The Empire Stone (5 page)

He struck, and the diamond split as he wanted. Again he made a cut, and another cut, checking each facet. Then all that remained was to polish the stone with diamond dust and olive oil, detail the silver and cut its center out, and set the stone, and it would be ready as bait.

But the next dawn there was a tumult, and the slaves were turned out. Lord Kanen was ready to put to sea, on another pre-season raid, and Peirol’s education began.

• • •

A wing — ten galleys — pulled away from the wharf, Peirol’s galley, the
Ocean Spell
, flanking Lord Kanen’s
Slayer.
There was chanting from magicians afloat and ashore, and bands blared, and smoke of many colors plumed up from the harbor forts, gathered together, twisted and showed a magical sign of great good luck.

Peirol was told he was lucky not being assigned to Lord Kanen’s galley, since the lord loved battle even more than gold and insisted his ship always be in the forefront. He was not
that
lucky, because he was taken by Callafo, Kanen’s wizard, who was almost as battle-thirsty as his master, but who loudly said that dwarves were lucky.

Peirol was wondering where the hells these tales about dwarves came from. He’d heard none on the moors of Cenwalk nor in Sennen, and he thought wryly that anyone who considered his current state certainly should doubt the validity of the claim.

He learned other names to dread: the oarmaster, Barnack; the captain of the guard, Runo, and the ship captain, Penrith. The latter, he was told, seldom deigned to worry about galley slaves, “but ye’re doomed if he does.” But Callafo and Barnack were the most dreaded, Barnack because he was their immediate master and punisher; Callafo because he loved to see the lash come down, and would delight in having an oarsman whipped for any reason, or for no reason whatsoever. Callafo considered it a special delight if the slave died under the lash, and had been heard to say it would help his magic.

There were five slaves to a bench, the bench extending somewhat over the sleek side of the galley on the wooden superstructure. Along the outboard side of this decking was a huge thole pin beside each bench. The oars were in three pieces, the blade being separate, the shaft being in two parts, lashed around the thole pin, then the inner third, which would be lighter than the other pieces, with iron cleats for the oarsmen to pull on. An argument could always be made as to what kind of wood was best for the oars, but the longest-serving slaves held for beech, for its strength and flexibility. That mattered, because a lesser wood might be snapped by a storm wave and the jagged end flail the benches like a huge, murderous club.

Each slave was manacled at the ankle, a chain leading to a staple firmly mounted in the bench. Rowers stood, or in the case of the outer oarsmen, half-bent, pulling until they came back against the bench, leaned far back, then pushing down and coming back to their feet, bringing the oar forward for the next stroke. Slaves argued endlessly, in whispers, one eye cocked for the oarmaster and his whip, as to which was the worst rowing position.

Farthest outboard was generally agreed to be the worst, being the wettest and hardest on the back, since anyone of a proper size was forced to row half-bent. Closest inboard was the second worst, since that was nearest to the oarmaster’s whip. In between was most crowded.

“Crowded” was distinctly relative — the whole galley was crowded, three hundred or more slaves at the oars, with another two hundred soldiers, sailors, officers, and guards, all squirming for position like drowsy snakes when night fell afloat. That was one reason the galleys tried to beach themselves at night, although their fragility was even a greater one. A galley, Peirol heard, would be considered a credit to its builder if it lasted six seasons.

He asked what happened in the seventh. Another slave gave him a scornful look. “You drown when the ship breaks up, stupid. Or if you’re unlucky you end up floating on the end of your bench, feeling the sharks nibble. Or if you’re even less lucky, they pull you out alive, or your tub’s scrapped, and you’re pulling from a new bench. Best of all is if you’re killed in your first campaign.” The slave had been on the galleys, Peirol found, for thirty-seven years.

The jest was that no slave had to worry about trimming his beard — the oar was the best razor, never letting facial foliage grow beyond mid-chest.

Peirol was further unlucky, he learned, because he was set to the third oar, starboard side, of the twenty-five on each side. In a sea, this close to the bow would be very wet, and in battle one of the most likely to be smashed by a ramming enemy. “Or, since you’re next to the great gun, to get your guts scattered if the godsdamned gunner makes a mistake and uses too much powder and blows himself up, or the swivel gunner beside him gets excited and puts your sorry ass between the muzzle and his target,” he was informed.

