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Interlude
Izmir
 

Revenge, so the Siciliani say, is a dish best served cold. My own disagreement with that is the fear that if it's left to chill, it will eventually spoil, and become impossible to eat.

Although, in every case I can think of, I would surely choke it down, and in the case of Alexander, I'd envy and resent the man who dined on that meal.

—Gray

Randolph stopped himself from wrapping his blankets more tightly about him, and watched through narrowed eyes as Smith came up the hatch, apparently to take the morning air.

The Izmiri coast loomed not only ahead of them, but all about them, as though threatening to come together and crush the ship. Marinarice lay at the north end of the sheltered harbor, and protected from both the sea and the winds and—with what Randolph thought of as a pitifully small garrison at Adakoy—from pirate raids, more or less. Most likely, it was the combination of not much of value to steal and the difficulty in raiding that had kept Marinarice safe from pirate raids for the past years, although even Guild ships made it a point to pay—and pay well—for the services of the local fishermen who supplemented their catch with reports of ship movements. Easy enough to catch a merchantman in the narrow passage out and into the Med proper. But, then again, it was prime hunting ground for the Blue Fleet's pirate patrols, as well, and it would have been comforting for Lieutenant Randolph to think that that was the cause of it.

He hadn't intended to find himself on the same trader as Smith, but it had happened nonetheless.

He really hadn't had any other choice, when he had followed Smith and his party to Kyrnia; there were no other Guild ships bound for Marinarice, and retracing his steps to Limmasol, and hoping to find a faster ship, leaving promptly, with the same destination, would have been far too optimistic. The Lord might be on the side of the righteous, after all, but He rarely saw to the details.

It had been a risk, of course, but a necessary one. Smith had left his men—and the girl—in Kyrnia, and while he seemed to give the deck passengers an occasional cursory look, it was the other stateroom passengers that seemed to draw most of his attention.

Of course, in one sense, they might as well have been on different ships—Smith had one of the staterooms below, while Randolph had taken deck passage, and had but a chalked rectangle on the raised poop deck to call his home for the journey; the foredecks were forbidden to deck passengers except for just after sunset and just before sunrise, when they were permitted to take what little exercise was possible, while separated from their higher-paying betters.

Smith stalked over to the quarterdeck, and mounted it without so much as a by-your-leave, something that grated on Alphonse Randolph—had the man no manners at all?—but didn't seem to bother the captain, despite him having to give constant attention to the wheel for the approach.

Randolph didn't think much of the captain. Guild sailors were supposedly experts at their craft, but Captain Hans—his surname was Lubeck, of course, from his clan, but the crew of the ship were all Lubecks, and he was known as Uncle Hans to all of the crew, and Captain Hans to the passengers—should not have tolerated a passenger on his quarterdeck, not on a tricky approach in a narrow channel, and never mind the discourtesy.

For once, the wind was this sailor's friend—it carried their conversation to him.

"I would guess it would be another hour before we dock, Captain?" Smith asked. His German was excellent, if perhaps overly classical.

"That would be hard to say, Herr Ibn Mahmoud," the captain said. Well, at least his eyes never left the waters while he talked to Smith, his voice laden with that preposterously gutteral Guild accent. "But quite possibly. Then again, I'm tempted to take one of the inner berths—things are a little too crowded dockside for my taste. Less time until we drop sail, of course, but more until we can get you properly to land. Not much more." He glanced over his shoulder at the sails.

He was flying far too few topsails for Randolph's taste, but he certainly knew his own ship better than Randolph did. A fat-bellied merchant wasn't a light and spry warship, after all, and Randolph didn't know this channel.

Still, you'd think that a man who made his living in these waters would know the channel, and know it well enough to maneuver his way through it with something better than a slow, wallowing lumber.

"I want to be on my way as quickly as possible," Smith said. "Waiting for a boat to take me ashore—"

"You may go ashore on the first boat, if you care to—"

"—is something I'd prefer to avoid," Smith said, reaching into his pouch and producing a coin.

The captain barely glanced down, and shrugged, then returned his attention to the water, making a quarter-wheel turn to port. Give the man that; he was constantly making fine adjustments to the course, and not spinning the wheel to and fro. Maybe he did know the waters better than Randolph had thought. "Fond though I am of good silver," the captain said, "and fonder yet of gold, I'd not care to get too close to another vessel, and the towboats in this harbor are sluggardly lots. I could signal for a boat to meet us, if you'd prefer."

"I'd prefer to debark on the dock itself," Smith said, adding another coin.

