The Kings Man (10 page)

Garzik noticed it contained a needle and thread, much like the ones used on the sails, only smaller.

‘I’m fine,’ Lleu said, yet again.

The surgeon ignored him. He nodded to Garzik. ‘Pull the cap off.’

As soon as he removed the sodden wool cap, dark blood welled from a wound that revealed the white of bone. The sight of the sailor’s skull both fascinated and repelled Garzik.

Rishardt pressed a clean, folded cloth to the wound, once, twice. Each time he removed it the blood welled up again, but it was now clear that the wound was long and ragged, down to the bone, which had not cracked.

‘Lucky for you, you have a hard skull,’ he told Lleu. ‘You’ll need stitching. Another scar to impress the girls.’

The sailor nodded, or tried to. He faced away from them, securely strapped. The surgeon washed the wound with watered wine, then told Garzik to keep up the pressure, while he threaded needle.

But with the pitching and the way his hands shook, the surgeon couldn’t manage it.

Without a word, Garzik pressed the pad to the injured man’s head with his elbow then took the needle and thread from Rishardt.

He threaded the needle and offered it to the surgeon.

Rishardt went to take it, but his hands trembled.

They both glanced to the man’s head. The pad that Garzik pressed to the wound had steadily darkened.

Rishardt swallowed and grimaced. He took the needle, but it was clear he’d do more harm than good with it. The surgeon glanced to the cupboard where he kept his wine.

Anger drove Garzik to take the needle.

For a heartbeat, he thought the surgeon would protest, then he nodded.

Garzik gulped. Although he’d watched their family healer sew up wounds, he didn’t feel ready.

‘You have to learn some time, Wynn. Might as well start now.’

So he found himself stitching the sailor’s scalp. As long as he thought of it as a job, like a tailor or cobbler stitching cloth or leather, he could manage. Once the stitching was done, he bound the wound then called for the sailor’s companions to help him to his bunk.

Garzik turned around to face Rishardt, who had sunk onto his bunk, head in his hands.

Now Garzik trembled.

Rishardt lifted his head. ‘You did well.’

‘What if it had been a broken bone?’

They both glanced to the cupboard where Rishardt kept his wine.

Almost of its own volition, the surgeon’s hand moved to open the cupboard.

Garzik made a disgusted sound.

Rishardt flinched. Then he grimaced. ‘If it offends you, get out. I’m sure the cook would welcome you.’

Disappointed, Garzik turned away, grabbed his blanket and left.

He felt his way down the passage to the store room and curled up amidst the sacks. Fine for tonight, but could he avoid the cook for the rest of the voyage?

T
HE NEXT DAY
dawned fine, although the sea was still high. The cook fired up the stove and began to prepare a huge pot of beans. It seemed to be his speciality. He kept Garzik on the run, delivering food to the men-at-arms and then the captain’s cabin.

After delivering the last tray, he had a few moments to himself. Once, he would have sought out the surgeon. Now he took this chance to stretch his legs on deck. A pale winter sun hung in a sky swept clean of clouds. After the danger of the storm, it was good to be alive.

But something felt odd. He shaded his eyes, searching the sea. ‘Where’s –’

‘We’ve lost the fleet,’ Sionor said. ‘Blown off course.’

Nothing but sea in all directions.

Garzik searched the horizon. No sign of the other merchant ships or the sea-hounds that had protected them. ‘How –’

‘The storm tore the fleet apart. Captain’s had the look-out searching for sails since dawn.’

Recalling tales of Utland raiders, Garzik gulped. ‘Will we be safe?’

Sionor shrugged. ‘She’s a big sea and we’re just one little ship.’

When Garzik returned below, he wanted to seek out Rishardt, but pride stopped him. Instead he went straight to the galley and began to scrub the pots. ‘We’ve lost the fleet.’

The cook grunted.

