Exile to the Stars (The Alarai Chronicles) (31 page)

The
night before they were to set sail, Rogelf, Belstan and Jeff were working late
trying to put some order to the mission’s paperwork. Trade goods were stowed on
the Baktar, but there had been no time to organize bills of lading. The office
they were working in was quiet with the exception of an occasional frustrated
curse. At the sound of approaching footsteps, the men stopped their paper
shuffling and shared a perplexed look. It was close to midnight and Ostfel was
out of town. Jeff pushed back from his desk so he could watch the door.

When
Zimma walked in wearing a long gown of silken green festooned with ropes of
jewelry, he had to choke off a curse. From the way she wobbled on spike high
heels, Jeff suspected Zimma had been drinking heavily. Curling his lip in
disgust, he vowed to keep his mouth shut regardless of what she might say.

Swaying
unsteadily, Zimma gazed around the room. Her eyes passed over Jeff as if he
were not there.

“I
have deshi…decided to accompany you, Belstan. The south shore of the lake is
new to me, and I wish to see it.”

Belstan
didn’t say anything until he had his irritation in hand. “This trip is likely
to be fraught with peril, Zimma. I know you to have good sword skill, but you
are also young and comely. That fact is likely to pose serious difficulties in
Tradertown where there are few if any women. Would you risk compromising our
mission?”

Although
Zimma had a hard time focusing her eyes on Jeff, the scowl seemed to come
naturally.

“If
this clumsy oaf is to shail…go with you, I feel certain that my presence can
only be an ashet. I am coming.”

It
was hard, but Jeff kept his jaw tightly clamped and eyes fixed on a manifest.
Bloody drunk, he thought. As soon as Zimma had opened her mouth, the smell of
alcohol and another odor he was unfamiliar with had permeated the room.

Rogelf
had turned away to stare fixedly out a window, but every aspect of his posture
indicated painful embarrassment. Belstan knew Zimma was the apple of Rogelf’s
eye. She also frequently had him on the verge of despair.

While
Belstan wanted to say no very badly, the voyage would give Zimma a chance to
dry out. He was convinced she was deeply into alcohol and Kalheesh. Beyond that
reason, he had to try one more time for Rogelf’s sake.

“Very
well. You may accompany us on one condition: you must agree to follow my orders
and not debate or oppose every decision.”

Nodding
curtly, Zimma threw a triumphant sneer at Jeff and turned to leave. On the way
out she collided with the doorjamb. Jeff figured that whatever his feelings,
Rogelf’s were ten times as bad.

The
morning of departure, a crisp breeze was blowing from the southwest giving it
an offshore slant. The Baktar was moored with her bow facing the lake on the
lee side of the pier. The bow line was let go and the foresail and outer jib
hoisted in a rush of thundering canvas.

As
the bow pivoted away from the pier, the crew raised the mainsail and let go the
stern line. Her booms well off to port, the Baktar gathered way and settled
onto a broad reach.

Jeff
strolled aft from where he had been standing behind the quartermaster and
leaned his elbows on the stern rail. He watched the city recede with a smile of
contentment. Since arriving in Khorgan he had haunted the sailing ships at
every opportunity. Yacht racing on Puget Sound was exciting, but the big
gaff-rigged schooners were a whole new world that had captivated him.

The
breeze picked up as the ship moved farther out onto the lake. When they had
made their easting, all hands were called to heave in the sails until they were
nearly flat as boards. The captain turned the Baktar south and she went hard on
the wind, heeling well over to port.

Taking
station in the bow, Jeff hooked his elbows over the weather rail. Breathing
deeply of the tangy air, he admired the spirals of birds soaring around the
ship. Blue and white, resembling cormorants, their plaintive cries called his
imagination south to tropic shores. Some time later Jeff reluctantly went below
to attend a strategy conference with Belstan and the ship’s captain.

When
he entered the captain’s cabin, Jeff paused abruptly. He had completely
forgotten Zimma was part of the team. What a bummer, he thought. Why did she
have to come? Just one more self-centered bitch. Jeff stared at her for a
moment before finding a seat.