"Well . . ."

Smith started to move his hand back toward his pouch.

". . . if that's your preference," the captain said, "I'll make it so."

Randolph hid his smile under his blanket. Smith wasn't half as clever as he, no doubt, thought himself. If the captain had intended to drop anchor at one of the outer berths, he was about ten minutes late in coming about. Lubeck had always intended to berth dockside, and had merely taken the opportunity to pry a little more money out of Smith, who was utterly oblivious to something so obvious.

The Turk sleeping in his chalked rectangle next to Randolph starting stirring, which was no concern to Randolph, but, once again, he also started snoring, and the painfully loud rasps drowned out the next traces of conversation, until the Turk subsided, and Randolph could hear them again.

". . . one inquire as to your purpose in Marinarice?"

"Yes, one may," Smith said. "If one wishes to involve himself in matters beyond his station, matters which don't concern him, and matters that I'd prefer that any other man carry to his grave."

The captain smiled. "Then I must confess I'm not terribly interested, Herr Ibn Mahmoud." The smile dropped, for just a moment. "Nor, for that matter, am I interested in being threatened on my own quarterdeck, either."

Well, at least the man had some semblance of spine.

Smith cocked his head to one side, and dropped his hand to his sword hilt, and for a moment Randolph didn't know how it would go. The only sword he carried at his waist was the Sandoval, after all. But if he drew it, and killed—murdered—the captain, he could hardly destroy anybody and everybody aboard ship, as that would sink the ship itself.

Kill him, Randolph thought. Drawing a live sword always took something out of the man who wielded it, and the moment where Smith resheathed it would be Randolph's opportunity. Smith would be watching for movement from the crew, not the deck passengers.

But the hand dropped, and Smith nodded. "You're quite right, Captain Lubeck; you have my apologies." He bowed stiffly.

"Accepted, of course, Herr Ibn Mahmoud."

A practical man, Smith, Randolph decided. There was no reason to think that his enemy had no virtues, after all; self-deception was a luxury that he couldn't afford, no matter how many pounds of gold he wore beneath his clothing.

Patience, he counseled himself. And, perhaps soon, there would be an end to the need for it.

He buried himself back in his blankets, and pretended to go back to sleep.

Back | Next
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Interlude
Izmir
 

Revenge, so the Siciliani say, is a dish best served cold. My own disagreement with that is the fear that if it's left to chill, it will eventually spoil, and become impossible to eat.

Although, in every case I can think of, I would surely choke it down, and in the case of Alexander, I'd envy and resent the man who dined on that meal.

—Gray

Randolph stopped himself from wrapping his blankets more tightly about him, and watched through narrowed eyes as Smith came up the hatch, apparently to take the morning air.

The Izmiri coast loomed not only ahead of them, but all about them, as though threatening to come together and crush the ship. Marinarice lay at the north end of the sheltered harbor, and protected from both the sea and the winds and—with what Randolph thought of as a pitifully small garrison at Adakoy—from pirate raids, more or less. Most likely, it was the combination of not much of value to steal and the difficulty in raiding that had kept Marinarice safe from pirate raids for the past years, although even Guild ships made it a point to pay—and pay well—for the services of the local fishermen who supplemented their catch with reports of ship movements. Easy enough to catch a merchantman in the narrow passage out and into the Med proper. But, then again, it was prime hunting ground for the Blue Fleet's pirate patrols, as well, and it would have been comforting for Lieutenant Randolph to think that that was the cause of it.

He hadn't intended to find himself on the same trader as Smith, but it had happened nonetheless.

He really hadn't had any other choice, when he had followed Smith and his party to Kyrnia; there were no other Guild ships bound for Marinarice, and retracing his steps to Limmasol, and hoping to find a faster ship, leaving promptly, with the same destination, would have been far too optimistic. The Lord might be on the side of the righteous, after all, but He rarely saw to the details.

It had been a risk, of course, but a necessary one. Smith had left his men—and the girl—in Kyrnia, and while he seemed to give the deck passengers an occasional cursory look, it was the other stateroom passengers that seemed to draw most of his attention.

Of course, in one sense, they might as well have been on different ships—Smith had one of the staterooms below, while Randolph had taken deck passage, and had but a chalked rectangle on the raised poop deck to call his home for the journey; the foredecks were forbidden to deck passengers except for just after sunset and just before sunrise, when they were permitted to take what little exercise was possible, while separated from their higher-paying betters.

