Chapter Five
TWORD left Felic standing on the sagging dock and disappeared into the swamp. As the twilight deepened, Jult's once-proud yacht borrowed a degree of dignity from the last rays of the sun. The tarnished gilt of its eagle-head prow gleamed anew, denying the ravages of time. Felic took a seaman's delight in the easy lines of the craft. He paced it off mentally, judging it to be 50 feet in length with a fifteen-foot beam. It was two-masted and lateen rigged. A raised quarterdeck gave headroom for the royal accommodations below, and the stern and quarter windows were elaborate with gilded serpents, flowers and sea deities. Carved feathers trailed back from the eagle's head at the prow to form sweeping wings along the forward sheer.
The tide was at ebb, and the Sun-Eagle, as it was christened, appeared to be aground in the shallow waters of the creek. It was a few feet below the level of the dock. Felic hopped down for an inspection. The deck was grimy with swamp mud and other debris. He ran his fingers expertly over the standing rigging and fittings. An enormous padlock crusted with rust secured the main companionway leading to the royal cabin. Felic gave it a tentative tug, then climbed the three steps to the quarterdeck where he stumbled over the steering oar. It was unshipped and lying half buried in guano. A seagull kept to his place on the stern light as Felic passed by. He and his friends had turned the quarterdeck into a stinking poultry yard of feathers and droppings. Felic descended and made his way forward. A box of sand with an iron tripod served as the galley. He noticed that it had been used recently.
Between the foremast and the capstan a small raised hatch led below. Felic tried it with his foot. It slid back. He lowered himself into the shrouded gloom of the forecastle. He found a candle lantern hanging from a deck beam and got a light going with his tinderbox. In the peak of the bow a bin overflowed with the rusty anchor chain. A net hanging along the port ceiling was stuffed with sails. Felic pulled out a fold of the coarse fabric and kneaded it with his fingers.
The forecastle was partitioned off from the main hold by a bulkhead of stout oak. Felic squeezed through a narrow door and took a step down into the hold. The wavering rays of the lamp couldn't light the expanse of the hull, but he could see there was useful gear strewn amongst the clutter in his path. The thick odor of stale bilge water seeped from under the planked sole. He wound his way aft. Three steps led up to the door into the great cabin. It was not locked.
He opened it and stepped inside. The last of the daylight filtered through the dusty panes of the windows. He whistled in appreciation of the kingly quarters. A deep tufted divan curved in a crescent around the stern of the cabin, serving the massive table that dominated the room. The table's surface was inlaid with many shades of hardwood in a heraldic pattern. All the accoutrements for princely living were in evidence. There were also a few personal items scattered about. Felic frowned as he examined a cloak draped carelessly on the divan. It was torn and caked with mud. Other items seemed out of place amid the finery of the cabin. He flung aside the thick velvet hanging that curtained the berth and threw back the bedding. There was no musty storage odor. The warm scent of recent use filled the alcove.
Felic looked the cabin over once more and reached a conclusion. He retraced his steps to the forecastle, extinguished the candle, and left everything as he found it. He replaced the hatch and disembarked. He found a dry hillock on the opposite side of the dock from the path, and there, screened by cattails from the yacht, he stretched out and studied the constellations.
He was alerted from a light sleep by the sound of the hatch sliding back. Clouds obscured the moon; a night breeze rustled the reeds of his hiding place. He waited, giving the intruder time to get settled. His intention was to sneak in the forward hatch and surprise his quarry in the great cabin But lowering himself to the deck he had a better idea.
He walked heavily to the padlocked door at the companionway and rattled and banged the lock as though trying to open it. Then he crept swiftly forward and crouched in the shadows of the bow rail. As he expected, a head rose cautiously above the rim of the forward hatch. Then the figure eased onto the deck and tiptoed toward the rail.
Felic catapulted into the intruder and sent him sprawling into the waist of the ship. His adversary was wiry and agile but not strong and no match for Felic's battle-toughened thews. They rolled and struggled briefly before Felic's forearm pinned the other's neck to the deck. One last pummeling flurry of fists rained on his back, then the interloper's struggling slowed and became a choking fight for breath.
Felic eased the pressure. "Who are you?" he growled through clenched teeth. "What right have you in this ship?"
A hoarse squawk was the only answer that could squeeze through the bruised throat. At that moment the moon slid from behind the clouds and Felic looked into the large stricken eyes of a small pale face surrounded by flaxen hair.
"What's this?" he grunted. "You're a maid!"
She renewed her struggle to get free. Felic pulled her up from the deck and held her twisting at arm's length. Her eyes flashed hatred as she realized there was no escape from the steely fingers. She found her voice and berated him with well-chosen invective.
"Wait, little pigeon," Felic was laughing, "I'm not sure I deserve all that."
"I knew you would find me," she seethed, "but no Dag-Arnak will ever own me. I will kill myself first:"
"Hold up! You are confusing me with someone else. I am no Dag, and you do not have to kill yourself."
