The Radiant Dragon (14 page)

The half-elf did not seem to notice anything amiss. He broke one of the loaves apart and inhaled the fragrant steam with deep satisfaction.
“Quinpah,”
he breathed in a reverent tone. “I haven’t seen any in years. It’s a traditional elven bread, but it varies from one world to another. This one is very like what I remember from my childhood.”

“Really. I wonder how Rozloom got the recipe for something like that,” Teldin said absently. He broke off a piece and popped it into his mouth, and his eyes widened in surprise. The outside of the bread was crisp and sticky with a honey glaze, but the middle was a soft, airy delight that dissolved in his mouth into a foaming mist.

“How do the aperusa acquire
anything?”
Hectate observed without malice.

Teldin grinned. During the few days Rozloom had been aboard the
Valkyrie,
a number of “lost” items had been discovered in his possession. The gypsy’s explanations were always so entertaining that none of his victims could hold their ire for long. Only Rozloom’s offbeat charm – and remarkable culinary prowess – kept the exasperated crew from loading him into the drakkar’s catapult and letting fly.

After several days of eating nothing but broth and thin porridge, Teldin was ravenous. He devoured the
quinpah
and thought he might like another, but aside from Hectate’s private hoard, the sweet bread already had disappeared. As he ate the rest of his dinner, Teldin pondered the elves’ strange coldness to Hectate Kir. The only reasonable conclusion Teldin could come up with was that somehow the crew must have found out about Hectate’s bionoid persona. When Teldin suggested this possibility, Hectate’s well-laden spoon froze halfway up to his mouth.

“What makes you think so?” Hectate asked, cautiously lowering the spoon back to his bowl.

As tactfully as he could, Teldin commented on the elves’ decided lack of friendliness. To his surprise, Hectate burst out laughing, drawing brief, chilly stares from the other diners. “What’s so funny?” Teldin groused.

Still chuckling, the half-elf shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’d forgotten that some people really don’t care what I am.” He seemed on the verge of saying more, then his eyes fell on the last loaf of
quinpah
on his tray. In a gesture more eloquent than words, the half-elf picked up the treat and broke it in two, handing the larger piece to Teldin.

Teldin didn’t need his newly acquired perceptivity to recognize the offering as much more than elven bread. He accepted the gift and nodded his thanks, and human and half-elf munched in companionable silence.

They were licking the last sticky drops from their fingers when the chiming of bells signaled the beginning of the third watch. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ve got duties,” Hectate said as he rose from the table.

“Good,” Teldin said. He gathered up his tray and prepared to follow the half-elf. “Do you think anyone would mind if I came to the bridge with you? I’d like to see some star charts and get a fix on where we are.”

The half-elf hesitated. “My duties aboard this ship don’t include navigation, sir.”

“Oh?”

“Hectate, come!” boomed a familiar bass voice from the galley. “Always there is a price to pay for pleasure, is that not so?”

Hectate noted the gathering storm in Teldin’s narrowed eyes. “It’s all right, sir. Work is work. I don’t mind, really.” He gave Teldin a reassuring smile and disappeared into the galley.

Teldin tossed his tray back onto the table, ignoring the clatter of scattering dishes as he stalked after the half-elf. Enough was enough. He wanted some answers about Hectate’s treatment, and if he had to file the points off a few elven ears before he got those answers, all the better. He threw open the door of the galley and surveyed the busy scene with angry eyes.

The galley was larger and better equipped than any kitchen Teldin had ever seen. The shelves that lined the walls held more steel implements than a battlefield, and the pots and vials and jars and vats suggested a diversity of ingredients that would rival a wizard’s laboratory. Elven crew members glided efficiently about the galley, some putting away the remnants of the evening meal and others chopping and mixing in preparation for dawnfry. On one side of the room crouched Om, the gnome technician who had been rescued from Teldin’s ship. She was busily engaged in “improving” the vast cookstove, muttering gnomish imprecations as she worked. In the center of the room was a long table used for food preparation. Rozloom sat at the head of the table, his broad posterior distributed over two high-backed stools and his polished boots propped up on another. One meaty bronze hand held a large silver tankard, and a bottle of elven spirits sat on the table beside him. There was no sign of Hectate, but several doors led out of the main galley.

