Magician (80 page)

Arutha hauled upon the tiller, forcing
the balky ship away from the terrible stone embrace mere yards away.
Again they felt the ship shudder as another low grinding sound came
from below Amos whooped. “If this barge has a bottom when we’re
through, I’ll be amazed.”

Arutha felt a gut-wrenching stab of
panic, followed immediately by a strange exultation. He found himself
seized by a nameless, almost joyous feeling as he struggled to hold
the ship on course. He heard a strange sound amid the cacophony and
discovered he was laughing with Amos, laughing at the fury erupting
around him. There was nothing left to fear. He would endure or he
wouldn’t. It didn’t matter now. All he could do was give
himself over to one task, keeping the ship heading past the jagged
rocks. Every fiber of his being laughed in terror, in joy at being
reduced to this lower level of existence, this primal state of being.
Nothing existed save the need to do this one thing, upon which all
was wagered.

Arutha entered a new state of
awareness. Seconds, minutes, hours lost all meaning. He struggled,
with Amos, to keep the ship under control, but his senses recorded
everything around him in minute detail. He could feel the grain of
the wood through the wet leather of his gloves. The fabric of his
stockings was gathered between his toes in his water-soaked boots.
The wind smelled of salt and pitch, wet wool caps, and rain-drenched
canvas. Every groan of timber, smack of rope against wood, and shout
of men above could be clearly heard. Upon his face he felt the wind
and cold touch of melting snow and seawater, and he laughed. Never
had he felt so close to death, and never had he felt more alive.
Muscles bunched, and he pitted himself against forces primeval and
formidable. On and on they plunged, deeper and deeper into the
madness of the Straits of Darkness.

Arutha heard Amos as he shouted orders,
orchestrating every man’s move by the second. He played his
ship as a master musician played a lute, sensing each vibration and
sound, striving for that harmony of motion that kept the Wind of Dawn
moving safely through perilous seas. The crew answered his every
demand instantly, risking death in the treacherous rigging, for they
knew their safe passage rested solely upon his skill.

Then it was over. One moment they were
fighting with mad strength to clear the rocks and pass through the
fury of the straits, the next they were running before a stiff breeze
with the darkness behind.

Ahead the sky was overcast, but the
storm that had held them for days was a distant gloom upon the
eastern horizon. Arutha looked at his hands, as if at things apart,
and willed them to release their hold upon the tiller.

Sailors caught him as he collapsed, and
lowered him to the deck. For a time his senses reeled, then he saw
Amos sitting a short way off as Vasco took the tiller. Amos’s
face was still mirthful as he said, “We did it, boy. We’re
in the Bitter Sea.”

Arutha looked about. “Why is it
still so dark?”

Amos laughed. “It’s nearly
sundown. We were on that tiller for hours.”

Arutha began to laugh too. Never had he
felt such triumph. He laughed until tears of exhaustion ran down his
face, until his sides hurt. Amos half crawled to his side. “You
know what it is to laugh at death, Arutha. You’ll never be the
same man again.”

Arutha caught his breath. “I
thought you mad there for a time.”

Amos took a wineskin a sailor handed
him and drew a deep drink. He passed it to Arutha and said, “Aye,
as you were. It is something only a few know in their lives. It is a
vision of something so clear, so true, it can only be a madness. You
see what life is worth, and you know what death means.”

Arutha looked up at the sailor standing
by them, and saw it was the man Amos had pitched over the rail to
head off the mutiny. Vasco threw the man a frown as he watched, but
the man didn’t move. Amos looked up at him, and the seaman
said, “Captain, I just wanted to say . . . I was wrong.
Thirteen years a sailor, and I’d have wagered my soul to
Lims-Kragma no master could pilot a ship such as this through the
straits.” Lowering his eyes, he said, “I’d
willingly stand for flogging for what I done, Captain. But after, I’d
sail to the Seven Lower Hells with you, and so would any man here.”

Arutha looked about and saw other
sailors gathering upon the quarterdeck or looking down from the
rigging Shouts of “Aye, Captain,” and “He has the
truth of it” could be heard.

Amos pulled himself up, gripping the
rail of the ship, his legs wobbling a little. He surveyed the men
gathered around, then shouted, “Night watch above! Midwatch and
day watch stand down.” He turned to Vasco. “Check below
for damage to the hull, then open the galley. Set course for
Krondor.”

