rolled around the deck, thrashing away at each other with feet, fists, knees and elbows.
“Stop this at once!” Maura cried out in a tone of ringing rage. “Both of you!”
To his credit, Rath did hesitate for an instant. But Gull took advantage of that hesitation to drive his sharp little knee hard into Rath’s groin. Rath let out a savage bellow of pain but managed to get his hands around Gull’s slender throat and squeeze with all his strength.
Just as he was savoring the bulge of Gull’s eyes, a familiar but detested sensation stole through his flesh, making his hands fall slack and freeze motionless along with the rest of his body. The same must have happened to Gull, for he didnot take advantage of Rath’s paralysis to land another unsporting blow.
Instead, he channeled his hostility into a black glare. “What have you done to me, inlander? I will not stand for this, curse you!”
“You have no choice but to stand for it,” Rath growled. “Or lie for it. And it is none of my doing.” He tried to turn his head to glare at Maura, but his neck refused to move any more than the rest of him. “It is hers. Curse those fool cobwebs!”
“Hers?” Gull’s gaze shifted sidelong, but he had no better luck making his head turn than Rath had. “You mean…”
At some point during their brawl, the music had stopped, but Rath only noticed the silence now. He expected Maura’s voice to fill it, with a firm rebuke to him and Gull.
Instead, a male voice sliced through the silence, speaking Umbrian, but with a distinctive twaran lilt. “What is the meaning of this, Gull? You fouled our warding waters beyond further use by leading the whole Hanish Ore Fleet into them. Now you anchor offshore, engaging in all manner of violence and debauchery.”
Something about the fellow’s tone made Rath forget his good-natured tiff with Gull. Perhaps it was his outlaw nature to resent any figure of authority. Or perhaps the sythria made him spoil for a fresh fight.
Into the cowed hush that followed the man’s words, Rath muttered, loud enough for all to hear, “You ought to try a little debauchery now and then. It might be just the thing to loosen those tight bowels of yours.”
The silence that greeted his words put Rath in mind of a very thin-shelled egg tethering on the edge of a high wall. Even the waves seemed to stop their quiet lapping against the hull of the ship to listen. In that brittle stillness, the soft, deliberate approach of a pair of leather-soled boots sounded louder than the earlier thunder of the hand drums.
It occurred to Rath, not for the first time, that taunting a mobile opponent while he lay helpless was a stupid thing to do. He could not help himself, though.
The slender leather toe of a boot hooked under his chin, turning Rath’s head as he was unable to do for himself. A good-size foot poised above his throat. Long ago he had learned to hide fear, and he flattered himself that he’d become good at it. But it never got easier.
He stared up at a man who appeared very tall and lean…at least from his angle. Clad in tight leggings and a long pale brown tunic, the man had piercing dark eyes and features so straight and perfectly proportioned Rath’s fist ached to knock something askew. Or at the very least, to muss the fellow’s close-cropped dark hair from its unnatural tidiness.
“And who are you,” asked the owner of the boot, “to fling insults about without having either the courage or manners to rise and say them to my face?”
“I’m the Waiting King,” Rath growled as if it was only a contemptuous jest meant to shock the other man. He would have had a harder time uttering the words as if he meant them. “Who are you?”
“Don’t mind him, Lord Idrygon!” cried Gull. “You can’t hold an inlander responsible for the blather he spews on his first bellyful of sythria. ”
Lord Idrygon? Well, well. Lord of what? Rath wondered. He tried to stifle a traitorous notion that
“Stop this at once!” Maura cried out in a tone of ringing rage. “Both of you!”
To his credit, Rath did hesitate for an instant. But Gull took advantage of that hesitation to drive his sharp little knee hard into Rath’s groin. Rath let out a savage bellow of pain but managed to get his hands around Gull’s slender throat and squeeze with all his strength.
Just as he was savoring the bulge of Gull’s eyes, a familiar but detested sensation stole through his flesh, making his hands fall slack and freeze motionless along with the rest of his body. The same must have happened to Gull, for he didnot take advantage of Rath’s paralysis to land another unsporting blow.
Instead, he channeled his hostility into a black glare. “What have you done to me, inlander? I will not stand for this, curse you!”
“You have no choice but to stand for it,” Rath growled. “Or lie for it. And it is none of my doing.” He tried to turn his head to glare at Maura, but his neck refused to move any more than the rest of him. “It is hers. Curse those fool cobwebs!”
“Hers?” Gull’s gaze shifted sidelong, but he had no better luck making his head turn than Rath had. “You mean…”
At some point during their brawl, the music had stopped, but Rath only noticed the silence now. He expected Maura’s voice to fill it, with a firm rebuke to him and Gull.
Instead, a male voice sliced through the silence, speaking Umbrian, but with a distinctive twaran lilt. “What is the meaning of this, Gull? You fouled our warding waters beyond further use by leading the whole Hanish Ore Fleet into them. Now you anchor offshore, engaging in all manner of violence and debauchery.”
Something about the fellow’s tone made Rath forget his good-natured tiff with Gull. Perhaps it was his outlaw nature to resent any figure of authority. Or perhaps the sythria made him spoil for a fresh fight.
Into the cowed hush that followed the man’s words, Rath muttered, loud enough for all to hear, “You ought to try a little debauchery now and then. It might be just the thing to loosen those tight bowels of yours.”
The silence that greeted his words put Rath in mind of a very thin-shelled egg tethering on the edge of a high wall. Even the waves seemed to stop their quiet lapping against the hull of the ship to listen. In that brittle stillness, the soft, deliberate approach of a pair of leather-soled boots sounded louder than the earlier thunder of the hand drums.
It occurred to Rath, not for the first time, that taunting a mobile opponent while he lay helpless was a stupid thing to do. He could not help himself, though.
The slender leather toe of a boot hooked under his chin, turning Rath’s head as he was unable to do for himself. A good-size foot poised above his throat. Long ago he had learned to hide fear, and he flattered himself that he’d become good at it. But it never got easier.
He stared up at a man who appeared very tall and lean…at least from his angle. Clad in tight leggings and a long pale brown tunic, the man had piercing dark eyes and features so straight and perfectly proportioned Rath’s fist ached to knock something askew. Or at the very least, to muss the fellow’s close-cropped dark hair from its unnatural tidiness.
“And who are you,” asked the owner of the boot, “to fling insults about without having either the courage or manners to rise and say them to my face?”
“I’m the Waiting King,” Rath growled as if it was only a contemptuous jest meant to shock the other man. He would have had a harder time uttering the words as if he meant them. “Who are you?”
“Don’t mind him, Lord Idrygon!” cried Gull. “You can’t hold an inlander responsible for the blather he spews on his first bellyful of sythria. ”
Lord Idrygon? Well, well. Lord of what? Rath wondered. He tried to stifle a traitorous notion that
Similar Books
