On the Black Wind to Baldairn Motte

Part 9.

The eight-day voyage was an eternity for Lyrie. Locked in the cabin with only a small candle lantern to see by, she had no way of discerning night from day, no way of gauging the passage of time. The first day she vomited until there was nothing left. She cleaned herself the best she could, but when Lord Klaye came to her, he curled his nose at the stench. He flipped her over anyway and took her from behind. She didn't bother trying to please him, just concentrated on preventing herself from dry heaving.

When she was alone she slept fitfully, rolling into the cabin wall with each rise and fall of the ship, waking in confusion only to remember where she was and collapse again. Everild brought her bread and water, and she ate and drank slowly. She forced herself to breathe in a pattern like she had once seen an older whore do after taking silphium to rid herself of a pregnancy. The breathing pattern calmed Lyrie's stomach, so she was able to hold down her food, but she still felt nauseated.

When she asked Everild how much longer they would be at sea he ignored her, so she asked Lord Klaye when he next visited.

"Two days, ten—I don't know," he said as he removed his trousers. "Sunspar is an inland hamlet, and I know little of sailing."

"Mightn't I walk up onto deck and get some fresh air, my lord? It would do me some good and—" She grunted.

"Not unless you want to be raped by a hundred and fifty sailors and soldiers."

She adjusted herself beneath him. "For a moment's fresh air, it might be worth it."

"No, I'm not willing to share you," he said, and he actually kissed her.

The rest of the voyage went much the same. She nibbled bread, sipped water, spread her legs for Lord Klaye—who was sometimes tender, sometimes a vacant-eyed animal—and she slept across three saddles she threw onto the floor to keep herself off the residual vomit and sea moisture that clung to everything. When they finally reached North Port, they might have been sailing for months for all Lyrie could tell.

Everild came to her and helped her don the guise she'd worn while sneaking onto the ship: the baggy cloak and vest that obscured the shape of her breasts, the liripipe, which she tucked her hair into, and the leather boots that were too wide in the foot.

"What do you say if anyone asks who you are?" Everild tested her.

"Nothing. I'm a mute."

"That's right, you're mute, boy. Now stay close to my side."

He led the way from the cabin up the steep stairs onto the main deck where a sodden Lord Klaye waited for them. Rain was coming down in sheets, blowing sideways in the gusting wind. Lyrie tipped her head back and let the raindrops pelt her face and wash away a week's worth of filth. She never thought air could taste so good or that she would be so happy to find herself in the rain.

"Come," Everild snapped at her, and they made their way down the gangplank to the docks amidst a seething mass of sailors and soldiers. Lyrie's legs wobbled and she had to grab onto Lord Klaye's cloak to keep from careening into the men around her. She had been pleading to the Passions to finally set foot on solid ground again, but when they stepped from the floating docks onto the muddy streets of North Port the ground still rocked beneath her feet. If it were not for the rain and wind in her face she would have been sick again.

North Port was nothing like Gaulang. It was a shabby town, hugging the crescent shaped shoreline of the bay and curving northerly into the inlet of the River Ordan. The buildings had a sense of impermanence about them, as if the builders were resigned to the fact that nothing built of wood could long withstand the winds and driving moisture that came off the sea. The roofs were shingled with wood and had loose stones dispersed across them, but even still, many shingles had been blown off, revealing the straw thatching beneath that was blackened with mildew.

The majority of the buildings around the docks were small warehouses. There were a few taverns and brothels—most of their windows and doors boarded shut against the flood of soldiers and sailors—and then away from the docks, were small hovels, grouped together in clusters around common gardens. Nothing much grew in the gardens, and there was no sign of any townspeople anywhere. There were only soldiers. Whoever lived here had fled.

Lyrie followed Lord Klaye and Everild through the muddy paths weaving between the clusters of buildings. When they reached the outskirts of the town, they halted, taken aback. Thousands upon thousands of tents and pavilions covered the hillsides, their pennons snapping in the wet wind. A score of makeshift corrals held a hundred or more horses a piece, and even in the rain, the camp bustled with people: soldiers digging latrines, cooks stoking fires, smiths banging out horseshoes and spear points, soldiers sparring, and camp whores making their rounds. The Stone Road ribboned away from town to the north. To either side of the bemired tract, a mass of humanity blotted out the landscape.

"Balin's sac," Lord Klaye muttered.

"The armies from Kiln arrived before us," Everild noted. "And the Lord Chancellor too, it seems. That is his banner above the large pavilion."

"Find my own banner. Make sure our men have seen to our horses and erected our tent properly, then come fetch me. I'll want to change before meeting with my cousin. Lyrie will stay here with me."

Everild nodded and strode away into the war camp. Lord Klaye grabbed Lyrie by the shirtsleeve and pulled her to the side of one of the nearby hovels to take shelter beneath the overhanging roof thatching. "Stand close to me and pretend like we are speaking," he told her. "Pleasure me with your hands, but make sure no one takes notice."

She stepped closer to him and reached into his trousers as surreptitiously as possible. He sighed and closed his eyes. "When we get to my tent, I want you to clean yourself up and put on a dress. You're to stay inside the tent at all times. I'll not have you be taken for one of these slatterns skulking about the camp."

"Of course. When you spoke of your cousin, my lord, did you mean the Lord Chancellor himself is your cousin?" Lyrie knew he had not meant to have an actual conversation with her, but she was good with her hands—persuasive.

He let out a soft groan. "Of course. Lord Galkmeer wasa ward in Sunspar when we were boys. We grew up together, riding horses andherding cattle. I taught him much of what he knows. In fact, it would have beenI who was Master of Horse to King Dermid if I weren't the heir to Sunspar.Perhaps it should have been me, but no matter—Sunspar will have its glory soonenough...Faster now."