Perilous Seas (10 page)

“I’ll
give you about five more seconds,” Kalkor said.

Rap
took him by the nose and lifted. The jotunn stretched his upper lip and Rap
stroked it with the razor. He did not forfeit a finger with that one. He wiped
the blade on his sleeve and prepared to try again. Kalkor had missed shaving
for several days; his golden stubble was long and tough, his skin dry and
surprisingly soft. Rap’s own face was streaming, as was all of him.

He
could not have been wetter had he just emerged from the sea.

Why
shouldn’t he just slit Kalkor’s throat? The man was an egregious monster,
a killing, raping, looting horror without peer. Even this whole shaving charade
was a form of torture. The crew would be watching and laughing-and admiring
their leader’s courage. Rap’s opportunity to make the world a safer
place for human beings was one that any half-decent man should be glad to
sacrifice his life for. Trouble was, he might not reach the rail in time to
gain an easy death, and if the rest of the jotnar caught him, what unspeakable
torments would they inflict on him?

Kalkor
was watching with a sleepy sort of disdain. He looked completely relaxed,
lounging on his throne, being shaved by his new thrall, but he wasn’t
relaxed to Rap’s farsight. His eyes were half closed, and yet alert, and
while his hands hung slack and loose, the muscles in his shoulders were knotted
hard as steel. Thane Kalkor was not quite the uncaring suicidal hero he was
trying to portray.

Rap
realized he had stopped breathing, and paused to resume. He wiped his forehead,
although the sweat wasn’t running into his eyes, which were still puffed
and blurred. He had been working with them closed.

Kalkor
was still watching. “Strop?” Rap croaked. “In the bag.”

Rap
fished out the belt and began sharpening. When he was ready to shave again,
Kalkor tilted his head back, baring his throat.

“Tell
me about Darad and this curse of his. “

Rap
pulled skin taut with fingertips, slit off whiskers with a deft stroke. A slash
would be so easy, the world so much better! He could not remember what he had
told Kalkor about Darad the day before. “There are five of him.” He
must watch the crests-Blood Wave had a nasty habit of twitching her tail when
she went over the tops, as the wind caught her hull; if he lost his balance he
would lose a finger for certain. “Only one of them can exist at a time.
They were a gang of wild kids. About a hundred years ago . . .”

So
easy to kill. Was he not man enough? He felt no real guilt about Yggingi, and
this jotunn was a thousand times worse than the imp had been. Make the try and
get it over! He pushed Kalkor’s chin to a better angle. He was steadying
his own head against a beam and getting splinters in his scalp. This would be
easier if he could stand upright. Without the acuity of farsight it would be
impossible.

“Each
of the five has a talent . . . “ Now the razor seemed to be tugging more,
and it wasn’t for lack of sharpening. Kalkor was starting to sweat too.
He was still striving to seem relaxed and limp in his chair, and yet he was
growing tauter and tauter. A fine sheen of damp showed on his forehead and
chest. Was this ordeal going on longer than he had anticipated? Likely he had
expected Rap to nick him on the first or second stroke ... all right so far;
half done now. Probably Kalkor had planned to end the game when he got to ten
nicks. A seer with no hands would be easier to keep prisoner. But if he wanted
to mutilate Rap like that, he would do so anyway, regardless of how many times
Rap cut him.

Talk
was easier while stropping than while shaving. “Darad doesn’t need
to call for help very often, so he’s aged. He stays tob long. Thinal, on
the other hand, is still just a kid.” Rap gripped Kalkor’s ear and
pulled a little harder than necessary.

Not
a game-it was a trap. Nicks were not what the jotunn expected, but an attack,
Rap moving to cut his throat. Strop some more. “Jalon’s the
minstrel, the artist . . . “ He was talking without thinking, but he didn’t
mind revealing the gang’s great secret. He owed nothing to any of them.
The only thing he left out was the word of power. Kalkor already had a word of
his own, and might be tempted to become an adept. He might very well extract
Rap’s word, also, and three words made a mage. Kalkor as a mage was a
brain-curdling thought.

His
talent was fighting, so Andor had said. Could a mere occult genius fend off a
razor attack even if it was launched from such close quarters? Perhaps.
Probably. So Kalkor was not nearly as vulnerable as he looked. If Rap tried to
avenge Durthing, then Kalkor could still block him.

