From the pitch and roll of the ship, they were well out to sea and any chance of escape was long gone.
Some warrior he’d turned out to be.
The door swung open, lantern light speared into his eyes, making made him flinch.
A thick-fingered hand reached in and dragged him to his feet. ‘Bring beans, an’ onions. Come.’
He’d been expecting the kitchen lad or the ship’s surgeon; certainly not the cook. The man was big, beefy and impatient. His Rolencian was minimal and Garzik knew from the bruises on Arolt’s face that the cook let his hands do the talking.
Since there was no point arguing, Garzik found a sack of beans and onions and followed the man along to the galley, where a meal bubbled away.
Immediately, his stomach knotted with hunger.
The cook slit the bag’s stitching and upended the beans into a pot, then he gestured to the chopping board. ‘Onions.’ He imitated dicing.
‘Isn’t that Arolt’s job?’ Garzik dared to ask.
An open hand caught the side of his head, knocking him into a bench and bruising his ribs. Ear burning, head ringing, he picked up the knife. For a heartbeat he imagined driving it through the cook’s chest.
The man grinned and beckoned him.
Garzik turned away to the chopping board. Soon onion-induced tears streamed from his eyes. Trapped in the galley, he could not escape the cooking smells and his stomach contracted painfully.
He kept expecting Arolt to return from running an errand, but there was no sign of the lad. The longer it went on, the more worried he became. But with the reminder of his stinging ear and sore ribs every time he breathed, he wasn’t about to ask after Arolt. He’d prepared enough meals while hunting with Captain Blackwing not to disgrace himself in the galley. Once the onions were done, he handed the chopping board to the cook, who tipped the contents into the pot.
Garzik licked his lips. ‘Uh, I really have to pee.’
The cook used the knife to gesture for him to go. ‘Back quick, or...’ He mimed what he’d do and Garzik instinctively covered himself.
Not sure why he had been demoted to kitchen lad, Garzik went along the passage to relieve himself. On his way back, he spotted the surgeon, who must have been watching for him.
Rishardt beckoned from the doorway of his cabin and Garzik hurried over to join him. They both ducked inside.
‘What happened to Arolt? Did the cook hurt –’
‘Arolt jumped ship in Rolencia,’ the surgeon told him. ‘You’re the kitchen lad until we can find another one. Whatever you do, don’t anger the cook. He killed the lad before Arolt with one blow, just lashed out and cracked his skull.’
Garzik shuddered.
‘Don’t worry. He knows he’ll have to deal with me, if he hurts you.’
‘Why...’ Garzik began, recalling how rude he’d been to the surgeon last time they spoke. ‘Why –’
‘Help a seven-year-slave?’ Rishardt shrugged. ‘I might be a drunken sot living amongst men who act like beasts, but that doesn’t mean I have to sink to their level.’
In that moment the surgeon reminded Garzik of Captain Blackwing. A surge of fellow feeling surprised him. Neither of them could ever go home. Garzik’s home no longer existed. As for Rishardt, a powerful noble would ruin his family if he returned. No wonder he drank. One rash act had changed his life. Talk about being led around by your prick. Still...
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did.’
The surgeon blinked in surprise.
Loud, raucous laughter reached them from the lower middeck where the men-at-arms slept and ate. They both stiffened, responding to the underlying threat.
‘That’s Lord Neirn’s honour guard. Watch out for them,’ Rishardt warned. ‘They’re full of hubris and contemptuous of anyone who isn’t a warrior. In that, they’re like their lord. Travany wants him for an ally. He wants this so much Trafyn serves as Neirn’s squire.’ He saw Garzik did not understand. ‘Trafyn is his youngest son, he –’
‘Boy!’ the cook bellowed.
‘Go. And keep your head down.’
Garzik went.
Preparing food for the whole crew, a lord and his squires and his men-at-arms in a tiny galley required organisation and timing. The cook kept Garzik on his toes.
By the time the first pot was ready to serve, Garzik was no longer hungry. He’d gone past hunger. Instead, he felt faint; and sounds echoed strangely in his head.