Arutha came awake in his cabin Martin
Longbow was sitting by his side. “Here.” The Huntmaster
held out a steaming mug of broth.

Arutha levered himself up on his elbow,
his bruised and tired body protesting. He sipped at the hot broth.
“How long was I asleep?”

“You fell asleep on deck last
night, just after sundown. Or passed out, if you want the truth. It’s
three hours after sunrise.”

“The weather?”

“Fair, or at least not storming.
Amos is back on deck. He thinks it might hold most of the way. The
damage below is not too bad, we’ll be all right if we don’t
have to withstand another gale. Even so, Amos says there are a few
fair anchorages to be found along the Keshian coast should the need
arise.”

Arutha pulled himself out of his bunk,
put on his cloak, and went up on deck Martin followed. Amos stood by
the tiller, his eyes studying the way the sail held the wind. He
lowered his gaze to watch as Arutha and Martin climbed the ladder to
the quarterdeck. For a moment he studied the pair, as if struck by
some thought or another, then smiled as Arutha asked, “How do
we fare?”

Amos said, “We’ve a broad
reach to the winds; had it since we cleared the straits. If it holds
from the northwest, we should reach Krondor quickly enough. But winds
rarely do hold, so we may take a bit longer.”

A lookout shouted, “Sail ho!”

“Where away?” shouted Amos.

“Two points abaft port!”

Amos studied the horizon, and soon
three tiny white specks appeared. To the lookout he shouted, “What
ships?”

“Galleys, Captain!”

Amos mused aloud. “Quegan. This
is a bit south for their usual patrols if they’re warships, and
I don’t think it likely they’re merchantmen.” He
ordered more canvas on the yards. “If the wind holds, we’ll
be past before they can close. They’re fat-bottomed tubs under
sail, and their rowers can’t maintain speed over this
distance.”

Arutha watched in fascination as the
ships grew on the horizon. The closest galley turned to cut them off,
and after a while he could make out the hulking outline of the
galley, its majestic sails above a high fore and aft deck. Arutha
could see the sweep of oars, three banks per side, as the captain
attempted a short burst of speed. But Amos was right, and soon the
galley was falling away behind. As the distance between the Wind of
Dawn and the galleys slowly increased, Arutha said, “They were
flying the Royal Quegan standard. What would Quegan war galleys be
doing this far south?”

“The gods only know,” said
Amos. “Could be they’re out looking for pirates, or they
could be keeping an eye out for Keshian ships straying north. It’s
hard to guess. Queg treats the whole of the Bitter Sea as her pond.
I’d as soon avoid finding out what they’re up to as not.”

The rest of the day passed
uneventfully, and Arutha enjoyed a sense of respite after the dangers
of the last few days. The night brought a clear display of stars; he
spent several hours on deck studying the bright array in the heavens.
Martin came on deck and found him looking upward. Arutha heard the
arrival of the Huntmaster and said, “Kulgan and Tully say the
stars are suns much like our own, made small by vast distances.”

Martin said, “An incredible
thought, but I think they are right.”

“Have you wondered if one of
those is where the Tsurani homeworld lies?”

Martin leaned upon the rail. “Many
times, Highness. In the hills you can see the stars like this, after
the campfires are out. Undimmed by lights from town or keep, they
blaze across the sky. I also have wondered if one of them might be
where our enemies live. Charles has told me their sun is brighter
than ours, and their world hotter.”

“It seems impossible. To make war
across such a void defies all logic.”

They stood quietly together watching
the glory of the night, ignoring the bite of the crisp wind that
carried them to Krondor. Footfalls behind caused them to turn as one,
and Amos Trask appeared. He hesitated a moment, studying the two
faces before him, then joined them at the rail. “Stargazing, is
it?”

The others said nothing, and Trask
watched the wake of the ship, then the sky. “There is no place
like the sea, gentlemen. Those who live on land all their lives can
never truly understand. The sea is basic, sometimes cruel, sometimes
gentle, and never predictable. But it is nights like this that make
me thankful the gods allowed me to be a sailor.”

Arutha said, “And something of a
philosopher as well.”

