The day after the dinner with Martin, Harsh--still reeling a little from the sheer weirdness of everything he's learned--gets himself on somewhat more familiar ground by making good on his promise to give Alex and Rowen an orientation on the ways of seamanship.
Some of the Golcondan terms he knows best have to be translated -- various Amberite sailors help out with that -- but by the time he's done, they should at least know the difference between port, starboard, bow, and stern, and that it's lines not ropes, and what commands are particularly important to know in terms of "landsmen and landswomen, get out of the way when you hear it".
More than once, during the explanations, Rowen shakes her head while looking at the sails and mutters about the ropes being called sheets when there are perfectly good sheets flapping about overhead. Despite her protestations, though, she seems quite adept at memorizing and picking up the terms. Where misuse surfaces, it comes with intent.
Alex spins a very long story about how lines are, on his world, what you call the path a ship takes, but he loses his straight face about halfway through. He's a decent student, though, and he doesn't seem to assume that he knows everything already.
Harsh gets a good laugh from Alex's story, and he has a few of his own as they go -- enough to provide Alex and Rowen with at least a little context about what his own world is like. Golconda is clearly a great naval power and a society that contains multitudes, standing on more or less equal footing with the western nations of Albion, Gaul, and the American states. It is also, notably, a colonizer in its own right rather than a colonized state, with footholds in south Asia, Terra Australis, and some parts of eastern Africa.
Along the way:
"So, Harsh -- I didn't quite figure it out over dinner. Are we cousins, or are you just some poor guy who Martin picked up along the way? The second one is better, I've met nothing but cousins all week."
"'Just some poor guy', I'm afraid," Harsh says wryly. At least, that's as far as he knows at this point, and he has not yet picked up on any hints that he might be related to any Amberites. "A ... week or so ago -- more or less -- my ship stumbled upon a derelict vessel in the Southern Ocean. I led a boarding party to inspect it and then we were swept away by a rogue current. Uncommonly rogue, you might say, since it pulled us into this, ah, Shadow. Luckily for me -- and for the Prince, I daresay -- I'd had the presence of mind to bring along the logbook and other documents from the derelict, and it seems it was information he found valuable." A small, apparently self-deprecating shrug. "Where I go next, I'm unsure. Some of my men want very much to return to Golconda and the Prince has said that he will try to help."
There's a slight change in the wind and the color of the sky shifts a little. Rowen, who has had some lessons with Martin abut this, recognizes that Martin has done some shadow-shifting. Alex can feel it too; he's been through a few. When he and Rowen were sitting on the mast, he even saw one happen.
Harsh is aware something has changed as well. He doesn't know how to express it or even what he's feeling, but he can feel something is different and not just because of the external alterations to wind and sky that confirm what he was already feeling.
Rowen looks about, taking notice of the changes and putting them into words. "He just made one of those shadow. Did you feel it? The sky has a little more green in it. Notice how the clouds are thinner now instead of fluffy. The air is drier, not as oppressive." Though it seems addressed to Alex, her words fall equally applicable to Harsh. "This place feels... lighter, too, like a weight has been lifted." She tests this new feeling with a twirl on the deck. A fairly steady twirl, at that. Getting used to her sea legs, it seems.
"What was so special about this derelict?" she asks, coming back to the topic at hand. She comes up to Harsh, perhaps a smidge closer than is comfortable, her eyes wide with curiosity.
Harsh takes a deep breath of the new air and she's right; the texture of it is different somehow. There's an odd sensation, almost like a galvanic tingle under the skin. He wonders how he missed it when the Cotopaxi was swept away, and then considers ruefully that he'd had a lot of other things on his mind at the time.
Rowen's proximity startles him a little, but he answers her easily enough. "It was unlike any other ship we'd seen before. Her designation and name -- the IN Cotopaxi -- were unfamilar, as were the contents. We thought he might take her as a prize, but -- well, she took us, you might say."
"I might," allows Alex. "But that sounds a little more interesting than just a ship fight. Was it, um, weird?"
"Very." Harsh's expression sobers, and he glances toward one of his crewmen who is engaged in cheerful conversation with one of the Amberites as they work. "One moment we were simply trying to make sense of a logbook in a script that I couldn't read, and the next we'd lost all sight of our own ship -- which had laid not more than two cables away moments before -- and were being swept toward Tortuga. Lucky for us that the islanders there seem accustomed, or at least not strangers to, that sort of thing."
"Fortunate that you weren't pulled into a more inhospitable place. That island must be a special place if travelers like you appear out of nowhere with regularity." Idly, Rowen picks up a free piece of rope and practices knots. Slender though they are, her fingers are agile and she seems to have an aptitude for picking up the delicate motions.
One of the younger deckhands hops up on deck and, after a quick glance around, strides purposefully over to the group, singling out Alex. "Prince Martin wishes your presence, Lord Alex." He dallies just long enough for Alex to flamboyantly bid his farewell and leads the way. As the big man disappears aft, the scent of brine becomes sharper and a little tart, as the water around the ship yellows into a mildly disconcerting green.
