Skymaster, p.15
Skymaster, page 15
part #3 of The Guildmaster Saga Series
An air of unease remained in Moran as the city awakened. Rasim passed by sullen slaves and edgy masters, and wished again that he spoke the language so he could understand the gossip that passed around him. City guards were everywhere, and anyone who wasn't dressed in the fine clothes of the rich avoided meeting the guardsmens' eyes, or getting in their way. Rasim followed their example, looking meekly at the ground as he walked through the streets. Keeping his head down helped hide the scrapes he'd gotten while taking the collar off, and he let his tunic slide backward a little so his bare nape was exposed.
More merchants and fewer guards were visible as he approached the docks, but Rasim circled the long way around to find the Waifia. Smart guards wouldn't be obvious, and he was better off assuming they were smart. His stomach rumbled as he passed a cart selling warm, sweetly scented bread that reminded him of home. Kisia's family owned a bakery, and he'd often helped her work the bread dough very early in the morning, before she joined the Guild.
The man walking the cart caught his hungry glance and spoke. Rasim shrugged and the man spoke again, this time in Ilyaran. "A clipped copper for a bun, lad, if you're hungry."
An answer nearly spilled from Rasim's lips before he realized a smart guard would do something like this to tease out a missing slave boy. He shrugged again and spoke in Northern. "I don't speak your language."
"No?" The baker switched to Northern as easily. "You look Ilyaran."
"My ma was. She died birthing me and me da brought me back to the North where he's from. I've never been there, but he's told me about it a little. He says it's hot and that almost everybody is brown like me."
"Browner, even. Where's your da now?"
There were at least three Northern ships docked farther down the river. Rasim pointed that way. "I'm the cabin boy on his ship."
"His ship? He's a captain, is he?"
Nonplussed, Rasim shook his head. "Nah, I didn't mean it that way. He's only third mate. Captain says he's got too much temper to be in charge." He'd led himself down a dangerous path, answering the baker's questions. Putting on his best beguiling face, he asked, "How come you talk so many languages?" and hoped the baker would go with the change of subject.
"Useful for selling wares, lad. Who's your captain? What's your ship?"
Dread sluiced through Rasim. Chances were the baker was only curious, but if he knew the ships and their captains, Rasim had just talked himself back into a slave's collar. He forced a broad grin and thrust a finger toward the Waifia's distinctive masts. "That one, eh? I'm gonna take it like an Ilyaran pirate and be captain of the whole wide ocean! Arr!" He brandished an imaginary sword and pretended to skewer a bread roll, then ran off laughing at himself. The baker's tolerant chuckle followed until the crowd had separated them, at which point Rasim fell against a cargo box and tried not to wheeze too audibly.
He had been stupid again. No one here was his friend, and everyone was likely to know more than he did. Any conversations would lead to trouble. All he needed to do was find his friends and then huddle down to make a plan. He squished between two cargo boxes, trying to get a look around without being seen.
The baker passed by again, just within earshot as he spoke with a Northern man whose hard face was at odds with the baker's more genial nature. "Around eleven," the baker was saying. "Likely looking. Said he was from one of the Northern ships, but wouldn't say which one. Might be a stowaway, yeh? The sort nobody will notice if he goes missing." He passed out of hearing range again, leaving Rasim a mixture of offended and relieved. The baker wasn't looking for escaped slaves; he was looking to make new ones. But Rasim was fourteen, not eleven!
Faintly insulted, he glared after the baker, then turned his attention back to the Waifia. He had friends there, if they were still on board. If they were, he could save them, at least, and together they would have more chance at anything than Rasim did by himself.
Nervous and feeling very alone, he concluded he wasn't quite foolish enough to walk up the gangplank, although the boldness of the move made it almost tempting. Instead he went far enough up river that he could slip into the water unnoticed and swim back to the Waifia.
To his relief, his witchery responded as he dropped down the walled-up bank of the river and sank. It wasn't as strong as it had been after Siliaria's kiss, but it was enough to keep air with him, and to propel himself through the water with its currents. The water wasn't especially clean—it never was anywhere except in Ilyara—but its murkiness helped hide him, so he didn't have to swim too deep.
