“Gnomes,” Efflio said sadly.
“What about ‘em, sir?” Krushbark inquired through bruised lips. He was blinking blearily down at the captain as if there were too many of him on deck. His eyes had a heraldic appearance, sea-blue irises set in very red whites.
“Someone will have to muck out the hold,” Efflio explained, taking it slowly and not speaking any louder than necessary. The duchess’ agent had been very insistent that the horses arrive alive, so they would have to be fed something in the next month. “I tried to hire some gnomes to do that. Gnomes don’t like cold places, and they won’t sign on when I tell them we’re headed north.”
The bosun thought about that, then rubbed his eyes with fists like tree stumps.
The captain tried again. “You want to tell the lads they’ll have to muck out?”
“Gnome work!” Krushbark said. “Gnomes don’t mind that sort of work.”
“But no gnomes will sign on.”
“Ah.” Krushbark ran fingers through his mop of barleycolored hair. ”Gnomes! How many did you want, sir?”
“Two should be plenty,” Efflio said patiently.
“Gnomes,” Krushbark agreed. “Two gnomes.”
“Good man,” said the captain.
An hour or so later the bosun came back on board with a couple of gnomes under each arm. He’d brought extra, he explained, because he hadn’t been sure how hard a gnome should be hit. Efflio made no comment about additional mouths to feed—gnomes were easily satisfied, and he preferred not to argue with his bosun unless he had to.
Sea Beauty set sail at once.
3
It was late in the season for a journey to Krasnegar, but the Gods were lenient, and the cog made fast time. She encountered no ice. She lost no gnomes, and only two of the horses. The crew fared well then—especially the gnomes, who were willing to eat everything from the shoes up.
One sparkling morning with a fair breeze blowing, Sea Beauty sighted her destination. For days she had skirted a low, treeless land, a barren plain bereft of inhabitants or landmarks. The island peak of Krasnegar jumped up over the horizon so unexpectedly that Captain Efflio felt it should have shouted, ”Boo!” As more and more of it came into sight, he began to feel very uneasy. Eventually his qualms grew strong enough that he ventured to climb the mast for a better view, a feat he had not attempted in the last ten years.
Then he could no longer doubt. He had been here before! The great rock like a slab of yellow cheese, the spiky black castle on top, and the little town running down one face—they were unmistakable. He had been second mate on Champion at the time. That had not been yesterday, nor the day before either, but even so he should have remembered the name or recognized the description. He never forgot a port he had visited, never! At the very least, no matter how long it had been, he should not have forgotten that landmark rock.
He remembered it now, of course . . . vaguely . . . a humble little outpost, despite its imposing castle. It was home to both imps and jotnar, which was very unusual, and an independent kingdom—probably remaining so only because neither thane nor imperor could see anything in it worth stealing. A nonentity of a place.
Nevertheless it was set all by itself in the bleak north, where there were no other good harbors. Why was it not better known and more talked about? Why had he forgotten it so completely? Not just him! Back in Shaldokan, he realized now, there had been surprisingly few people able to give him directions to this place, or tell him much about it.
Like all sailors, Efflio disliked any hint of the occult, and this uncanny anonymity certainly smacked of sorcery. He had heard tell once of something called an inattention spell that could produce such effects.
Wheezing nervously, he had barely started his descent before he detected a change in the creaking of the mast. To add to his alarm, then, he saw that the bosun was coming up after him. Efflio tried to shout at the dumb ox to belay that, but he had no breath left for shouting—or climbing back up to the crosstrees, either. So he stayed right where he was, wishing he had replaced the rope ladder the previous summer, when the hands had first begun griping about its condition.
A few moments later the jotunn arrived behind him, feet a rung or two lower. He wrapped an arm around both mast and captain and peered over his shoulder. A passing gull shrieked in derision at the sight.
“Krasnegar!” Efflio whispered, having trouble making any sound at all with his face being squashed against the ropes. He felt the bosun’s porcine grunt before the sound emerged beside his ear.
“You ever been here before?” he asked.
“Dunno,” the giant said. “The dock looks kinda familiar.” The captain could not make out any details of the harbor yet, but jotunn long sight was notoriously sharp.
“And what’s that?” Krushbark demanded, pointing seaward with his free arm and causing the mast to creak ominously. “Fishing boat?” Efflio wheezed. By squinting hard, he could just make out a tiny speck in the far distance, bobbing on the long green swells.
“With kids in it?” the bosun demanded.
No imp could resist a mystery. By holding his next tack, Efflio had little trouble in closing on the dory. Then he hove to and studied the curious sight.
The cockleshell was indeed manned by two children, and it was barely big enough for both of them. The girl was an imp and the boy a jotunn. Normally that combination would suggest abduction and rape, but they were too young for that—twelve or thirteen, perhaps. Moreover the girl waved cheerfully, seeming undistressed. The boy just kept rowing. The tiny boat rode up and down over the swells.
Efflio had been a father in his time. He might very well be a grandfather by now—he had no way of knowing, having lost touch with his various offspring years before. He thought of himself as a kindly man, as long as kindness came cheap enough, and he did not enjoy the idea of these two waifs being blown away into the wastes of the Winter Ocean.
Furthermore, although the boy’s ragged shirt and pants were unremarkable, the girl’s green gown was a fine garment, lady’s wear. Something shone very brightly in her hair. There might be a reward. There might even be salvage, although the little dinghy was not worth much. Efflio decided that his duty was to rescue this strange expedition.
“Throw them a line!” he ordered.
An absurd argument then developed. The boy stayed silent, leaning on his oars, while the girl refused the line, shouting that she did not want to be rescued. The sailors, having their orders, insisted.
Eventually the child yielded. The boat was pulled in; the two children climbed a rope ladder to Sea Beauty’s deck, and the dory was hauled aboard. The ship heeled over to the starboard tack, resuming her voyage to Krasnegar.
The girl came stamping aft to where the captain was watching, the boy trailing behind her. She was very angry. Her dress was a gorgeous thing of sea-green silk, now somewhat marred by salt water and fish scales, and perhaps a trifle small for her. If that miracle on her head was what it seemed, then it was worth a fortune. Those pearls around her neck couldn’t possibly be real, could they? Efflio began to think more seriously of salvage. The day might turn out to be more profitable than most.
“Why did you interfere?” she demanded shrilly, eyes flashing. Her dark hair had been pinned high on her head, but it was now falling loose. The tiara had slipped to one side. She was gangly and flat-chested, but she already had the self-confidence of the stunning beauty she would be in another two or three years.
The boy was taller and heavy-looking, the sort of flaxenhaired jotunn brat that could be found by the score in any port in Pandemia. In two or three years he would be sprouting like a sunflower. Typically, he was scanning the ship and ignoring the people.
“First tell me who you are!” Efflio said.
The child tossed her head, and the wind shook more of her hair loose. “I am Allena the Fair, and this is Warlock Thraine.” Efflio remembered the ballads his mother had sung to him when he was a child. The mate and the helmsman and a couple of others were listening, and grinning. Feeling strangely nostalgic, he bowed.
“I have the honor to be your Majesty’s most humble servant, Admiral Efflio, Master of Sea Beauty and Lord of the Winter Ocean. Allena the Fair, obviously. I ought to have recognized your Majesty at once. But Warlock Thraine was a pixie. Are you sure this one isn’t an imposter?”