nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
— Fitzgerald, Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
THREE
Where are you roaming?
1
“Nod if you’re awake,” said a whisper in his ear.
Only pain was convincing Rap that he was even alive, but he nodded slightly.
“Can you get free?” Gathmor really didn’t need to whisper when the storm still howled in the rigging and every rope and spar and strake on Blood Wave was screaming in the torment of the monstrous waves. In any case, the raiders had apparently forgotten their captives altogether.
Rap shook his head. Seawater blew in his face. “How long’ve we been here?”
“About two days, by the stubble on your chin.”
Gathmor was deathly pale, his hair matted with old blood. The crazy look in his eye might have worried Rap had there been anything left in the world that could worry Rap.
“Did they fight?”
Rap nodded. He’d heard snippets of the bragging; he’d seen the bloodstained axes being cleaned and resharpened. He’d even recognized some items among the pitiful handfuls of loot that had been thrown aboard and now lay scattered around in the bilge: brooches and trinkets.
Gathmor let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. He’d doted on his three sons, and he’d shown his wife as much affection in public as a jotunn ever did. His beloved Stormdancer would be a heap of ashes on the beach by now.
“I think they’re leaving us here to die,” Rap croaked. The sailor shook his head. “Just softening us up. “
Rap fell silent, frightened he might start to sob. He was so weak! Courage or stubbornness were easier to fake when a man had his strength, but days and nights in bonds, thirst, hunger, cold, pain—he could feel them sapping his will. A man had far more trouble being strong in spirit when his body had been so badly damaged. And uncertainty helped, too. Call that fear.
Farsight made the ordeal worse. Every roll to port and his ribs were ground against a lumpy sack—but those lumps were stoneware flagons of wine. He could even read the labels. Rolls to starboard brought a heavy keg thumping against his kneeand he knew it contained salt beef. Most of the baggage on Blood Wave was loot: gold and jewels and finery, stuffed in bags and jammed into odd corners, much of it broken or ruined already; but within his reach, were he not bound, there was food and drink aplenty.
He could also watch every mouthful as the raiders feasted and drank. They ate well. Even at the height of the storm, when he expected Blood Wave to founder at any minute, the mariners went calmly about their business and pleasure. To display fear or even reasonable doubts would be unjotunnish and probably a capital offense on this ship.
If softening him up was what Kalkor intended, then Rap thought he would make a very fine feather mattress already.
Dark and cold . . . Splash after splash after splash of salt water . . . Rain, sometimes, which helped.
Being rolled to and fro on a rock pile until half his bones felt raw.
Thirst, monstrous torments of thirst. A boot in the ribs if he called out.
You volunteered for this voyage, Pea-brain! Did you expect the luxury cabin?
Hunger. Cold. Thirst. Fouling his own clothes. Thirst. Cold. Cramps like hot coals.
Gathmor, whispering: “Why’d you interfere? If you knew it was Kalkor, why not just get the Evil out of there?”
“I knew he’d come to Durthing to find me.”
“And you thought he might be satisfied? Spare the town?”
“Maybe. “
“Feeling guilty for bringing bad luck?”
“Maybe. And you? Your reason?”
“The same.”
Thirst. Splash. Roll. Cold. Dark . . .
A punch or two whenever Darad went by. Testing for softness. Gathmor again: ”So Kalkor has a seer now. You’ll be his eyes?”
“No!”
Truly, Master Rap? Suppose he made you an offer right now, Master Rap? Pilot for an orca—easy work for a seer. Just guide the death and rape up the river by night, Master Rap. Outflank the guards. Locate the hidden treasures: gold below the bricks, virgins in the attic. Good pay—all the booty you can carry, all the women you can catch. Will you accept that offer, or stay where you are, Master Rap?
Take all the time you need to think about it.
Kill yourself, Master Rap? You’re not man enough. Do it later, when you feel better?
Cold. Thirst. Delirium starting. Inos on a horse. Darad and Inos. Andor. Bright Water the mad witch.
They’re eating again. Drinking again. Splash after splash . . .
Blood Wave was a lower, longer, sleeker vessel than Stormdancer and yet she was still only an open boat, for there were no unnecessary luxuries like cabins on an orca longship. One small triangle of deck at the stern supported the helmsmen—the steering oar needed two men or more in this weather, and if the wind ever caught Blood Wave broadside she would be on her beam ends instantly. Below that tiny deck was the only relatively sheltered spot on board. There Thane Kalkor hung his hammock. He had a chair there, also, a throne, and when awake he sat in bored glory, rarely speaking to anyone, waiting for better killing weather.
The sailors bailed, prepared food, tended weapons, but mostly they just lounged about, being idle. The storm would take them somewhere and they had no say in where; rowing was impossible in weather like this. There might be rocks dead ahead, but jotnar would never admit to fear.
Despite the howling wind and thrashing rain, few wore more clothing than leather breeches. Their beards and hair flew wild in the breeze, or clung in soaked tangles of silver or gold or even copper. There was a manic, ruthless quality in their appearance, an animal ferocity that would have persuaded Rap to believe their reputation even without the evidence of the cargo. Their conversations were ravings of nightmare. He would accept any story told of such men. They competed in cruelty and sought to outdo each other in atrocities. To them compassion would be worse than cowardice. Brutality was their creed and their ambition.
He had no doubt that they had killed everyone they had managed to catch in Durthing—women, children, even the harmless little gnomes, for he had overheard jokes about the problem of cleaning gnome off an ax.
And it worked! Kalkor had lost only one man in Durthing, the one Brual had taken, yet there had been more than enough able fighters in the settlement to put up a resistance. They could have driven the raiders off with rocks, or at least have made them pay for their sport; but instead they had crumpled before the orca reputation and thus themselves become part of the legend. Atrocity fed on itself.
But who was Rap to judge? Only Kalkor’s arrival had stopped him from beating Ogi to a pulp—squat Ogi, who had probably truly believed he was doing a friend a favor by setting up a match for him, while at the same time enriching himself by backing a dark horse. Typical imp! Rap had not lost control of his temper since he was thirteen, the time he broke Gith’s jaw, but the madness was still there underneath. He had been going to maim Ogi, and only chance had stopped him. Kalkor felt that way more often, perhaps, but Rap was of the same jotunn blood.
He was in the same boat.
And now maybe one of the crew.
2
Strong hands dragged Rap out of his cramped corner and untied his bonds. He was so numb that he could not clasp the beaker he was offered, so it was held to his lips by a fleece-bearded blond giant who looked no older than himself, and who so much resembled Rap’s old friend Kratharkran that at first he thought he was hallucinating. But Kratharkran must be safely home in Krasnegar, earning an honest living; this young jotunn was a killer, and his attitude to the foul and stinking captive was one of understandable dislike.
Fortunately there was still no shortage of fresh air, although the storm was waning. The sky had brightened, and Rap could have seen with his eyes almost as well now as he could without them, except that both his eyes were swollen mostly shut, thanks to Darad’s little chats. The waves had not subsided, though, and might not do so for days. Fresh air and rain, and cold. He was almost too weak to shiver.
“Thane wants you,” said the young colossus, with the same unexpectedly high-pitched voice as Kratharkran. “Can you walk?”
Rap shook his head, and even that was an effort. The water had added nausea to his pains; he should have drunk more slowly. Apparently he was not going to be fed yet, but he didn’t care overmuch at the moment.