Amos chuckled. “Take any
deep-water sailor who’s faced death at sea as many times as I
have, and scratch him lightly. Underneath you’ll find a
philosopher, Highness. No fancy words, I’ll warrant you, but a
deep abiding sense of his place in the world. The oldest known
sailor’s prayer is to Ishap. ‘Ishap, thy sea is great and
my boat is small, have mercy on me.’ That sums it up.”

Martin spoke quietly, almost to
himself. “When I was a boy, among the great trees, I knew such
feelings. To stand by a bole so ancient it is older than the oldest
living memory of man gives such a sense of place in the world.”

Arutha stretched. “It is late. I
shall bid you both a good night.” As he started to leave, he
seemed taken by some thought. “I am not given to your
philosophies, but . . . I am pleased to have shared this voyage with
you both.”

After he was gone, Martin watched the
stars for a time, then became aware Amos was studying him. He faced
the seaman and said, “You seem taken by some thought, Amos.”

“Aye, Master Longbow.”
Leaning against the rail, he said, “Nearly seven full years
have passed since I came to Crydee. Something has tickled my mind
since first meeting you.”

“What is that, Amos?”

“You’re a man of mysteries,
Martin. There’re many things in my own life I’d not wish
recounted now, but with you it’s something else.”

Martin appeared indifferent to the
course of conversation, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “There’s
little about me not well known in Crydee.”

“True, but it is that little
which troubles me.”

“Put your mind at ease, Amos. I
am the Duke’s Huntmaster, nothing more.”

Quietly Amos said, “I think more,
Martin. In my travels through the town, overseeing the rebuilding,
I’ve met a lot of people, and in seven years I’ve heard a
lot of gossip about you. Some time back I put the pieces together and
came up with an answer. It explains why I see your manner change—only
a little, but enough to notice—when you’re around Arutha,
and especially when you’re around the Princess.”

Martin laughed. “You spin an old
and tired bard’s tale, Amos. You think I am the poor hunter
desperate for love of a young Princess? You think me in love with
Carline?”

Amos said, “No, though I have no
doubt you love her. As much as any brother loves his sister.”

Martin had his belt knife half out when
Amos’s hand caught his wrist. The thickset seaman held the
hunter’s wrist in a viselike grip, and Martin could not move
his arm. “Stay your anger, Martin. I’d not like to have
to pitch you over the side to cool you off.”

Martin ceased his struggling against
Amos and released his knife, letting it slide back into its sheath.
Amos held the hunter’s wrist a moment longer, then let go.
After a moment Martin said, “She has no knowledge, nor do her
brothers. Until this time I thought only the Duke and one or two
others might know. How did you learn of it?”

Amos said, “It was not hard.
People most often don’t see what is right before them.”
Amos turned and watched the sails above, absently checking each
detail of the ship’s crew as he spoke. “I’ve seen
the Duke’s likeness in the great hall. Should you grow a beard
like his, the resemblance would shout for the world to see. Everyone
in the castle remarks how Arutha grows to resemble his mother less
and father more each passing year, and I’ve been nagged since
we first met why no one else noticed he resembles you as well. I
expect they don’t notice because they choose not to. It
explains so much: why you were granted special favor by the Duke in
placing you with the old Huntmaster, and why you were chosen
Huntmaster when a new one was needed. For some time now I’ve
suspected, but tonight I was certain. When I came up from the lower
deck and you both turned in the darkness, for a moment I couldn’t
tell which of you was which.”

Martin spoke with no emotion, just a
statement of fact. “It’s your life should you breathe a
word of it to anyone.”

Amos settled himself against the rail.
“I’m a bad man to threaten, Martin Longbow.”

“It is a matter of honor.”

Amos crossed his arms over his chest.
“Lord Borric is not the first noble to father a bastard, nor
will he be the last. Many are even given offices and rank. How is the
Duke of Crydee’s honor endangered?”

Martin gripped the rail, standing like
a statue in the night. His words seemed to come from a great
distance. “Not his honor, Captain. Mine.” He faced Amos,
and in the night his eyes seemed alive with inner light as they
reflected the lantern hung behind the seaman. “The Duke knows
of my birth, and for his own reasons chose to bring me to Crydee when
I was still little more than a boy. I am sure Father Tully has been
told, for he stands highest in the Duke’s trust, and possibly
Kulgan as well. But none of them suspect I know. They think me
ignorant of my heritage.”