TWENTY EIGHT
"My Lord Coltrix, Master Zarn, bid you welcome aboard!" The gilt buttons of his best uniform flashing, Kolin bent from the waist before two middle-aged and portly men in King Nain's subdued livery as they huffed their way up the Tiger's gangplank. "As required by His Majesty, we are ready to sail the moment you command it: will you allow me to present my officers?"
"All in good time, my dear fellow." Coltrix bustled directly past the astonished captain, with Zarn, document rolls slipping from the battered satchel on his shoulder scampering in his scented wake. "I assume you have accommodation made ready for us? His Majesty demands frequent reports on our progress; I must write before we sail."
"Can't be much progress to report this far from Tashbaan," Wat rumbled in what he considered to be a whisper. Kolin's shoulders sagged. Coltrix pursed his flabby lips.
"Your men have a reputation for good behaviour, Captain: I trust they will not damage it in the presence of His Majesty's representatives," he trilled, fixing the offender with a censorious stare. Wat gave vent to a mammoth sniff.
Drinian aimed a steel-toed boot at his ankle. The Captain managed a strained smile.
"My crew are rough mariners, my Lord, with no knowledge of the diplomatic world. I beg you excuse their coarse ways. Drinian, perhaps you will escort our passengers to their cabins?"
"Aye, Captain." He clipped out the standard phrase, holding himself at strict attention under the rheumy scrutiny of the noble lord. "If you would be kind enough to follow me, gentlemen."
"Rough mariners, eh?" Zarn had a quavering, high-pitched voice, that of a querulous woman, Drinian decided. "That is the elocution of a gentleman! I have a desk in my chambers, I hope?"
"The Mate's cabin is not large enough to accommodate extraneous furnishing, sir, but the Captain has arranged for a table to be placed on deck each morning." Flashing a guileless smile over his shoulder as he pattered down the hatch from the poop, Drinian allowed himself to savour the man's horrified expression. "This is the Captain's cabin, my Lord."
"Thank you, young man." Coltrix made no move. Repressing the urge to roll his eyes, Drinian leaned across and shoved the door inward.
"I see." Saucer-eyed the ambassador surveyed the square wooden box, taking in the single high-backed chair and desk bolted to the floor and the bare cot which swung from the bulkhead. "The rest of my rooms?"
"My Lord?" He cocked his head, assuming what he hoped was an innocent facade.
"My dining space; accommodation for the servants who are bringing my possessions; an area where I might take my leisure. Your fine speech is deceiving, young man, if you cannot appreciate the absolute necessity of such things to a gentleman on his sovereign's business!"
"Your lordship's servants and belongings will be accommodated below with the crew – and the officers, who have surrendered their quarters for your convenience." They were shaken by his haughtiness. Good, he thought, consciously relaxing his balled fists. "Should you wish to exchange your present quarters for others, I dare say the Boson will be happy to oblige, but I should warn you, these are the only private cabins we carry."
"Then where do the crew sleep?" Zarn demanded.
"Our hammocks are slung below, sir. Meals are taken on the maindeck in all weathers, but don't be alarmed: conditions are unseasonably mild at present."
"His Majesty would surely expect his emissaries to be housed in the best conditions possible," Coltrix stuttered, wringing his damp hands. Drinian bit hard against the inside of his cheek.
"His Majesty may be assured they are, sir, but Tiger is a ship of war, not a pleasure cruiser. If you will excuse me, we're about to get under weigh and I have duties to attend."
"Then they may wait." Even in the cabin's shadows he could see perspiration dribbling down the fat official's brow. "I shall write to Anvard, and I expect my letter despatched before we depart!"
"I will inform the Captain, sir." When Coltrix mopped his brow Drinian spied ink stains on thumb of forefinger; an inveterate report writer, he guessed, excusing himself before disgust could leak into his face. A pen-merchant, as Father would have said, raised to noble rank as reward for assiduous service and incapable of breaking his clerk's habits. A faithful servant to King Nain no doubt, but an infernal irritant to the rest of society!
The Captain confirmed his impression with a roll of the eyes. "Perhaps you might care to write to Anvard yourself, my Lord of Etinsmere," he drawled, the title's use bringing activity around the poop to a standstill. "You do outrank Coltrix by several degrees, I believe."
"Aye, Captain." A shudder of satisfaction seemed to emanate from the hull itself. People turned back to their tasks with smiles on their faces. "Permission to delay reporting to my duty station, Sir?"
