The entire land sets out to work.
All beasts browse on their herbs,
Trees, herbs are sprouting,
Birds fly from their nests . . .
Ships fare north, fare south as well.
Roads lie open when you rise;
The fish in the river dart before you,
Your rays are in the midst of the sea.—The Great Hymn to the Aten, Stanza Three
Barak stood by himself at the bow, leaning on the rail. Starlight shimmered on the flat black water ahead; an occasional wash of cool spray tingled his face.
He unhitched a small waterskin from the railing, taking a small swig of the leathery water to wash out his mouth. Which didn't do much good; his tongue still tasted like vomit. At least he was adjusting, thank whatever. The first two days aboard the Ganness' Pride had been a continual bout with nausea—of all of them, why the hell did he have to be the only seasick one?
It was getting better, a little. His feet had picked up the rhythm of the pitching deck and his gut had unknotted; while he had no urge to let anything but water past his lips, he could keep from throwing up, as long as he kept his eyes on the horizon. Sleep was impossible, except for a few brief snatches—a nap was an almost certain invitation to another battle with the dry heaves.
He rubbed at the back of his neck. It could be worse; he could be dead. At least he was alone for a while, or as close to that as possible; the bow of the boat was long and slender. He could ignore the scurrying of feet on the deck, and just watch starlight.
Footsteps sounded behind him. Sandaled feet, walking over-heavily.
"Come to push me overboard, Walter?"
The thief chuckled. "As I understand it, that might have been a favor, yesterday, or the day before—to more people than you. On the other hand, I owe you my life. You think that letting your stupidity pass is a fair trade, Karl?"
There was just a touch of emphasis on the name; he let it pass. "At least you're talking to me. The only other words I've heard from any of you during the two days we've been on this garbage scow were to the effect of 'Don't throw up on me.' " He found himself shivering, so he picked up the blanket from between his feet, gathering it around his shoulders. Another night sleeping on deck—or not sleeping . . . well, that was better than putting up with the stony silence of his so-called friends.
Walter took a position at his side, joining in his staring campaign at the Cirric. He was back in his normal clothing—or lack of it—but the chill air coming across the water didn't seem to affect him. "You're getting off easy, Karl. You did a dumb thing—two, actually, if Ahira wasn't exaggerating about your trying to strike up a conversation during the fight."
"He wasn't. And I did know better. It was just that—"
"It was just that you were acting like Karl Cullinane, when you should have been busy being Barak. If that makes any sense to you." Walter shrugged. "Which I hope it does. I think that's what killed . . . Jason."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're sure he's dead?"
"Yeah. I heard his screams as I was running away." Walter shuddered. "Which makes me hope to God he's dead. We'll be lucky if he's the only one of us to die before we reach the Gate."
"If we reach the Gate."
"Right." Walter produced a piece of jerky, tore it in half. "Chew on it slowly, eh?" He stuck the other half in his own mouth.
"Thanks." It wasn't bad, actually. As tough as a piece of old leather, but the flavor was rich and strangely sweet, reminiscent of hickory. Hardly salty at all—he suppressed that thought; just the notion of salt made him gag. "But you didn't ask the right question."
"I didn't ask any question—but what do you think the right one is?"
"Try this: Should we try to find the Gate?" He felt Walter's gaze, turned to see the smaller man staring quizzically. "Or hasn't that occurred to you?"
A shrug. "It has—particularly an hour or so back—but never mind that. Tell me: How do your teeth feel?"
Barak started at the non sequitur. "Huh?"
"Your teeth, your teeth. You know, the things you chew with? How do they feel?"
"Well, fine, but—oh." He nodded.
"Right. The only dentistry they've got here is clerical spells. And that gets to be expensive; magic isn't that common. I spent a bit of time pumping some of the sailors; there's one—one—cleric in Lundeport, and he sounds to be about B-Class, from their description. Pandathaway's going to be different, so I hear, but clerics and wizards will hardly be growing on trees even there." He sighed. "So if you decide to stay, you can say goodbye to medicine and dentistry, among other things. Bet your teeth rot right out of your head within a few years."
" 'Among other things'? Like football, for example?" He chuckled. "You that eager to stomp more quarterbacks?"
"Yes, football, too. As well as reasonably safe homes and streets—you can forget that, if you stay here. And you can give up on any profession other than cutting people up. And you can probably count on not making it to old age." He cocked his head. "You may be a heavy-duty swordsman, m'friend, but you're going to run up against somebody better—or luckier—if you stay in the profession."
Barak sighed. Walter was right, of course; he was just being contrary, still burning because the others were shunning him for talking that way to Doria. Not that she—
Don't get off the track. Remember the smell of that soldier's burning flesh? He wrinkled his nose. "I didn't exactly have much of a profession, back there. Andy-Andy was right; I've always been a dilettante." He stopped talking to chew on the jerky, keeping it slow, ignoring his stomach's protestations. "She isn't speaking to me, either. I think she blames me for getting her into this."
"You could be right." Walter took a final nibble and tossed his stub of jerky forward. "And I don't think Doria's exactly thrilled with you. She doesn't understand."