The Waifia's keel was unique, making the Ilyaran ship easy to distinguish amongst the others. There were also markings to identify it, since because young apprentices and journeymen—and sometimes not-so-young ones!—often needed to identify their ship from below, after swimming in the oceans. Rasim swam up beneath its hold, glad that the Waifia protruded well into the river. Only a handful of boats nearby would even be able to see its stern, where he intended to climb up.
As he swam toward the surface, it struck him that the entire population of the city on the river's far side would also be able to see the stern. There wasn't, he realized now, a very good way to sneak on board, not in broad daylight. Despite having needed the sleep he'd gotten, it now seemed like a bad idea. He might have snuck onto the ship under cover of dark, if he'd risked it last night.
He also might have been caught by patrolling guards, which even now seemed more likely. In the ship's shadow, hoping he looked like a seal—hoping Moran had seals!—Rasim poked his head above the surface for a quick look around. He sank down a moment later, convinced that either witchery or the anchor chain were his best bet. Neither of them seemed like a very good bet, but his alternative was paddling around the ship until sunset, which was even less appealing. Besides, that would mean he'd lost an entire day since escaping the arena. He didn't want to waste that kind of time, not after causing so much trouble. Odds were that he'd landed his crewmates in hot water already. Dawdling would only make it worse.
The anchor chain was half as big around as he was. If he could cling to its underside as he climbed up, that might be the most subtle way to get on board. But witchery would be faster, which might be smarter.
On the other hand, he could stay in the water all day, frowning at the water-wobbly lines of the ship, and never make a decision. Determined to act even if it was the wrong act, Rasim swam to to the anchor chain and hooked his arms around it, hauling his weight upward. Every body length he moved, he expected to hear a shout that betrayed him, but he clambered up without notice and swung himself over the ship's rail to land with a quiet thump in the stern's shadow.
A hand snaked out of the shadow and clapped itself over his mouth.
18
Rasim choked off a yelp as he was hauled around by a strong grip on his face. Within a heartbeat, he'd been dragged inside a cabinet at the ship's stern, where spare sails and other necessary shipboard repair materials were kept. Early morning sunlight slipped through the narrow slats, illuminating the small hold space just enough for him to see the wide-eyed, determined face of Karluk's wife. Behind her, in shadow, were their children, whose interested expressions suggested they thought they were having an adventure.
The woman gradually released her grip on Rasim's face as she became confident he wasn't going to shout. Nor did he, though when she finally let him go, he did let out a slow breath, murmuring, "You're very strong," in Ilyaran.
Because she'd come to the Waifia like he'd told her to, Rasim wasn't really surprised when she responded in Ilyaran. "I work every day cleaning house. Lifting water bucket, heavy curtain, beds to—" She made a gesture like sweeping, and Rasim offered, "Dust?"
She nodded once, firmly. "Beds to dust below. I have strength. You save us, but where is Mikkel?"
Rasim nearly bared his teeth in dismay, but, remembering the children, stopped himself just in time. "He should be nearby. We got separated. How did you get on the ship?"
The woman shrugged. "I took off good clothes and told ship's guards that captain had—" She snapped her fingers, searching for a word. Her Ilyaran was strongly accented, but, Rasim thought, very good. Much better than his non-existent Moranese, obviously, and probably better than his limited Northern. "Buyed. Captain had buyed us. Captain was not here to say no, so when guard changed I took children and hid here. There is trouble in city. What have you did?"
"Karluk and I drove everybody out of the arena with a sandstorm to give us a chance to escape. My name is Rasim."
"Karluk. He has taked back his name?" Pride flashed in Zyterna's eyes as Rasim nodded. She gazed at him a moment, as if assessing his honesty, then said, "I am Zyterna. Are we safe here?"
"I don't know," Rasim admitted. "For the moment, probably, but there's probably going to be backlash for what I did, and it might affect the ship. I'll find something on board to cut your collars off you—"
Zyterna's hands flew to her collar, strong fingers wrapping around it as if she would pull it off herself. Then, more composedly, she loosened her hands again and nodded. "That would be best."
