The Sword of the Lady (73 page)

The tune was a good one to work to, and it had a fine stormy rhythm:

″And there′s more mortise-and-tenon work in the hull framing than I like. Bolts hold better with a sheering strain,″ Kalk went on, after a pause that made Rudi think the elderly Norrheimer might have dozed. ″Easier to replace.″

Abdou al-Naari had his right arm out of the sling, though it would be a while before it regained full strength. He touched brow and lips and heart, and bowed to Kalk as one craftsman to another.

″You make good ship here,″ he said; his English had improved perceptibly in his brief time as a prisoner. ″But we Kaolack men, first in Emir′s country make more than big-big-big canoe after Change. We know skill of hands. I help build this ship, draw plans, see all make. Pick trees for her, too.″

The master of Kalksthorpe glared at him, then nodded unwillingly.

″She′s yare,″ he said. ″Good work is good work.″

″What is word,
yare
?″ Abdou asked.

More barrels and bales swung on board. There was plenty of room. They′d sent ashore the cargo picked up as the Moors cruised north along the coast, carefully selected metals, alloy steel, copper and brass and aluminum, lenses and telescopes and binoculars and microscopes, glassware, fine pre-Change cloth preserved as if new in sealed packages, wrought gold and silver and jewels, ball bearings, surgical instruments, springs and gears and light machine tools, circular saw blades and medicines and chemicals.

″Yare is . . . eager. Ready. Fit,″ the old man said.

Wealth couldn′t bring the dead back, but the gold and gear would mean the Kalksthorpe folk wouldn′t have to risk any voyages of their own southward in the coming year or two. That would save lives in itself.

″I glad you like ship,″ Abdou said quietly, and with obvious pride. ″She good, fast, ride storm like bird.
Yare
, like you say.″

Kalk gave him a hard smile from under tufted white brows. ″So by Njordh, we′ll get good use out of her, now that she′s ours,
blaumann
.″

Abdou winced; he′d seemed to grow an inch when he trod his ship′s deck again. The song grew louder as the work gang approached, mounting the forward gangplank and feeding their burden down into the hold:

Kalk looked around nodded once more, then headed down the gangplank himself, his staff going
thunk . . . thunk . . .
, a hollow sound on the boards.

And I do think he′s envious of us
, Rudi thought. He sniffed the air, with its scents of pine and pitch and salt.
Not that I blame him! I′ve done deeds of some weight, but this will be the strangest of all my farings.

Rudi and Mathilda followed. The
seidhkona
and a small group of her townsfolk waited on the dock. The rest had said their farewells, and the day′s work didn′t wait with repair and rebuilding added to the usual labors. Thorlind looked at Rudi:

″You haven′t taken all my vengeance yet, Artos King.″

″I will, lady,″ he said soberly, with a slight bow. ″It′s not a peaceful voyage I′m sailing on. Earth must be fed—and the sea, too, is always hungry. If I come back hale, you′ll know the tale of it.″

As if to comment on that, the last of the chanty came from the hold:

Heidhveig raised a hand in blessing; Rudi bowed in acknowledgment, and they went back on the waiting ship. The others waited for them; most on the main deck, which was a few feet down from the low poop that held the wheel, binnacle and compass. Rudi took his stance by the wheel, watching carefully. Two of Abdou′s corsairs held it; that was skilled work. The Norrheimer skipper acting as harbor pilot was ready there too, arms crossed on his chest and dark hair flowing free in the cold breeze.

Other Moors stood ready on the deck, each with three of Rudi′s folk close by, ready to help and under orders to learn all that they could. The pirate bosun looked up to his commander.

Abdou spoke, in his own language and then English:

″Cast off!″

Townsfolk unlooped the hawsers from the bollards on the pier and the sailors pulled them back on deck, coiling them neatly. A Kalksthorpe boat was already secured to a towing hitch forward; the upright oars swung down, ten on a side, and dug into the blue-gray water. A deep chant echoed to time the stroke:

The pilot pointed silently as way came on the ship with a jerk that made some stagger. The two helmsmen spun the wheel to keep the ship in the tugboat′s wake; the underwater obstacles were intended to keep hostile ships out, but they′d do just as well to rip the bottom out of a ship that was leaving. Beyond the last of them the movement of the
Bouel-Mogdad
changed, longer and harder as her bow turned into the swells. The little galley came alongside after it cast off the towrope, and Rudi shook hands with the pilot; it was Thorleif Heidhveigsson, he who′d captured her on Rudi′s urging, and he grinned at the younger man.

″Now we′ll have to rearrange some of them,″ he said.

He nodded overside to where one of the outsize spearheads was just below the surface.

″Cold work,″ Rudi said. ″But a warm greeting for rovers. I′ll see you again, Thorleif, and the Lord and Lady willing it won′t be long.″

″Don′t count any man lucky until he′s dead,″ Thorleif said, and touched the silver Hammer that lay beneath his jacket. ″Thor ward you with his might, Rudi Mackenzie.″

″And yourself, my friend. Merry met, and merry part, and merry meet again!″

The wind was out of the west; it contributed to the hard pitch and roll as the waves took the ship under the quarter. Abdou looked at the sky with its high lines of mare′s-tail cloud, at the compass, and then ordered in two languages:

″Make sail all! Up, up!″

His bosun shoved teams into position; Ingolf followed him, watching closely. A high screech brought both ready, and then they heaved, hauling the lines in hand-over-hand. Pulleys squealed. The long gaff-sails slid up the masts and then swung out as the booms turned. A thuttering like snapping branches and then the canvas snapped taut, swelling out into a series of curves and triangles, and the ship heeled to port until the dark planks sloped like the roof of a house. A fore-and-aft ship like this was economical of men, and the sails could be managed from the deck for the most part.

