On one hand the walls and doors of the passengers’ cabins stood taller than a man. On the other, shade awnings slanted steeply down to the ship’s side, ending barely high enough to clear the heads of men sitting there. More air and light could have struggled in from both ends of this awkward gut, had not it been so completely packed with bodies: men on benches, men on the baggage between the benches, men sitting or kneeling in the gangway, men walking and standing and passing bundles and bags around. In all there were at least forty sailors scrambling about in the narrow space, and it was dark and hot and unpleasant, filled with odors of men and ancient spills of every fluid the human body could produce.
Bewildered by the friendly reception, Rap followed Kani as best he could, banging knees and elbows, stubbing toes, squeezing past people, and clambering over oars and benches and stacks of supplies, all of which were being crammed into completely inadequate storage below the seats. And Kani was continually introducing him, so he must cling greedily to his treasure of victuals with his left arm, while at the same time trying to smile convincingly as his right hand was deliberately juiced by the boisterous grips of professional oarsmen.
At times he found himself squashed breathless inside a pack of six or seven sweaty sailors while someone or something important went by. One of these close encounters put him nose to nose with Kani, who peered through his dangling flaxen thatch and exclaimed, “You’ve got gray eyes! Never saw a faun with gray eyes.”
“I’m half jotunn.”
“Hey! Why didn’t you say so? Rape, of course? But that’s terrific! Was wondering why Number One would buy a faun, even a large economy size. Guys, Rap’s got jotunn blood in him.”
Rap was then congratulated all around on being part jotunn, his back slapped bruisingly, and his hand pumped again, more vigorously and agonizingly than ever. Gradually he made sense out of Kani’s disorganized chatter. Although Stormdancer’s home port was Durthing, on the Imperial island of Kith, all of her officers were jotnar, as were all the rowers except for two imps, one djinn, and a few assorted half-breeds.
“I’m pure jotunn, of course,” Kani said, his eyes daring Rap to contest the point or belittle its importance, “but it’s no secret that I’ve never seen Nordland.”
“Nor your father, nor his before him,” remarked another voice. Kani wheeled, and eyed the speaker. He was a sour-faced jotunn rating named Crunterp, much larger than Kani. Too large, evidently, because Kani did not take offense. He said, “Um.” Crunterp smirked and went back to coiling a rope.
“O’course jotnar prefer jotnar,” Kani said, squeezing by him.
“Only natural. But you being half jotunn helps, and Number One runs a fair ship. Pull your weight and the worst you’ll get is wisecracks and a bit o’ jostling to keep you humble. No real hardship.”
An inexplicable lump had settled in Rap’s throat. Apparently life on Stormdancer would not be the living hell he had been expecting. In fact it might turn out to be dangerously enjoyable. For far too long, he had been deprived of friendly company. Goblins didn’t count, and even before he’d acquired his green shadow, he’d been shunned as a seer in Krasnegar. Just to be smiled at and smile back was a forgotten treat. Let them batter his shoulders and crush his fingers! He’d grown up around jotnar and knew their rough ways. He knew their good points, too.
After much further heaving and pushing, Kani brought Rap to his assigned bench, almost all of it already occupied by his assigned benchmate, a dog-faced rolypoly giant who apparently answered to the name of Ballast.
“Ballast,” Kani said solemnly, “is one-quarter troll and three-quarters jotunn, and therefore mostly troll.”
The big man exploded in bellows of laughter that seemed to rock the ship, while Kani’s eye said plainly that the joke was old and threadbare. Probably it always won the same reaction from the big man, for if Ballast had twice normal bulk, he seemed to combine it with little more than half normal brains. But he was the first man on board to shake Rap’s hand without deliberately squeezing it. Alone among the half-naked crew, he was fully dressed, even his arms being draped in long sleeves. Rap decided that he liked this good-natured colossus and hoped that it was only his clothes that smelled so bad. He would obviously be capable of doing much more than his fair share of the rowing.
Feeling happier by the minute, Rap perched on the tiny corner of bench left to him and began to tear at the loaf and cheese he had been clutching so fondly.
“Here, put your chains on,” Kani said and knelt to shackle Rap’s ankles. When he stood up, he grinned and remarked, “Don’t forget to unfasten ‘em if you need go to the heads. You’ll break your neck otherwise. Want anything, just ask Ballast.” And he went wriggling off through the mad chaos of bodies and baggage.
What Rap wanted right away was an explanation of the chains, but he quickly discovered that Ballast was not the man to ask. He turned instead to Ogi, who was one of the two purebred imps—short, swarthy, and almost as wide as a dwarf. Ogi shared the next bench forward with a jotunn named Verg.
He chuckled at the question and rattled the chain on his own ankle. “A sailor’s always chained to his ship. An old jotunn tradition!”
“Not in the north, it isn’t,” Rap said.
Another chuckle. “There’s no slavery in the Impire, right? That’s the legal legend, right? We’re all free men on this ship—or we were until you got here. ‘Cept for a couple of rookies, we’re all partners; every man has a share. But there are bought sailors on the Summer Seas, lad. You and your friend aren’t the only thralls around. So there’s the tradition—all the hands are chained, always. I’ve heard some farm workers have similar customs, except it’s more of a religious rite with them, symbolizing brotherhood of the soil, or something. We tend to observe ours in Imperial ports, and not elsewhere. Un’erstand now?”
So Rap was a real slave wearing fake chains. He found that quite ironic—and very realistic. He wasn’t going to do much escaping with seventy or eighty sailors watching him. Not when they all owned a piece of him.
A couple of hours after he boarded, lines were cast off, and the oars run out, but no green hand would be allowed to row while the vessel was still in harbor. Ballast rowed while Rap sat in the gangway and gutted fish.
Only one man was needed on each oar, usually, and in this case it was not for long. As soon as the ship had crossed the bar, the sail was hoisted. There had been no wind in the town and there was little enough even out to sea, but what there was could still move a ship about as fast as rowers could. And always it had to be one or the other; under sail the ship heeled over, making rowing impossible.
Sliding smoothly over the swell, Stormdancer set course for the horizon within a convoy of fourteen.
The awnings were taken down and the chains were thrown off, with no regrets. Sunlight and a fresh breeze made Rap feel even better than before, confident that he had enough jotunn in him that he need never fear seasickness. By then, too, he had realized that neither his faunish appearance nor his slave status was going to matter at all on Stormdancer. His inexperience would, and everyone was going to work very hard at curing him of that, but otherwise he was being accepted as just another new hand. That discovery was so unexpected and so exhilarating that he felt drunk.
Soon after departure, young Kani’s demolished face appeared again, complete with grin. He had been sent to give some lessons, he said, and he thereupon conducted Rap all over the ship, from stem to stern and up the mast, also, naming and explaining. Use the wrong name for anything after this, he warned, and Rap would feel the mate’s fist.
The master was the Old Man, and a truly old man, Gnurr. He left most of the work to Gathmor, who was Number One, and this Number One could lick any man aboard and was willing to prove it at any time. Kani obviously admired his talent greatly, but he did add in passing that Gathmor was a fine mariner, as well.
The tour ended on the catwalk that ran along the top of the line of cabins, and this seemed to be the only clear space on the ship. An elderly couple sat on chairs at the forward end, frowning at the intruders.
“Passengers’ deck,” Kani said. “Don’t come up here without orders. Now, any questions?” He leaned back against the flimsy rail.