Warrior Mage (Book 1) (23 page)

Dak had the balance of a cat—or a man who had spent many months and maybe years at sea, possibly fighting many battles there. Neither his bulk, his missing eye, nor the fact that he was old enough to have gray sprinkled in his dark hair slowed him down. Turgonians didn’t seem to get seasick, either—a fate Yanko had not avoided during those first days crossing the ocean. Dak’s stomach was probably as tough as the rest of him.

“Yanko?” Lakeo asked from the side.

Yanko had been aware of her and Arayevo’s approach, but he did not take his eyes from Dak—or the sword swinging toward him. He darted back, rather than simply ducking—he had been fooled often enough to know now that Dak was perfectly capable of making it look like he had fully committed to a swing, only to change direction mid-stroke. As soon as the blade whistled past, he jumped back in, throwing out his long saber to keep his opponent at bay, then coming in behind it with the short, stabbing blade. They weren’t using blunted practice weapons, but it did not matter with Dak. Yanko never hit him, and Dak only hit Yanko when he wanted to make a point.

This time, Yanko tried to tap Dak in the back with the flat of the blade, but his weapon only swatted at air. Anticipating the blow, as he always did, Dak had stepped away, whirling to face Yanko again. He lowered his sword and knife—he had a new combination of weapons every time he sparred with Yanko—and tilted his head toward Lakeo.

She stood waiting, her arms folded across her chest, her foot tapping. “You’ve been at that for two hours.”

“Isn’t that all right?” Yanko wanted to improve, not only his endurance for using the mental sciences but his ability to defend himself with a blade, as well. What would happen if he ran into someone as good as—or better than—Sly Wolf from his exam? And what if Dak wasn’t around to protect him?

“How come you don’t have to take a turn at the bilge pump?” Lakeo asked. “Every time the captain sees me trying to eat or relax, he puts me to work.”

“My turn was at midnight. He’s decided that young mages are suited to standing watch in the dark. So last night, I ‘stood watch’ for him from the pump room. Amazing that a craft fresh out of the harbor could be so leaky.”

“Oh.” Lakeo lowered her arms. “I kept seeing you out here playing during the days. I thought you might have paid him with some secret stash of coins.”

“No, this is my sleep shift.” Yanko actually didn’t mind being awake at night, since when he wasn’t pumping, cleaning, or repairing something, he was able to sneak in some reading. Senshoth’s book on the mental sciences. It was as dry as a dead cactus, but he was learning from it. “In the mornings, I like to have Dak thoroughly exhaust me, so I fall into a stupor, instead of lying awake worrying about things.” Such as the ship that had been shadowing their route for the last week, sometimes seen, sometimes not, never getting close enough to be more than a speck on the horizon. The captain had tried a few times to lose the interloper, but it changed course when they changed course. Yanko suspected they were being tracked and hoped it was not his fault, that his mother’s robe or amulet were allowing someone to track them. But those items had been in his house for years without him ever noticing their power. They didn’t seem to give off much of a signature, even now that they had gone out of dormancy.

“If you two are done flinging sweat around, I need to talk to you,” Lakeo said.

“We can be done, right, Dak?”

Dak grunted and walked across the deck, asking if anyone else wanted to spar. Two hours only warmed him up.

“He’s nice to look at with his shirt off,” Lakeo commented, watching his back. “Think he’s married back in Turgonia?”

Yanko had been picking up a tunic that he had demoted to a towel, on account of the stench, and he almost dropped it. “
That’s
what you wanted to talk about?”

“No. I was just curious. A girl gets an itch now and then, you know. The captain’s too busy ogling Arayevo to notice me—and he’s a sarcastic lizard kisser, anyway—and there aren’t that many appealing options around.” She gave Yanko a frank stare that made him feel naked. It did not help that he had not yet donned his tunic. “Dak’s eye is disturbing, but it wouldn’t be that noticeable in the dark. The broken nose too. He’s moderately handsome from the lips down.”

“I haven’t discussed Dak’s preferences with him—” Yanko curled a lip at the thought of that conversation, “—but I’m sure you can find available men on the Kyatt Islands if you prefer someone unlikely to have a wife or a criminal record.” He was less certain available Kyattese men found muscular women appealing. Maybe
she
should visit Turgonia.

