“Why did we come up here now?” Rap asked.
“Time to start your exercises. Hey, Verg! Pass up an oar, lad.”
An oar was three spans long and loaded at the handle end with a counterweight of solid lead. Kani dropped it at Rap’s feet.
“What do I do with this?”
“Lift it overhead and then lay down. That’s all.”
“For how long?” Rap asked unhappily.
Kani considered, smirking under his windswept mustache. “Two months and you might risk some arm wrestling. Four months you could try a fight or two. Six months and you may be an oarsman. Now there’s something I didn’t mention—no fighting on board! Save it up for shore, or settle with arm wrestling.”
Rap had heard of the rule; it was why newly docked jotnar were notoriously homicidal. “I’ll try to restrain myself.”
“Except Gathmor, o’course. He’s got to be able to maintain discipline. ”
Rap could not imagine himself ever deliberately provoking Gathmor to a fight, afloat or ashore. “Is the culprit allowed to defend himself?”
Kani chuckled. “Against Gathmor? Defend yourself all you want. It won’t make any difference.”
About to pick up the oar, Rap hesitated. He decided that he liked Kani, except that he was so reminiscent of any one of a dozen or so jotnar back in Krasnegar that he was making Rap homesick. “The goblin?”
“I ‘spect he’ll be next. No more questions? Then get moving.” Kani turned away.
“You mentioned arm wrestling?”
Kani turned back, alert. “Ship’s sport.”
“Any side bets?” Rap knew what the answer would be even before the sailor nodded. “Then go lay all the money you can that anyone you like can’t beat the goblin.”
Kani moved a pace closer. Foam-white lashes drooped menacingly over eyes as blue and deadly as the sea. “I would be very, very upset if I lost a bet like that, Rap,” he murmured.
“You won’t. It’s free coin, but you’ll need to do it before you exercise him.” Rap stooped to pick up the oar.
A jotunn’s favorite sport was brawling, always. Whether wenching or gambling came second depended strictly on the opportunities. Rap had just made a friend.
2
Stormdancer had set sail from Milflor in a convoy of fourteen. By the next morning only eight were still in sight, and the mountains of Faerie had vanished over the edge of the sea. The wind was fitful and continued to veer too much southerly for the crew’s comfort, but it was strong enough to prohibit rowing.
The galley was little more than a large boat, and tiny for her complement of eighty. She mounted a square sail on her single mast, but her superstructure and shallow draft made her unweatherly, and under sail she could do nothing but run before the wind. In a calm the rowers would be sheltered by awnings, but those were taken down when the wind blew. The spaces below the benches were crammed with baggage, the benches themselves laden with men, either working or sleeping. The only clear places aboard were tiny decks at stem and stern, and the cabin roof that was reserved for passengers.
Little Chicken soon demonstrated that exercises were wasted on him, so Rap had to suffer up there alone each day with the oar. He would not have believed that anything could have hurt more than his run through the forest with the goblin, but now he was far from sure. He ached from fingers to toes. His hands were raw with blisters, although every man aboard had blisters and always would.
On the second day, while he was slumped in a heap on the boards, enjoying a few minutes’ blessed break, he found himself staring at a pair of expensive shoes. He looked up just as Andor crouched down and smiled winningly.
“Hello,” he said.
“Go swim,” Rap panted.
His remark earned an expression of pained reproof. “I got you off Faerie, didn’t I? That was what you wanted?”
Rap ached all over. He was shivering as the sea breeze chilled his sweat. The last thing he wanted was a talk with Andor. “I’d have managed without you.”
“But not on this ship. It’s a good one, Rap. Lots are worse. Gathmor has a good reputation—I checked. Believe me, I checked very carefully!”
Rap scowled at the too-handsome face. “Why’re you leaving? I thought Sagorn wanted to stay?”
Andor snorted. “Crazy old man! Faerie’s obviously swarming with magic. Far too dangerous for us!”
“Including me, or just you and the others?”
“All of us! Sagorn’s a nitwit in some ways. He’ll do anything to gain more learning, but he’d achieve nothing in Faerie except to get us all caught. I saw you talking with Gathmor on the bench. I want to know what happened afterward. Who healed your injuries?”
Already Rap could feel the mastery working on him, softening his resentment, whispering that Andor was a useful friend, that he could be trusted.
“Go away! I don’t want to talk to you.”
“But you should! We can help each other. Listen, Rap. It wasn’t me that sold you to the goblins. It was Darad. I didn’t want to call him. I had no choice.”
“You set that up-—”
Andor looked hurt. “No! If I’d planned to loose Darad on you, I could have done it as soon as we left Krasnegar, couldn’t I? God of Villains, I could have done it any time. I had months when I could have trapped you—in your room, or the guards’ gym, or the stables. I really hoped wed get through the forest without trouble. And if we did meet with the goblins, I honestly thought you’d agree to share, then.” He sighed. “Yes, I was after your word of power, but I’d have shared mine, also. Believe me!”
Rap knew he could never look Andor in the eye and lie to him. He stared at the hateful oar lying on the deck between them. “I don’t know any word of power!”
“Thinal thinks you do.”
“He’s wrong.”
Andor sighed. “I told you, Thinal’s the best of all of us at detecting lies. He decided that you do know your word of power. That’s good enough for me. Maybe you didn’t once, but you do now.”
Rap did not answer. He was shivering and starting to stiffen up, and any minute now Gathmor would be shouting at him to get back to work. Below him the sailors were noisily arguing, cleaning, tidying, repairing, or just sprawled on benches, snoring.
“Sagorn hoped to find more words in Faerie,” Andor said. “Me, I’m a gambler.”
Now Rap did look up to meet that soulful, earnest gaze. “Gambler?”
Andor smiled triumphantly. “You’re a man of destiny, my friend. I don’t know what that destiny is, but magic seems to collect around you in a way I’ve never met before; that none of us have met before. A witch? A sorceress? How about a warlock, maybe? In Faerie?”
“Go away!” Rap shouted, tearing loose from those hypnotic dark eyes. He stared instead at Andor’s silver-buckled shoes; he heard a hateful chuckle.
“Can’t go very far at the moment. But we’ll see when we get to Kith. You and I will have a talk then. I’ll have to think of some way to get you off this tub, as I did help to get you on. We might encourage our green friend to take up a maritime career permanently, though?”
“That won’t be easy.”
“Perhaps not. But I do think Sagorn was wrong. I think our best bet is to stay close to our friend Rap. That way we’ll meet lots of sorcerers, I suspect. And maybe one of them will be willing to lift our curse.”
“Rap!” Gathmor’s voice roared from below. “Get busy!” Rap rose stiffly and stooped to grasp the accursed oar. Andor stood up, also. ”That would be easy work for an adept.”
Rap heaved the oar overhead, scowled at his companion, and lowered it back to the deck again. He managed not to whimper at the pain.
“Come to my cabin later,” Andor said. “I’ll tell you my word first. I promise that! Mine first, then you tell me yours.” Again Rap raised the oar, keeping time with the roll of the ship, but this time he closed his eyes. Down . . .
“I’ll tell you mine first, Rap, if you’ll promise to share.” Up . . . And then call Darad, later?
“You’re an honest man, Rap. I’ll trust you.” Down . . .
“Even if you won’t trust me, I’ll trust you.” Up . . .
Gods, but it was tempting! Andor had been a good friend to him in Krasnegar, when no one else would speak to him. An adept would handle this damnable oar easily.
Down . . .
Eventually Andor tired of the game and went away. Up . . .
Blinking sweat from his eyes, Rap watched him go. Down . . .
Had Andor stayed another ten seconds, likely he would have won.