Eventually, Helga worked her way through the press and came onto the cleared space at the very stern of the ship. "Cleared" in a manner of speaking. Trae's assistants-special squad, it would be better to say-had managed to keep the regular soldiery from spilling into the area. But between their own numbers and the ship's crew, the population density was only relatively lighter than that amidships.
Trae was hunched at the stern rail, apparently showing one of his aides how to do the job properly.
"We hinged the third leg, see? On board ship, the tripod doubles as a clamp. Slide it down over the rail… till it nestles solidly… then… The gods damn this fucking thing! " Trae's voice faded into mumbling as Helga neared him. "There, that's it. A bit tricky, that's all, getting the screw to engage. Now… tighten it down, like this. Right-over turn to tighten, just like a screw pump."
The man standing next to him, watching, murmured something. Trae's half-cheerful/half-exasperated cursing came back at full volume.
" Never seen a screw pump? " The young nobleman lifted his head and gave all of his nearby special squad members a glare. "None of you, from the ox-dumb looks on your faces! Fucking peasants! Fat peasants, that's the problem! Lounging about in the shade while the women do all the work. What little work there is on your rich bottomlands."
His squad members were fighting grins. Obviously, they'd had enough experience with Trae to know the difference between his genuine anger and this half pretense. Judging from their appearance, Helga thought all of them were the same type of easterners who filled the ranks of the soldiery proper.
"I'm an idiot!" bellowed Trae. "I should have engaged nothing but those barbarians from the Gya desert! They know how a pump works, even if they are a lot of savages. Gotta have pumps in those drylands."
He turned back and demonstrated again, using exaggerated hand gestures. "Like this, see? Hand turning to the right. You do know the difference between left and right? Please! O gods, I beg you! "
Helga was close enough to look over his shoulder. She could now see clearly what Trae was doing. He'd fit one of the arquebus tripods over the rail and, using what struck her as an excessively elaborate screw device, had clamped the hinged third leg on the wood. The tripod would now provide a solid and steady rest for one of the heavy two-man arquebuses, even in tossing seas.
"That's a stupid arrangement," she said. Her own voice was not much softer than Trae's. "Much too complicated. It would have been a lot easier to just leave the tripod alone, drill a hole in one of the legs, and screw in to the wood instead of trying to clamp around it."
Trae straightened to his full height, twisted, and glared down at her with outrage. Helga gave him a sweet smile. "You said it yourself. Women do all the work. That's what makes us smarter, too."
And with that, she turned and ambled away, a little chorus of chuckles following. None from Trae, of course.
She spent the next hour or so getting her own quarters ready. The "quarters" in question consisted of a section of the hold which had been set aside for the women accompanying the expedition. These were Ilset Yunkers, the wives of the four senior noncoms of the hundred, and Lortz's two concubines. Ilset was, by a considerable margin, the youngest of the seven women. And Helga suspected she was probably the only one who was legally a "wife" to begin with. The other four had the appearance of campaign concubines. Veterans themselves, in a manner of speaking. Lortz's women didn't even make a pretense of being anything else.
No others had been allowed to bring female companionship. The soldiers hadn't complained. The veterans were quite confident in their ability to obtain camp followers wherever they went, and the youngsters took their cue from them. Even, Helga had no doubt, looked forward eagerly to that new rite of passage. Southron women, like Islanders, were notorious among Confederates for their loose and passionate ways-which Helga herself found rather amusing, since her experience in an Islander hareem had taught her that foreigners had exactly the same view of Vanbert women. So much seemed ingrained in human nature. The others were always brutes and swindlers, if male; sluts and carriers of disease, if female.
Since Ilset would be the wet nurse for Helga's baby, she and Demansk's daughter shared the most "luxurious" part of the arrangement. The "luxury" amounted to nothing more than a few extra cushions and a thicker cloth to separate them from the rest of the womens' quarters-which, in turn, were separated from the goods in the hold by nothing more than a cloth in the first place. The only reason it took an hour to get her quarters prepared was simply the cramped nature of the space itself. Even something as simple as rearranging a cushion seemed to take forever. Early on, Helga and Ilset agreed that it would be best to set up another partition between them, seeing as how Jessep would be spending his nights with his wife. So Helga's quarters got reduced in size even further.
But, eventually, it was done, just as Helga felt the ship begin to move away from the pier. Coming through the thin planking of the deck above her head-"above" only when she crouched; standing erect, she'd crash her head into it-she could hear the beat of the hortator's mallets pounding the drum which kept the rowers at their rhythm. The "drum" had a distinctive sound. It was a hollow box, actually, rather than the more typical drums which would be used to give signals in a fleet.
She was tempted to go back on deck. To get some fresh air, if nothing else. She resisted the impulse. The women's quarters were already heavy with odor, true enough, but Helga knew that by the end of the voyage the air down here would be well-nigh fetid. The men at their work above wouldn't appreciate having her underfoot; not in the least. And she'd rather save her trespasses on their territory for a later time, when she'd really need fresh air.
She leaned back against one of the cushions and gave Ilset a friendly smile. Jessep's young wife gave her a shy smile in return, but it was very short-lived. They were already catching the first waves of the open sea, and the motion was apparently beginning to bother the girl. Helga found herself wondering if Ilset had ever been on a ship before.
Apparently not, judging from the girl's reaction not five minutes later. Helga managed to get Ilset's head over a bucket soon enough to catch most of it.
Most, but not all. Helga sighed and began rummaging for an old cloth in her belongings. Finding none-she never got seasick herself and hadn't thought to prepare for the problem-she stuck her head through the opening in the cloth which separated her and Ilset from the other women.
"Do any of you-"
One of the women, grinning, was already handing her a rag. Ilset had not been quiet in her distress.
"Bound to happen," said the woman, grinning widely. Helga could see that she was missing a fair number of her teeth. An attractive enough woman, otherwise. Helga thought her buxom build was probably matched by a buxom temperament, and was cheered by the thought.
"It's going to stink down here something awful," she probed.
"Beats dying," came the immediate response, as the woman passed the test with flying colors. "Even if the poor girl thinks she'd rather be dead right now."
"We'll get along," predicted Helga. "What's your name?"
"Polla, ma'am. Polla"-there came a slight hesitation, just a hint-"Hissell. He's the new First Spear. Can I give you a hand?"
"Pfaw! Just to wipe up some puke? Do I look like a prissy noblewoman?"
Polla's grin was now matched by all the other women. "Not exactly, ma'am," said one of them. "A noblewoman, yes. Prissy, no."
Helga grinned herself, ducked back into her quarters, and went to work with the rag. Soon enough, she was half wishing she'd taken Polla up on her offer. But she knew that a small amount of inconvenience was well worth gaining the allegiance and trust of the women of her escort.