Chapter 11
Eleven
Sea dog after sea dog presented Shrewdmind with what he requested as he crouched beside where I knelt.
Everything was placed on the furs on the ground near him so he could present the items to me himself, explaining what things were.
A ring of braziers was set around us. Broth came and porridge and herbed tea and ale.
I refused the ale, and Shrewdmind set his fearsome gaze on me.
“I could not bear any more confusion, Gentlesir,” I said. I knew he wasn’t a member of the orders, but I also knew I needed to speak to him with respect. It was the highest-ranking title I’d ever encountered in real life, so I gave it to him.
He chewed on his lip for a moment. “My beloved Gunnar, bard of impeccable skill, the most observant man I have ever known, is being peeled apart by your father’s order in a dungeon somewhere on your island because you have been rescued in his place. You will take what you are given.”
I took a burning sip and felt my throat wash with heat that spread to my cheeks and lips. I choked.
“And I am not a member of your order, Gentlewoman. There is no need for formality.”
I took in a shaky breath, still a little uncertain if I were dreaming or in the Middle World. “What should I call you then?”
“I am Arik, king of the Norsern.”
“K-king?” I knew the word, but it was an old word, a powerful one.
He nodded. “It is not something to concern yourself with at the moment. Think of fire. Imagine it in your mind and then move the fire into your chest. Keep your heart warm.”
I thought maybe he had misspoken as it was such a childish, absurd request. He had a very mild accent, rich and bellowing, but he chose the old-fashioned, slower way of saying things, so I wondered if there could be an error in his words.
“You can see pictures in your mind?” he said.
I froze. Was this all a test from the order? Before I was to be given a vault of my own?
I shook my head. I could, but I wouldn’t tell him that. Envisioning was similar enough to dreaming that I knew it shouldn’t be spoken of.
“Then you must look at real fire. Look now. Look at it while we speak.”
I turned my head to watch the flames nearest me dance. It was a nice sight at first, but the longer I looked, the more it felt too bright. My head throbbed.
“I will have the next herbs put in hot milk for you so there will be less ale. You will need to change your clothing. Fell said you refused the dress offered. He would allow your refusal. I will not.”
“Fell?” I turned to look at the king.
“Keep eyeing the flame, Gentlewoman.” He pressed a thick finger to my chin, turning my face back to the brazier. “Fell, the blessed fool who brought you to me. Ah! Here. This will suit your colouring.”
A sea dog with dark blue eyebrows and painted blue lips presented what I knew was a dress. It was much finer than the first offering I’d been presented. It was dark blue, with a grey cloth belt and matching cloak lined with fur.
I pressed my nose to the floor in the most pathetic, grovelling bow I could. “I cannot—”
“You can and will. No one will steal your gold, Gentlewoman. You have my word. My word is oak.”
I didn’t budge.
“Gentlewoman, do not force me to force you. Take the gown and change in the chamber there. I will see no one interrupts you.”
I held steady, thinking of my order’s punishments, expecting them, dread leaving a horrid taste in my mouth, my fingers curling into the white fur that covered the floor.
He said, “You will die if you stay in wet clothing.”
“Please,” I said, recalling the pulsing sting of nettle whippings, the squirm of a leech in my mouth, attaching itself to my tongue. “I beg you.”
“Enough of this nonsense.” His voice felt like the vault’s sting—I didn’t need to lift my face from the floor to know what his expression would hold.
I didn’t need to be told I would be doing what he requested; I knew it.
I also knew it would be better to submit, as maybe I could transfer some of the gold while I changed.
Maybe I could hide it within the chamber to retrieve later if no one truly watched me as he promised.
“Soten.”
I raised myself partially up. I knew the voice that had spoken. Pinkbeard was crouched near King Arik, looking at me as they chatted in their gurgling, deep language.
“He asks you wear this around your wrist,” the king pointed at a thin woven grass bracelet sitting on the furs before me. “It has protective properties.”
I looked at Pinkbeard, the blueness of his eyes, the flatness of his brow, the concern etched in his face.
“Is he a conjurer?” I said.
“All people are conjurers,” the king said. “Only some do not use their power and then complain they do not like their lives.”
I very much wanted Pinkbeard not to be mixed up in sorcery. I’d been told of magic and how quickly the illusion of it fades, how brutal the after-curse of it could be.
“Now, Gentlewoman, waste no more of our time. Do you need help rising? Here, take my arm.”
I did as I was bid, and every muscle in my body screamed as the king led me to a small, side chamber filled with pillows, separated from the larger room by heavy curtains.
“I need a thin blade,” I said. “We have a tool back home especially for the type of knots we use. It will take me some time to untangle them without it, but a thin blade will help.”
My heart beat hard. I was—partially—lying.
There was a tool—similar to a knitting needle, but curved in places—that allowed for the knots that held my gown together, but mostly I wanted the blade to make small incisions in the pillows and perhaps in the new clothing I would be wearing if it were thick enough.
The king stared at me, amused.
I thought I might retch.
He waved and spoke his throaty words, and Wolfshead came forward, setting a dagger on the furs near the hem of my gown. It was far thicker than I had been thinking. Still, I lowered myself on shaky legs and retrieved it. The king gave me the garments I was to change into, and I entered the chamber.
Now I will explain to you something of a goldkeeper’s attire.
There is a leather cord running from the base of the spine to the nape of the neck, as well as from the wrist to the underarm.
These cords pull the gown tight—cloth or thread would be broken by the weight of the dress, and even the leather snaps sometimes.
I had an additional leather cord in my gown just in case.
There is a thin wool underdress worn to help reduce sores from developing.
Atop that is the first weighted garment, wherein the skirt is filled with pockets.
