Deborah Hale (7 page)

“Should we?” Rath whispered to Maura.

He had no wish to hasten their arrival on the Islands. For all its dangers and hardships, this short voyage had been like a welcome return to his old life. To these men he was no Waiting King with a heavy mantel of impossible expectations, just another inlander who had managed to earn their grudging respect. All that would change once he and Maura set foot on shore.

But he knew she must long for the safety and assurance of firm earth beneath her.

Perhaps Maura sensed how he felt, or perhaps she felt something like it herself. “The sea is calm here. Another night aboard ship will do us no harm. Besides, I want to be near at hand in case those wounded men wake and need tending.”

“As you will, then.” Gull sounded pleased with their decision. “I reckon a little festivity is in order, to celebrate our daring victory over the Hanish Ore Fleet. Will you join us?”

This time Rath did not hesitate. “With pleasure!”

“You heard the man.” Gull snapped his fingers. “What are we waiting for?”

All at once the night air bubbled with the rollicking, infectious music of wooden pipes and hand drums. Rath found himself seated on a sack full of something soft, with Maura’s even softer backside nestled in his lap. This was definitely better than whatever reception might await them on the Islands!

When someone thrust a tall jug into Rath’s hand, he took a long swig that made his eyes water.

“What is that?” he gasped when the liquid had burned its way down his throat, numbing as it went. He was no stranger to strong drink…at least he hadn’t thought so. But this…!

“Your first taste of
sythria
?” Gull took the jug from Rath’s hand and guzzled the fiery brew without betraying the least distress. “You must have sea-going blood in you. Most inlanders spew their first drink back up and scream for water.”

So that was
sythria.
Rath had heard of the stuff and assumed its reputation exaggerated. Now he knew better. His belly felt as if it was full of flaming oil.

Maura grabbed the jug out of Gull’s hand and sniffed its fumes. “The stuff doesn’t smell that bad. What is it made of?”

Before Rath could stop her, she tipped the jug back and drained it. After what he and Gull had drunk, there could not have been much left. Still, Rath expected her to choke and gag or belch a cloud of steam.

But she only fanned her mouth. “That
is
strong! Remind me not to it drink so fast next time.”

“I will try,” said Rath, though he wondered if he would remember.

From that single drink, he already felt dizzy and a good deal more carefree than he had in a long time. Perhaps he could stomach another sip of
sythria,
now that the first one had numbed his throat. For some reason that notion made him laugh like a fool. But foolishness felt strangely pleasant. The look on Gull’s face as he stared at Maura made Rath laugh, too.

“Your pardon, mistress.” Gull blinked his eyes as if trying to decide whether they still worked properly. “I have never before known a woman ask for a second drink of
sythria
after she has had her first.”

Maura sniffed the mouth of the jug again and shrugged. “I’ve tasted worse. My guardian was the most terrible cook in Norest…perhaps in the whole of Umbria. What did you say this was made of?”

“Pardon, mistress, in my amazement, I did not answer your question.
Sythria
is distilled from the rind of sythfruit that grows on the Islands. Folk here brew a very fine wine from the fruit itself, but Duskporters like a drink that has a bit more…brawn to it. Cheap, too, for sythfruit rind is bitter and would only be thrown away. We put it to much more worthwhile use.”

The hillcat around Gull’s neck rose and stretched. For the
first time Rath had seen, it bounded off its master’s back into a shadowed part of the deck.

“Abri must be hungry.” Gull seized another jug from a passing crewman and took a long drink from it. “Rats beware!”

He rose from his perch on a small keg and made a sweeping, rather unsteady, bow before Maura. “Will you do me the honor of a dance, mistress? I dared not ask you while Abri had her claws in me. Jealous creature—she would never have permitted it.”

Maura made no move to accept his invitation. “I fear it would be less an honor than a torture for your toes, Captain. I have never danced with a partner.”

“Never danced?” Gull staggered back. Either he was pretending to be shocked by Maura’s words, or those two long, fast drinks from the
sythria
jug were having an effect on him.

It must have been the first, for he recovered quite nimbly to swoop forward and grab Maura by the hand. Before she or Rath could protest, Gull pulled her to her feet and thrust another jug at Rath to keep him company in her absence.

