The Kings Man by Rowena Cory Daniells Page B

they all came aboard. The two burly servants picked Yorwyth up between them and carried him down to the carriage, accompanied by fretful admonishments to mind his bad leg. Meanwhile, the tutor went into the captain’s cabin.
    Sailors threw hatches open and made ready to unload the cargo.
    ‘I wonder where Master Cialon is,’ Mitrovan whispered.
    ‘I’m just glad to see the last of the brat,’ Garzik admitted. His stomach rumbled. ‘Today I’ve had to sit and watch him wolf down more food than I’ve had in a week. And none of it was good enough for him!’
    Mitrovan glanced over his shoulder. ‘No-one’s watching. Even Grufyd’s disappeared. Let’s go below and see if we can get something from the galley.’
    But they only got as far as the hatch before Grufyd spotted them. ‘Go pack the master’s things and get your bundle.’
    Feeling light-hearted and much closer to his goal, Garzik followed Mitrovan below. Together they packed Master Cialon’s belongings. No sooner were they done than Grufyd and his brother collected the chests.
    There was just time for Garzik and Mitrovan to grab some bread and cheese from the galley, before going up on deck.
    In the short time they’d been below, lanterns had been lit, bringing an early twilight. Just like back in Port Marchand, the sailors kept working by lamplight. The remaining injured seven-year-slaves stood lined up, ready to disembark. Each carried a blanket. When Feo saw Garzik and Mitrovan arrive, he said something derogatory to the cabinet-maker and spat over the side.
    ‘We’ll have to watch out for him,’ Mitrovan warned. ‘If he learns we’re spies, he’s just as likely to sell us out to the Merofynians to win his freedom.’
    Master Cialon turned to see them. ‘There you are, Mitrofan. Where are my lists?’
    The scribe had to dig them out of a chest.
    When he tried to hand them to Cialon, the man gestured for him to hold them. ‘Tick this lot off. Fourteen injured seven-year-slaves, none lost at sea.’
    The scribe hesitated. ‘Don’t you mean fifteen, master?’
    ‘Did I say fifteen?’ Cialon snapped. ‘I meant what I said.’
    Mitrovan glanced to Garzik.
    ‘He stays.’ Cialon waved a dismissive hand. ‘The captain requested him.’
    Garzik opened his mouth to speak, but Master Cialon directed Grufyd and his brother to escort the injured seven-year-slaves down the gang plank.
    Mitrovan barely had time to clasp Garzik in a quick hug.
    ‘Don’t worry. I won’t let you down,’ he whispered. ‘And I’ll find some way to get the information back to Rolencia.’
    Then he hurried after Master Cialon. Feeling utterly lost, Garzik watched the scribe go. All his plans were suddenly in disarray, and now that Mitrovan was gone, Garzik realised the scribe had been his one friend in all of this, and he felt the loss keenly.
    A hand tapped Garzik’s shoulder.
    ‘You’re wanted below,’ Sionor said. ‘The ship’s surgeon asked for you.’
    So Garzik found himself entering the surgeon’s little cabin.
    ‘There you are,’ Rishardt greeted him. He sat at his bench, a wine bottle open. His eyes had that bleary look again, which meant he’d been imbibing already. But the alcohol did not seem to impair his speech or movements as he gestured to the rack of vials and jars. ‘Inventory. We need to restock before returning to Rolencia. I’ll call the name, you tell me if we’ve almost run out. Come now, there’s no time to waste. The captain wants to put to sea with the dawn tide.’
    Garzik ran his eyes over the rack. The names were Merofynian, but he could guess the Rolencian translation. Back home their family healer had a whole wall of herbals. But then Rishardt wasn’t a healer. His job was to sew up injured men and set bones.
    Just then, the healthy seven-year slaves headed up the passage, towards the ladder to the middeck. Hearing the Rolencian language, Garzik froze and watched them shuffle past the cabin door.
    ‘Count yourself