“Criminal records aren’t that important.” Lakeo glanced at a bow-legged sailor ambling past. “Good teeth, decent breath, hair in the right places... these are things that matter.”

“I see.” As Yanko was toweling himself off, the captain walked past, pausing to speak.

“Not bad, kid, but I was hoping you would clobber him. Or at least touch him with something pointy.”

“You might not know it by looking at him,” Lakeo said, “but I don’t think Yanko is into touching other men with his pointy things.”

She and the captain shared a grin, while Yanko put on his tunic and pretended neither of them existed.

“At least he’s got a muscle or two under that dress.” Minark thumped him on the back and strode off to whatever other duty required his attention. Harassing crew members, perhaps.

“Haven’t worn the robe since the first day,” Yanko muttered.

“Anyone seen the limes?” the captain bellowed. “I know I gave orders to pack limes before you all were thrown into prison.”

“Listen, Yanko,” Lakeo started, but then frowned over at a clatter that arose, drowning out her words. Dak had found a second sparring partner. “Come over here, will you?”

Yanko let her lead him to the railing. She tapped it with her finger a few times, then dug into a pocket and pulled out something in a small, dirty handkerchief. From the way the pouch clanked on the railing, he assumed it was money.

“Here.” She pushed it toward him.

“What is it?” He had already accepted the money from the sale of the carriage.

“The rest of your zekris.”

“Uh?”

A cloud blew across the sun, and a cool breeze gusted across the deck, ruffling the corners of the handkerchief.

“When I sold your carriage, you were very trusting in letting me handle the transaction. Too trusting. I’ve been worried about what I’m going to do for money when I reach Kyatt, so I kept a small seller’s fee for myself.”

Yanko eyed the bulge of coins.

“All right, not that small. But I want to give it back.”

“You’ve figured out what you’ll do for money on the islands?”

“No, but I’ve been feeling guilty about taking your money. So, here.” Lakeo picked up the pouch, grabbed his hand, and plopped it onto his palm.

“I appreciate your honesty, but you can keep it. You lost that money in the mines, the mines my family was supposed to be protecting.” He grimaced at all the still-raw memories that shot through his mind. “A seller’s fee sounds fair.” He started to set it back on the railing, but she swatted his hand away.

“Yanko, I
stole
it. I tried to justify it, but that’s what it was. Theft. From a friend. I want to give it back and make it right.”

“But—”

“You need money just as much as I do. I know you don’t have much left after paying our way, and it’s not like you can sell your services as a mage in Kyatt. I hear everyone there knows the mental sciences.”

“I’m not certain that’s true, but why don’t we agree to share it then? For lodgings or whatever we’ll need until I do my research and you... enroll in classes or find work, whatever you’re planning.” He tried to push the money her way again, but she backed up, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

“You don’t get anything about women, do you?” Lakeo stalked away, leaving him staring down at the coins and scratching his head.

“Not bad, kid,” the captain said, wandering past again. Didn’t he have something more important to do? “Usually men have to pay women for services, not the other way around.” He thumped Yanko on the shoulder again. “Hope you gave her a good time.”

Yanko rubbed his shoulder and frowned at Minark’s back as he jogged up the steps to the forecastle. He was fairly certain those were not friendly we’re-comrades-aren’t-we pats. They seemed more along the lines of your-bodyguard-emasculated-me-and-I’m-going-to-torment-you-every-chance-I-get pats.

Another gust of wind blew across the ship, and a shadow darkened the deck. The sun had disappeared behind clouds, gray clouds that seemed out of place in a sky that was blue on every horizon. A tingle ran across his senses, similar to electricity but less mundane. He was not experienced with life at sea, and he had heard of strange natural phenomena, but this had the taint of otherworldly manipulation about it.

He waited for a wave to carry them to the crest, then looked to the horizon, expecting to spot the ship that had been shadowing them. Indeed, he expected it to be much closer now. But it wasn’t there. Odd. Nobody could manipulate the weather from across great distances. Who else could be responsible? He certainly hadn’t seen any of the crew demonstrate that they had aptitude for the mental sciences, and as far as Yanko knew, Minark was the only one with Made artifacts, if one could count his charms. None of them emanated the kind of power necessary for weather control. Yanko had sensed another artifact below decks and did not yet know what it did, but it would not make sense for the captain to create storms to torment his own ship.

