the Founders’ Inn,” announces Gelisel. “The food’s not bad, but the prices are damned high.”
“Hmmm…” offers Brede.
Kadara keeps her eyes fixed on the harbor ahead.
Dorrin follows the other three over the time-polished stones toward the only ship on the pier. His eyes drop to the dark green water, then rise to the plank-gangway, where a single sailor, wearing a short blade, lounges in an imitation of guard duty. As the man sees Gelisel’s black tunic, he scrambles to attention, waiting as the four travelers approach.
“Magistra…you are expected.”
“Thank you.” Gelisel starts up the gangway.
Dorrin pauses, again studying the rounded sides of the coaster, his eyes catching the name plate under the bowsprit —Ryessa . The name is familiar, although he cannot say why it is.
“Come on. You need to meet the ship’s master.”
As Dorrin follows the other three up the wooden plank and onto the smooth planks of the deck, the ship seems to rise slightly with the swells that the breakwater cannot totally damp.
XVI
Brede is still snoring when Dorrin pries his eyes open. In the top bunk, Kadara’s breathing is far softer, unheard against the background of the ship’s noises.
The wiry redhead eases himself out of the bunk and into his heavy brown trousers and boots. The shirt follows. As quietly as possible, he leaves the closet-sized stateroom and clambers up the ladder and onto the rain-splashed deck. Although the rain no longer falls, the spring day is dismal under rolling gray clouds and a brisk wind. He shivers as he passes various members of the crew who are already working—adjusting various lines and cables, coiling a rope, and disassembling a winch.
With the hope that his stomach will remain settled, Dorrin ducks into the deck-level cabin that is the Ryessa ’s mess and eases onto one of the oak benches at the empty table. One of the ship’s officers sits alone at the other table, a heavy brown mug in his hand.
Dorrin slides onto the bench at the empty table. On one platter before him are hard rolls and a wedge of cheese. On the other are dried fruits—apples, red currants, peaches. A pitcher sits inside the bracket fastened to the tabletop. Dorrin looks again, realizing that the platters are similarly constrained and that the heavy brown earthenware has raised edges, presumably to keep the food from sliding off. The two tables are attached to the floor, as are the backless benches.
The redhead takes a cup from the rack and pours the tea into it. Even with a healthy dollop of honey, he winces, both at the lukewarm temperature and the bitter taste. He dips a roll into the tea, hoping that it will at least soften the stale and hard crust.
He forces himself to eat slowly. The Ryessa ’s mate never meets his eyes. Clearly, the crew has eaten earlier, much earlier. Just as Dorrin finishes his second biscuit and some dried peaches and is thinking about leaving, Kadara arrives, with Brede a step behind.
“You were up early,” she observes.
“I couldn’t sleep any longer.”
“Hmmphhh…” grumbles Brede.
Kadara sits heavily, but not quite so heavily as Brede, and then pours the dark tea into two brown earthenware mugs. “Honey?” she asks.
Brede shakes his head. “No.”
Dorrin downs the last of his mug, looking around for a place to leave it.
“Don’t leave just yet, Dorrin.”
“It’s not as though I have anywhere to go.” Dorrin looks at the heavy planks of the deck. Finally, he sets his mug down and refills it, following the tea with an enormous dollop of honey from the server, an earth-brown squat pitcher that matches neither the mugs nor the teapot.
“You’re something,” begins Kadara, her voice rising. “You stay on deck until we’re asleep. Then you come in and wake us up, and then you get up with the sun and do the same thing.”
Brede sips his tea and looks blankly at the table before him.
Kadara takes a deep swallow of the tea and pulls a pile of
“Hmmm…” offers Brede.
Kadara keeps her eyes fixed on the harbor ahead.
Dorrin follows the other three over the time-polished stones toward the only ship on the pier. His eyes drop to the dark green water, then rise to the plank-gangway, where a single sailor, wearing a short blade, lounges in an imitation of guard duty. As the man sees Gelisel’s black tunic, he scrambles to attention, waiting as the four travelers approach.
“Magistra…you are expected.”
“Thank you.” Gelisel starts up the gangway.
Dorrin pauses, again studying the rounded sides of the coaster, his eyes catching the name plate under the bowsprit —Ryessa . The name is familiar, although he cannot say why it is.
“Come on. You need to meet the ship’s master.”
As Dorrin follows the other three up the wooden plank and onto the smooth planks of the deck, the ship seems to rise slightly with the swells that the breakwater cannot totally damp.
XVI
Brede is still snoring when Dorrin pries his eyes open. In the top bunk, Kadara’s breathing is far softer, unheard against the background of the ship’s noises.
The wiry redhead eases himself out of the bunk and into his heavy brown trousers and boots. The shirt follows. As quietly as possible, he leaves the closet-sized stateroom and clambers up the ladder and onto the rain-splashed deck. Although the rain no longer falls, the spring day is dismal under rolling gray clouds and a brisk wind. He shivers as he passes various members of the crew who are already working—adjusting various lines and cables, coiling a rope, and disassembling a winch.
With the hope that his stomach will remain settled, Dorrin ducks into the deck-level cabin that is the Ryessa ’s mess and eases onto one of the oak benches at the empty table. One of the ship’s officers sits alone at the other table, a heavy brown mug in his hand.
Dorrin slides onto the bench at the empty table. On one platter before him are hard rolls and a wedge of cheese. On the other are dried fruits—apples, red currants, peaches. A pitcher sits inside the bracket fastened to the tabletop. Dorrin looks again, realizing that the platters are similarly constrained and that the heavy brown earthenware has raised edges, presumably to keep the food from sliding off. The two tables are attached to the floor, as are the backless benches.
The redhead takes a cup from the rack and pours the tea into it. Even with a healthy dollop of honey, he winces, both at the lukewarm temperature and the bitter taste. He dips a roll into the tea, hoping that it will at least soften the stale and hard crust.
He forces himself to eat slowly. The Ryessa ’s mate never meets his eyes. Clearly, the crew has eaten earlier, much earlier. Just as Dorrin finishes his second biscuit and some dried peaches and is thinking about leaving, Kadara arrives, with Brede a step behind.
“You were up early,” she observes.
“I couldn’t sleep any longer.”
“Hmmphhh…” grumbles Brede.
Kadara sits heavily, but not quite so heavily as Brede, and then pours the dark tea into two brown earthenware mugs. “Honey?” she asks.
Brede shakes his head. “No.”
Dorrin downs the last of his mug, looking around for a place to leave it.
“Don’t leave just yet, Dorrin.”
“It’s not as though I have anywhere to go.” Dorrin looks at the heavy planks of the deck. Finally, he sets his mug down and refills it, following the tea with an enormous dollop of honey from the server, an earth-brown squat pitcher that matches neither the mugs nor the teapot.
“You’re something,” begins Kadara, her voice rising. “You stay on deck until we’re asleep. Then you come in and wake us up, and then you get up with the sun and do the same thing.”
Brede sips his tea and looks blankly at the table before him.
Kadara takes a deep swallow of the tea and pulls a pile of
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