The Last Knight (14 page)

“Look, Fisk.” He was leaning against the rail like a man with nothing on his mind. “No, not that way—out to sea.”

At first I saw nothing but water. Then a wave tossed us up and I glimpsed a line of low humps on the horizon. “Land?”

“Land! I’ve been up in the rigging and I think ’tis no more than a mile off. Can you make it?”

“Make it what? Wait a minute, you don’t mean…”

Sir Michael nodded, his eyes still resting casually on the busy deck. “Over the side, right now, before they lock us up.”

“You’re mad,” I told him. “You’ll freeze. You’ll get eaten by sharks or something.” But my heart began to pound. If Sir Michael was forced to leave me behind—through no fault of mine—he’d never declare me unredeemed. Not Michael.

“The sun’s been on the water all day, Fisk. It won’t be that cold. They’ll order us below soon.
Can you make it?
”

My freedom. Free, and in Tallow Port—half a realm away from past misdeeds and crazy knights errant. Still…A foolish qualm of conscience seized me.

“Are you sure
you
can make it?” I asked.

That caught Sir Michael’s attention and he stared at me—about time, too. He was being so casual, he was about to look suspicious. “Almost sure. I can’t guarantee our safety, but if I thought ’twas truly dangerous I wouldn’t propose it. What—”

“Then you should go,” I told him, trying to sound courageously resigned, which was tough the way my heart was singing. “You’ll have to leave me here, Sir Michael. I can’t swim. But I’ll be all right, and it’s more important to bring Lady Ceciel to justice. Go. Now.”

“You can’t
swim
?” I glared, and he went on more softly, “Fisk…is that the truth?”

I realized he was thinking of the time I’d told him I didn’t know how to fight. Heat flooded my cheeks.

“Of course it’s true,” I snarled. (As it happens, it was.) “Where would I have learned to swim? The city sewer? Get out of here, Michael, while you’ve got a chance!”

His eyes widened. Then he drew himself up and took a deep breath. “No. I won’t leave you. We’ll find another way.”

“What other way? You’ll never get a better opportunity!” He was looking noble and stubborn, curse him. “I’ll be fine! What about your redemption? Your honor? What if Lady Ceciel kills again?”

Sir Michael shook his head. “I don’t think so. If she was going to kill anyone, it would be
us.
And she hasn’t, Fisk. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

When I thought about it, it did, but…“Not really. Lots of people hate their spouses more than they could ever hate a stranger. Maybe she had a good reason to kill Herbert.”

“Mayhap she did. I wish I knew what it was.”

“Then go find out!”

“No, Squire.” He took my arm and pulled me away from the rail. “I won’t desert you. We’ll find another way.”

“Thanks a lot, Noble Sir.”

The son of a bitch laughed.

Shortly after that, they ordered us down to the room where we bunked and locked us in. We might have tried to cry out or throw a message out an airhole. But as the captain pointed out, he’d committed no crime in this fiefdom, so even if we did attract attention, no one would do anything about it. And as I pointed out to Sir Michael, even if the law interceded for the rest, they’d let the captain keep us since indebted men have no legal rights.

Sir Michael said that shouldn’t weigh with us if we could help the others, and the ensuing argument kept us from boredom as the evening dragged on.

Another week passed. Since the weather stayed fair, the captain ordered us to paint all the ship’s trim—at sea, you have to keep wood painted or oiled, or it rots.

Sir Michael, Willard, and I were applying scarlet paint to the aft deck rail. It was a bright, clear day with just enough wind to keep the ship moving, and we were all dipping our brushes in the same bucket. Then Willard moved his foot and knocked it over. Sir Michael grabbed for the bucket—we’d both been saving the paint from Willard all morning—but this time he missed, and the paint spilled down to the main deck.

Willard winced. “Sorry. I’ll clean it up.”

I was about to make some reply when I noticed that Sir Michael, who’d leaned over the rail in his attempt to catch the bucket, had evidently frozen there. Then he moved back, stiffly, his expression so grim that my jaw dropped.

I was going to ask what was wrong when I heard footsteps coming up the stair to the aft deck. Bootsteps.

The whole left half of the captain’s face was scarlet, and paint splattered his clothes. He looked like a player who’s been hit with a fruit pie, but no one laughed; this was the man who had beaten the seagull to death. This was the man who regarded an offense against his dignity as the ultimate crime.

We’d been painting the underside of the rail, so all three of us were on our knees, anyway.

“C-c-c-captain.” Willard’s body crumpled under the weight of the captain’s rage. He cowered, twitching with fear, and I thought that his own terror, combined with the shock and pain of flogging, might actually kill him.

“I did it.”

We all turned to Sir Michael. The captain looked startled, but Willard’s face revealed a shamed, desperate hope. I opened my mouth to protest, but Sir Michael grabbed my wrist, squeezing hard, commanding silence. He stood and faced the captain, and I realized the whole ship had fallen silent, watching.

