“Hah. It’s because of him that the best artist isn’t alive.”
“True. And apparently he’s not settling for second best, either.”
They were silent for a few oar-strokes. “What do you mean?” Frank asked.
“Well,” Orcrist said, “he’s let every artist on the planet try out for the privilege of doing the portrait, but so far he’s sent every one away in disgust once he sees their work. Your father seems to have set an impossibly high standard.”
“It doesn’t surprise me. Art, like a lot of things, is a lost art.”
Orcrist had no reply to that, and just said “bear a little to starboard.” Frank could see the skeletal masts and reefed sails of a few docked merchant ships, and swung away from the shore a bit to pass well clear of them. Distantly from one of the farther ships he heard a deep-voiced man singing “Danny Boy,” and it lent the scene a wistful, melancholy air.
Just past the main basin Orcrist told Frank to head inshore, and in a minute their rowboat was bumping against the hull of a long, wide boat. It sat low in the water; they were able to climb aboard without paddling around to the back of the craft for the ladder.
“Moor the line to that ... bumpy thing there,” Orcrist said, waving at a vaguely mushroom-shaped protrusion of metal that stood about a foot high on the deck. Frank tied a slip-knot in the rope and looped it over the mooring, before following Orcrist into the cabin. The older man had just put a match to two wall-hung lanterns.
“This is sort of the living room,” Orcrist explained; “and you can take that ridiculous beard off now.”
Frank peeled it off. “It pays to be cautious,” he said.
“No doubt. Through that door is your room—very comfortable, books, a well-stocked desk—and down those stairs is the dining room, another stateroom, and a storage room full of canned food and bottles of brandy. Don’t raise the anchor or cast off the lines until I find someone who can give you lessons on how to work the sails.”
“Right.”
“I guess that’s it. There are four good swords in your room—two sabres, an épée and a rapier. There’s a homemade pistol in the top desk drawer, but I’m not sure it’ll work, and it’s only a .22 calibre anyway.
“I’ll bring the rest of your things later in the week. If I can, I’ll bring the swords and masks and jackets from the school.” Orcrist took out his wallet and, after searching through it for a moment, handed Frank a folded slip of thin blue paper. “That’s the lease verification. Wave it at any cops that come prowling about. And here are the keys. I’ll leave it to you to figure out which lock each key fits.”
“Okay. Why don’t you ... bring Kathrin along with you sometime?”
“I will.” They wandered out onto the deck again. The moon was sitting low on the northern horizon now, magnified and orange-colored by the atmosphere. “Morning isn’t far off,” Orcrist said. “You’d better get some sleep.” He lowered himself over the side into the rowboat. “Untie me there, will you, Frank? Thanks.”
He leaned into the oars, and soon Frank could neither see nor hear him. Frank went below and checked the swords for flexibility and balance—the best one, the rapier, he laid on the desk within easy reach—and then went to bed.
THE next few weeks passed very comfortably. Frank read the books in the excellent ship’s library, gave more expensive fencing lessons to many of the thief-lords (although Lord Emsley, by mutual consent, was no longer one of Frank’s students) and frequently, wrapped in a heavy coat and muffler against the autumn chill, fished off the boat’s bow. He often spent the gray afternoons sitting in a canvas chair, smoking his pipe and watching the ships sail in and out of the harbor. He had twice more played chess and consumed daiquiris with Blanchard, and been assured that it was “doggy-dog” out there. Orcrist was a frequent visitor, and Kathrin Figaro came with him several times. She found Frank’s exile exciting, and had him explain to her how he would repel piratical boarders if any chanced to appear.
“You should have a cannon,” she said, sipping hot coffee as they sat on the deck watching the tame little gray waves wobble past.
“Probably so,” agreed Frank lazily. “Then raise anchor, let down the sails and embark on a voyage to Samarkand.” His pipe had gone out, so he set it down next to his chair.
“I hear you’ve become good friends with King Blanchard,” Kathrin said.
“Oh ... I know him. I’ve played chess with him.”
“Maybe when he dies you’ll be the King of the Subterranean Companions.”
“Yeah, maybe so.” Frank was nearly asleep. “Where’s Sam?”
“Down in the galley, he said. He’s looking for a corkscrew.”
“Well, I hope he finds one. Want to go for a swim?”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
THREE miles away, in the low-roofed dimness of Huselor’s, two men sat at a back table over glasses of dark beer.
“The thing is, dammit, we’ve got to keep it in the family. This kid’s a stranger, untried, inexperienced.”
“I’m not arguing, Tolley,” said the other. “I just don’t see what can be done about it right now. You could kill him, I suppose, but he’s made a lot of powerful friends; maybe if you make it look like the Transports had done it....”
“Yeah, maybe. I’ve got to get this ... Rovzar kid out of the picture one way or another, though. What you heard can’t be true—but if Blanchard is thinking of naming Rovzar as his successor, then the kid’s got to go. I’ve spent years paving my way to that damned subterranean crown, and no kitchen-boy art forger is going to take it from me.”
“You said it, Tolley,” nodded Lord Emsley. “This kid is the fly in the ointment.”
Lord Tolley Christensen stared at Lord Emsley with scarcely-veiled contempt. “Yeah, that’s it, all right,” he said, reaching for his beer.
ORCRIST stepped onto the deck, a corkscrew in one hand and a bottle of rose in the other. He dropped into a chair next to Kathrin and began twisting the corkscrew into the top of the bottle.
“What have you got there?” demanded Frank. “Vin rosé," Orcrist said. “A simple, wholesome wine, fermented from unpretentious grapes harvested by great, sturdy peasant women.” He popped out the cork and pulled three long-stemmed glasses out of his coat pocket. When he had filled them he handed one to Kathrin and one to Frank. All three took a long, appreciative sip.
“Ah,” sighed Orcrist. “The workingman’s friend.”
“The salvation of the ... abused,” put in Frank.
“The comforter of the humiliated.”
“The mother to the unattractive.”
“The ... reassurer of the maladjusted.”
“Oh, stop it,” said Kathrin impatiently. “You’re both idiots.”
For a few minutes they all sat silently, sipping the wine and watching a fishing boat make its steady way toward the jetty and the outer sea.
“The guide of the lurching,” said Frank. Orcrist laughed, and Kathrin threw her glass into the sea and stormed into the cabin.
“The girl’s got a horrible temper,” Orcrist observed. “Only when she’s upset,” objected Frank.
Orcrist and Kathrin left late in the afternoon. Frank waved until their skiff disappeared behind the headland to the south, then went below and fixed himself dinner. He heated up some tomato soup and took it on deck to eat, and then lit his pipe and watched the seagulls hopping about on the few rock-tops exposed by the low tide. When the sun had slid by stages all the way under the horizon he went below to read. He sat down at his desk and picked up a book of Ashbless’s poems.