Lords of the Sky

and before she could do more than smile sadly, I was out the door.

The corridor was thankfully empty, and I crossed swiftly to my own chamber. My staff and saddlebags lay where I’d left them, and when I looked from my window, I saw the yard was yet empty, pearly with thin gray mist in the dawn-light. I took my gear and tossed it out, noting where it fell. Then I filled a glass with wine, for courage, and drank it down. For fear my room be checked and suspicion aroused, I rumpled my bed as if I’d slept there. Then I went out again.

Few stirred as yet, and those all Changed servants who paid me scant attention as I made my way from the keep. I trusted they’d say nothing, and were they questioned later, they could say only that they had seen me go by. Did any ask, I hoped they’d assume I went abroad early, to wander the town. I did not believe any would guess what I intended.

I found my gear and slunk like some latecome thief across the yard: there was one farewell I’d not forgo.

Horses nickered drowsily as I entered the stable. My gray mare met me with an irritable stare, as if she feared I’d saddle her and take her from this comfort. I stroked her muzzle, which she accepted but a moment before endeavoring to bite my hand. I wished her well. I thought she’d find a good home here, likely a softer life than the Storyman’s road. I was somewhat surprised to realize how much I should miss her; but my choice lay between her company and Rwyan’s, and that was no choice at all. I left her with her nose buried in the manger.

I traversed the yard again, this time toward the gates. I went boldly-the walls were high for climbing, and that furtive exit was more likely to attract attention than if I behaved as if all were well. Still I felt that eyes locked on me as I approached, and it was not easy to saunter casually, all the time waiting for a voice-Robyrt’s or Varius’s or Pyrrin’s-to hail me and demand to know where I went, with staff and bags, at such an early hour.

I was grateful for the negligent attitude of Pyrrin’s gatemen: they were half asleep still and barely glanced my way as I ambled by, nodding to them. One gave me the day’s greetings, and I answered in kind. Likely they found nothing odd in a Storyman going out so early, but even so, I waited on the summons that should bring me back as I found the avenue leading down to the harbor.

Low warehouses stood silent here, their frontages facing toward the sea. I paused where two afforded me a shadowy hiding place, scanning the nearest mole. There was no breeze, and the air no longer carried the odors of seaweed and tar and fish-the still-familiar scents of my childhood-but rather a metallic hint of the heat to come. It was already warm, even though the eastern horizon as yet showed only a glimmer of sunlight. It was a reddish gold: it reminded me of Rwyan’s hair. I studied the ships riding at anchor. The Sprite, she’d said; I looked for it.

I could not find the vessel: I left the cover of the warehouses and set to pacing the harbor, south to north.

It was very quiet. There were no Truemen about save me; Changed crewmen slept on open decks, quite unaware of my inspection. Rwyan had said her ship sailed on the morning tide. The tides even were changed in this unnatural summer, defeating my childhood memories of their swell and ebb, but from the look of the water I guessed the turning should not come before midmorning. There were no fishing boats along the beach-I assumed them out, taken on the night’s ebb. I thought the harbor should not wake until the sun was full risen. I continued my stealthy inspection.

I could not read; there was no need. But neither could any save a handful of Dhar. The nobles, a few sorcerers-such folk as sometimes wished to record messages privately. What could not be said in honest speech was illustrated, like a tavern sign or a ship’s name, and that was how I recognized the Sprite.

She was a galleass, her three sails furled, her sweeps stowed inboard. She was painted a brilliant scarlet, and on her plump bow was an ethereal figure, a silvery-haired woman clad in wispy blue robes that became waves about her waist, one arm raised to point ahead. I had no doubt this was Rwyan’s ship. I halted.

