“I am told,” he said, “that such things are not smoke.”
“Clouds, then,” I said.
“No,” he said, taking back the glass. “Ash,” he said.
I recalled the coating on the sails some days earlier, the staining on the canvas, the granular, sootlike darkness on the deck, the brief sense of something stifling about, how, for a moment or two, it had been hard to breathe.
“There was ash before,” I said.
“What might be its source?” he asked.
“I know not,” I said. “I am afraid. Perhaps from the Sardar, a sign of the displeasure of Priest-Kings.”
“The Sardar is far,” he said.
“True,” I said.
“No natural origin?” he said.
“No,” I said, “there is nothing to burn in the water.”
“Do you know the name of these waters?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“There are various names,” he said, “the Raging Sea, the Sea of Fire.”
“The sea is calm,” I said. “Thassa sleeps.”
“She may awaken,” said Cabot.
“I understand little of what is occurring,” I said. “Why, in a gentle sea, are the storm ropes strung, why must the hatches, in warm weather, remain closed, why are few now allowed on deck?”
“I too know very little about these things,” said Cabot.
“At least,” I said, “we are no longer pursued by the fleet of Lord Yamada.” This seemed clear, from the reports of the mizzenmast watch.
“Why?” asked Cabot.
“I do not know,” I said. “Perhaps they cannot match our speed.”
“Surely,” he said, “you note we have spread no more than a fifth of our canvas, and are moving slowly.”
“True,” I said.
“Why?” he asked.
“I do not know,” I said.
“We are proceeding with caution,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I do not know,” he said.
“The sea is calm, the sky clear,” I said.
“There is ash in the distance,” he said.
“It is far away,” I said.
“True,” he said.
“I see no danger,” I said.
“Nor I,” he said.
The bar sounded.
“The watch turns,” I said. “I must relieve Aeacus.”
“Do not neglect to fasten the safety rope,” said Cabot.
“The sea is calm,” I said, “unusually so.”
“Do it,” he said.
“Yes, commander,” I said.
To be sure, this was a matter of routine with me.
“Following the recall,” he said, “a count of weapons was made.”
“Yes?” I said.
“Several are missing,” he said.
I nodded. I was not surprised.
“Callias,” he said.
“Commander?” I said.
“If you were the admiral of the fleet of Lord Yamada,” said Cabot, “and you outnumbered your enemy ten or more to one, would you not press on, hoping to bring about an engagement, even if weeks later?”
“Yes,” I said, “I would press on.”
“And yet the fleet soon desisted in its pursuit.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Why?” he asked.
“I do not know,” I said.
“I fear,” he said, “we will soon learn.”
I then ascended the ratlines, to relieve Aeacus.
Chapter Eighteen
“Doubtless you are pleased to see me so?” she said.
I pointed to the deck and she knelt, angrily, before me.
“Head down,” I said.
She put her head down.
“Yes,” I said, “I like to see you as you are.”
She was in a light, brown, soiled work tunic, of simple rep-cloth, little more than a rag, which clung about her beauty.
The light yoke was still across her shoulders, and, suspended from it, on two short chains, each culminating in a hook, were two pails. As she knelt, the pails could rest on the deck.
I had accosted her from behind, as she had approached the rail, with her burden. “Slave,” I had said, sharply.
“Master!” she had said, the instantaneous, unthinking response of a collar girl. That pleased me.
“Turn about,” I had said.
She complied, the pails swinging on their short chains.
“Stand straightly,” I said. She was not a free woman. Did she not know she was a slave before a free man?
I walked about her.
She knew herself considered.
It is common to so scrutinize slaves.
They are familiar with this sort of thing from the first chain that is put on them.
“You recognized my voice,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, bitterly.
I approached her, with master closeness.
This did not please her.
“Lift your chin,” I said.
I then adjusted her collar. I lifted it up, against the bottom of her chin, and then put it back, and pulled it a bit, straightening it, against the back of her neck. She was thus reminded that she wore it.
“You may lower your chin,” I said.
She regarded me, her eyes flashing with fury.
I smiled, amused, and this further enflamed the small, lovely property.
A slave is permitted the pride of a slave, of course, but not that of a free woman. She is not a free woman. In her, such pride is a travesty, a joke. Its may also be a cause for discipline.