"Granted. Topasio! Have a rider standing ready to carry two letters to Anvard."
Kolin tore a page from the ship's log; Darin was sent to fetch melted wax from the galley. Wetting the end of his quill, Drinian scratched two lines into the page before folding it and applying the imprint of his signet ring to the seal. "You are extremely kind, Sir, to grant me permission to write," he said loudly, his sharp eye catching the first outward twitch of the hatch. Kolin's jaw creaked ominously into an unaccustomed beam.
"A pleasure; I'll wager my Lord Coltrix will not object to your missive travelling with his own. Their Highnesses will be delighted to have word from you."
"Their Royal Highnesses, Captain?" Zarn's shrill question sliced the air, his pale grey eyes widening at the names inked across the page. "This young fellow is acquainted with His Highness the Prince?"
Drinian bowed smartly. "Have your courier convey my respectful greeting to His Majesty," he said, turning the request into an insouciant command. "Oh! I am Drinian, Lord of Etinsmere. Captain, I believe these gentlemen were under some misapprehension…."
"No longer, I think." Kolin actually grinned. "All hands, take your stations! You might wish to instruct your messenger directly, Master Zarn; the tide's in our favour, and we cannot delay His Majesty's business another night, can we?"
"The look on 'is fat little face!" Darin crowed, knocking back his tot in a single mouthful. "Fair thought 'e'd topple over the side when you come out with your proper title, Drin!"
"No such luck." Perched on the corner of a boatbox beside Crain, his neck twisted to avoid the large ham hock swinging from the planking above, he sipped his own measure cautiously, appreciating its warm slide to his belly while detesting the rawness of the taste. "It was likelier I would when the Old Man used it!"
"What did you write, anyhow?" his neighbour demanded. "If you're not too high-and-mighty to tell us, o' course."
"Naught of importance. Dear Corin and Anelia, your father's representatives are a pair of pompous ninnies, warmest wishes, Drinian."
Their rowdy laughter echoed in the confined space, winning sleepy protests from shipmates already swaying in their hammocks. "'Ope the Prince shows it to 'is Majesty, then," Darin declared. "Oi, Berix! If you're not drinkin' your tot, show some civility an' pass it along the line!"
"'s not supposed to be transferred." Both hands around his tin mug the newest crewman glowered.
"An' if there's any goin' free, it should come to me afore you, presser." Wat leaned from his cot with teeth bared. Darin heaved himself to his feet.
"An why might that be? You wasn't a volunteer when you first come aboard yourself."
"I wasn't there o' my own free will, but I took the bounty when it were offered, so accordin' to the rules…"
"Since when did you obey rules where liquor's concerned?"
Feet shuffled and hammocks were pulled hastily back. "Darin, if Mate comes on his round now you'll be dragged up for punishment afore breakfast," Sarin warned, his restraining hand shoved away. "An' the rules say if a fellow don't finish 'is tot, it goes back in the barrel for tomorrow. Let well alone."
"Better I 'ave it than Wat; 'e's pickled inside already."
"Not so pickled I can't break your neck with one 'and."
"Like to see you try it!"
"Well the rest of us wouldn't." To his own astonishment Drinian found himself between two hardened brawlers, pushing against the chest of each. "In the Lion's name, look at yourselves! Aye, smash each others' noses if you wish; Master Coltrix would be delighted, I'll wager, to write a full report on naval punishment for His Majesty. Berix, toss that damned tot into the bilge water; let 'em lick it off the planking if they must!"
Ominous silence swallowed the echo of his voice. Wat's raised arms dropped to his sides.
"Aye, do as 'e says, you cringing damned lubber," he grunted, giving Darin a friendly shove toward his hammock. "Some o' us worked 'ard today; I'm for me cot. Goodnight Drin."
"Goodnight." Tumbling into his hammock at least spared the humiliation of their seeing his knees give way. What in the name of Aslan were you thinking of? He berated himself, turning his face to the bulkhead. If either of the two big men had been sufficiently riled…
But they had backed away. People – even the King – had said Papa wore an air of authority as most men did their shirts. Could it be in a small way he had inherited a little of that precious gift?
Perhaps, he mused, allowing his eyes to drift shut. But he would tread warily around Wat and Darin for a day or two. It would not do to press such men too far.