And
the man was really sweating now. It made the shaving harder, but Rap could
afford to take his time. He was beginning to think he could win this game,
unless Kalkor deliberately cheated by moving, and so far he had played fair. So
Rap was stropping after almost every stroke, dragging it out.

“Sagorn
is the wise man-”

“Never
mind him. Tell me again what you saw in the casement. “

“Which
time? You, or the dragon, or the goblin?”

“All
of them. Start with Inosolan’s prophecy. “

“You,
wearing a fur and nothing else.” Rap was enjoying pushing the thane’s
head into odd angles. “An old man giving you an ax...”

But
any ordeal must end eventually. Rap had no sooner closed the razor and replaced
it in the bag with the strop than his knees folded of their own accord. He
slumped down, with one leg twisted under him; he doubled over and shivered
convulsively, as if he had a fever. He retched, but his stomach was empty and
nothing happened. It was over. Over! He shivered and shivered.

After
a moment, a dirty toe poked under his chin and nudged his head up. There was a
very strange glint in those deadly blue eyes.

“Tell
me again of the place where we were supposed to fight this interesting duel,
you and me?”

Rap
licked his lips and managed to steady his quivering jaw enough to use it for
speaking. “I told you, sir-it wasn’t clear at all. Short grass;
scythed or grazed. Mist and rain. A ring of people all around. That was all.
Nothing in the distance, no landmarks. “

“The
Place of Ravens on Nintor,” Kalkor said, staring intently, “has a
circle of great stones around it. The spectators must stay back from those.
Stay outside. There are no predators or scavengers on Nintor, except the
ravens, and the bones of the losers are left where they fall. Did you see any
bones, or the monoliths? “

“No,
sir.”

“Mmm.”
Kalkor rubbed his fresh-shaven chin and seemed to ponder. “Reckonings are
almost always done at the Place of Ravens, but they need not be. They can be
held anywhere, if certain conditions are met. “

Rap
almost gagged again. He could think of nothing to say, so he didn’t try.
Sagorn had interpreted the vision as showing Rap being Inos’s champion;
but he might equally well be Kalkor’s plaything. The shaving episode had
just demonstrated that the jotunn’s sense of humor was as warped as his
morals, and if he found the idea of a ritual battle with Rap an amusing
prospect, then he could stage it at the next landfall, wherever that might be.

“And
when you tried for a vision from the casement?”

“I
never did, sir. I approached it twice, and each time it ... well, it sort of
blazed. Very bright. All shifting. Eerie!” Kalkor nodded. Then, slowly,
his smile widened-and yet his eyes seemed to narrow. He stepped off his chair
and moved out from under the helmsman’s deck. “Up!”

Rap
rose also and cautiously straightened. He was shorter and slighter than the
jotunn. He felt very frail beside that potent killing machine.

Kalkor
looked him up and down twice, perhaps making the same comparison and feeling
reassured by it. Then he folded his arms and shook his head mockingly. “Just
be glad I’m a gambler, sailor.”

“Sir?”

Rap
staggered on a roll, and the thane’s hand flashed out to grip his
shoulder and steady him. His fingers dug in like skewers.

“There
is something very odd about you, halfman. Very odd! My instincts for self-preservation
tell me I should gift you a full suit of armor and send you out to push. I just
tested you, you realize? “

Here
came the job offer. “Sir?”

“You
passed, but not in the way I expected. I would have taken odds of a thousand to
one that what I demanded was humanly impossible for a mundane in your
condition. But you weren’t using occult power, were you?”

“No,
sir. Just farsight. I can’t see well at the moment.”

“Farsight
... and something else, but not magic!” Kalkor chuckled, and it was a
sound to freeze bones. “I had decided to kill you if you did pass.”
He sighed. “But, as I said, I’m a gambler. Just a sentimental
softie, I am. I will accept that you are not an adept in spite of the test.”

He
raised a quizzical eyebrow, and Rap said, “Thank you, sir.”

“Indeed.
You may be a mage or even a sorcerer, of course, but then I am helpless-and you
certainly don’t look like either at the moment. Faun, I am going to be
very surprised if we do not fulfill that absurd prophecy one day, you and I.
That intrigues me! I have raised twelve heads in the Place of Ravens. I should
like very much to raise yours, also.”