“That is a grave misfortune we must put right at once.” Gull tucked one hand around Maura’s waist, while the other, outstretched, gripped hers. In that hold, he galloped her several times around a small circle of deck where none of the crew were sitting.

At first Maura squealed with a mixture of excitement and dismay as Gull whirled her around. Those squeals soon gave way to breathless laughter and her stiff, reluctant posture relaxed. By their last circuit, she appeared to be leading Gull a merry dance.

Rath took several slow drinks from the jug in his hand. In between them, he sat scowling while the
sythria
kindled a blaze in his belly.

Gull? Hmmph! The man’s name should be
Gall,
for he had plenty of it. More than enough to suit Rath.

What did the scoundrel think he was playing at, plying Maura with strong drink, then dragging her out of her hus
band’s arms for a wild jaunt around the deck? Did he not have the sense to know that she would draw the lecherous gaze of every man on board, the way her ripe curves filled out that boy’s shirt and breeches? Or did he not care?

Rath tipped the
sythria
jug again. He was beginning to enjoy its burnt, musky taste. Curses—the jug was empty!

He lurched to his feet only to find them as contrary as a mismatched team of balky horses. Each wanted to go its own way and neither would move in the direction he wanted them to go. Rath was not about to be thwarted by parts of his own body. So he started forward, letting each leg do what it wanted while he concentrated on keeping his balance.

He had managed to stagger a few steps when a clever idea occurred to him. If he waited at the edge of the ring of crewmen, Gull and Maura’s spinning dance would bring them right to him. He congratulated himself on getting stopped without pitching face-first onto the deck.

When Gull and Maura pranced past, Rath stopped them with a heavy hand on Gull’s shoulder. “I reckon you’ve done enough dancing for one night, friend…with my wife at least.”

Gull winked at Maura and laughed. “Fie, he’s almost as bad as Abri! We should have sent him off with her to hunt rats.”

“Sit down, Rath.” Maura lifted his hand off Gull’s shoulder. “Before you fall down. Don’t spoil the celebration.”

Her gently chiding tone did nothing to soothe Rath’s temper. Besides, his mind was so fixed on Gull’s last words that he scarcely heeded what she said.

“Hunt rats, you say?” He grabbed Gull by his long plume of dark hair and wrenched him high on his toes. “I won’t need to go far to find a rat, will I?”

“Leave off, you daft inlander!” cried Gull. “No man lays hands upon me aboard
my
ship!”

Suddenly, Gull heaved his feet from the deck, making Rath bear his full weight with one arm. Before Rath could let go of
him or lose his balance and topple forward, Gull swung by his hair, driving his feet hard into Rath’s belly.

The air whooshed out of him as pain exploded within. He collapsed onto the deck, writhing and gasping for air that would not come fast enough. But pain and even air meant little to Rath Talward when his fighting blood was roused. Gull had roused it to a blazing pitch—first with his insults and now with this attack.

“Let that be a lesson to you, inlander.” Gull pulled himself up from the deck where Rath had dropped him. “Most men I’d have killed for what you just did, but…”

Did Gull reckon he meant to lie there and swallow such humiliation? Ha!

Rath swung his arm in a wide swath and caught Gull by the ankle, jerking him off his feet. Before he went down, Gull kicked Rath in the face with his free foot. Rath flinched, blood spewing from his throbbing nose.

The little demon could fight better with his feet than most men twice his size could with their fists! A distant, detached part of Rath’s mind acknowledged it even as he kept hold of Gull’s foot and landed a good hard blow to some part of the smuggler’s compact body.

For a few moments, the two men rolled around the deck, thrashing away at each other with feet, fists, knees and elbows.

“Stop this at once!” Maura cried out in a tone of ringing rage. “Both of you!”

To his credit, Rath did hesitate for an instant. But Gull took advantage of that hesitation to drive his sharp little knee hard into Rath’s groin. Rath let out a savage bellow of pain but managed to get his hands around Gull’s slender throat and squeeze with all his strength.

Just as he was savoring the bulge of Gull’s eyes, a familiar but detested sensation stole through his flesh, making his hands fall slack and freeze motionless along with the rest of his body. The same must have happened to Gull, for he did
not take advantage of Rath’s paralysis to land another unsporting blow.