“My apologies, sir,” Sir Michael said, in a clear, carrying voice. “’Twas an accident.”

The sailors in the rigging might have seen what happened. I looked up at them—all but two were watching Sir Michael and the captain, and those two were looking at Willard.

Willard crouched on the deck. He tried to speak but produced nothing but little choking sounds. His white face twisted like a man about to retch. I put my hands on his shoulders, squeezing him into silence. The two sailors above said nothing. I said nothing.

The officers herded the crew off to one side and drew their swords, but we all knew no one would try anything. Sir Michael was pale, but except for a couple of lines between his brows, his face showed no expression. He pulled off his shirt when they told him to, and they tied his wrists to the main mast so we couldn’t see his face.

Cracker and his assistants were summoned from the galley—everyone had to be present. Cracker’s shrewd eyes took in the whole scene, and he went to stand beside Willard. Willard clutched him and began to babble.

The captain, who had gone to his cabin, returned wearing an old shirt and old, dark britches. He carried a whip—a long, leather one, like ox cart drivers use. That kind of whip takes some skill, and for a moment I hoped he wouldn’t know how to handle it, but of course he did. It could have been worse—I’ve heard of sea captains using whips tipped with metal barbs. He flipped out the coil, then flicked it expertly, so the slack rolled down the length of the leather and the end snapped against Sir Michael’s bare back. Sir Michael flinched but didn’t make a sound. A red stripe appeared, and a drop of blood rolled down his skin.

In my opinion, heroism is vastly overrated.

The whip whispered and cracked again. I was about to start cursing my employer for every kind of fool, when I realized this might well be the fate Sir Michael had spared me in Deepbend.

Sir Michael stayed silent at first—though Willard flinched and whimpered at every cut. But that couldn’t last. After a few minutes (I refused to count blows, for that only makes it worse) blood began to splatter on the deck and Sir Michael began moaning, softly.

An odd, sick smile lit the captain’s face. He’d been waiting for Michael to scream and wouldn’t stop until he did. Something Michael would fight to the last.

Vastly
overrated.

But those soft moans marked the beginning of the end of Michael’s self-control—a dozen more blows set him screaming. The captain stopped soon after that and went to change his clothes again.

Willard clung to Cracker, crying.

I wanted to go below and help tend Sir Michael, but they told me that was Cracker’s job and sent me back to work.

Sir Michael was young and strong. He’d be fine in a week or two, no doubt. Absolutely no doubt. There was no reason for my hands to shake for the rest of the afternoon…but they did.

“S
hh, lad, shh, just hold on a bit. Shh.” Cracker’s voice was the second thing I became aware of. The first was my back, which felt as if thorns were being raked across it every time I drew a breath.

The air was thick with the burnt-bitter scent of mallow salve. Cracker’s clothes rustled and I gasped at the sting as he rubbed salve over the whip cuts, but the sting was followed by blessed numbness. For superficial scrapes like these, it would give several hours of ease—more if ’twas magica, but that wasn’t likely on a ship like this one.

I gritted my teeth, and Cracker worked quickly. In only ten minutes the mallow had taken full hold and I was able to sit up, carefully, and drink a mug of clear broth, thick with the taste of various herbs.

“I’ve got to get back to the galley now,” said Cracker. “But your mate can tend you through the night.”

I thought of trying to explain that Fisk was my squire, not my mate, but the pain of lying down again stole my breath, and by the time I recovered it Cracker had gone.

I suspect that some of those herbs were soporific, for within minutes I found my eyelids drooping. The light coming through the airholes was pink with sunset, and I realized, sleepily, that this was going to leave me with some rather explicit scars. Not respectable at all. But remembering poor Willard’s twitching face, I found I had no regrets—rescuing the weak is what a knight errant is supposed to do. And all I had to do, to keep Father from finding out, was to never take off my shirt. ’Twas simple. I was still thinking how simple it was when I drifted off to sleep.

I woke again sometime in the night. My back throbbed and burned, and my throat was tight with thirst. Light hands smoothed salve over the aching welts, and I hissed at the sting.

“Cracker?” I asked. When you’re lying on your stomach, turning your head requires more back muscles than you’d think.

“No, it’s me. Fisk.” ’Twas a good thing he added his name—his voice was so gentle I barely recognized it. Moving very slowly, I turned to look at him.

“You don’t have to sound so kindly. ’Tis not that bad.”

“Thank goodness. Being that kindly was a terrible strain.”

I didn’t dare laugh, but I was glad he sounded more like himself. He leaned down, his eyes searching my face. The rocking candle lantern cast shifting shadows over his. He evidently found what he was looking for—he relaxed and straightened. “You’ll be all right.”

“That’s what I told you.”

