The Return of Kavin (3 page)

“It seems full grown,” Hugon answered, absently. He was staring at the closet. “Lady Gwynna?” he called out, softly.

“Pig,”
came
the muffled reply.

“Good, our prize is untouched,” Hugon said, satisfied. He stroked the dragonet’s scaled head.
“A beautiful specimen, this one.
Male, I think… they are rare, and hard to catch, but some wealthy lords like to keep them, as we keep falcons in the west. Also, they sing beautifully, and talk most amusingly.”

“I
like
you,” Fraak repeated, emphatically, lifting his wings. “You let me out of cage.” He trilled a scale, and sailed off, flying to a cornice where he sat, chuckling.

Zamor had been rummaging in chests and cabinets; now, he straightened, with a broad grin, holding a long scabbard and belt out before him.

“A decent sword!” he crowed, drawing the blade half out and testing its edge with his thumb.
“A piece of Grothan steel, by Lord Snake!
Ach, if I’ve had this beauty in my hand an hour back…”

“You did well enough with what you had,” Hugon said. “Here, is that another blade there?”

“Take it, little man,” Zamor said, passing a second handsome weapon. “But this one’s mine. Ha, you’ve no idea what it feels like to stand free, with a sword in your hand again, after the oarbanks this last half year!”

Hugon, weighing the sword thoughtfully, nodded. “A day was enough for me.” He buckled the weapon around his waist, and picked up a bottle from a shelf. “Good wine, too.” He upended the bottle, drank, and passed it to Zamor. As the other drank, Hugon moved restlessly about the cabin, prying and searching.

“A few jewels, but enough to pay our way,” he muttered, pawing about in a small chest. “Ah, some silver pieces…”

“Yo!”

The door was open, and grinning, drunken faces appeared in the lamplight, fists and weapons waving. Zamor and Hugon turned, hands dropping to their own weapons, but the leading invader came in, grinning.

“Ye’re the lads got us loose, ain’t you?” the man said, in a wine-blurred voice. “Come out on deck, we’re aholdin’ a meetin’.” He stared curiously about the room. “Found a bit of loot, eh? Good for you, you’re entitled to it, seeing you’re the clever ones that got us all out of this.”

The dragonet hissed from his high perch, and the man recoiled, wide-eyed; a knife lifted in his hand, but Hugon seized his wrist.

“No, man, it’s nothing but a pet beast!” he said hastily. “Brings good luck… let it be, now.”

“Eh, if you say so…” the other grunted, putting back his knife. “Fair scared me, it did… but come along, will you?”

Out on the main deck, a good half of the mutineers stood, reeling, or sprawled in the scuppers; some were drunker than others, but there had been plenty of wine in the hold, and none were sober. The ship still drove steadily, under the two big sails, unattended; the wind seemed to be rising, too, from the sound in the rigging. But the noise on deck drowned out the other sound.

Some of them cheered drunkenly, seeing Hugon and Zamor; several others, making speeches to each other, paid no attention. Dead men rolled in the scuppers, and drunken men, hardly different in appearance, lolled next to them.

“Now, that’s not an encouraging sight,” Hugon said, surveying the deck from the doorway above. Zamor, behind him, grunted in agreement.

“Listen, little man, you’ve cleverness enough,” Zamor said, coming up beside him. “What’s next, now?”

Hugon glanced at the big man, scowling. “Damn it, would you leave off calling me little man? I’ve got height enough, among ordinary folk.”

Zamor grinned, but said nothing.

“Cleverness won’t get the wine out of that lot, anyway,” Hugon muttered, staring down at the motley mob. “We can’t take this blasted sea-cow anywhere without a few hands to work sail. And where in the Mother’s name she’s heading now is a grand mystery to me. I’m no sea-tracker.” He glanced skyward. “South, I think… damn it, what’s south of Quenda Cape? Nothing at all but sea, and more sea… I’ve never heard of land in this direction at all.”

There was a loud argument progressing among the least drunken of the mutineers on the deck below, led by the man who had called them out.

“Yell not get me to put my hands on any turd-covered oar again, not if you kill me where I stand!” someone roared, and several others agreed with him, loudly. Another, bracing himself on spread legs, pointed at the billowed sail. “Why in hell row? We’ve wind enough!”