"You are right! I will find a moment when you are asleep and slit your throat." She threw her head up defiantly. "I'll poison your wine, or I'll..."
"Come now, give me a chance," Felic teased. "You could learn to like me."
"Learn to like a Dag-Arnak!" she exploded, "Ugh! I would rather love a viper." She tried to pull away, but Felic hustled her to the open hatch.
"Do you want to climb down, or do I stuff you down?" he asked with amusement.
She gave him a scornful look that failed to cover the fear in her eyes, and started down. Felic held her wrist and followed. As he ducked under the low beams he was jarred by a blow to the side of his head. He shrugged off the pain and wrestled the crumpled lantern from her free hand. "You know, Pigeon, you are making it hard for me to like you."
Her defiance broke into a wail of frustration. She fought weakly, then fell sobbing at his knees. He fished the candle from the wasted lantern and got it alight. Pulling the weeping girl along, he went aft to the great cabin. He let her slide to a heap on the floor while he lit the ornate oil lamp that hung above the table. Then he sat down and waited without speaking.
After some moments, her sobbing spent, she ventured a curious glance in his direction. She snuffled into the sleeve of her shirt and tried to pull together the ripped fabric to cover her shoulder. She was dressed like a sharecropper's boy, and her slender figure was lost in the loose rough shirt and baggy short breeches.
"If you are through playing games, I would like to know who you are and why you are trespassing on this, the royal yacht of Calix." There was a no-nonsense threat in Felic's tone.
She raised her tear-stained face, but her eyes drooped when they met his. She answered quietly. "There is nothing I can do now. Rape me if you will, but I will never give you the satis..."
"Forget that line!" roared Felic. "I am not here to rape you! I am no Dag-Arnak! Open your eyes and look at me. Do I look like an inbred idiot member of the Arnak family? Do I wear the robes of a priest? Look at me, girl!"
She looked at the shouting stranger, wide-eyed with bewilderment. "But...but you called me by name...you called me 'Pigeon.' If you are not my intended, how come you know my name?"
"A chance choice. It fits."
"Then you are not Stet-Arnak to whom I was promised?"
"No, I am Felic m'Lans."
The girl studied him with new interest. "You are the one they call the 'Carver of Men'?"
"Yes."
"I have heard many bards sing of your heroic adventures and of the many warriors you h
ave slain. Are those stories true...the terrible tales they tell?"
"Some. Not all."
She covered her mouth and tittered.
"Something amuses you?"
She fluttered her hands about her face and her eyes shone with a disturbing luminosity. "It's just that I thought of you as...I mean," she stammered, "that I had you pictured in my mind as being much bigger, or stronger...or something..." Her voice trailed off in embarrassment.
Felic's cheeks colored, but his tone was still dominating. "You talk a lot, but I am still waiting to hear who you are and why you are here."
The girl fidgeted in thought, then stood up and met his gaze. "I am Princess Chessa of Dagra, and I am hiding from..."
"You lie," Felic interrupted. "Don't test my patience. You may be Chessa, daughter of King Cot the puppet, but you are no princess of Dagra!" He reached out and ripped the torn sleeve back from her shoulder. "The mark of the royal family is not on you!"
She pulled away from him and cowered against the wall. "I am still my father's favorite. He calls me 'Pigeon,' and he loves me more than any of the others."
"Is that why he uses you to curry favor with the Dag Arnak?" It was a telling blow.
"You don't know anything!" she screamed. "I hate you. I want you to leave!" Tears welled in her eyes and her lower lip quivered.
Felic said nothing. He rummaged in the lockers and cupboards of the cabin.
"What do you expect to find?" she blubbered.
"Do you have any food here?"
"I would not share it with you."
"Do you have any?"
"No."
Felic left her pouting on the divan and went on deck to retrieve the pack he had set aside before the struggle. When he returned he spread berries, bread and cold roast venison on the table. He sat down to eat and gestured for her to join him. She turned away. He made a show of enjoying the food, and finishing, put the remainder in the pack. He yawned and stretched out on the royal berth, heaving an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction. He lay there pretending to doze off, waiting to see what would follow.
After some moments she broke the silence. "I am hungry now," she stated quietly.
He mumbled and waved toward the pack. This time she accepted the invitation. Her fingers trembled as she fumbled to get the food out. Felic watched her though half-closed eyelids as she wolfed down his leavings.
"If I had known you were so hungry, I would have left you more."
"I didn't mean what I said."
"What?"
"That I wouldn't share with you."
"Oh...well, all right." He closed his eyes.
"Now what do you want me to do?" she asked.
"Let me go to sleep."
"But where do I sleep?"
"On the floor, on the shore, in this bed, wherever it suits you. Now...no more talk. Snuff the light."
In the early morning hours the incoming tide lifted the yacht off the bottom and Felic woke to the gentle rocking of small waves lapping the hull. He was not surprised to find the slender soft body of the illegitimate princess snuggled next to him.