The bowsprit dug in, then broke free in a burst of crystal spray that shot back along the deck to sting Rudi′s cheeks with an icy salt benediction. The motion turned to a long lunging swoop, and waves of white curled back from the sharp prow. Gray and white and blue, Mother Sea stretched ahead of them, the manes of her snowy horses running to the very horizon. A whale spouted in the middle distance, twin plumes rising from the water before its slate-colored length slid back below, and the flukes slapped foam into the air.

″Glad to be back at sea, Abdou al-Naari?″ he asked.

The Moor looked at him; he was bundled in wool and felt until only his face showed. He snorted:

″In Dakar my lord the Emir have . . . has powerful machine, his hakims make. Wind turns, much thump. Pistons. Makes ice come. Put in drink juice on hot day. Ice is very good
there
.″

Rudi felt his legs flex and turn to take the rocking motion of the deck; it was easier than a trick like standing in the saddle of a galloping horse. Mathilda smiled at him a little shakily, her face pale, but she faced into the breeze and breathed deeply and grew steadier. Edain smiled as well—and then rushed for the leeward rail. Asgerd followed him and waited politely until the first racking heaves were over, then offered him a cup of water from one of the butts. When he′d spat and cleared his mouth, she asked sweetly:

″Feeling better, master bowman? Hunger weakens a man, they say. What you need is food.″

″Why not have some fried fat salt pork, nearly fresh? Or cod cooked in cream with onions—″

Edain gave a wordless cry and dashed back to the rail. Half the watchers laughed, except for a few hanging over it themselves. The rest mostly grinned; even Matti did, and she was usually tenderhearted and liked Edain well. Virginia Kane—Virginia Thurston now, since Lady Heidhveig laid the Hammer in her lap at the handfasting ceremony two days ago—fairly staggered about hooting with mirth. Fred Thurston was looking a little queasy himself, but not enough to join the fish-feeding chorus line.

Seasickness was one of those things everyone found humorous except the sufferer, who wished for death and wasn′t granted it. The only one wholly sympathetic was Garbh, who curled against Edain with whines and nuzzles and ears laid back above anxious eyes.

″We keep this tack,″ Abdou said to Rudi, after he′d cocked a tolerant eye at the sufferers and their audience. ″Long tack, as long as wind is steady. Like . . .
so
.″

He pointed southeast. ″Clear Cape Cod. Then turn for Sorcerer′s Isle. Maybe have to beat up into Sound; that take more time, more work.″

And to be sure, his English is
much
better when it comes to nautical matters.

″How long?″ Rudi asked.

He could feel his skin itching with the need, now. The Sword glowed in his mind, brighter than the winter dawn.

″Seven days, maybe. Winds . . . might come on storm; then have to run for open ocean get sea room.
Inshallah
.″

Rudi sighed.
Every man has a right to his faith. But I could come to
hate
that word, sure and I could.

In the meantime . . .

″All of you!″ he called. ″Those who aren′t tending the rigging. We′ll drill with these deck engines; there′s plenty of ammunition—″

Or at least plenty of roundshot beautifully worked from heavy granite, which the corsairs used for ballast. The four-foot javelins and globes of napalm the engines could also throw were far too valuable to use here where they couldn′t be recovered.

″—and it′s my thought the work will do us no harm.″

Edain and the other sufferers mostly staggered erect at that; something to distract them from their miseries would be good . . . and somehow he doubted it would be a simple matter of sailing, this last league of his quest. Mathilda came to his side after the exercise was over. Most were set to sparring with individual weapons, but the two of them had done more than their share of the artillery practice.

Sparring on crowded, shifting ship timber required learning new reflexes. Once again he noticed how Abdou and his folk ignored her and the other women; he wasn′t sure if that was courtesy, scorn, or a mixture of both. Mathilda was beginning to notice it too, and in no kindly spirit.

″What do you think of our Norrheimers,
acushla
?″ he asked her.

Quickly appraising people and how to get the best from them was the most basic of the ruler′s arts, or a commander′s. She turned to the matter seriously at once; the daughter of Sandra and Norman Arminger would always take the trade of kingcraft seriously. He felt a sudden rush of warmth as he watched her frown and wind a lock of seal-brown hair around one forefinger. If he was to be High King, there would always be someone by his side he could share all his mind with. And their strengths and weaknesses complemented each other; he was a better field commander, though she was far from bad at it, but she excelled him equally on the administrative side.

″Most of them were . . . good enough,″ she said thoughtfully.

They′d sworn in seven new recruits in Eriksgarth; one had died in the street fighting against the Cutters and their pirate allies, and another had been too badly wounded to come along afterwards. They′d both been fair-to-middling youngsters, and too little-known for him to feel any great personal grief beyond the regret a lord had for any follower who fell. Still, leading men into battle meant accepting that some would die. That was a cost of doing business, and he didn′t ask anyone to risk what he would not. Three of the remainder were promising beginners, luckier than their fallen friends rather than more skillful. Two . . .

″Hrolf Homersson is the best of them,″ Mathilda said, watching the exercise. ″Remarkable, in fact.″

Rudi nodded; the man gave a guttural shout as he leapt to the rail and back and again, swinging his great ax against a target dancing on the end of a pole and turning the massive weapon as if it were a willow switch. The light on the honed edge made sparkling patterns, cold as the wind that keened and whipped bits of ice from the rigging.

″He′s as strong as I,″ Rudi said. ″Maybe a bit more, in fact.″

He was about three inches taller than the Mackenzie, and considerably heavier too. Not as fast, but not a lumbering ox either. More of a ″swift enough,″ and thoroughly agile too, which wasn′t quite the same thing. He had a mouse-brown beard that he wore in a braid that reached halfway down his chest, and his long ax bore a war hammer′s serrated head opposite the curved blade.