Rozloom caught sight of Teldin and bounded to his feet. “Captain!” he boomed, waving the tankard at Teldin with ebullient good cheer. The gypsy’s resonant bass voice rattled the crockery. “My very dear friend! Come in! Sit! Drink!”

Some of Teldin’s anger melted under the warmth of Rozloom’s extravagant greeting. He remembered that the aperusa, despite his self-absorption, had shown himself to have fairly decent powers of observation. Rozloom might be able to shed some light on the elves’ treatment of Hectate.

So thinking, Teldin greeted Rozloom and settled himself on the offered stool. He paled when the gypsy set a half pint of pale amber liquid before him. The elves – who, despite their delicate appearance, had an astounding capacity for potent spirits – traditionally served the stuff in tiny, fluted glasses. In his still-weakened state, Teldin figured that two sips would put him eye-level with the diminutive Om. “You seem to be adjusting to life aboard ship, Rozloom,” he observed, unobtrusively pushing his drink aside.

The aperusa resumed his seats and nodded avidly. “And why not?” He took a long pull at his tankard and smacked his lips with gusto. “Fine drink this ship has, good food, and many women.” A gleeful leer lit Rozloom’s face as he jerked his head toward a lithesome elven woman measuring spices into a huge bowl of batter. He elbowed Teldin companionably. “Look and learn, Captain. Your last crew, it had no such women. Without them wildspace is a cold place, yes?” The gypsy punctuated his foray into philosophy with a chuckle and another solid nudge to Teldin’s ribs.

An agitated clatter forestalled Teldin’s reply. Om picked up the tool she’d dropped and leveled a brown-eyed glare at Rozloom. “No women, eh? And what would you call me?”

Black brows flew upward in genuine surprise. “A gnome?” guessed the gypsy.

Om huffed indignantly and squared her tiny shoulders. Teldin watched, fascinated, as she drew herself up to a regal four feet. He’d never seen Om show interest in anything other than machinery, yet there she was, the very picture of female pique. “Among gnomes, I’m considered very attractive,” the tiny woman informed Rozloom with dignity.

The aperusa looked pointedly at the stove parts scattered around the floor. “Among gnomes, you’re considered a
technician.”

Teldin winced and braced himself for the gnome’s rejoinder. To his surprise, Om’s small brown face relaxed into a coquettish smile. Being a gnome, she’d taken Rozloom’s insult as the highest possible praise. She acknowledged the “compliment” with a satisfied nod and returned to her tinkering. Teldin shook his head in silent amazement. The shipboard gossip that had trickled down to Teldin’s sickroom had included Rozloom’s vow to charm every woman on board. Teldin had considered this to be so much amusing bluster, but subsequent gossip suggested that the aperusa was succeeding more often than not.

Oblivious to his effect on the smitten gnome, Rozloom drained his tankard and wiped his mustache with the back of his hand. “Ah, that is good. You will have more?” When Teldin shook his head, Rozloom shrugged and emptied most of the bottle into his own mug. “So, Captain, to what shall we drink?”

Teldin edged his tankard even farther away from him, hoping to signal his lack of interest in toast-making. “Actually, there’s something about Hectate Kir.”

Rozloom nodded agreeably. “If you say so, Captain.” He raised his mug in salute. “His health!”

Teldin caught the gypsy’s wrist while the tankard was still south of the enormous mustache. “No, I have a
question
about Hectate.”

“Ahh.” Rozloom set the mug down carefully and folded his arms over his vast belly. His bronze features arranged themselves into a parody of a sage adviser. “What would you know, Captain?”

“Well, to start with, why is he working here in the galley when he’s so skilled in navigation? Why do the elves act as if he’s not worthy of their notice?”

Rozloom twisted one bushy eyebrow into a sardonic quirk. “That is unusual for an elf?”

Teldin conceded the point, but added, “They are far more cordial to you and me than to Hectate. I can’t figure that out.”

“It is not so very difficult. These elves of yours, Captain, they do not believe that half an elf is better than none.”

“Pardon?”

“Hectate Kir is a half-breed,” the aperusa said bluntly. “The elves, they are an ancient people with old ways. They do not like change. A half-elf is a step toward becoming what they are not. They do not see what might be gained, only what is lost.” Rozloom held up a finger and waggled it, indicating that an idea had occurred to him. He picked up the almost empty bottle of elven spirits and splashed a little of the amber liquid into another tankard, then he called for a pitcher of water and filled the huge mug to the brim. He presented the resulting pale yellow fluid to Teldin with a theatrical flourish. “Care to drink, Captain?”