‘Sionor says we’ll be all right, but the Utlanders –’

Thunk!
The cook slammed the cleaver into the chopping board. ‘Utlanders!’
Thunk. Thunk.

Garzik grinned and the cook returned his smile, revealing three missing teeth.

They both turned at the sound of running feet, which came down the passage past them to report to the honour guard.

‘Utlanders,’ a voice announced. ‘Lookout’s spotted a sail.’

Shouts and thumps as the elite men-at-arms reached for their weapons. Garzik froze, listening.

‘Keep scrubbing,’ the cook snapped. ‘Utlanders far off. See sails on...’ He searched for the word, then gave up and pointed to the horizon.

‘So they won’t catch us?’ Garzik asked, then frowned. ‘I thought their ships were race horses compared to merchant plough horses?’

‘Horses?’

‘Faster.’

The cook nodded his understanding. ‘Faster no help if can’t see us.’

‘So, as long as we can keep ahead of them until dusk, we can slip away in the dark?’

The cook nodded. ‘That, or...’ He picked up a heavy skillet and mimed hitting someone. They’d fight.

That evening, after he’d finished in the galley, Garzik went up on deck. It seemed everyone was there, watching the sea and cursing the clear sky. No clouds meant starlight bright enough to cast shadows, starlight that clearly revealed the ship to their pursuer, even though they’d doused all the lanterns.

Garzik wandered through the groups, listening to sailors and the honour guard. The sailors were fearful, the honour guard boastful and ready to prove their mettle.

‘Sometimes they kill the whole crew, right down to the last man,’ Sionor said.

‘Sailors!’ One of Neirn’s honour guard spat his contempt.

Sionor stiffened. ‘It’s true.’

‘If they kill the whole crew, how do you know this?’ the elite man-at-arms demanded.

‘Everyone knows it,’ Sionor said and his companions nodded. ‘Captured Utlanders boast of it even as we throw them overboard.’

Garzik flinched. If only they hadn’t been separated from the sea-hounds. He searched the horizon, spotting the silhouetted sails against the frosting of stars.

‘Surely they know the ship will be filled with returning men-at-arms?’ Garzik muttered to himself.

‘They know all right,’ the surgeon said.

Garzik moved over for him. In the face of the Utland menace everything else seemed petty.

‘But they also know the ship’s hold will be filled with Rolencian treasure.’

‘So they’ll catch us?’ Garzik asked.

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Rishardt grinned. There was no wine on his breath tonight. ‘The night could cloud over. A fog could roll in.’ He shrugged. ‘If you believe in the gods, tonight’s a good night to pray.’

‘I don’t know what I believe,’ Garzik admitted.

‘Only fools are certain.’ The surgeon laughed grimly. ‘Of that I’m certain.’

And Garzik laughed. Orrade would have liked the surgeon.

Chapter Seven

N
O FOG, NO
clouds. The gods had abandoned them. All night they fled, but not fast enough to elude the sleek Utland vessel. Around midnight, the men began to sharpen weapons.

Despite the grinding of the whetstone, Garzik dozed, tucked under the surgeon’s bench. But the soft sound of the surgeon’s return woke him instantly.

Rishardt had pulled out a leather apron. He turned as he strapped it on and spotted Garzik watching him. ‘It’s time, Wynn. We need to prepare for the injured.’

Garzik rolled to his feet, telling himself it could not end this way for him. He had to get home, find Byren and become the courier for Mitrovan’s messages.

He could not die here.

But the fact was – he just might.

Heart racing, he lit the lantern and hung it on its hook, while Rishardt laid out his tools: the saw, the scalpel, the needle and pads to sop up the blood. Tonight his hands trembled, but no more than Garzik’s. He also removed a sword from his chest, a noble’s sword, plus a dagger. Evidence of his past.

‘How did you learn the surgeon’s trade?’

‘On the job, like you,’ he admitted. ‘There’s not much to it. The greatest skill a surgeon can have is speed. Dreamless-sleep only dulls the pain. But most of the time, we can’t get it. The Rolencian monks guard the secret of its production.’