I waited for him to tell me that
this
had not been a smart thing to do either, but he said nothing more. His fingers on my back were feather soft—a pickpocket’s touch. How had I ever managed without a squire?

I said as much when he helped me sit up so I could drain a mug of rum-spiked water.

“Don’t get too content with it,” he replied. “I’m hoping that someday you’ll declare my debt repaid.”

“Someday,” I agreed, yawning despite the pain.

“I don’t suppose you’d put a time limit on that?” He tried to sound tough and indifferent, but the softness had crept back into his voice.

“Not yet.” I fought the impulse to yawn again as he laid me down. My back was numb once more, and between that and the rum, I was almost comfortable. “I’ll let you know.”

“You do that,” Fisk said. I wondered if he realized he was smiling.

The next time I awakened I found Fisk sitting, sound asleep, against the wall beside my bed. Ships are never silent, but there’s a deep stillness that prevails over the darkest part of night, and I sensed it now.

The mallow’s numbness was wearing off, and I realized that Fisk must have reapplied it several times without waking me—and had sat up all night to do it. I hated to wake him, but there was a bodily necessity I had to take care of, and I couldn’t sit or stand without help.

“Fisk?”

He woke with a start, stiff and disoriented, and for a moment I forgot my growing discomfort. Fisk is a complex person. I would have to remember this kindness the next time he infuriated me—though the last time, he hadn’t even understood that it was his lack of trust that angered me even more than his lie about being able to fight.

“You’re a very good man,” I said. His face crimsoned from collar to hairline, as if I’d accused him of something shameful.

“I just don’t like pain.” He rubbed his face briskly, regaining control. “Especially if it’s mine. What can I do for you, Noble Sir?”

I’d always known ’twas going to take time.

By morning I could sit up by myself, although I tired quickly when Willard came to speak with me. Or mayhap ’twas simply that ’tis exhausting to be thanked, not to mention wept over. I was relieved when Fisk arrived and kicked Willard out, with a briskness that was not unkind.

The next morning, I felt weak and hot, and there was a place over my lower left ribs that throbbed dully.

I couldn’t see Fisk’s face when he salved my back, but I felt his hands hesitate when he reached the throbbing place. Shortly after that, Cracker came in to examine me, and I realized that one of the cuts had become infected—a thing that magica duckroot will cure easily…but this ship had none.

Cracker soaked the infected weals with warm water to soften them and then rubbed plain duckroot powder over them and replaced the warm damp rags, hoping that heat would take the herbs deeper into the wounds.

My fever rose that night, and my head throbbed in rhythm with my back. I felt vaguely nauseated and was rather cross with Fisk, who sat up with me again, wiping what he could of my face and arms with cool water.

Fisk was allowed to abandon his duties to sit with me. He hadn’t had much sleep the last two nights. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and he hadn’t shaved this morning. I saw that he was frightened for me and thought that I ought to be frightened, too, but I felt too ill to bother. Fisk would take care of it.

Once when I drifted out of sleep, Willard was there, not apologizing, but talking sensibly of the cargo to be off-loaded at Granbor.

“He means to put in on the early tide,” the little clerk said, “off-load as soon as he gets permission, and depart six hours later. Master Fisk, are you sure about this?”

“No,” said Fisk curtly. “But I don’t have a better idea. Help me get him up.”

My blankets were peeled away, and I shivered as cool air swept over my skin. I could see the point in laying three or four clean blankets over my mattress, then putting another tick over them and making the bed again on top, for the extra padding would be more comfortable. But even in my indifferent haze, I wondered why Fisk was cramming four ballast stones into the corners of my bed.

He and Willard talked as they worked. Fisk was strangely concerned about the cargo manifest “looking” right, and Willard kept reassuring him. Willard was nervous, too, and I wanted to reassure him, but I was too tired. Fisk would take care of it.

Time passed. I woke, slept, and woke again in a daze where nothing seemed quite real.

The pain of Fisk’s grip on my shoulder roused me. His face, lined with exhaustion, held an expression of such firm command that it cut through my stupor, and I realized he wanted me to be silent. I nodded understanding and he pulled me out of bed, leaning me against the wall where he had sat for so many nights. ’Twas night now, I saw, and our fellow crewmen slept soundly. They missed a remarkable performance.

In near miraculous silence, Fisk pulled the extra bedding off my bunk and, with the aid of a ball of twine and a knife he must have stolen from the kitchen, he shaped the extra tick into a rough likeness of a sitting man.

He weighted it with the ballast rocks so the roll of the deck wouldn’t tip it awry, and it looked extraordinarily real. I started to tell him so, but his hand clamped over my mouth. I was quite aggrieved, until I remembered I was supposed to be silent. I nodded, and he went back to work.

The dummy in the bed was easier to construct, and only moments later Fisk helped me stumble into the passageway.