“But damn your eyes, we’ve got to make easting!” the first man shouted. “There’s land, eastward, the capes of Meryon…”

The argument grew hotter. Hugon, listening, shrugged.

“No chance at all,” he told Zamor. “They’ll yell till they remember they’ve got weapons, and then… aha, there it begins.”

The knot had exploded into combat, and several other fights spawned from the first, spreading across the deck. The two men stood, on their vantage of the quarter deck, and watched grimly.

“Ha, little man…
excuse
me, friend Hugon!” Zamor corrected himself. He was staring at the top of the nearer mast.

“Clouds,” Zamor said, thoughtfully. “The stars are gone.”

“And the wind’s rising,” Hugon said.
“Hm.
Had you noticed any sort of boat, perhaps, about this ship?”

“There’s none at all,” Zamor answered. He glanced out, to the darkness. “Not that it would help us much, anyway. The sea is growing heavier by the minute.”

Hugon rubbed his chin and laughed, sharply. “Do you know
,
it looks as if we’ve jumped off the roasting spit and into the soup pot, as the saying goes, doesn’t it?”

“If we drown, we drown free men,” Zamor said.

“Yes, but it’s not the best of company to be entering the Rainbow Gates with,” Hugon said. “You and I are the only honest men aboard, at that.”

The ship heeled sharply, and he clutched at the rail; as she swayed slowly back, men on deck rolled into the scuppers, or sprawled where they had fallen. But those who could still stand were continuing to fight.

“To hell with the lot of them,” Hugon grunted. “Come, let’s go back and see whether there’s another flask of that excellent wine left. Also, I intend to keep an eye on our prize to the last. I’m not giving up hope of fetching her to market till the breath’s gone out of me.”

They went back, through the doors, and into the inner cabin; within, the lamp swung in long arcs, and fallen objects rolled back and forth on the floor. The dragonet was talking quietly to itself, in despairing tones, as it clung to its perch. Seeing Hugon enter, it squawked with joy and spread its wings.

The Lady Gwynna had emerged from her hiding place, and sat on the bunk now, wrapped in a white woolen cloak, stiff backed and stony faced. She stared at
them,
her green eyes lit with silent fury, and said nothing.

Zamor kicked the door shut and braced himself against the deepening roll of the ship; Hugon held a stanchion with one hand, watching the girl with a wry grin on his face.

“We may all die soon, Lady Gwynna,” he said, quietly.

“Good,” she snapped.

The ship rolled heavily, again.

“Well… it was my thought that it was only fair to let you be warned,” Hugon said, lightly, and gripped the stanchion with his other hand against a wilder lurch. He glanced toward Zamor. The big black man’s face was without a sign of fear, but his lips moved, silently, as though praying to his Numori Snake God.

Outside, above the now strident wind, there was a sudden new uproar, and the sound of running feet, and shouting. And then, a terrific thud made the deck shake under their feet; there was a steady roaring, and over it the explosive cracking sound of breaking masts and splintered planks. The cabin began to tilt.

“We’ve struck!” Hugon shouted over the noise, as he clung to the stanchion. The cabin lamp slammed over and went out, and everything in the place fell, seemingly all at once.

TWO

The great galley lay broken among jagged black rocks; only the high-pooped after end was entire. The ship had turned as it struck, coming in stern first. Beyond, in the boiling surf, parts of the ship lay; and on the gray sand, there was a drift of smaller fragments, oars and planks, and the bodies of drowned men.

Hugon, soaked and staggering, came up the slope of sand, toward the scrubby trees at the upper edge. The dragonet clung to his shoulder, whimpering and terrified. Behind him, Zamor came, as wet and weary as he, but lugging the girl over his wide shoulder, slung like a sack. Behind them a man crawled out of the surf, and a few moments later, another; both followed the dimly seen forms ahead, by some vague instinct.

Among the trees there was some shelter from the wind, and Hugon halted; he scratched together the drier bits of fallen wood, shuddering with cold as he worked. Zamor, arriving, dropped the girl and aided Hugon’s search until they had a small pile.

