Antonov’s eyes clouded briefly. “If you wish to continue in my good graces, you would be wise to watch that tongue of yours, young man.”

“I’m sorry, your highness, I didn’t mean to offend the High Priestess.”

“You’re forgiven,” Antonov assured him. Then he frowned, his face a portrait of concern and understanding. “I know how difficult this must be for you, Dirk, and while I’m reluctant to place such a heavy responsibility on your shoulders, I would be most appreciative if you could see to Thorn’s welfare for me until we reach Avacas.”

“Sire, I really think that a Shadowdancer would be . . .”

Antonov held up his hand to halt Dirk’s protests. “Even if she were the last physician on Ranadon, I still wouldn’t put Ella Geon and Johan Thorn alone together in a confined space for more than about thirty seconds. They have something of a...” he glanced at Belagren for a moment before he continued, “feud, I suppose you might call it... going on.”

“What sort of feud?”

“Perhaps you should ask Thorn about it.”

“I’d not mention it to Ella, though,” the High Priestess added.

“Will you move him, sir?” Dirk persisted.

Antonov sighed heavily. “Yes, Dirk. For you, I will move him. Just make certain that Thorn is aware that his improved circumstances are entirely attributable to your intervention. I’d hate for him to think I was getting sentimental in my old age.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s likely, your highness.”

Antonov smiled. “You’re a lot like your father, Dirk.”

“Sir?”

“You’re a lot like your father,” Antonov repeated. “You have that same dry sense of humor that he had when he was younger.”

“I never really noticed, sir,” Dirk answered cautiously.

“Well, sometimes we don’t notice these things ourselves, even when they’re obvious to everyone else. Do you like the
Calliope
?”

“Pardon?” The abrupt change of subject caught him completely unawares. Belagren knew the prince did it deliberately, just to unsettle people.

“My ship, Dirk. Do you like her?”

“She’s magnificent.”

“She’s the fastest barquentine ever built,” Antonov informed him. “The most expensive, too, I suspect. She has over nine thousand square feet of sail. Fully rigged, she can do twelve knots.”

“You must be very proud of her.”

Belagren wasn’t surprised by the pride in Antonov’s voice. From the day they first laid her keel, she’d seen the prince stroke the woodwork, as if he could somehow convey his affection to the ship through her railings. Belagren suspected Antonov Latanya loved his ship almost as much as he loved his sons. Perhaps more. She had often wondered what Antonov would do if given a choice between his crippled son and his ship.

“We’ll be taking her into the Baenlands later this year,” Antonov added. “You should come with us.”

“I didn’t think you could get a ship this size through the delta, your highness.”

“Thorn somehow used to manage it on a regular basis,” Antonov pointed out.

“Surely the pirates don’t have any ships as big as the
Calliope
?”

“Perhaps not. You’ll have to ask Thorn how he did it for me.”

“You want
me
to ask him, your highness?”

Antonov frowned at him. “Dirk, there are only two things that can happen to Johan Thorn. The first is that I torture the information I want from him, then try him and burn him as a heretic. The second is for him to volunteer the information, after which I will still try him and then burn him as a heretic. Now, as you seem so concerned that my treatment is going to kill your patient, I must, for the time being at least, halt my efforts to soften him up for the Prefect awaiting him in Avacas.”

Belagren didn’t like the way this conversation was going.
When did Thorn become
Dirk’s
patient?

“Your highness, I only said that he needs water and fresh air. I wasn’t—”

Antonov ignored the interruption. “And as it’s your interference that will make the job harder for my Prefect to break him, I think it only fair that you make yourself useful in the meantime. Besides, if you are able to extract the information I want from Thorn—if you could get him to open up to you— then perhaps Prefect Welacin won’t have to use those methods of interrogation for which he is so rightly famous.”

What’s he up to?
Belagren wondered.
Is he playing with the
boy? Or is it Johan he’s tormenting? Does it amuse him to watch Johanbeing tended by Morna’s son?

And who is the game about, anyway? Dirk? Morna? Johan
Thorn?

“Why should I care, one way or another, what you do to Johan Thorn?” Dirk replied. He was keeping his voice deliberately emotionless, Belagren thought.

Antonov hesitated for a fraction of a second. “I’m not sure, Dirk. I suppose I just assumed your mother had passed on some of her own . . . feelings, regarding the man.”

“She never spoke of him, sire. Neither did my father.”

Antonov studied him closely for a moment.

“Did you know he was once your mother’s lover?” Belagren asked.

Dirk met her gaze evenly. “All the more reason, my lady, for me not to care what happens to him.”

The prince looked rather smug suddenly. “Then why do you want me to make him more comfortable?”

“I don’t,” Dirk said evenly. “You asked if he’d die if you left him there for the rest of the voyage. I said he would. You’ll move him because you want him to live, your highness. Not because it pleases me.”

The Lion of Senet gave Dirk a long, considered look, and then waved his arm dismissively. “Make whatever arrangements you need to ensure Thorn survives the voyage.”

It was a small victory, but a significant one. Dirk bowed to the prince and the High Priestess, then turned away. As he walked toward the ladder, she turned on Antonov.

“Anton, I must insist...”

“Not now, Bela.”

“But don’t you see? He
must
be sent to us.”

Antonov was playing some game with the boy that she didn’t understand. She did understand, though, that in order to get her hands on Dirk Provin, she was going to have to find a reason for Antonov to want to send him away.

“He’s definitely his father’s son.”

“What?”

“Dirk Provin. He’s his father’s son, don’t you think?”

“I couldn’t say,” she replied with a sigh. “I never really knew Wallin that well.”