He snorted. "And you do?"
"I think so. I'm not sure your stupidity is your fault. Though it damn well is your responsibility." Walter shook his head slowly. "When you talk about a woman's sexual habits, Karl, it's not exactly nice to make her sound like a . . . public utility. You wouldn't have done that, say, a week ago, back on the other side. Hope you get over it soon."
"What the hell are you talking about?" He didn't bother to keep the irritation out of his voice. Maybe being ignored was better than being nagged at. Nagged at by a thief who didn't have the slightest notion what it was like to be a warrior. The stupid . . .
"Remind me to gamble with you some time. I wish I could have read Doc's letter as easily as I can read your face." He scuffed a sandal against the deck. "Trouble with you, Karl, is that you spend too much time thinking like a warrior. 'To a warrior, everything is either a challenge, or a reward'—right?"
"That's right."
"Including, say, a woman?"
"Now, wait—"
"You wait. Hear me out. If a woman is supposed to be one or the other, it would stand to reason that one who sleeps around a lot isn't much of a challenge, no? And if anybody can have her—that isn't true for any woman I know, but let it pass—then she isn't much of a reward, either. Eh? I didn't hear you."
"Why don't you just leave me alone?" If he didn't, Barak could break him like a twig. Idly, he glanced down at the other's waist. Walter wasn't even wearing his knives.
Which reminds me—he turned to make sure his sword was still lashed to the forward mast. It hung there reassuringly.
Walter went on as though he hadn't interrupted. "I'm not talking about Doria, now. She's got some problems. Which are none of your business—although you might have known about them if you'd talked to her, that time, instead of grabbing your pants and—"
"Shut up." The time Karl made it with Doria wasn't exactly one of his favorite memories. "Sounds like somebody talks too much. As well as—"
"You keep your mouth closed when you don't know what you're talking about. Okay?" Walter glared up at him. "Now, as I was saying, consider this: Maybe, just maybe, there's nothing wrong with a woman—or a man, for that matter—having sex with somebody she likes, for her own damn reasons, not yours. And not because it's a reward, but just because she wants to."
"So?" He rubbed at his eyes. It was . . . confusing. To his Karl-self, that sounded reasonable, even obvious. But to Barak, it was absurd. Worse—immoral, and—
"So if you try thinking of Doria as a person, instead of a . . . community facility, maybe you won't make such an ass of yourself again." Walter smiled. "Or not over that, anyway."
"Thanks a lot." He put all the sarcasm he could muster into his voice. "But I don't remember asking you to come over and tell me what a jerk I am. Why the hell are you bothering me?"
The thief considered it for a moment. "Two reasons. I'll reserve one, for the time being, but the other . . . is kind of complicated. Part of it is that I owe you. I kept slipping in and out of consciousness the other night, but I do remember you stopping one of those bastards who was after my blood." Walter toyed with the spot on his shoulder where the knife had been. Even the scar was gone now. "But mainly it's that it seems to me you've got one hell of a lot of potential. You use it right, and you can be one fine human being, Karl Cullinane."
Barak smiled. "And if I don't?"
"Depends on the situation." Walter's smile was icy. "I care about Doria. Maybe I couldn't take you in a fair fight, but you hurt her like that again, you damn well better make sure you never turn your back to me. Ever. Understood, my friend?" There was no trace of sarcasm in that last.
Barak shook his head. He didn't understand Walter; he never had. Football hero Walter Slovotsky could have had practically any woman on campus—and frequently did. But why Doria?
"Why Doria?" Walter echoed his thoughts. "I tell you, we've got to get up a poker game, once we get back." He chuckled, then sobered. "Because I know more about her than you do—remind me to tell you about it, the next time I'm into breaking confidences."
"How about right now?"
"Well . . ." Walter shrugged. "As long as you understand you have to keep your big mouth—"
"There you are. Walter, I—oh." Andy-Andy's voice cut off as if someone had thrown a switch. Possibly her eyes hadn't adjusted from the lighted cabins below, spotting Hakim's light skin and white trousers before she had been able to see Barak, wrapped in a dark blanket, concealed in shadow.
Walter waved her away. "I'll be back down in a minute."
"Then you told him—you didn't."
"He didn't tell me what?" Barak turned.
She was barefoot, wearing only a loosely belted silken robe, probably borrowed from Ganness. Her long hair was mussed, as though she had been sleeping. Or not sleeping. "What were you going to tell me, Walter?"
The thief answered calmly, "I've got nothing to tell you, Karl." He backed off a step. "Just take it easy."
"I said, what is it you were going to tell me?"
She glared at him. "You don't own me, Karl. I can—"
"Shut your mouth." Walter jerked a thumb at Barak. "You don't have to rub his nose in it. Now get back belowdecks, please."
Barak moved away from the railing, his weight transferred to the balls of his feet. Plenty of room . . . "Yes, please do," he said, never taking his eyes from the thief. Watch his navel—the center of gravity is always there. He can't fake you out if you don't let him. "So, you were going to reserve telling me you'd slept with her, eh? This whole thing wasn't about Doria, was it? You were just taking out a bit of insurance."