Hugon squatted beside the wood, and coaxed the dragonet down, holding it in his blue hands near the wood.

“Ah, now, Fraak, try hard,” he murmured, through chattering teeth. “You can do it, handsome laddo that you are, just one puff… ah!” Fraak had emitted a tiny orange flame, and a stick of wood caught. As the flames crackled up, Fraak crowed softly with pride, and Hugon stroked his scales, complimenting him.

“Eh, what a useful wee creature it is!” Zamor grunted, and hunched over the blaze, his cloak steaming. Hugon stood up, and went to pull the girl closer to the fire; he sat her up, chafing her arms and face till she began to return to consciousness.

Behind them, a hoarse voice called out, and the two other men came hobbling up to the grateful warmth.

“Any more get ashore?” Hugon asked, squatting back on his heels as warmth returned.

“Nah, not a one but us,” one of the men said. “I’m Gorash. You’d be the smart lad that had the queer knife, wouldn’t you?”

Hugon nodded. Gwynna was sitting up now, staring about dazedly. The other man stared at her, interestedly.

“Ye’ve saved one of the wenches, too, haven’t you?” he said. “Come in handy, may be, for one thing or t’other.” He chuckled hoarsely. “Good tender meat’s got more than one use, it has. This looks like a hungry place we’ve hit…”

“She’s not for cooking,” Hugon said, with a cold grin.
“Hands off the one, bucko.”

“Ah, now…” the man said, apologetically. “I didn’t mean
no
harm… my name’s Hazarsh, by the way. Two years in that stinkin’ sea-sty I was, and as innocent as a child, too, at least as far as what they said I did…” He was staring at Gwynna, and licking his salt-crusted lips. “And never
no
sight of a handy trollop… missed out on what there was aboard last night, because I was too drunk. Not being used to drinkin’ either, after all that time, you understand…” His eyes were still on the girl. “
Be
we goin’ to share her around, likely?”

“Not likely at all, Hazarsh lad,” Hugon told him, and laid a hand meaningfully on his sword hilt. “Get the thought out of your head, or I’ll bleed you for your health.”

Hazarsh grunted and fell silent, looking carefully away from the girl.

She was huddling close to the fire, and she looked sideward at Hugon, with a strange expression for a moment. Then she said, hoarsely but with a note of mockery, “Ah, still a gentleman at heart, good Hugon.”

“It’s not your honor I’m worried about, Gwynna girl,” he told her. “That’s gone long since. But I’d like to offer you for sale in at least as good a condition as I got you in.”

Zamor, listening, chuckled, and Gwynna glared silently.

Hugon stood up, drier now, and stretched, staring at the sky.

“It’s possible the sun may yet decide to come out,” he said thoughtfully. “And the wind’s lessening, at least. Has anyone any idea where we might be?” He looked around, but the others were silent.

After a moment, Gwynna said, coldly, “I think I know.”

“Ah?” Hugon turned.
“Where, then?”

“An island,” she said, indifferently. “I recall a map that shows a few such in the southern sea. Mere rocks, of no value and impossible to land on…”

“As we’ve already discovered,” Hugon said, “Are there any folk here, do you know?”

“Who knows?” she said, with a shrug.

“Ah, well, girl, you’re no Laquellian Lexicon, but you tried,” Hugon told her with a shrug, squatting down again. “Another moment of warmth, and then I’ll see what can be done about food. Ha, Fraak, my winged beauty, I just remembered your skills.” He reached out and the dragonet climbed to his wrist, trilling. “Had you learned to hunt with the late Lord who owned you?” Hugon asked.

The dragonet snorted. “Not hunt for that one. I not like him. He put me in cage!”

Hugon chuckled at the creature’s anger.

“I help
you,”
Fraak said, and uttered the oboe note that meant pleasure.
“You good.”

“That’s fine,” Hugon said, and stood up. “Would you help me now?” he asked, coaxingly. “Catch a
bird,
or a rabbit if we find one?”

The dragonet spread its wings, uttered a fierce cawing cry, and sprang into the air, circling Hugon’s head.

“I’m off to the hunt,” Hugon said, and strode into the scrubby wood, the dragonet sailing above him.

