[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

sliver of mirror from his son. With shaking hand he drew the
mirror to his face. Seeing its hideous reflection, he dissolved into a fit of
tortuous coughing.
Later on, as dawn's first light stole into the room, Baralis had become
restless, tossing and turning in his bed. Crope hurried to his side and saw
that his master was drenched with sweat and shaking violently.
Page 130
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
He felt Baralis' brow and found it was hot to the touch. Quickly, he hurried
for water to cool the burning, and with a gentle touch he wetted the brow.
Crope looked upon the bums that covered Baralis' face and hands--some of the
skin was beginning to scar. Blisters and lesions could be seen, red and
inflamed.
Baralis began to murmur words that Crope could not understand. He seemed
filled with agitation and flailed restlessly in his bed. Crope felt great fear
at seeing his powerful master so overcome. He worried that Baralis would wear
himself out with his frenzied motions. So Crope tried to quiet his sleeping
master, softly pressing Baralis' arms and legs flat against the bed and
covering his body with sheets and heavy blankets.
He felt that his master needed to be able to sleep peacefully to better regain
his strength. He could see that Baralis was getting no such peace--he was
troubled by an inner turmoil that was allowing his body no rest. Crope decided
he would administer a light sleeping draught to his master to help him fall
into a more restful sleep. He walked to the library and searched among the
various bottles-he'd watched many times as Baralis had taken the draught on
late nights, when sleep refused to come. He found what he knew to be the right
bottle, for it was marked with an owl on the stopper. Crope loved owls.
He returned to the bedroom and, with large and awkward hands, poured a small
quantity of the liquid between Baralis' swollen lips. Crope then returned to
his chair by the side of the bed and reached inside his tunic for his box.
Just to look at it made him happy. It was beautiful, with tiny paintings of
sea birds on the lid. He settled down, turning the little box in his hand, and
prepared to watch over his master for as long as necessary.
Crope stood vigil as his master drifted in and out of consciousness. He had
stayed awake all through the night, watching Baralis' limp form.
Twelve
Tawl was standing on the deck of
The Fishy Few, staring out at the dark, sparkling ocean. Larn lay two days
ahead, and he didn't know whether to be relieved or full of dread.
The harsh voice of Carver startled him from his thoughts. "Hey, you! What
d'you think you were doing feeding us raw turnips yesterday. Had me pukin' my
guts up all night."
"The turnips didn't make you sick, Carver," shouted Fyler, drawing near. "It's
the sea that's finally gotten to you. Nobody born in the mountains makes a
good sailor. It was only a matter of time before your true nature showed."
"I was not born in the mountains-it was the foothills." Carver's voice was
suitably indignant. "And I was sailing before I was walking. Seasickness!
Never had it once in my entire life. It's that boy's awful cookin'
that set me off. Turned my guts to jelly." Carver turned his attention to
Tawl. "You better watch it, boy.
One more trick like turnip and parsnip salad and you'll be overboard before
you know it."
"Well, I'm sorry the dinner wasn't to your liking, Carver. Perhaps if someone
could show me how to get the stove lit and find me some wood to bum, I might
be able to cook the turnips tonight."
"I don't want to see another tumip as long as I'm on this boat. In fact, if I
never saw a turnip for the rest of my life, I'd die a happy man. I want some
decent food."
"Why don't you catch some fish, then, Carver?" said Tawl ingenuously.
"Can't stand fish." Tawl and Fyler laughed merrily at Carver's pronouncement.
"What's a man doing at sea, on a boat name of
The Fishy Few, who doesn't like fish?" Fyler was enjoying himself. "They must
have been pretty high foothills, Carver. You're the only sailor I know who
won't eat fish."
Carver was about to issue a scathing reply when another man turned up. He
addressed Tawl: "Hey, you.
Page 131
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Captain wants a word. Move sharpish-he's waiting in his quarters."
"Probably wants to give you a mouthful over those turnips," mumbled Carver as
Tawl walked away.
Belowdeck in
The Fishy Few was small and cramped. The rooms were so low that Tawl could not
stand up straight, and he was forced to walk with his shoulders and neck bent.
He knocked on the cabin door and was bidden to enter. He walked into a tiny,
dim room lined with books and lit by one small oil lamp.
The captain looked at Tawl disapprovingly and told him to sit. When Tawl had
done so, Captain Quain poured out two cups of rum. "Best rum in the known
lands, this, boy," he said, handing it to Tawl. "Better be careful not to down
it in one go. I don't want to have to answer to the Old Man if you fall
overboard."
Quain gave Tawl a scornful look.
"I believe you were well paid to carry out this charter, Captain Quain," said
Tawl. "No man forced your hand. It was your choice to sail to Larn."
The captain appeared to ignore Tawl's words and took a slug of his rum, taking
time to appreciate its flavor. "The test of a good rum is not how strong, but
how mellow it is. Only the best rum has a taste so rich and smooth that it
conceals its true potency. Go ahead, try it."
Quain beckoned Tawl to drink. He took a mouthful of the rum, wondering if the
captain had heard what he'd said. Tawl's thoughts were diverted, however, when
the heady liquid met his palate. He wondered how Quain could call this drink
mellow; to Tawl it was fiery and strong.
The captain smiled, noting his companion's reaction. "The first taste is
always a surprise. Take another sip, and no rushing this time-let the rum
dance upon your tongue."
Tawl took a second mouthful, pausing to appreciate the flavor before
swallowing. He began to comprehend that the rum was in fact mellow; it was as
smooth as late-summer honey. It warmed his mouth and his innards, and loosened
the tension in his brow.
"Now you're getting the hang of it. Go easy, though, it's powerful potent."
Tawl decided to heed the captain's advice and reluctantly put the cup down.
"No self-respecting captain would dare set sail with less than four barrels of
rum aboard. It's well known that a sailor can go months without a sight of
land, weeks without fresh food, and days without fresh water, but stop that
sailor's ration of rum for a day and you'll have a mutiny on your hands."
Quain's eyes twinkled in the dim light. Tawl found it hard to tell if he was
speaking the truth or joking.
The captain took another slug of rum and eyed Tawl speculatively. "You said
before, I had a choice
about sailing to Larn. I can tell from your words that you don't know Rorn
very well." Quain poured himself more rum and then continued, "There are two
people who count in Rorn. Forget the old duke and his nobles; even Gavelna,
the first minister, is merely a figurehead. The people who really count are [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]