"I can find you clothes, too, and some money, probably. Tonight I can slip you off the ship and we'll find you somewhere to stay until I find Karluk and can figure out a way to get all of us out of here."
Zyterna murmured, "Karluk," again, and then, as if her husband's name helped her come to a decision, lifted her chin and said, "We accept your help," proudly.
Rasim smiled. "I'm glad. Stay here while I search the ship, all right? Is anyone else aboard?"
"No. The witches, they was taked away before I arrive. I am sorry," Zyterna said as Rasim felt a wince of disappointment cross his face.
"It's all right. At least I know, so I can stay hidden instead of walking out in the open. I'll be back soon." He slipped out of the cabinet and crawled swiftly across the deck. A pang of homesickness struck him as his hands passed over the Waifia's familiar planks. Nothing had gone the way he'd imagined, when he'd laid out his plan to the captain. After the mess he'd made in the arena, he wasn't even sure if Nasira was still free. There was a real chance the flagship, the one place Rasim had always wanted to belong, would never return to Ilyara.
He put the thought out of his mind and got his feet under him as he entered the hold. There were clothes and coins aplenty, though both were Ilyaran. Well, so were the children, so perhaps it wouldn't seem strange to anyone if a Moranese woman adopted those styles and had that coin. Rasim collected outfits that he thought might fit the children, his own among them, as he was easily the smallest member of the Waifia's crew.
Mostly they had knives aboard, not clippers, because they used rope far more than metal. Chewing his lower lip, Rasim went through his crewmates' belongings, searching for something that could be used to cut metal. If he'd known he'd be cutting collars off people, he'd have stolen the clippers from the forge.
On a second thought, the idea seemed both impossible and improbably funny. Rasim began to imagine himself lurching around the city trying to disguise a pair of clippers almost half his own height. Maybe he could have pretended they were trousers, or perhaps that he had a hurt leg and lash them to his leg. Giggles began to fight their way up. Rasim clasped a hand over his mouth, muffling his laughter, then seized a blanket from one of the berths and giggled hysterically into it. Tears wet the blanket and the air he sucked in through it was too warm, but every time he thought the laughter was under control, he re-envisioned himself hobbling around with clippers tied to his leg, and collapsed into hysteria again. Twice he whispered, "It's not that funny!" to himself, fiercely, but that only served to heighten his amusement.
It took a long time for the giggles to pass, and when they did, Rasim lay on top of the blanket like a wet rag himself, numb with exhaustion. Shivers wracked him then, until he had to sit up and find something to wrap himself in. None of it was funny, not really. He knew the strange reaction was from being scared and alone, and probably from having used far too much witchery lately. He'd escaped the arena, but nothing else at all had gone to plan, and in the end he was only a rather young and small Ilyaran journeyman. Slave rebellions and toppling empires were all beyond him, even if he kept ending up neck deep in them.
That reminded him, viscerally, of having shoved his knife through the sea serpent's eye, pushing his arm in all the way to his own jaw, until he reached the monster's brain. Its eye had been gelatinous and cold, sucking at his skin like it would draw him in. That was exactly what being neck-deep in this mess felt like.
Wrapped in two cloaks to fend off a chill that came from within, Rasim went to the galley to find food—hard tack and oranges and, to his relief, a bit of dried fish—and set out to return to Zyterna and her children. On the way he passed Nasira's cabin and stopped abruptly, then ducked inside. She had the keys for the crew's slave collars somewhere. Maybe she'd left them in the cabin.
The last time he'd been inside the captain's cabin, it had been to convince Nasira of his plan to get them into Moran safely. He hadn't really looked around then, but now Rasim pulled cabinet doors and drawers open, searching for anything—even metal cutters—that would let him free Zyterna and her children.
One of the drawers held a copy of a familiar book, and a great upswelling of loss rushed through Rasim. Its cover was a carefully etched image of the guildhall, with color added by a steady hand. The guild had a dozen copies of that book, which told the story of how the Ilyaran guilds were created. Children and the youngest apprentices heard its story every night, as it was read to them again and again, helping to build a sense of community and continuity and place for orphans who had no other. Homesickness brought stinging tears to Rasim's eyes. He pushed his hand over them, trying to ease the ache that coursed through his whole body.