A shout and running feet on the deck above made them both look up.

‘Not long now, Wynn.’ Rishardt clenched and unclenched his hands, but a fine tremor remained.

‘Do you need a drink?’ Garzik asked.

‘Yes.’ Rishardt gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘But if I’m to die tonight, I’ll die sober.’

Rhythmic chanting, interspersed with low drumming.

‘The Utlanders.’

It was a hungry, impatient sound that made Garzik’s stomach cramp. He wondered if he had time to run to the jakes. He didn’t want to disgrace himself.

‘It’ll be easier once it starts,’ the surgeon told him.

‘Why?’

‘No time to think.’

A roar. Raggedly defiant shouting. Several separate distinct thumps.

‘Utlanders swinging across to land on our deck.’ Rishardt had to raise his voice over the shouting and the clatter of metal on metal.

‘How many times have you survived an –’

‘Twice.’

‘Third time lucky?’

‘Let’s hope.’

They shared a look. The surgeon’s eyes were particularly alert tonight. But then every detail seemed sharp to Garzik, from the smell of the surgeon’s few herbals, to the way the lamplight glinted on the expensive sword and dagger.

Shouting, screams, thumps and the constant scrape of metal on metal.

‘They’ll be bringing the worst of the injured down soon,’ Rishardt said.

Garzik prepared himself for blood, lots of it, as they both looked up at the ceiling.

‘Was she worth it?’ the question just slipped out.

Rhisardt glanced to him.

‘The one you fought the duel –’

‘I know who you mean.’ A particularly despairing scream made them both glance up. The fighting continued. ‘Yes, she was worth it. He beat her. With his death, I set her free. She never married again. I don’t care what it cost me. What about you?’

Garzik hesitated.

Running feet down the passage. Shouts. More running feet. Cries. The clank of metal.

‘They’ve broken through.’ Rishardt grabbed his sword. ‘Take the dagger.’

Garzik moved behind him to grab it.

The door swung open. Over Rishardt’s shoulder he saw a wild man. Blood covered his chest, matted his beard and poured from his head where his ear was missing. Despite the cold the Utlander was almost naked. All this Garzik saw in a flash.

The surgeon leapt forward, driving the blade past the Utlander’s hasty block. Somehow, the one-eared man side-stepped, avoiding the strike. Rishardt’s sword tip buried itself in the wood of the door jamb.

As he struggled to pull the blade free, Garzik heard the roar of the cook and a man’s screams.

The Utlander pulled back his arm to drive his sword into the surgeon’s back. Garzik dove in, dagger lifted to spear up under the Utlander’s ribs.

At the same instant Rishardt freed the sword and spun, blade lifted. Again the Utlander seemed to anticipate him, darting away. Everything slowed. Garzik had time to realise Rishardt’s sword arc was aimed right for his head.

The surgeon’s eyes widened in surprise. He tried to pull the strike. At the same instant, the Utlander struck, his blade sliding between the surgeon’s ribs like a hot knife through butter.

Rhisardt lost his grip on his sword, but it continued its arc. The Utlander’s hand shot out, shoving Garzik off his feet. The sword missed the top of his head.

Garzik flew sideways, struck the bench and had the air knocked out of him. He slid to the floor.

Rhisardt lay nearby in an ever widening pool of blood, gasping, pink bubbles on his lips.

Garzik dragged a breath into his aching chest and raised his hands only to discover he’d lost the dagger. The one-eared Utlander stepped over the surgeon to crouch in front of Garzik, who scuttled back until he was wedged between the bunk and the wall.

The Utlander kept coming, watching his face, bloodied sword ready to skewer him.

‘Why?’ Garzik whispered. ‘Why save me, when you mean to kill me?’

The Utlander pressed the blade to Garzik’ neck, tilting his face, watching him wince as the tip dug in to the place where his neck met his jaw and ear.