“Ungrateful little beast,” Gwynna said, staring after Hugon.

Zamor, sitting next to her, glanced at her and chuckled.

“Your dragonet?” he asked.

“My lord…” she stopped, and bit her lip, then regained her control. “My Lord Barazan gave that…
creature…
the best of food, bright toys, a handsome cage… and now it seems to have fallen completely in love with that filthy renegade vagabond, that…”

“A handsome cage, you said?” Zamor asked, calmly. “Better than the cage he gave us, below there, I suppose.” He grinned at her. “Many beasts dislike a cage, no matter how cunningly made it may be. As we Numori, for instance…”

She shrugged. After a moment, she looked at him, oddly.

“You… your people were rebels against the Emperor, weren’t you?” she asked.

“Our Queens were rulers when your Emperor’s ancestors scratched each other’s fleas in a cave,” Zamor said, coldly.

After a while she said, in a conciliatory tone, “I am sorry. I meant no… well, I have little knowledge of such things.
Wars and conquests and the like.”
She grimaced.
“Dull lists of names and deeds.
My… husband’s… only source of conversation, except for court gossip.” She stared into the fire.

Another time passed. Then she spoke again, with a forced calm. “Poor dog, I’m sorry he’s dead. He had a lusty way about him… but that was all he had, alas. I… I learned to seek for more in a man than a stallion’s skill, in Armadoc.”

“You seem to know Hugon, lady,” Zamor said. “How is that?”

Her teeth gleamed in a mirthless smile. “Ah, I know him. And he knows me, too well. Would you like to hear it all, big one? Listen, then. I was mistress of Armadoc, there on the north coast of Meryon. Mistress alone, my parents dead, none to say no to anything I wished…” She stopped, staring into the fire.

“Armadoc is a great hold, there where the river enters the sea,” Gwynna went on. “It is a key to the north of Meryon, held since the first days, by my own family. No army can pass Armadoc, toward the High King’s seat. Well, he that is King in Meryon now, prince that was, gave me cause for anger, and I gave Armadoc to his great enemy, the Emperor.” She laughed, suddenly. “If the Emperor had slain all, laid Meryon waste, I would have counted it no more than fair return for that insult. But he sent Barazan, who could not hold even Armadoc, in the end. He offered me marriage, at any rate, and high honor in Mazain… and since I had nothing left otherwise…” She shrugged, eloquently.

“Ah,” Zamor said, nodding. He had heard of that war, in some small part. The Mazainians had struck at Meryon, across the sea, on some pretext; in a summer’s time, they had been thrust out again, and since then an uneasy peace had been made.

“Your friend, that Hugon,” Gwynna said.
“The second son of a house with a great name… and no wealth at all.
A maker of poems, I’ve heard, and one that was forever traveling about, pretending to study one sort of wisdom or another. There are many like that in Meryon land.
Too many.
My people… love to talk and lie and sing, but for anything of use…”

Zamor grunted, carefully noncommittal.

“He sent me a poem once,” she said, after a while.
“A bad one.
I’ve written better myself.”

“Ah,” Zamor said.

There was a long silence. He could feel her green eyes on him, probing.

“You seem a man of… some nobility,” Gwynna said, in a low voice. Zamor glanced at her, but said nothing.

“I do not wish to die,” she said.

“No one does,” he said.

“If Hugon sells me to the High King of Meryon… Rhys will kill me.”

Zamor shrugged. “You have friends in Mazain, too,” he pointed out.

“The High King may offer more,” she said, desperately. “Listen… you are a handsome man, a strong one…” Her hand touched his bare shoulder, caressingly. “You could… do whatever you liked with me… and drive Hugon away. If we could find a way back to Mazain; you could be a great man, with my help…”

Abruptly, Zamor laughed, throwing back his head, a deep bellow of pure pleasure.

“Hugon!”

Hugon came out of the wood, something dangling from his hand; the dragonet perched on his shoulder, singing.

Zamor stood up and called again.
“Hugon!
Come back, I’m in great danger!” And again, he roared with laughter.

Hugon came, at a faster pace; at the fire, he dropped his prize, grinning.