Instead, he caught a glimpse of himself in the captain's brass mirror. It showed him a boy who could easily be mistaken for ten or eleven; the slave-seeking baker had been right after all. His hair looked strangely big, worn loose instead of in the short, tight ponytail that would someday become his braided braid. The honey and lemon had already done a little of its work: the loose curls were more golden than he was accustomed to, although the mirror's tint made them look greenish. His eyes were bright green instead of hazel in its tint, too, and he wished he could carry that through as part of his disguise. There were hollows under his eyes, like he hadn't slept enough for a long time, and his cheeks and shoulders were thin. "Some hero," he said aloud to his reflection, and stepped backward, frowning around the room. If he was the captain, if he wanted to hide a spare set of keys….
His gaze lit on the mechanisms tacked safely in their cases on one of the shelves. Maps, compasses, sextants...and another case shaped like it would hold a sextant, but the captain only had one. Rasim opened that one, and let out a gasp of disbelief and relief to find a ring of keys nestled in a bed of coins and small jewels. He scooped up the keys and a handful of money, and with food, jewels, clothes and keys bundled in his arms, he scampered back to the cargo hold.
Zyterna's expression was stern when he returned. "You were gone long time."
"Sorry. Are you all right? I have food and water." He offered them to the woman, whose children scrambled forward eagerly. Zyterna parceled the oranges out first, peeling them as Rasim lifted the keys and asked if he could try them on their collars. She nodded with the dignity of a queen.
He discarded five keys before one fit her collar well enough to pop it open. Her spine stiffened and she put both hands on the collar, pulling at it softly, as if she couldn't believe what she'd heard. Rasim loosened it further, watching it shift against her collarbones, but didn't remove it; it seemed like she might want to do that herself.
After a moment she did, and seemed to gain two inches of height with its removal. She held it a few seconds, staring at it, then dropped it to one side as if it wasn't worthy of looking at again. Then she returned to breaking off pieces of oranges and hard tack for the children, who gaped between Rasim and their mother in fascination. Rasim, grinning, scooted around behind them and tried the same key that had worked on Zyterna's collar. Within a few seconds, all of their collars lay to one side, and Zyterna captured the children in her arms, her expression so hard Rasim suspected she was holding back tears.
"I think we should get you out of here sooner rather than later," Rasim confessed. "I'd rather wait until we have the cover of night, but I don't like leaving you here. I think we should just go over the side of the ship and find a quiet place on the river bank to surface."
"We cannot—" Zyterna frowned. "We cannot water. We cannot..."
"Swim?" Rasim made a swim stroke gesture or two, and Zyterna nodded. "That doesn't matter, as long as you can trust me. Really trust me. You know that Karluk commands the air? I can do that, but with water. As long as we all hold on to one another and don't panic, I can get us to shore." He could, he told himself sternly. He'd done it in the North, in much colder water, before Siliaria had graced him with her kiss. He could do it again here in Moran.
"There is no quiet." Zyterna gestured, taking in the length of the river. "Up and down, all busy. How to sneak out without being see? No. We wait for dark. Maybe, though—we leave here? Go below?"
Rasim nodded slowly. "That's probably safe, and it's more comfortable. And there's a necessary down there, which I'm sure you need. We'll have to crawl, all of us, to stay low and unseen. All right? And stay quiet," he admonished the children, who eyed him with disgust. They were raised slaves, Rasim reminded himself. They probably knew more about staying quiet than he ever would. They hadn't, in fact, said a word in the time he'd spoken with their mother. "Sorry, you already knew that. It was a silly thing to say."
Their disgust vanished, turning to skeptical interest. Possibly no one had ever apologized to them before. Rasim smiled to hide his dismay at the idea, and then led the trio across the deck and into the hold below. "The necessary is at the back. Th—" Before he got any farther, all three of them ran for the back of the ship.
