I could hear the note of pride in his voice. It was such as a man might use when speaking of some prized animal: a fine hunting dog or a valuable horse. I realized that I thought of the Changed oarsmen as men not unlike myself-save in size and strength-whilst Kerym saw them as possessions, as carefully selected beasts whose prowess reflected credit on him. “Do they not object?” I asked.
His eyes widened at that, fixing on me as if confronted with rank insanity. For a moment he was silent. Then he shook his head, chuckling, and murmured to himself, “Whitefish village! Fishermen!” so that I flushed, less in embarrassment than in anger. I think he saw my vexation, for he moderated his tone and said, “No, they do not. They are Changed, Daviot. Changed do not object, only obey and do their duty.”
I scowled and asked, “Have they any choice in that? I mean-do they choose their duty?”
Kerym sighed wearily and answered me, “They are
“I saw Changed drinking in the tavern,” I said, “and for that they need coin, but no one pays a horse or an ox.”
I felt it was a sophisticated argument-that I scored a point-but Kerym only shrugged and returned me, “A beast needs fodder, no? And water. Save I keep these fellows fed and allow them a tot now and again, they’ll weaken.” He repeated his exasperating chuckle. “I’d not have the finest oarsmen on either coast flag.”
“They receive no other pay?” I asked, thinking of the stipend I was promised merely for studying.
“I feed them; and well,” said Kerym grandly. “Three meals a day and a tankard of good ale with every one. When we’ve the time and they’ve no other work, I give them small coin for the taverns. What more should they want?”
I had no idea. Indeed, when I thought about it, that was as much as I received for working with my father on our boat. Save, it occurred to me, I had anticipated owning my own boat someday, and a cottage, a wife. I frowned and asked him, “Shall they always be oarsmen? May they quit your employ? What happens when they get old? Or are hurt?” The questions came in a rush, compelled as much by my desire to best the man as to learn the answers.
“So many questions.” He favored me with a smile I found patronizing. “Still, you hope to be a Rememberer, eh? Well-no, they shall not always be oarsmen, for they
He seemed to me smugly satisfied with the correctitude of his answer. I pressed my point: “And when they’re too old for even that? What happens to them then?”
Kerym flipped a dismissive wrist. “Do they choose, they are allowed to cross the Slammerkin,” he said. “Or they rely on the charity of their fellows, whatever they’ve managed to save.”
I thought they should not be able to save much, and that the charity of the Changed must of necessity be a precarious living. But his mention of the Slammerkin reminded me of Rekyn’s words, and I said, “They go into Ur- Dharbek to join the wild Changed?”
“Yes,” said Kerym, his tone so different I stared at him, hearing something in his voice I did not understand. I felt as I had with Rekyn-that I ventured into some area that was not … I was not sure …
We stood in silence awhile, and then I asked if I might go forrard, to observe our progress from the bow. Kerym responded with a nod, and I quit his company feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
I made my way along the central deck, surreptitiously observing the crew. Save for their great size and their vaguely taurine physiognomy, they seemed to me quite human. They chattered quietly amongst themselves and several smiled at me as I passed. Some, I saw, played the simpler version of kells known as catch-dice, and for some reason that more than anything else rendered them sympathetic. I decided that, did the opportunity arise, I would speak with them.
I had no chance then, however, for no sooner had I reached the foredeck than the wind shifted and Kerym blew his whistle, the piercing note bringing out the sweeps as the oarsmen bent to their duty. I thought then that Kerym’s boasting might contain some element of truth, for the galley swept forward and I tottered an instant as the deck lurched under me. I wondered if the master looked to humble me, clutching at the gunwale as white water foamed around the bow. The foremost rower called, “Take care, master,” in a gruff, kindly voice, and I smiled and waved, regaining my sea legs. I might not have sailed on a galley before, but I was a fisherman’s son and would not grant Kerym the amusement of seeing me fall.
We continued thus until the wind once more picked up and the sail bellied again. Kerym gave some order then, and the two crewmen not engaged on the sweeps set to preparing food. It was plain fare, but filling: fish and rice and hard bread, and everyone on board was passed a tankard brimming with good Cambar ale. I took my ration on the fore-deck, not much wanting to rejoin our captain at the stern. Perhaps I sulked, but also I pondered on all he had said; and what he refused to discuss.
When the meal was done, the sweeps Came out again and we rowed through the afternoon. I watched the coastline pass, seeing villages the twin to my own, once the high column of a keep I thought must be Torbryn, coves and inlets where houses clustered about the shore. There were fishing boats out, but we rode beyond the catch grounds and soon left them behind. The sun westered, the sky to the east a purple pricked through with stars, the moon a butter-yellow crescent. Soon the coast was a shadow, marked by the phosphorescent wash of breaking surf. We ate again (the same fare), and I wondered if Kerym would put in for the night and ride out the dark hours at anchor, but he showed no sign of slowing and after a while sent a crewman to where I stood to advise me I might make my bed at fore or poopdeck.
I went back astern then and found Kerym in better humor.
“I’m sworn to make Ynisvar no later than the morrow’s noon,” he told me, “so we go on through the night. I’ll find my bed now; do you sleep where you will. But stay out of the way, eh?”
I nodded and he passed the tiller to a Changed, disappearing into his little cabin. The night grew chill, and I broke out my cloak. The crew fetched an array of motley garments from beneath their benches, and I saw that three to each side stretched out asleep. Running lights were hung at prow and stern, and in their light I studied the tillerman. He was older than the rest, with hints of gray in the sleek black hair hanging straight about his weathered face. A small clay pipe was clasped between his teeth, the bowl glowing red in the darkness, smoke drifting from between his heavy lips. I thought this an excellent opportunity to satisfy my curiosity and lounged against the taffrail.
“Have you sailed with Kerym long?” I asked.
“Yes, master,” he said.
“How long?” I asked.
He shrugged, the movement like tree trunks shifting, and said, “Since I was old enough, master.”
“I’ve sailed all my life,” I told him. “I’m a fisherman’s son.”
He only nodded, unspeaking. I asked his name, and he answered, “Bors, master.”
“I’m Daviot,” I returned, to which he nodded again.
He seemed, to say the least, disinclined to converse with me, but I refused to be put off. “Where are you from?” I asked.
“Durbrecht, master,” he said.
“I go there,” I said. “To the College of the Rememberers.”
He nodded. Whether he was unimpressed or uninterested or intent on his duty, I could not tell: his features remained impassive. I am ashamed to admit I thought him distinctly bovine in his placid acceptance. I thought of a cow chewing the cud, instinctively flicking its tail at the swarming flies represented by my attempts to engage him in conversation. “I love the sea,” I declared. “Do you?”
He offered no response, as if the question were without meaning. I asked, “Do you enjoy life on the
His wide eyes narrowed a fraction, as though he struggled to comprehend the inquiry, as though enjoyment were a concept beyond his understanding. Finally he shrugged, still silent.