Teldin waved away the disgusting stuff. “You’ve made your point.”

“Good,” Rozloom murmured distractedly, no longer interested in the lesson. His small black eyes followed an elven woman who was carrying a stack of nested bowls toward what appeared to be a larder. She shot an arch, inviting glance over her shoulder before she disappeared. The aperusa was on his feet instantly, preening his massive beard with an air of anticipation.

“Ah, but hypocrisy is a wonderful thing in an elven woman!” he noted with deep satisfaction. “My apologies, Captain, but you understand?”

Rozloom was gone before Teldin could reply. With amazing speed for one of his bulk, the gypsy made his way across the galley and shut the larder door firmly behind him and his latest conquest.

The strange conversation left Teldin puzzled and suddenly exhausted. He made his way back to his cabin, and was just tugging off his boots when a crisp knock sounded at the door. “Come in,” he called wearily.

Vallus Leafbower stepped into the room, resplendent in his blue-and-silver uniform. “You look much different from when we last spoke. I trust you’re feeling better?”

“Well, I’m a little tired,” he hinted.

“I’ll leave you to your rest momentarily. You should know that we make landfall tomorrow, three bells into the first watch.”

Suddenly alert, Teldin motioned the elf into the room. “Where are we going?”

“Toril.”

Teldrin’s blue eyes narrowed. “Why Toril? And don’t bother to tell me you were on your way there when you just happened to bump into my ship.”

Vallus took the chair at the side of Teldin’s cot and faced down the angry human. “We are going to do what I advised you to do months ago: We are going to seek answers to your cloak and your quest from the sages of Evermeet,” he said with quiet finality.

“Really. And do I have any choice in the matter?”

“Have you another destination in mind?” the elf asked mildly. “My orders are to help you find the
Spelljammer.
If you can suggest a better way to go about it, I’d be happy to listen.”

That stopped Teldin. As he thought it over, he realized that Vallus’s choice fit his own plans rather well. If he wanted to continue his search without relying on the elves for transportation, he would have to purchase a new ship. That problem had been pressing on his mind for days, and perhaps Evermeet presented a solution. There was enough gold left in his bag for a modest down payment, but Teldin knew that as an unknown, inexperienced captain making a voyage of exploration into deep space, he was not exactly a good risk. He doubted anyone would be willing to extend him credit. The elves, perhaps, might prove an exception. They regretted the treacherous behavior of one of their own, Admiral Cirathorn. Although Teldin didn’t like the idea, he figured he would have to find out how far the elves would go to make amends.

“Evermeet’s fine,” he muttered grudgingly. “Hectate and I will be looking for another ship.”

Vallus shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

So it was true, Teldin thought. He was a prisoner of the elves. “You’re saying I can’t leave the swan ship?”

The elf’s surprise seemed genuine. “Not at all. You may come and go as you will, but Hectate Kir cannot set foot on Evermeet.”

Teldin’s resentment over his friend’s treatment returned in full measure. “Why? Because he’s half-elven?”

“Yes.”

Teldin shot both hands through his hair, astounded that the elven wizard didn’t even bother to hide his bigotry. “That’s ridiculous,” he sputtered.

“I agree,” Vallus said evenly, “but the decision is not mine to make. I personally have no objection to Hectare Kir.”

“Is that so? Then why is the crew treating him like a pariah? Why is a skilled navigator – the best I’ve seen! – washing dishes instead of taking shifts on the bridge?”

The elf’s green eyes remained steady. “I am the captain of the
Trumpeter,
and therefore my dictates are followed. I cannot, however, transfer my beliefs and values to the crew. Elves tend to be an insular people, and many of my crewmen distrust the half-elf. Putting your friend on the bridge would create more tension that the exercise merits.”

Teldin shook his head adamantly. “No. I can’t agree that you should abandon a principle merely because upholding it might create a little discomfort,” he said with scathing sarcasm. To his surprise, his wrathful answer brought a smile to Vallus’s face.

“You do not disappoint me, Teldin Moore.”