In
the one instant their eyes were locked together, Zimma nearly flinched. The
extent of Jeff’s contempt was such that she could do nothing but look away.
Here on the ship, isolated from her usual environment and friends, an inner
voice that had been growing stronger for several years had finally broken
through and informed her that she deserved contempt.

She
wanted to say or do something in reprisal, but instead remembered the look on
her father’s face the night she had announced she was joining the expedition.
The stab of remorse that followed the memory was exquisitely painful and so new
Zimma had no defense against it.

Belstan
gazed around the cabin to make sure he had everyone’s attention. “Let us be
clear about the purpose of this trading mission. While we are making this
voyage to gather information, we are traders as well. The Arzak are a
suspicious, arrogant people—never forget that. Although Tradertown is in Chaldesia,
in truth it is no man’s land. If the Salchek have returned as we suspect and
conspire with Arzak, agents we encounter are likely to be provocative.” Belstan
looked directly at Zimma. “Hold your temper, gather information. Perhaps we
will turn a few linta to pay for this trip.”

Zimma’s
temper flared at being singled out. While saying nothing in response, she threw
a venomous look at Jeff. Her father was due respect, long overdue she conceded,
but this seedy barbarian was something else entirely. He will disgrace us all!

Once
on board the Baktar, Jeff had donned his threadbare jeans. One pant leg was out
at the knee, and sparks from numerous campfires had burned holes here and there
over the rest. Other than the jeans, he was wearing an old tee shirt that had
seen better days a year ago. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, Zimma compared
Jeff to her latest male companion and smirked.

The
rest of the meeting was spent going over trade inventory and picking the
captain’s brain for information on Tradertown. Instead of describing the town
with words, he sketched it.

“That
is a large trading post,” Jeff said with surprise. “Nearly a city from the look
of it.”

“Yes,
but no one terms it a city,” Belstan replied. “If they did, and since
Tradertown is in Chaldesia, Khorgan would have to officially claim and defend
it. Having no army as such, it has been convenient for Khorgan to leave matters
as they are—regardless of what occurs, all may deny responsibility.”

When
Jeff came on deck next morning he found the Baktar idly turning in the
occasional breath of wind. It was a hot day and Jeff thought longingly of
shorts. Several hours later a breeze filled in from the northwest and continued
to make up until it was blowing fresh.

Belstan
went below to get out of the wind, but Zimma planted herself in the bow. One
hand gripping a stay, long red hair streaming off to the lee, her cheeks were
flushed with exhilaration.

“Well,
what have we here?” Jeff murmured when he noticed her. “Is it possible the
dildo is in a good mood?”

After
a hard fight, Jeff convinced himself he should make a stab at patching things
up before they hit Tradertown. Halfway to the bow he stopped. On the verge of
changing his mind, Jeff squared his shoulders and hurried forward.

Zimma
heard footsteps and turned to see who it was. A familiar scowl immediately
formed and she turned her back to him. Leaving plenty of room, Jeff leaned
against the weather rail and questioned his sanity. There was no point to his
being there, no point in trying to deal with a spoiled little rich girl that
could get away with murder. He had to do it or leave.

“I
can imagine what you think of me, and my opinion of you is likely worse, but I
see no way of avoiding each other on this trip. As difficult as it will be,
perhaps we can at least feign civility in order to free Belstan’s mind from
that worry.”

The
back of her neck turned red with anger, leading Jeff to wonder what Zimma’s
face looked like. She stared off to the southwest in frigid silence leaving
Jeff to watch her hair swirl and twist in the breeze. There were so many shades
of red in it that he became fascinated by the play of color. She was also
wearing snug breeches.

Jeff
just naturally scanned downward with a clinical eye. One look and a muted “My,
oh my” sneaked out, followed by a soft whistle of academic appreciation. She
was a bitch all right, but a bitch with one fine rear end.