“Got trouble coming up, Cap’n,” one of the crew hollered.

“I see it.”

The clanks and clangs of the sparring match ended. Dak scrutinized the sky too.

Yanko walked over to him, though he didn’t know what a Turgonian warrior could do to help if a storm struck them. “There’s a mage nearby.”

Dak gazed out at the empty expanse of blue water rising and falling all around them. The wind had brought higher waves, but they could still see the horizons.

“I don’t know where,” Yanko said, “unless we have a stowaway.”

“Secure the deck. Prepare for the wind.” Minark ran below decks, while the crew scampered up the masts, letting out more sail.

Dak frowned. “That’s not the usual way to prepare for a storm.”

“Putting out more sail or hiding below decks?” Yanko asked.

“Both.”

“Maybe we should search the ship, see if anyone stowed away and is causing trouble.”

“Why would such a person want to cause trouble for the ship he’s on?” Dak asked.

Yanko shrugged. “Sacrificing himself so those behind us can catch us? Don’t you Turgonians sacrifice people all the time for military endeavors?”

The question sounded more condemning than he had meant it to. Nurian soldiers and mages sacrificed themselves at times, too, if it was for the greater good. It was just that the Turgonians had a reputation for blowing up their ironclad warships so the technology could not find its way into enemy hands, no matter if the crew was still on board...

Dak ignored the questions and said, “I’ll go look.” He paused, squinting at Yanko. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Don’t get yourself into trouble.”

Yanko did his best to look innocent. Why would he seek out trouble? Dak was the one going wizard hunting. Maybe Yanko should go with him, but if someone was thrown overboard or equipment broke, he might be able to do some good up here. He should also be trying to figure out a way to stop the storm.

Arayevo slid down a rope and dropped to the deck nearby. She had taken to the sailor’s life handily and was fearless up in the rigging. Yanko wished he had found more opportunities to speak with her in the week they had been at sea. They had sat together at the communal meals, but she had the day shift, so they hadn’t had many private moments.

“Wait until you see this,” Arayevo said, waving toward the sails. “We’ll either get capsized and all drown, or we’ll outrun the storm.”

“I’ll hope for the latter. But what do you mean about—” Yanko stopped talking when a buzz of power plucked at his senses. An attack from their mystery enemy? No, it felt more like the steady magical emission of an artifact, one nearby. The one he had been sensing since he came on board. Some secret weapon of the captain’s?

The two cargo hatch doors in the deck were thrown open. Wind gusted, battering Yanko’s topknot and filling the sails with air. The schooner surged forward, then leaned precariously as she climbed the front of a wave. The deck tilted, and Yanko ran to the railing, wondering if he should be securing himself with ropes and tarpaulins, the way the crew was battening down everything else on board.

The craft crested the wave and streaked down the back side, the deck tilting the other way. Queasiness stirred in Yanko’s stomach. Just when he had thought he was past the point of seasickness...

The captain jogged back into sight, gave Arayevo a quick salute, and ran up the ladder to the wheel. The helmsman had a tense hunch to his shoulders, and he happily stepped back to let Minark take over. The captain grinned as he grasped the wheel with both hands, and Yanko imagined he could hear his charms jangling enthusiastically on his belt, though the noise of the wind and the creaking of the rigging drowned out everything. The sky had grown a solid gray over them, and the wind showed no sign of lessening.

Despite his upset stomach, Yanko attempted to find mental balance so he could focus. He needed to find whoever was causing this bad weather. Even if the captain had an artifact to enhance the ship’s speed, a conjured storm could follow them, so long as its creator was nearby.

A distant boom sounded above the gales churning up the sea. A cannon? Out here?

Arayevo frowned at the mountains of waves rising on all sides of them, then raced up into the rigging again, climbing as easily as a monkey and standing out on a yard for a better look. A second cannon fired. This time, Yanko spotted the ball. It soared over the ship, falling harmlessly into the water fifty feet away. Good, but who was shooting at them? He stretched out again and was surprised to feel dozens of other auras—human beings—less than three hundred yards away.