No seven-year-slaves this trip. The ship carried Rolencian treasures and a dozen elite men-at-arms, lord Neirn’s honour guard. A lowly kitchen boy was beneath their notice, as Garzik discovered when he served up their meal. Several of the honour guard were seasick, but the rest devoured their dinner. Then there was the crew to feed.
Eventually, the cook sent Garzik to deliver a more elaborate meal to the captain’s cabin, where a youth no older than himself took the tray at the door.
While the squire looked the food over with a frown, Garzik glanced past him to the table where Lord Neirn sat opposite the captain. He was in the prime of life, with only a touch of silver at his temples. And there was another squire, a little older than the first. Either of them could have been Lord Travany’s youngest son.
‘Tell cook he’ll have to do better,’ the squire told Garzik. ‘And bring wine. A crisp Merofynian white. Neirn hates crude Rolencian reds.’
Since he’d spoken Merofynian, Garzik summoned a confused look and used the one Merofynian word, he’d ‘learned’ so far. ‘What?’
The youth cursed in Merofynian, then switched to Rolencian, repeating himself. ‘...and don’t say there’s no white wine. This is my father’s ship. I know he keeps a good wine cellar.’
‘Trafyn, what’s the delay?’ the second squire came over. Taller than both of them and well dressed, he didn’t even bother to acknowledge Garzik.
‘Just a stupid seven-year-slave, Isfyl,’ Trafyn told him, then switched to Rolencian. ‘Don’t stand about. Bring the wine and the rest of the food.’
This meant several more trips, as the spicy beans were not to Lord Neirn’s liking. After Garzik had delivered an alternative dish, whipped up by the cursing cook, he had to stand in the doorway while the two squires served Lord Neirn and the captain. He knew the ship’s captain well enough now to realise this was another lord the captain considered a prick, and a dangerous one at that.
Neirn twice returned wine bottles, demanding a better vintage. It worried Garzik; he suspected the uncorked bottles would find their way to the surgeon’s cabin. All the while Neirn boasted of his prowess on the battlefield and his cunning as a commander. According to him, Rolencia had been an easy conquest.
‘...and the women. Such beauties. Worth every scratch. In fact, the more they fought the better!’ He reached down to cup himself. ‘I swear I had a different one every night and sowed a bastard in every last one of them. It was a feast of Rolencian cunny.’ He grinned and gestured to Isfyl. ‘This one managed three in a row. Even Traf dipped his wick and came up smiling!’
Fury washed through Garzik. His sister had been at home when the Merofynians captured the family estate. Elina would have fought, but she was fine-boned. No matter how fierce her will, she was no match for a man’s strength. Had she been left with a Merofynian bastard in her belly? His father would turn her out.
Lucky for her, Orrade was the new lord.
But even that thought could not make him smile. If he’d had a knife and the opportunity, he would have gelded Neirn and his squires.
Poor Elina. Did she still live? He found himself wishing selfishly that she did. Even if it meant she bore a bastard. At least Piro hadn’t suffered before she died. He hoped.
‘The spoils of war,’ the captain agreed. ‘What of the king’s missing sons? Any news?’
Garzik looked up swiftly, forgetting that he wasn’t supposed to understand Merofynian. No one noticed. They were all watching Neirn.
‘Not yet.’ He waved his fork dismissively. ‘But their days are numbered. We’ve offered a reward that would make a farmer rich as a merchant markiz. Someone will reveal their hiding place.’
He’s wrong. Rolencia would never betray Byren,
Garzik thought. Then he remembered Feo. A man like him might betray Byren for a fortune. It all depended on whether he hated Merofynians more than he loved luxury.
When the conversation moved on to the voyage and the problem of Utland raiders, who were particularly bad this year, Garzik stopped listening. Instead, he watched the food disappear, stomach cramping with hunger.
What Neirn did not eat was taken from the table and devoured by his two squires. Isfyl had first pick, leaving Trafyn with the leftovers.