"I thought you might take it wrong." Walter balanced himself lightly on his feet, his eyes flicking from side to side. He moved away slowly, the soles of his sandals whisking on the deck.
"Bad choice. Much better to keep bare feet on deck. This way, you're liable to slip, fall overboard." He circled around, the traces of nausea vanishing. The only weapons nearby were the stacked crossbows, the boltbins, and Barak's sword, all lashed to the forward mast. And they were at Barak's back—if Walter didn't want to take him on barehanded, he'd have to go through him in order to lay his hands on a weapon.
"I doubt it, Karl." Walter held out both palms. "Just take it easy, and we'll talk about—"
"Don't stall. She's gone. And if I hear anybody behind me, I'll break your neck before I send you on your way. You don't have much of a chance at best. Want to try for none?"
"No. I don't want to fight at all." Walter shifted to a fighting stance, his body angled slightly away from Barak, his hands held chest-high. "Because I'm under a handicap. I don't want to hurt you—"
"That's too bad." Barak smiled, mirroring Walter's position, keeping his hands open, relaxed, ready to form fists, or parry a kick with an openhanded block. "Take your best shot." He's liable to try a feint toward the head, then actually go for the body. Or vice versa. But it's going to be something tricky.
Walter smiled. "Fine. Then, think about this. If you—"
"I meant to try to hit me, little man. Not talk."
"Doesn't the condemned man get a last speech? If you kill me now, it's because you think I've violated your property rights. And that would mean that Andrea's your property, Karl. You go around owning people, do you?"
Barak moved in, kicked out sideways. Walter blocked it with a forearm, but the force of the kick sent him crashing up against the rail.
He sprang off the rail at Barak. The thief extended a hand, reaching for Barak's throat—
Barak clubbed it aside with a heavy fist, then brought both fists down on Walter's rising knee. A backhanded slap sent the thief skittering toward the bow, half stunned.
It would be easy, now. All he'd have to do is flip Walter up and over. He took a step forward—
You go around owning people, do you?
Why not? said Barak. Of course not, said Karl.
What's wrong with that? You don't own people. It's wrong.
—grabbed the thief's upper arms, lifted him—
He slept with my woman. If she's ever going to be my I have to kill him. woman, it's going to be in the
Honor demands it. same sense as my friend,
not my dog.
—and set him on his feet. Karl Cullinane glared down at him. "You manipulating bastard."
"Karl?" Walter shook his head to clear it. "I'm sorry—"
"Don't press your luck. I'm not going to kill you, but don't expect me to—"
Footsteps thundered on the deck behind him. He turned; Andy-Andy, Aristobulus, Doria, and Ahira stopped a few feet away, sleepy-eyed seamen crowding the deck behind them.
Ahira hefted his axe. "What the hell is going on here?"
Walter rubbed at the side of his neck. "Can't a couple of people have a quiet discussion without drawing a crowd?"
Karl sighed, letting his adrenaline high fade into a deep weariness. Ignoring raised eyebrows and half-voiced questions, he shouldered his way through the crowd, toward the forward hatch. "Wake me when we get to Pandathaway. I've got some sleep to catch up on."
Walter nodded, unfastening Karl's sword from the mast. He tossed it to him. "Don't lose it."
"Thanks." He started down the ladder.
Andy-Andy grabbed at his arm. "Karl, wait. I . . . I want to talk to you, explain—"
He pried her fingers from his sleeve. "There's nothing I want to hear from you." I am Karl Cullinane. Karl, not Barak. I'll learn from my Barak-self, but I won't be him.
Ever.
But damned if I'm going to be the same Karl Cullinane you've been leading on as long as I've known you. "I don't want you to talk to me, except when it's in the line of duty. Is that clear?" He didn't wait for an answer before turning to Doria. "I owe you an apology, Dore. And I pay my debts—do you want it long and flowery, or is the intention good enough?"
Doria nodded gently, her face studiously blank, but her eyes smiling. "Long and flowery, I think. Since I have a choice."
A tightness in his chest grew, as though steel bands were being clamped on his heart. He forced a chuckle. "Later, then. You deserve to have it when I'm completely awake." He pursed his lips. "But for now—you've always played fair with me. I had no business passing judgment on you. I promise it won't ever happen again." He exhaled deeply. "And now, goodnight."
Doria cocked her head to one side, her expression becoming infinitely tender. "Are you sure you want to sleep alone? Just sleep."
If I accept the invitation, it'd hurt Andy just as much as she hurt— "I think I'd better be by myself." No, it wouldn't.
Besides, playing people off against each other isn't the sort of thing that Karl Cullinane is going to do.
He gripped the pommel of his sword tightly, so tightly that his white knuckles stood out in broad relief.
But I would have. Last week, last month—even yesterday. What is happening to me?
He shrugged, and walked slowly to the nearest cabin, ignoring the rush of sound on deck.
I guess I must be growing up.
It must be that. He sat on a bunk and buried his face in his hands. Nothing else could hurt this much.