The stitching at the waistline is so thick it looks to be embroidered leather.
Then there is a leather overlay for the arms, chest, and back, also full of pockets.
And then there is a heavy wool layer on top of everything which is designed to disguise any lumps that might appear when the pockets are full.
I began with the leather cord on my weaker wrist, but I encountered a problem immediately.
The cord had swollen from the rainwater and the seawater and felt like rock.
I didn’t want to cut it as I wasn’t sure how long I would need to make the two sets of leather cording last. I tried prying at the knot with the dagger. I tried my teeth.
“Your Grace,” I said, stepping out from behind the curtain to find the king and Pinkbeard and several others chatting while they apparently waited for me.
The king’s gaze hit me, and he waited expectantly.
“I will need a woman’s assistance.”
He grinned. “There are no women in the floating city, only Norsern and Sotern.”
“I cannot have a man help me,” I said.
The king scoffed. “I know your meaning. You want a wombed being.” He waved and choked out some words, and a woman did come forward—at least, she looked like one to me. The king’s words had me wondering if I were wrong.
I showed her my sleeve cord when back inside the chamber, and she tried loosening the knot with the benefit of using both hands.
She muttered under her breath, growing visibly frustrated very quickly, before jerking me out of the chamber by my arm.
I think she was hoping the room that was better lit would allow her to see where the knot began and ended.
There was laughter from the others and some words that had the feeling of teasing in them as she struggled.
Finally, she barked words back, and sea dogs—Pinkbeard among them—shuffled forward to take a look at my wrists. My cheeks and ears heated. I would not want so many people to see me take even the first step of undressing.
They watched over the woman’s shoulder and seemed to offer instruction from time to time, until she—very flustered—dropped my wrist and shouted at the person who had been speaking to her the most. That man stepped forward and spoke to me.
“Valya has dared him to try. He is a fisherman by trade. Knots are his skill. Allow him. He will not open the tie, only take out the knot.”
I lifted a trembling wrist, not wanting a man to touch any part of my clothing, but more than that, not wanting to test the king’s patience. I didn’t need to be told he was someone with little patience to spare.
The man tried and failed to untie the knot as the others laughed at him, and then he spoke in a challenging sort of way and, somehow, untying my sleeve lacing became a game to the sea dogs.
They lined up and seemingly taunted each other, two at a time coming forward—one working on my left wrist, the other working on my right.
They cursed and tugged and laughed like children, singing a song that started slow, but grew faster and faster until it seemed like they were humming rather than speaking actual words.
I’d never seen adults playing before but quickly gave up on resisting the mismatched insanity of it—I was too tired for that.
I sat on the plush pillow offered to me and held my arms out for the next contenders, sea dogs growing sillier and sillier as more people took a turn.
Wolfshead, who’d become quite drunk in a very short time, even kicked the woman lined up beside him to help slow her progress.
Finally, everyone had tried apart from Pinkbeard and the king.
Pinkbeard stood before me, and I held out my wrist. There was a glint in his eye as he pulled a dagger from his belt, the crowd of sea dogs around us giggling and reprimanding and booing him.
I had already resigned myself to having the cord cut, but figured I would do it myself when the deranged sea dogs had finished their wild game. He waited, blade in hand.
“Tell him it is fine. Say soalkja.”
So, I spoke my first Norsern word. “Sew-elk-yah.” Proceed.
He cut the knot away on my left wrist, and then I held out my right, and he cut that one, only the right cord had been loosened above the knot by one of the sea dogs and my sleeve opened a little without any unweaving needed.
The thin wool of my underdress was visible. It was brown with bloodstains.
I was ashamed of the stains, which is foolish, I know. I began to pull my arm back, but he was already lifting the stained wool off my wrist, revealing sores wherever bone was close to the skin and yellow and purple bruising wherever there was muscle close to the skin.
He stared at me—into me even—and his gaze was so clear that it sped my mind a little. It was the first time I thought to myself, maybe I have not been treated righteously.
The sea dogs gathered around gawking and giggling, and the king gave another order, sending all away apart from himself, Pinkbeard, and the woman who had initially helped me: Valya, the king had called her.
“You are in pain?” the king said.
I was, but I wasn’t supposed to speak of it.
“Valya will help you with the rest,” the king said, nodding as Valya held open the curtain once more.
When inside, Valya moved quickly, cutting the knot at the base of my spine and heaving each quarter of my gown away, letting the pieces fall to the floor with a metallic, thud-jangle, revealing blood-soaked wool. She frowned at me, her eyes meeting mine with a silent, judgemental feeling in them.
I felt the urge to cover my chest, even though I was already covered by my underdress, but before I could complete the movement, I sucked in air. My lungs were free from the burden of metal, and I’d just taken my first full breath in many days. I grew dizzy and swayed.
Valya caught me and called out. Pinkbeard came with a bowl of hot water, his eyes leaping to the bloodstained wool and then to my face. He exchanged a look with Valya before leaving again.
Valya peeled the wool off my mottled skin and washed my sores and painted them with something strong-scented.
She wrapped my wounds in linen and helped me put on the new dress and cloak.
Then she piled furs atop me, and the whole time she worked, she hummed softly and paused regularly to brush my hair out of my face or cup my cheek in her palm.
I was delirious with the pleasure of breathing without restriction and the way my fever made the world seem thin.
I’d never had a woman care for me so gently.
I cried and said to her, in my own language, which, of course, she couldn’t understand, “You are so beautiful. You mustn’t surprise me by being mean. ”
The last thing I remember of that evening was clutching the straw-coloured hair that hung over her shoulder, afraid of falling asleep and being separated from her.