She rode high in the water-if she was to take on cargo, that should be loaded later (how much later? how soon?)-and I could not see her deck. I looked to her oarports and saw twelve openings. So: twenty-four oarsmen whose benches must lie directly beneath the topdeck, more crew to handle her sails; likely all sleeping on board. There was no gangplank run out, but from bow and stern extended heavy cables, lashed firm to the wharfside bollards. Below them were portholes that must open into cabins fore and aft. The latter, I decided, was most likely the master’s, and he might well sleep there now; the forrard quarters would be for such passengers as should soon come aboard. If the master remained with his vessel, I could not chance waking him: I walked silently to the bow.

I stood at another watershed in my life, and I shall not deny I was afraid. I could turn back now; go back to Pyrrin’s keep with neither questions nor accusations leveled. I was ordered by my College to travel up this coast by land, and I had no idea what punishment should be mine did I betray that duty. I could neither ask for nor purchase passage-that would be denied me. If Rwyan knew what I intended, I thought she would deny me. If I did my duty-remained in Carsbry-I must let Rwyan go; I should likely never see her again. That thought I could not bear. Of the outcome, I thought not at all.

It was too late for second thoughts: I buckled my saddlebags across my back, fixed my staff beneath them, and took hold of the mooring line. I swung clear of the mole, teeth gritting as my hands almost slipped from the cable. My weight carried me down, the Sprite shifting in the water. For a moment I feared I should be crushed between galleass and wharfside, that the movement alert the sleeping crew to what I did. Momentarily I anticipated faces, shouts; defeat. Then the ship righted, water slapping about my heels. Her boards groaned softly. I swung my legs up, hooking dripping boots over the rope, and began to inch my way along.

It was no easy journey, encumbered by staff and bags, the line greasy and wet, the Sprite all the time swaying as if undecided between allowing me my goal and squashing me like some unwelcome bug. Had I not been propelled by the greater fear of forever losing Rwyan, I believe I might well have let go, dropped into the water of the harbor and swam hangdog ashore. But that fear gave me strength: I clung limpetlike or, more correctly I suppose, like a determined rat, intent on reaching the riches on board.

From my inverted point of view, I saw the forrard port come closer. I almost fell as I nudged its glassed shutter wide. I hung, swaying precariously, listening for shout of alarm. None came, nor face to the opening; the galleass remained silent, save for that multitude of sounds a ship makes at anchor. The thudding of my heart seemed to me louder. I took a breath and got one hand on the lower edge of the port. This would be the hardest part, the point at which I was most likely to fail. I clenched my teeth and let go the rope.

I got my free hand on the porthole’s sill as my body crashed against the bow. My face hit the planks, and I felt pain erupt in my nose and jaw. My head spun; I was winded. I thought my fingers must snap, so fierce did I grip my hold. Blood ran from my nostrils. I thought I must be found. I held my breath, ears straining then as much as the muscles in my aching arms. There was silence still: I found some purchase with my toes and desperately hauled myself up. I got one elbow on the sill-the second-and then I was inside, stifling a cry as my injured face struck wood again.

I rolled onto my back: bloodstains would doubtless occasion questions. I inspected my teeth and found none broken; nor was my nose, for all it hurt ferociously. I lay panting, my head tilted back until the trickling from my nostrils ceased. I inspected my surroundings. The cabin was small, the outer wall curved, following the shape of the prow; the inner was straight, dividing this berth from its matching fellow. There was a narrow bunk with storage space below, a bench seat that was also a cupboard, a table hinged to fasten against the wall, nothing more; nor anywhere to hide. I picked up my staff and went to the door.

I pressed an ear to the wood and heard nothing. I could not dare hope the crew would sleep much longer, only pray none came below before I found some better refuge. I eased the door ajar and set an eye to the crack. I looked out on the rowing gallery. The oarsmen’s benches were set to either side, roofed by the topdeck, which was open down the center. The masts were bedded here, and between them were hatches affording access to the holds and bilges. Aft was a single door that must, I surmised, open into the stern cabin. To either side, ladders rose to the upper deck. I glanced that way and saw the sky was brighter. I heard movement above, as of bodies rising, the sound of stentorian yawns and the beginnings of conversation. I had no more time to waste: I scurried to the nearest hatch.