Being short, Peirol was given the outboard station, able to begin his stroke standing. He thought he preferred to be half-drowned rather than lashed. He wasn’t foolish enough to say he wouldn’t stand for the whip, but he remembered his father’s beatings.

Peirol’s world was now nothing but the oar, to be pulled until he died and went overboard without ceremony or until the gods smiled. “And guess, little man,” a guard said, grinning, “which is most likely to happen first?”

Peirol watched his fellows; learned that when the first drumbeat thumped, the oar came down into the water and was pulled through; then, at the second beat, was lifted, feathered, and pushed forward for the next stroke. At first it wasn’t bad, then his muscles began to strain, then screamed. Peirol was, in spite of his strength, beginning to hurt, and worried about the oarmaster’s lash.

But then drums thundered twice. The oars were lifted and brought inboard, and sailors lashed them down. Peirol heard a great slatting, and the huge squaresails were unfurled and took the wind.

Then there was nothing to do but talk, which the wizard Callafo didn’t mind. Peirol’s oarmates were — from inboard to his station — Baltit, a rangy ex-sailor, condemned to the oars for killing a man in a waterfront brawl (“He had a knife, I had a bar stool, wouldn’t have come to aught but he was a nobleman’s favorite and I wasn’t”); Cornovil, a soldier with no discernible talents, captured on one of Beshkirs’s interminable wars; Ostyaks, who no one knew much about, since he seldom spoke; and Quipus, who was noble and, Peirol quickly realized, quite mad, in a civil sort of way.

Quipus turned to Peirol after they were told to rest, introduced himself, asked Peirol’s name, then said calmly, “When ‘twere done, it was done well, if not a-purpose, for surely I hold no greater fealty than to Lord Poolvash, a man of great talents, certainly in recognizing me, and granting me station above all others, and surely you, being a dwarf of discernment, would hardly believe me guilty of what I’m accused of.”

“Which is?” Peirol asked cautiously.

“No, no,” Quipus said, “you’re right, there’s not a chance of it being anything other than a poor casting, or perhaps that damnable gunner double-charged, or, oh yes, I have it, it must have been a miscast ball, damme for using one of the new-cast ones, instead of the reliable stone sort I’ve grown accustomed to, perhaps the greater weight of the cast ball stressed the bronze, or no, no, it must’ve been a bad casting, casting, I vow the artisan, and I hate to gift the damnable fool with that, the man at the foundry must’ve had his eyes on a whore’s skirts, or perhaps, greatest shame of all, was away from his station, futtering his heart away, leaving me with the shame, shame of it all, being thought a murderer, a plotter, the shame, the shame.”

Peirol blinked, but Quipus had disappeared into a world of his own, muttering “shame, shame, shame,” paying no further heed to his oarmate.

Two things broke Peirol’s curiosity — the
Ocean Spell
rolled, dipped, and a wave drenched him; and the burly man on the catwalk shouted, “You! Dwarf! Your master wants you!”

Peirol gaped; the man growled, lifted his whip.

“He’s new,” Quipus said, suddenly reasonable. “Still learning. Have mercy, Barnack.”

Barnack growled again, jumped down behind Peirol, went to his chain, lifted it, and whispered a spell. Suddenly the staple sprang open, and Peirol had an instant to vow he’d learn that spell somehow, someday, and then Barnack had the chain in one hand and was half-dragging Peirol to the catwalk. There were two guards there, with ready javelins. They prodded Peirol to the ship’s stern.

Waiting was a thick-bodied man in elaborately worked armor, who he learned was Captain Penrith. With him stood a man not ten years Peirol’s senior, who also wore armor, but this even more decorative, worked with stars and the signs of the zodiac. This was Callafo the wizard.

“Kneel,” Barnack ordered, and Peirol obeyed.

“Stand, dwarf,” the magician said. “Who are you?”

“Peirol of the Moorlands,” the dwarf said.

“You claim to be a jeweler?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you any good?”

“Very, sir. I apprenticed under the master Rozan, whom I am sure you’ve heard of, then I worked in the great city of Sennen, my shop was favored by nobility, and even sorcerers like — ”

“Enough,” Callafo said. “All slaves have brags.”

“But mine are true.”

Barnack lifted his whip.

“No,” Callafo said. “I’m amused, seeing someone of his size having courage.”