Finally, when they were all done, Garzik was told to clear the table and take the scraps away. He kept his eyes lowered, piled the first tray high and backed out. As soon as he was alone on deck, he sank to his knees and grabbed the nearest chunk of half-eaten bread, stuffing it in his mouth. Soggy with onion gravy, it tasted wonderful, but even as he swallowed, self-contempt seared him.
He had become a savage, grateful for scraps.
The same instant he thought this, he heard Orrade’s dry voice in his head, correcting him. Instead of hating himself, he should reserve his contempt for the men who had driven him to this.
It was true. But logic did not fill his belly.
Ignoring any sailors who passed by, he ate everything he could, because he didn’t know when he’d get to eat again.
‘Best get below,’ a familiar voice advised. He looked up to see Sionor, leaning over him. ‘We’re in for a bit of a blow.’
Garzik finally noticed the stiff breeze and activity as the sails were reduced. Nodding his thanks, he grabbed the tray and headed down to the galley. It took three trips to clear the captain’s cabin, and by then, the pitch of the deck made scrubbing the pots and plates a challenge.
While Garzik worked, the cook secured the galley, putting everything away and banking down the brazier.
With the last pot scrubbed and secured, Garzik turned to find the cook watching him, and he did not like the glint in the man’s eye.
‘Surgeon Rishardt said he needs me,’ Garzik lied.
‘Be back before dawn.’
Garzik ducked past him, heading straight for the surgeon’s cabin. He didn’t feel safe until he’d closed the door and bolted it. The cabin was dark except for the glow of the brazier. By its light he spotted Rishardt fast asleep in his bunk, fully dressed with a bottle of wine in his arms.
Taking the bottle by the neck he tried to slip it free.
The surgeon woke instantly.
Garzik gestured to the bottle. ‘I thought you might drop it.’
Rishardt released the wine.
After putting the bottle away, Garzik made sure everything was secure. The surgeon watched him.
Gesturing to the surgeon’s chest, Garzik asked, ‘do you want your nightshirt?’
Rishardt shook his head. ‘If I’m going to drown, I don’t want to drown in my nightshirt.’
Garzik blinked, not sure if the surgeon was joking.
‘Go to sleep, Wynn. The ship’s survived hundreds of storms.’
Yet the surgeon remained fully dressed.
Garzik curled up under the bench with a blanket. Although he was grateful for his bed, he did not look forward to spending the whole voyage at the cook’s beck and call.
By dawn, the seas were so high the cook could not prepare a hot meal. Garzik was sent around with a basket of smoked meat, bread and cheese.
By midday, he, like everyone else, was holding on for dear life.
T
WO DAYS OF
being thrown around, sleeping wedged under the surgeon’s bench, eating smoked meat and stale bread until that ran out. Two days of the men-at-arms and even sailors being sick. The smell was enough to turn Garzik’s stomach, but he wasn’t sick again, which was just as well because the surgeon found the wine and drank steadily. Then he threw up everything in his stomach until he was a trembling wreck.
In the middle of the second night someone banged on the surgeon’s door. Garzik stumbled to his feet, lit the lamp and opened the door. Two sailors helped a third inside. They were all sopping wet, even with their seal-skin vests securely fastened. The middle one held his cap in place as blood poured down his face.
‘A wave knocked Lleu off his feet,’ a sailor explained. ‘Gashed his head open.’
‘Almost swept him overboard,’ the other confirmed.
‘I’m fine. Just fine,’ Lleu insisted, when clearly he wasn’t.
Rishardt ignored this. ‘Strap him to the table.’
‘No need for straps,’ Lleu insisted. ‘I won’t flinch. I’ll sit still.’
‘No one can sit still in this,’ the surgeon told him. ‘You’ll be strapped in or I’m not touching you.’ The surgeon caught Garzik’s hand, putting it on the sailor’s head. ‘Keep pressure on the wound.’
As they followed instructions, Rishardt gathered what he needed. This done, he sent the others off.
Garzik had to hold onto the bench and brace his legs against the pitch of the deck, but he kept the pressure on.
Meanwhile, the surgeon brought the lantern closer, hanging it from a hook. He propped a tray on the injured man’s chest. ‘Hold this.’