Although
the noise from sea and wind was substantial, Zimma just as naturally heard the
whistle and knew exactly what had prompted it. Pleased in a way that took her
by surprise, she tossed her head to set red hair flying in bright whorls. Jeff
had said all he intended to and decided he would not move until she answered.

It
was some time before Zimma decided he wasn’t going to leave. Turning to face
Jeff, she leaned against the lee rail with elbows on the cap and attempted to
view him from a more neutral perspective. It seemed a lost cause. The mere
sight of him brought a rush of cutting words to mind. Zimma pressed her lips
into a thin line to stop an expression of disgust.

 
“Your statement is accurate. My opinion of
you is quite beyond hope, and I recognize your distaste for my person. Also
yes, I agree that we must attempt to work together. With careful attention to
duty, perhaps we will succeed.” Reluctantly, Zimma held out her hand.

Taking
her hand in the spirit it was offered, Jeff intended no more than a simple
handshake. Instead, he lifted it to his lips. Their eyes met and neither moved
for several heartbeats.

Cheeks
flushing in a different pattern, Zimma withdrew her hand. “I must go below to
meet with Belstan. I understand your effort in approaching me was no small
matter.”

The
breeze held steady and they sighted the southernmost shore of Lake Ligura late
the following day. The captain reduced sail in easy stages as they approached
the anchorage, a deep lagoon protected by a spit of land that curved far out
into the lake. He settled on a spot that gave ample swinging room, bellowed a
string of orders and the Baktar dropped anchor.

Around
sunset the breeze died away to nothing, leaving sweltering humidity. A number
of crewmen came topsides to find cooler air. Leaning on the rail, they examined
other craft idly drifting around their chains. Jeff was doing the same and
ambled over. He gestured with his head.

“Khorgan?”

One
of the older men was lighting a pipe, and a wreath of smoke lazily curled
around his head. It smelled terrible. He pointed a gnarled finger at two of the
boats in turn, cackling as he did so.

 
“Them scows come from Khorgan, and lucky they
was to get this far seein’ as how the rot’s near et ‘em up.” The old-timer
scowled at the other two ships and spit over the side. “Gods-cursed slavers by
the stench of ‘em—prolly mean ta pick up some poor bastards and sell ‘em off at
Borgo.”

Jeff
could only agree that the smell coming from the direction of the two craft was
much worse than a barnyard. He heard, or imagined he heard, faint cries for
water and examined the shoreline in an attempt to block them out.

Drunken
singing drifted from the shore, and the orange glow of bonfires began to appear
as night settled in. He was starting a yawn when an agonized scream pierced the
night. With utter certainty, he knew that someone had just died.

A
sullen orange globe hanging low in the east greeted Jeff when he emerged from
below. The small effort required to climb the ladder had him sweating, and he
plucked a light shirt free from where it was stuck to his ribs.

Accompanied
by the squeal of pulleys, crewmembers lowered a net full of crates into the
ship’s launch. When the way was clear Jeff tossed his duffel bag onto a thwart.
Belstan and Zimma joined him, and they clambered down into the deeply laden
boat.

With
fifty yards to go, stroke oar looked over his shoulder and called out, “Lay
into it, lads.”

Oars
bent to a singsong chant, driving the bow onto dry land. Goods came ashore in
rapid succession forming a sizable pyramid. Leaving the launch crew to return
to the ship for another load, Belstan, Jeff and Zimma waded up the sloping
beach in ankle-deep sand and steam bath heat.

The
men carried rolls of canvas and line on their shoulders; Zimma cradled a bundle
of poles in her arms. Jeff expected her to whine about the load but she
staggered through the sand without a word, hair hanging in sweat-sodden
strings. The few palm-like trees they passed under gave only fleeting shade.

A
short distance from the beach they threaded their way through a warren of
shanties. On several occasions they were forced to backtrack in search of a way
through the maze. The stench of excrement and urine was bad enough, but with
their arms full the cloud of biting flies was maddening.