Kushiel's Chosen (56 page)

"Your lungs sound clear," he said, pleased. "It is not a stabbing pain when you inhale?"

"No. Glaukos, is it true that we refused aid to Illyria?" I asked him, adding, "Terre d'Ange, I mean."

"True enough. Lift your arms, I'm going to bind your ribs. 'Twill manage the pain a bit, and keep you from doing further harm while they heal. I've a lass I've trained will do it proper when we make landfall." Concentrating, he wound a length of clean, rough-spun cotton about my rib cage, over my clammy dress. " 'Twas some forty years ago, if I re member aright. The Ban of Illyria begged King Ganelon of Terre d'Ange for an alliance, but the King gauged La Serenissima the greater power, and forged alliance with them, marrying off his brother to the family of the Doge. How's that?"

I took an experimental breath. "Better, thank you. I never heard anything of it. My lor... Kazan seems bitter."

"And Kazan Atrabiades took you prisoner?" I surmised sourly.

Glaukos laughed, pouring water into the cup and swirling it. "Not hardly, my lady. He gave me the choice of fighting for my master and dying, or joining him a free man. Ah, now, I'd lived my whole life in slavery, hadn't I? I thought I'd spend the last years of it a free brigand. Kazan's always found a use for me, and I've never had cause to regret it. Here, drink this," he finished, handing the cup to me.

"What is it?" I took it and sniffed, looking questioningly at him.

" Tis but valerian, to aid the pain and let you sleep," he said gently. "Your body requires rest, to heal itself. Do you not see, there, how your hand shakes?" He spoke true; I noted with surprise how the leathern cup trembled in my grip, the tincture sloshing. "Indeed, you bear it better than a soldier, but you have suffered a trauma this night past, and the telling of it must wait. Drink, and I will ward you." He smiled at me, and his eyes were kind. "No harm will come to you, I promise it."

Foolhardy or no, I had little choice. I believed him, and drank. Soon weariness overcame me, and I slept, and knew no more.

'Tis no wonder, then, that I woke not knowing where I was, nor whether I was awake or dreaming. The rocking motion of the ship was as lulling as sleep, and the strangeness of Illyrian voices around me as incomprehensible as words spoken in a dream. The sun was lowering through clouds behind us, and the sky to the west was shot with fire.

And there, coiled atop the mizzenmast toward the stern of the ship, a moving shadow.

I lay curled against the outer wall of the forecastle, staring up at it from beneath the canvas awning. A trick of the light... no. It moved, sinuous and serpent-bodied, spreading veined wings against the darkling sky; a wedge-shaped head lifted, with glittering eyes the color of old blood. Its mouth opened in a silent hiss, and a three-lined tongue emerged, flickering.

I am not ashamed to admit that I let loose a shout of pure terror.

Only Kazan Atrabiades had not moved, bestriding the deck with feet planted wide, his dark eyes watching me across the length of the ship.

He turned to the nearest sailor and said something sooth ing in Illyrian; the sailor relaxed, laughed, and passed it on to a comrade. I heard Glaukos' words passed from mouth to mouth, and presently one of the other ships drew in shout ing distance alongside us, and the tale of the D'Angeline hostage's hysteria was bantered back and forth across the waves.

"I made the dose too strong," Glaukos said apologetically. "My apologies, my lady; I'm used to dosing full-grown men, you see. Ah, well, you're awake now, and no harm done. We'll be coming soon to harbor, after moonrise ... will you eat? 'Twill do you good, and we've food to spare; lamb and rice wrapped in grape leaves, if it's not gone off."

"Yes," I said, watching Atrabiades. "Thank you, that's very kind. And water, if I may."

Glaukos brought the food and I ate while he fussed over me like a nursemaid. The setting sun dowsed its flames in the west, leaving ruddy streaks to fade across the horizon. As darkness fell, our pace slackened not a whit; these Illyrians navigated by stars where visible, by touch and feel— mayhap even smell—where not. In the prow of each swift ship crouched an agile sailor with a lantern, cunningly wrought, that provided a bright spark of light by which they remained in communication.

All about us, the ship was quiet; four or five men manned the lines and rudder-bar, speaking in murmurs, while the rest caught naps where they might. The breeze was light, and our progress slow but steady, wavelets lapping along the hull. I sat silently, waiting for Atrabiades to speak.

Presently, he did.

"You cried out, you," he said without looking at me, low voice blending in with the sounds of the night-bound Ship. "When you awaked at sunset time. What did you see?"

"Yes." Atrabiades exhaled sharply. "With a tongue, like ..." He scowled, searching for the word in Caerdicci, failed to find it and thrust out three fingers, forked like a trident. "Like so?"

He nodded, mouth twisting wryly in the frame of his mus taches. "You do not need fear it, D'Angeline. This is what I come to tell you. The
kríavbhog,
it waits only for me. I am blood-cursed, I, Kazan Atrabiades. It will not harm you."

"Maybe." He shrugged. "Maybe not. I find you floating in the sea like so, what am I to think, I? Do not tamper with the fate of Kazan Atrabiades, the
kríavbhog
warns. Your Naamah of the bedroom pleasures, she will be sorrowful"

As I opened my mouth to retort, the sailor in the prow gave a soft cry, pointing over the horizon to where a light glimmered. In the clear night, I could make out a low land-mass. Atrabiades rose with leisurely haste, giving commands as the ship stirred to life.

I stayed where I was. He paused before he left, staring down at me. "I will claim your ransom, D'Angeline, do not fear. But know this. If he lived, I would give you to my brother Daroslav, eh, my little brother the scholar, who never got to keep his vow."

Whether or not 'twas meant as a warning, I took it as such, gazing up at his shadowed face. "What happened to him?"

"I killed him, I," Kazan Atrabiades replied curtly.

And with that, he strode toward the stern of the ship, leaving me to ponder his words.

If I had thought that our journey was done when we made landfall, I was mistaken. By moon and starlight, aided by the lamphouse at the outermost point, our six ghostly ships sailed into the harbor of a small town whose name I never knew, on the isle of Gavrilos, which is famed for its olive oil. There we dropped anchor, and a delegation of townsmen came out to meet the pirates on the wharf, bleary-eyed by torchlight, but full of good spirits and jest.

At the time, I could only gauge this by their demeanor and attitudes, grateful that Delaunay's training allowed me that much. All around me was the give and take of conver sation, a hushed midnight banter, full of barter and exchange. I understood not a word of it, and it was mad dening.