make him any less a seaman. He’d been mate on this ship under Captain Vestrit and had well proved his worth to that man. When Vestrit had taken ill, Brashen had dared to hope the Vivacia would be put into his hands to captain. Instead the old Trader had turned it over to his son-in-law Kyle Haven. Well, family was family, and Brashen could accept what had been done. Then Captain Haven had exercised his option of choosing his own first mate, and it hadn’t been Brashen Trell. Still the demotion was no fault of his own, and every sailor in the ship – no, every sailor in Bingtown itself had known that. No shame to it; Kyle had simply wanted his own man. Brashen had thought it over and decided he’d rather serve as second mate on the Vivacia than first on any other vessel. It had been his own decision and he could fault no one else for it. Even after they had left the docks and Captain Haven had belatedly decided that he wanted a familiar man as second, and Brashen could move down yet another notch, he had gritted his teeth and obeyed his captain. But despite his years with the Vivacia and his gratitude to Ephron Vestrit, he suspected this would be the last time he shipped on her.
Captain Haven had made it clear to him that he neither welcomed nor respected Brashen as a member of his crew. During this last leg of the journey, nothing he did pleased the captain. If he saw a task that needed doing and put men to work on it, he was told he’d overstepped his authority. If he did only the duties that were precisely assigned to him, he was told he was a lazy lackwit. With each passing day, Bingtown grew nearer, but Haven grew more abrasive as well. Brashen was thinking that when they tied up in their home port, if Vestrit wasn’t ready to step back on as captain again, Brashen would step off the Vivacia’s decks for the last time. It gave him a pang, but he reminded himself there were other ships, some of them fine ones, and Brashen had a name now as a good hand. It wasn’t like it had been when he’d first sailed and he’d had to take any berth he could get on any ship. Back then, surviving a voyage had been his highest priority. That first ship out, that first voyage, and his nightmare were all tied together in his mind.
He had been fourteen the first time he’d seen a sea serpent. It was ten long years ago now, and he had been as green as the grass stains on a tumble’s skirts. He’d been less than three weeks aboard his first ship, a wallowing Chalcedean sow called the Spray. Even in the best of water she moved like a pregnant woman pushing a barrow, and in a following sea no one could predict where the deck would be from one moment to the next. So he’d been seasick, and sore, both from the unaccustomed work and from a well-earned drubbing from the mate the night before. Sore in spirit, too, for in the dark that slimy Farsey had come to crouch by him as he slept in the forepeak, offering him words of sympathy for his bruises and then a sudden hand groping under his blanket. He’d rebuffed Farsey, but not without humiliation. The tubby sailor had a lot of muscle underneath his lard, and his hands had been all over Brashen even as the boy had punched and pummelled and writhed away from him. None of the other hands sleeping in the forepeak had so much as stirred in their blankets, let alone offered to aid him. He was not popular with the other sailors, for his body was too unscarred and his language too elevated for their tastes. ‘Schoolboy’ they called him, not guessing how that stung. They knew they couldn’t trust him to know his business, let alone do it, and a man like that aboard a ship is a man who gets other men killed.
So when he fled the forepeak and Farsey, he went to the afterdeck to sit huddled in his blanket and sniffle a bit to himself. The school and masters and endless lessons that had seemed so intolerable now beckoned to him like a siren, recalling him to soft beds and hot meals and hours that belonged to him alone. Here on the Spray if he was seen to be idle, he caught the end of a rope. Even now, if the mate came across him, he’d either be ordered back below or put to work. He knew he should try to sleep. Instead he stared out over the oily water heaving in their wake and felt an answering unrest in his own belly. He’d have puked again, if there had been anything left to retch up. He leaned his forehead on the railing and tried to find one breath of air that did not taste of either the tarry ship or the salt water that surrounded it.
It was while he was looking at the shining black water rolling so effortlessly away from the ship that it occurred to him he had one other option. It had never presented itself to him before. Now it beckoned to him, simple and logical. Slip into the water. A few minutes of discomfort, and then it would all be over. He’d never have to answer to anyone again, or feel the snap of a rope against his ribs. He’d never have to feel ashamed or frustrated or stupid again. Best of all, the decision would only take an instant, and then it would be done. There’d be no agonizing over it, not even a prayer of undoing it. One moment of decisiveness would be all he’d have to find.
He stood up. He leaned over the railing, searching within himself for that one moment of strength to seize control of his own fate. But as he took that one great breath to find the will to tumble over the rail, he saw it. It slipped along, silent as time, its great sinuous body concealed in the smooth curve of water that was the wake of the ship. The wall of its body perfectly mimicked the arch of the moving water: but for the betraying moonlight showing him a momentary flank of glistening scales, Brashen would never have known the creature was there.
His breath froze in his chest, catching hard and hurting him. He wanted to shout out what he’d seen, bring the second watch running back to confirm it. Back then, sightings of serpents were rare, and many a landsman still claimed they were no more than sea-tales. But he also knew what the sailors said about the big serpents. A man who sees one sees his own death. With sudden certainty, Brashen knew that if anyone else knew he’d seen one, it would be taken as an ill omen for the entire ship. There’d be only one way to purge such bad luck. He’d fall from a yard when someone else didn’t quite hold the flapping canvas down tightly enough, he’d fall down an open hatch and break his neck, or he’d just quietly disappear some night during a long dull watch.
Despite the fact that he’d been toying with the notion of suicide but a moment before, he was suddenly sure he didn’t want to die. Not by his own hand, not by anyone else’s. He wanted to live out this thrice-damned voyage, get back to shore and somehow get his life back. He’d go to his father, he’d grovel and beg as he’d never grovelled and begged before. They’d take him back. Perhaps they wouldn’t take him back as heir to the Trell family fortune, but he didn’t care. Let Cerwin have it, Brashen would be more than satisfied with the portion of a younger son. He’d stop his gambling, he’d stop his drinking, he’d give up cindin. Whatever his father and grandfather demanded, he’d do. He was suddenly gripping life as tightly as his blistered hands gripped the rail, watching the scaled cylinder of flesh slide along effortlessly in the wake of the ship.
Then came what had been worst. What was still worst, in his dreams. The serpent had known its defeat. Somehow, it had sensed he would not fall prey to its guile, and with a shudder as jolting as Farsey’s hand on his crotch, he knew that the impulse had not been his own, but the serpent’s suggestion. With a casual twist, the serpent slid from the cover of the ship’s wake, to expose its full sinuous body to his view. It was half the length of the Spray and gleamed with scintillant colours. It moved without effort, almost as if the ship drew it through the water. Its head was not the flat wedge shape of a land serpent but full and arched, the brow curved like a horse’s, with immense eyes set to either side. Toxic barbels dangled below its jaws.
Then the creature rolled to one side in the water, baring its paler belly scales, to stare up at Brashen with one great eye. That glance was what had enervated him and sent him scrabbling away from the railing and fleeing back to the forepeak. It was still what woke him twitching from his nightmares. Immense as they had been, browless and lashless, there had still been something horribly human in the round blue eye that gazed up at him so mockingly.
Althea longed for a freshwater bath. As she toiled up the companionway to the deck, every muscle in her body ached, and her head pounded from the thick air of the aft hold. At least her task was done. She’d go to her stateroom, wash with a wet towel, change her clothes and perhaps even nap for a bit. And then she’d go to confront Kyle. She’d put it off long enough, and the longer she waited, the more uncomfortable she became. She’d get it over with