“I
will bet on you, sir, not me.”

Sudden
anger blazed in the inhumanly blue eyes. “Do not joke about sacred
matters! I am no imp to wager squalid, worthless things like money! A Reckoning
is a solemn ritual, an offering of courage and a sacrifice of life. Few things
less than life itself are worth gambling.” For a moment Rap thought
Kalkor was going to flash into jotunn madness, but then the eerie smile returned.
“Two strong men battling to the death, entering the circle knowing that
one of them will never leave? There is the ultimate gamble, the finest game of
all. I hope that one day I do leave my bones for the ravens of Nintor-it is the
noblest death for a thane. And I ask only one favor from the Gods, Master Rap.”

Rap
saw that he was supposed to question. “What’s that, sir? “

“That
my slayer be worthy, a man of courage. Tell Darad I want him.”

It
was a real pleasure to pass the message to Darad and see apprehension spread
over the nightmare face. There were not many pleasures on Blood Wave. Gathmor
was conscious, but too weak even to sit up. Rap found water for both of them
and eventually begged some food, also. Then he set to work on the problems of
cleaning up his fellow prisoner and finding fresh clothes for him. The jotnar
did not interfere, but they were surly and uncooperative.

And
yet even a captive could have moments less miserable than others. Boat and
contents steamed in the hot tropic sun. The sea shone like silver, flashing
bands of glory across the minatory obscenity of the orca crudely painted on the
sail. White birds followed, rocking on the arcs of their wings. Given blue sky
and a fine breeze, a half jotunn could not be totally unhappy on a sprightly
vessel like Blood Wave on a fine day.

Rap
had noted Darad cowering at the thane’s feet and then forgotten him. The
next development was Kalkor himself striding past, stopping to drag one of the
sacks of loot out from under a bench near the bow. Rap knew what was coming
before it emerged, and he swung his farsight aft again. Cowering under the poop
deck was the flaxen-haired minstrel, Jalon, struggling to adjust Darad’s
oversize breeches to his slender form. Small and unassertive, Jalon was a most unlikely
jotunn, as he himself had pointed out to Rap once when they shared a picnic
lunch in the hills, long ago. His skin was pallid, sickly compared to all the
bronzed sailors, and certainly there was no more terrified minstrel on the
Summer Seas.

What
the crew thought of the magical transformation was impossible to tell.
Blue-eyed glances flashed under golden brows, questioning and commenting in
surly silence. Kalkor had not deigned to explain, and not a man aboard would
dare show fear.

The
thane headed aft again, carrying a bejeweled ivory harp. In a few minutes Jalon
had done the best he could to tune the battered, impractical instrument and was
sitting on the helmsman’s deck, with his legs dangling.

And
then-pure miracle! Somehow he wrung a flawless, angelic thread of music from
the harp and on it wove tapestries of the finest singing in all Pandemia. A
couple of sea chanties, then a ballad, and more and more, and either every one
was perfectly fitted to the timing set by the ship’s motion, or else
Blood Wave herself now danced to the minstrel’s beat.

Glory!
It soared, it floated in the warm sky like a flight of rainbows. It lifted the
heart or wrung it as he chose. Murderous brutes those jotnar certainly were,
but at times Rap could see tears in their eyes, while he himself was tormented
by thoughts of Inos and could not help but weep. Then Jalon would switch to
some rousing warrior song. Rap’s heart would pound, his spirit surge, and
he was ready to storm Zark single-handed. At those times the jotnar were
roaring, waving battle-axes and eager to waste the entire Impire.

“God
of Madness!” Gathmor whispered during a brief pause. “Who is he and
where did he come from and how does he do that?” But then the mystery
came again, and everyone hushed to listen. Kalkor kept Jalon at it for hours,
while Blood Wave rushed over the ever-rolling waves in search of land.

As
each song ended, harsh jotunn voices called out the names of others, and there
were very few that Jalon did not know or could not sing; his repertoire was
enormous. But even he had his limits, and eventually his voice began to falter.
To say that

Kalkor
took pity on him would have been an absurdity, but at last he acknowledged
human frailty and sent the minstrel off with Vurjuk to eat and drink and rest.
The other jotnar began to talk fiercely among themselves, discussing what they
had just heard.