Smith stalked over to the quarterdeck, and mounted it without so much as a by-your-leave, something that grated on Alphonse Randolph—had the man no manners at all?—but didn't seem to bother the captain, despite him having to give constant attention to the wheel for the approach.

Randolph didn't think much of the captain. Guild sailors were supposedly experts at their craft, but Captain Hans—his surname was Lubeck, of course, from his clan, but the crew of the ship were all Lubecks, and he was known as Uncle Hans to all of the crew, and Captain Hans to the passengers—should not have tolerated a passenger on his quarterdeck, not on a tricky approach in a narrow channel, and never mind the discourtesy.

For once, the wind was this sailor's friend—it carried their conversation to him.

"I would guess it would be another hour before we dock, Captain?" Smith asked. His German was excellent, if perhaps overly classical.

"That would be hard to say, Herr Ibn Mahmoud," the captain said. Well, at least his eyes never left the waters while he talked to Smith, his voice laden with that preposterously gutteral Guild accent. "But quite possibly. Then again, I'm tempted to take one of the inner berths—things are a little too crowded dockside for my taste. Less time until we drop sail, of course, but more until we can get you properly to land. Not much more." He glanced over his shoulder at the sails.

He was flying far too few topsails for Randolph's taste, but he certainly knew his own ship better than Randolph did. A fat-bellied merchant wasn't a light and spry warship, after all, and Randolph didn't know this channel.

Still, you'd think that a man who made his living in these waters would know the channel, and know it well enough to maneuver his way through it with something better than a slow, wallowing lumber.

"I want to be on my way as quickly as possible," Smith said. "Waiting for a boat to take me ashore—"

"You may go ashore on the first boat, if you care to—"

"—is something I'd prefer to avoid," Smith said, reaching into his pouch and producing a coin.

The captain barely glanced down, and shrugged, then returned his attention to the water, making a quarter-wheel turn to port. Give the man that; he was constantly making fine adjustments to the course, and not spinning the wheel to and fro. Maybe he did know the waters better than Randolph had thought. "Fond though I am of good silver," the captain said, "and fonder yet of gold, I'd not care to get too close to another vessel, and the towboats in this harbor are sluggardly lots. I could signal for a boat to meet us, if you'd prefer."

"I'd prefer to debark on the dock itself," Smith said, adding another coin.

"Well . . ."

Smith started to move his hand back toward his pouch.

". . . if that's your preference," the captain said, "I'll make it so."

Randolph hid his smile under his blanket. Smith wasn't half as clever as he, no doubt, thought himself. If the captain had intended to drop anchor at one of the outer berths, he was about ten minutes late in coming about. Lubeck had always intended to berth dockside, and had merely taken the opportunity to pry a little more money out of Smith, who was utterly oblivious to something so obvious.

The Turk sleeping in his chalked rectangle next to Randolph starting stirring, which was no concern to Randolph, but, once again, he also started snoring, and the painfully loud rasps drowned out the next traces of conversation, until the Turk subsided, and Randolph could hear them again.

". . . one inquire as to your purpose in Marinarice?"

"Yes, one may," Smith said. "If one wishes to involve himself in matters beyond his station, matters which don't concern him, and matters that I'd prefer that any other man carry to his grave."

The captain smiled. "Then I must confess I'm not terribly interested, Herr Ibn Mahmoud." The smile dropped, for just a moment. "Nor, for that matter, am I interested in being threatened on my own quarterdeck, either."

Well, at least the man had some semblance of spine.

Smith cocked his head to one side, and dropped his hand to his sword hilt, and for a moment Randolph didn't know how it would go. The only sword he carried at his waist was the Sandoval, after all. But if he drew it, and killed—murdered—the captain, he could hardly destroy anybody and everybody aboard ship, as that would sink the ship itself.

Kill him, Randolph thought. Drawing a live sword always took something out of the man who wielded it, and the moment where Smith resheathed it would be Randolph's opportunity. Smith would be watching for movement from the crew, not the deck passengers.

But the hand dropped, and Smith nodded. "You're quite right, Captain Lubeck; you have my apologies." He bowed stiffly.

"Accepted, of course, Herr Ibn Mahmoud."

A practical man, Smith, Randolph decided. There was no reason to think that his enemy had no virtues, after all; self-deception was a luxury that he couldn't afford, no matter how many pounds of gold he wore beneath his clothing.

Patience, he counseled himself. And, perhaps soon, there would be an end to the need for it.

He buried himself back in his blankets, and pretended to go back to sleep.

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Framed