“Hey, one of you two
clean
the pair of them,” he said, toward the two other survivors. “Hazarsh, you’ve a knife there. Gorash, scramble a bit more wood, and we’ll have breakfast. I don’t know what the beasts are called, but they’re fat, and like enough to rabbits to eat.”

“Hugon, you’re barely in time,” Zamor told him, grinning. “I’ve nearly been seduced by your prize here.”

Hugon stared, and Gwynne’s eyes burned in rage, at Zamor.

“Truth!”
Zamor said. “She’s offered me a taste of her pretty flesh, and then I’m to be Captain of Imperial Eunuchs, later, no doubt, after I take her away from you and back to Mazain.”

Hugon burst into a full-throated laugh of his own, dropping to a seat beside the girl, who glared at both of them.

“I… oh, Great Mother…” Hugon controlled his laugh with difficulty. “I should have warned you, Zamor. The girl’s a widow, and
a Meryon lass
. Now, all our girls are most notoriously hot-fleshed, and widows, especially newly made ones, even more so!”

“Damn you both,” Gwynna said, harshly. “May you rot with the blue pestilence, both of
you.
” She hunched herself up and stared into the fire.

“I’ll take your advice, Hugon,” Zamor said, still grinning. “I’ve heard you know much of women. I’ll avoid all widows, I swear it.”

“Maidens, too,” Hugon told him. “Stick to wives. They’re much the best. Hey, Gorash, spit those two beasts, and let’s begin the roast!”

Whatever they were, they smelled delicious, turning on a green stick above the fire. Before they were ready, Gwynna was staring at them, avidly; and in a moment, Hugon gallantly offered her a choice portion, on a sharpened stick. She took it, silently, and ate with haste.

On Hugon’s shoulder, Fraak nibbled delicately at a tender morsel held between his slim-clawed forefeet; satiated, he belched, a foot-long pencil of fire.

“Careful, Fraak!”
Hugon warned, almost dropping his own portion. “You’ll burn me bald, there!”

“Much sorry, please,” the creature said. “I
be
careful, yes.”

“What’s the land back there?” Zamor asked, through a mouthful.

Hugon shrugged. “An island, I’m afraid, though I did not go all around it. There are no signs of live folk, but…
well,
there have been people here, some time.”

“How?”

“Broken walls, stones, carved rock,” Hugon said, looking oddly nervous He glanced back toward the wood, uneasily. “A stone road… but it begins nowhere, and goes nowhere.”

The two oarsmen were listening, as they ate. Now, Hazarsh glanced uneasily at Gorash, and cleared his throat

“Listen, sirs…” he said, in a low voice. “Road, you said? And stones… but you saw nothing alive?”

“Nothing except these beasts, which Fraak took handily,” Hugon said. “Why?”

“There’s a sailor’s tale,” Hazarsh said, slowly, and stopped.

“The Island of the Old Ones,” Gorash said. He was pale.

“Old Ones?”
Hugon stared at the two of them. “What Old Ones?”

“It’s a tale,” Hazarsh said. “A crew landed on such an island in the south. It would be… about where we are.” He bit his lip nervously, and glanced toward the wood again. “Of course, it needn’t be this’n, but they did say… there were stones, and old walls, and a road that went nowhere…”

Hugon considered him, thoughtfully. “Why did they call it the Island of the Old Ones, then?”

“Well, sir, there’s a tale that there used to be… different people, once,” Hazarsh said. “Before we
was
, you know. Like as if the Great Goddess tried out different kinds a long time back, before anybody.” He shifted a little closer to the fire, but shivered anyway. “They say there used to be a big country, here in the southern sea, and these… Old Ones, whatever they might be, they lived here.” He shivered again. “Suppose there was a bit of the place left, you understand… and maybe… maybe there was some of… of
them
left.”

Zamor chuckled.
“Old Ones?
Aah, what white man’s nonsense?”

“I’ve heard such a tale,” Hugon said. “That there were others, before humankind.
But nothing about any of them being left alive.
I’d like to see them, if… ah, but it’s only seaman’s nightmares.”

“Perhaps not,” Gwynna said, in a low voice.