The cold, fresh air that poured from the open hatch roused me, and my dazed brain recognized that we were escaping.

“What a good idea,” I told Fisk.

“Shh!”

I was walking toward the ladder that led to the deck, but Fisk steered me around it and on down the corridor.

“Aren’t we going up on deck? I thought—”

“Shh!”

This was not a squirely response, especially the second time. I was going to tell Fisk that, but he clamped a hand over my mouth and glared. Silence. Right. We were escaping.

Fisk snarled under his breath and rushed me through the corridor and down the three steps to the hold so fast I didn’t have time to lose my balance. Then he propped me against the wall and turned to shut the hold door behind us. I gazed at the shadows the lamp cast through the crates and wondered why the door had been unlocked. But when Willard emerged from the shadows, I understood, for the ship’s clerk had access to the keys.

“Have you got the manifests rigged?” Fisk asked.

“All I have to do is fill in the blanks,” Willard told him. “Once the ink dries, there’ll be no way to tell they weren’t written at the start of the voyage.”

“What if the captain recognizes your handwriting?”

“He won’t.” Willard smiled nervously. “I tried to imitate the previous clerk’s writing.”

Willard a forger? There was something different about him tonight—his voice was crisp, and though his movements were as clumsy as ever, his face held a new confidence. Willard had found his courage. But even so…

“Real courage is that you shouldn’t become a forger,” I told him, and then frowned, for that wasn’t quite what I meant to say.

He and Fisk looked at me.

“This can’t work,” Willard told Fisk quietly. “Sooner or later the guards will notice you’re not moving and raise the alarm. You’ll be no use to him if they flog you, too.”

“A good herbalist is the only thing that can help him now.” Fisk wore a fierce expression I had never seen before. “What have you picked out for us?”

“This one for Sir Michael.” Willard gestured to a long narrow box. “The manifest says it’s full of tapestries. I thought it would be best for him to lie down.”

“That’s fine.” Fisk had somehow acquired an iron crowbar and now he started prying up the box’s lid. He worked carefully, but the nails screamed softly as they withdrew from the wood, and Willard flinched.

“Don’t worry. There’s too much wind for them to hear us on deck, and everyone else is asleep.”

“I’m…I’m not sure I can close that up again. I’m not much good with a hammer,” said Willard.

“I’ll do it. All you have to do is fasten me in. What did you choose for me, by the way?”

Willard gestured to an old wine barrel, more than five feet tall. “It’s got a big, carved chair in it. They’re part of a shipment that no one will miss till we get to Tallow Port. All you have to do is tell me who to send you to.”

“Who to
send
us to?” Fisk stopped prying at the nails and stared at Willard.

“An address that your…containers should be shipped to. The harbormaster won’t accept them without an address.”

“Send us wherever the rest…no. They might give us back to the captain. Send us to Master Greenman. There’s a dozen Greenmans in every town, right?”

“Maybe, but the harbormaster will want to know which one—he’s not going to take a crate he can’t deliver. You’ve got to have a name, Master Fisk.”

“But I don’t know any merchants in Granbor!” Fisk hissed, wrenching up the lid of the tapestry box. “Help me get these out—we’ll drop them in the bilge. Come on, Willard, you live on this coast—you must have heard of someone—the richest merchant, the local baron, the town brothel keeper…”

“I haven’t.” Willard grunted as they hefted a big roll of fabric out of the box.

“Well, I’ve never even heard of Gran…Wait a minute, I have. Granbor and tapestries, by the two moons! Lady Kathryn, I
will
teach you to sew! Paid or not! Send us to Mistress Kara the weaver.”

“That will be wonderful,” I told them. “With a needle, Kathy needs all the help she can get.”

“He’s talkative tonight,” Willard observed, as they laid me down on a folded tapestry in the bottom of the long crate. “How are you going to keep him quiet?”

“Can’t—he might suffocate if I gagged him. And, Willard, if we do get caught, don’t get stupid and heroic and confess. There’s no sense in you going down with us.”

“Don’t worry.” Willard smiled. “I’m not such a fool. Though it’s rather flattering that you think I might be.”

Fisk snorted. “It might be flattering to your courage, but it’s a cursed insult to your intelligence. You’re a brave man, Willard, and a smart one. We owe you for this. I’ll tell the judicars what happened, both here and in Cory Port, but that won’t do much good. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“You owe me nothing,” said Willard. “At least, he doesn’t. But if you could tell my wife—”

At this point they lowered the lid on the crate and the rest of the conversation was lost as Fisk nailed me in, which was a pity.

The tapping stopped and I heard nothing afterward but a few muffled thumps—presumably the carved chair being removed from the barrel and thrown into the bilge. I was sorry that they were destroying another’s property, but ’twas dark in the crate, and peaceful, and Fisk would take care of any problems…. I went to sleep.