Instead, he channeled his hostility into a black glare. “What have you done to me, inlander? I will not stand for this, curse you!”

“You have no choice but to stand for it,” Rath growled. “Or lie for it. And it is none of my doing.” He tried to turn his head to glare at Maura, but his neck refused to move any more than the rest of him. “It is
hers.
Curse those fool cobwebs!”

“Hers?” Gull’s gaze shifted sidelong, but he had no better luck making his head turn than Rath had. “You mean…”

At some point during their brawl, the music had stopped, but Rath only noticed the silence now. He expected Maura’s voice to fill it, with a firm rebuke to him and Gull.

Instead, a male voice sliced through the silence, speaking Umbrian, but with a distinctive
twaran
lilt. “What is the meaning of this, Gull? You fouled our warding waters beyond further use by leading the whole Hanish Ore Fleet into them. Now you anchor offshore, engaging in all manner of violence and debauchery.”

Something about the fellow’s tone made Rath forget his good-natured tiff with Gull. Perhaps it was his outlaw nature to resent any figure of authority. Or perhaps the
sythria
made him spoil for a fresh fight.

Into the cowed hush that followed the man’s words, Rath muttered, loud enough for all to hear, “You ought to try a little debauchery now and then. It might be just the thing to loosen those tight bowels of yours.”

The silence that greeted
his
words put Rath in mind of a very thin-shelled egg tethering on the edge of a high wall. Even the waves seemed to stop their quiet lapping against the hull of the ship to listen. In that brittle stillness, the soft, deliberate approach of a pair of leather-soled boots sounded louder than the earlier thunder of the hand drums.

It occurred to Rath, not for the first time, that taunting a mo
bile opponent while he lay helpless was a stupid thing to do. He could not help himself, though.

The slender leather toe of a boot hooked under his chin, turning Rath’s head as he was unable to do for himself. A good-size foot poised above his throat. Long ago he had learned to hide fear, and he flattered himself that he’d become good at it. But it never got easier.

He stared up at a man who appeared very tall and lean…at least from his angle. Clad in tight leggings and a long pale brown tunic, the man had piercing dark eyes and features so straight and perfectly proportioned Rath’s fist ached to knock something askew. Or at the very least, to muss the fellow’s close-cropped dark hair from its unnatural tidiness.

“And who are you,” asked the owner of the boot, “to fling insults about without having either the courage or manners to rise and say them to my face?”

“I’m the Waiting King,” Rath growled as if it was only a contemptuous jest meant to shock the other man. He would have had a harder time uttering the words as if he meant them. “Who are you?”

“Don’t mind him, Lord Idrygon!” cried Gull. “You can’t hold an inlander responsible for the blather he spews on his first bellyful of
sythria.
”

Lord
Idrygon? Well, well. Lord of what? Rath wondered. He tried to stifle a traitorous notion that Lord Idrygon looked the way he’d once pictured the Waiting King.

Rath shifted his gaze to Maura. When she finally stopped gaping at Idrygon long enough to spare him a glance, he mouthed the word
please?

She made a face, as if she had bitten into something sour. Then her lips began to move in a silent incantation and soon Rath was able to make his fingers wiggle.

In the meantime, Lord Idrygon had withdrawn the toe of his boot, letting Rath’s head fall slack again. “A man who cannot curb his tongue when he drinks too much should not drink at all.”

His hand now free to move, Rath seized Idrygon’s foot before it reached the deck. He held it an inch or two in the air, enough to keep the other man off balance. Except that Idrygon seemed more poised and steady standing on one foot than most men looked on two.

Since the move was clearly not achieving its purpose, Rath let go of Idrygon’s foot and staggered upright, hauling Gull along with him. He swiped his shirtsleeve across his lower face to wipe away some of the blood dripping from his nose.

“I’ll make you a bargain,
my lord.
If you curb your tongue, I will try to curb mine.” Rath jerked his head in the direction of the warding waters. “If you had asked before casting blame, we could have told you Gull did not
lead
the Ore Fleet here. A storm blew them nearer your coast than they usually come. We are guilty of nothing more than some damn fine sailing to wriggle out of their clutches.”