Peirol thought of saying that was all that seemed left to him, but realized he had spoken as boldly as anyone would allow and just nodded.

“I sought you for my galley because I believe small people have inordinate luck,” Callafo said. “Also, I wonder if, in time, your talents might not be profitable to me. I might consider allowing you to open a shop on the waterfront, as other artisans are allowed, assuming you show no signs of rebellion, such as that eunuch you slew when you were taken.”

Peirol saw a bit of future hope. “No, sir. I’m a peaceful man.”

“We shall see.” Callafo took something from a clip on his armor, touched a stud, and it grew into a wand almost two feet long, black onyx, with lights occasionally flickering its length. “But there is a more important reason I wished discourse with you. When I was casting our sailing spell, I smelled — detected, if you will — signs of other magic about. I traced those signs to you. Do you have the Gift, dwarf?”

“I do not,” Peirol said, giving Callafo his most honest look, knowing little of Callafo’s concern except he could guess there’d be but one wizard aboard this ship.

“Perhaps you have an idea why I smelled sorcery about you?”

Peirol, seeing that the land was a mere haze against the horizon, thought the truth, or at least a version of it, might be best.

“That is because” — he lowered his voice — “I’m on an errand for a magician. A great, great magician. You might, indeed, wish to engage me in the same quest, rather than for me to waste potential riches for all as a slave.”

“Seeking what?”

“Have you heard,” and now Peirol’s voice was a mere whisper, “of the Empire Stone?”

Whatever reaction he’d expected, Callafo’s was a disappointment. The man roared laughter, loud enough to, Peirol thought, billow the ship’s sails.

“Great gods,” he said. “You ask me to believe that mages in your part of the world still believe in that foolishness?”

“We … they do, sir,” Peirol said, a little angrily.

“Your great, great magician is seeking a chimera, something that could never have existed. Consider this, little man,” Callafo said: “why would the gods allow such a stone to exist, if ever it did, capable of upsetting the order they have given, making a man almost one of them?”

Peirol could have said he wondered if there were any gods, could have said if there were, why couldn’t they play with men the way cruel boys play with broken-winged sparrows? But again, he held silence.

Callafo stared, and Peirol, surprised at himself, was able to return that stare.

“I think,” Callafo said, “you are telling what you believe to be the truth. And no, dwarf, I’ll not unchain you and let you wander away on your fool’s errand. I’ll keep you as an oarsman, perhaps one day a jeweler.

“Or perhaps one day, one of my greater spells might require a … participant.” Callafo laughed again. “Barnack, return him to his station.”

• • •

That evening, after they were fed stew and bread, Peirol, after noting that Quipus slept, chanced asking, “What in hells did he do?”

He’d expected Baltit, who seemed to know a great deal, to answer, but surprisingly, it was Ostyaks, the man who never spoke: “Lord Quipus fancied artillery. Had himself a company of cannoneers. He was showing off his brass and smoke to the lord who’d hired him, one of the greats of Beshkirs, named Poolvash, with his ladies and retainers, and something went wrong. The gun exploded, killed the lord, two or three of his wives, twenty retainers, and Quipus now pulls an oar. Lucky they didn’t have him drawn and quartered.”

Ostyaks lapsed into silence, not speaking again for a day.

• • •

They wing-crossed the open water between Parasso and the Manoleon Peninsula, then south along it, looking for prey. Four times they sighted sails, and the slaves were put to it, pulling until their hearts thudded in their mouths and the lash gave a harder rhythm than the drums.

Once Peirol almost fainted, and Barnack’s whip shocked him alive.

Once they closed on a great galleass, and the guards and oarmasters brought vinegar-soaked sponges for them to taste, and drove them harder, and this time Peirol knew he would die, but the galleass outsailed them and was gone. The guards and oarmasters, bitterly disappointed, prowled the catwalks, whips ready, and no oarsman dared speak or even look at anyone unchained.

They sailed on, but the seas remained empty, no rich merchantman to seize. Once they raided a village, but their sails must’ve been seen as they approached, for the village was empty but for half a dozen snarling dogs by the time the soldiers splashed ashore. The soldiers killed the dogs, stove in the beached fishing boats, and tried to burn the huts, but mud burns badly, and the only thing that caught fire were the easily replaced thatched roofs.