Gamarron shook his head. “This is a ship, young man. Someone is always awake. They have to watch the waters and tend to whatever it is that drives us. Besides, nosing into their secrets would be a poor way to repay our hosts.”
A stubborn frown settled onto the Beast Rider’s face, and he flipped his long braid over his shoulder with perhaps more force than was necessary. “If they didn’t want us to know about it, they shouldn’t have let us notice. And I could be in and out of the hold without anyone seeing me.”
The monk shifted his weight on a crate where he sat near the rails and carefully placed his callused hands on the soft batting of his robe right over the knees, stifling a sigh. It had been pleasant to engage the boy in conversation and distract him from his sullen self-pity, but he should have known better than to engage his curiosity in a direction that could not be satisfied. “Kest. Seafarers hold the secrets of their ships as close as the Pacari do the bonding of their beasts. They will not take it lightly should they find us prying into concealed matters.”
Kest crossed his arms, still refusing to meet his eye. He looked a little out of place in the sailor’s roughspun tunic he had borrowed from the captain, but even the slight breeze of their sailing was uncomfortably cold for a boy raised in the jungles and veldts of Pacari. “Not very well concealed though, are they? They might as well wave their secrets in my face.”
Gamarron blamed himself. A little more thought and he might have steered the conversation differently. Why am I so distracted as of late, so impatient? “Let them do as they will. Our concern lies ahead of us, when we land in Megalith.” Distract him with his desire to know what comes next.
The stubborn child was not swayed. “Your concern lies in Megalith. Mine lies where it pleases, and I want to know what is in the hold.” He leaned against the railing, exuding a mocking bravado. “You may fear them, but a few deformed boat-folk are no threat to one of the Pacari.” For all his supposed fearlessness, Gamarron noted that he kept his voice low. “I’m going down there tonight. Third watch.” The afternoon sun glinted on his bared teeth as he smiled at the older monk, daring him to oppose.
Gamarron had no choice but to do so. “You will not. It would offend our captain and could very well get us both killed.”
Kest swept a non-existent speck of dirt from his borrowed shirt, feigning indifference. “He’ll never know. And I will do it if I please.”
There was only one possible conclusion to the discussion at this point, and Gamarron saw little purpose in avoiding it. The boy had been looking for a way to provoke him since before they had reached the coast. He stood unhurriedly, feeling each muscle in its place, all the movements of his humors at their proper rate, in their perfect flow. What is necessary is not to be regretted, but rather accomplished with care. He took three measured breaths, allowing the statement of his greater height to make itself known to the rash young Pacari. “Kest, you will not. I forbid it.”
A fierce joy lit the boy’s face. He believed that he had successfully baited the older man. Pushing himself upright from the railing, Kest slouched into a fighting stance. Though he was more than a head shorter, he was broader and more heavily muscled. “You’re not my chief. You can’t forbid me anything.”
Hands held still at his sides, Gamarron appeared perfectly peaceful and unthreatening. “Your chief sent you with me and put you in my service. Does that mean nothing?”
His mention of the chief put a flicker of doubt in Kest’s eyes, but he shook it away with a toss of his head. “He made me your tracker, not your slave. I am my own man.”
He will not back down. Very well, then. He said the words to start their fight. “You are not a man, and that is why he sent you away.”
The barb struck true, and Kest launched at him with a snarl. He was fearsome to behold in motion, more akin to the majka or wild koira than the rhino – fast, strong, and lethal. Gamarron took one small step and brushed the boy past him, letting one hand trail up at just the right moment to deliver a soft slap to his cheek. Kest stumbled past with empty hands, whirling back at him, embarrassed and enraged. Lunging forward, he filled his fists with Gamarron’s demonsilk robes, trying to pull him in close.
The older man raised his hands only as far as necessary and pushed the young man’s hands askew, crossing the boy’s arms at the wrists and tangling his hands in the soft, voluminous fabric. He let his fingers clamp down hard enough to bruise, not hard enough to break, holding his opponent close. He kept his voice calm. “This will not work, Kest. Did you not see me fight your chief?”
Kest hauled back hard against his grip, and the monk loosed his hold at just the right moment so that the young man overbalanced and fell back against the deck, betrayed by his own force. “He left you half-dead in the dirt!” he roared as he scrambled to his feet. The sailors had begun to take note of their fracas and were stopping to watch. More embarrassment for the boy. Is this the right way to deal with this? The lad threw his arms wide and rushed him again, head down, intending to tackle him. They all fight the same. Centering himself in the koda, Gamarron moved precisely seven-tenths his weight