"Such a disconcerting way to travel," Rowen sympathizes. Rocking back on her heels, she shifts a foot that opens up the space again and gives her a broad view off the beam. "Even knowing that Prince Martin is making these changes that slip from one world to another only makes it slightly easier to accept, but only because he's an ally." The wind picks up, teasing at the loose strands of her red hair. "Not knowing if the next shift will take you home or leave you stranded in an unfamiliar world..." she trails off. A sudden realization snaps into place, followed by a twist of her head toward the seasoned sailor. "I hope we can get you back to Golconda, Mr. Harsh. What would you do there with your new knowledge?"
"That's a complicated question," he muses. "Some men, I expect, would simply be grateful to be home, and perhaps the change in perspective granted by this--" a gesture encompassing the ship and the new landscape, "--it will, I don't doubt, have far-reaching effects. You can't unsee it. But the truth is ..."
He folds his arms and leans back against the rail, gaze off in the distance at the strange new sea. He wonders what swims in it.
"I want to go home, and I don't. Or -- not yet, at any rate. Before I came here -- the commission I'd sought, and received, was that of an explorer. We were sailing to the great Southern continent, you see -- not for war, but for discovery. And, not to put too fine a point on it, to try and get there first." He smirks slightly. "And I would gladly see my ship again, but suddenly even the Southern continent seems very small when compared to a multitude of worlds." Then, half to himself, he adds, "I wonder if the navy of Amber has its own exploratory service."
"The world of what you have to discover has expanded greatly. Worlds. The way Prince Martin speaks about it, it seems neverending. Surely they have explorers of some sort," Rowen muses, wandering over toward the edge. Leaning out over the railing, wind blowing her hair, she smiles toward the sun. "Are you alone, sir? No wife or children waiting for you at home?"
"The Albic Navy men have a tradition," Harsh says, "of different toasts on different days amongst the officers' mess. Robibar -- Sunday -- that's ... 'absent friends'? Or 'to us'? I forget which ... but anyhow, one of them is 'to sweethearts and wives'. I've neither, nor children. A variety of uncles, aunts, and cousins and I've no wish to cause them sorrow, but there is no one who depends on me."
The practice of concealing the fact that his so-called Aunt Titirsha is actually his mother is so ingrained that even to a stranger, he doesn't mention it.
"Do you and your brother always travel together? And to where do you ultimately sail?"
"This is the first time I've been allowed to travel beyond my county, that was not part of a war party. My brother and I are often together," she says. It's not mentioned, but given his considerable size over her, there might be a reason for his accompaniment, and yet the girl seems capable enough.
Her eyes scan the horizon as she fidgets, her knees following the undulation of the deck to keep her steady. "Prince Martin hasn't revealed where we go. He mentioned finishing some tasks for his uncle or uncles, but has otherwise been vague. In hope for some excitement." She glance apologetically at Harsh. "And land."
"Nothing wrong with land. I like it myself. Sometimes." Harsh grins, underlining the little joke. "You mention a war party -- in what capacity do you serve?" Normally he might not automatically assume that a woman -- particularly a relatively slight-looking one -- would be a soldier of some kind, but he's making an effort to not let too many of his usual assumptions get in the way.
"I have a mind for strategy and observation, so the Count usually used me for scouting, but when the fighting starts, we all contribute." The woman steps away from the rail and returns to practicing her knots while she talks. "My brother is more of a frontline warrior. Most of the others are too. It's a very direct culture. Pack tactics of varying sizes. I was a bit of the odd one who found subterfuge more to my liking."
"The more I hear of your people -- and the Prince's, and Alex's too, for that matter -- the more I would like to get to know them all better," Harsh says, gesturing expansively. "This is what I mean about not quite being ready to go home yet. Like a child at bedtime. So will things change for you now, with the -- excuse me, perhaps I pry too closely. I was going to ask if your possible kinship to the Prince's family changes matters for you, but you are welcome to tell me that's none of my business."
"The Prince's family exists in a place between mythology and royalty for my people," Rowen responds with the same flatness that she might describe the hierarchy the military or the various grades of fur. "I was brought up with their stories, for my mother has had relations with them and I have--had--a sister who was of their blood. As a young girl, I had dreams of perhaps 'being one of them,' so if Prince Martin's suspicions are true..." she continues, trailing off to let Harsh fill in his own blank. "I've thought I was mean for more for some time now, without knowing why. I don't know what that would mean for my future. It certainly expands it greatly from what I thought my life would be in the Monkland."
Meant for more. Harsh smiles faintly.
"I'm not sure if I was meant for more, or if I only have wanted it that badly," he admits. "I hope you find what you seek, Rowen -- whatever future that may mean in this big new world."
"I hope you get home, Harsh, when you've had your fill of adventure with or without us."
A week or so later, Martin calls Rowen to his office/cabin for a chat over the midday meal. Martin has been making sure the port calls bring in as much red meat as possible, even if some of it is salted, as well as fish and other provisions, so the lunch is well suited to her tastes.
Neither Lark nor Reynart is present.
Once she's settled in and the platters have been brought in, Martin says, "I'm sure you have to have a million questions. This is a good time to ask them."
While the platters, which seem to contain the entire meal, are served family style, there's more fish and ocean creatures in a near-raw state on one platter and more cooked meat and fish on the other. Martin picks more heavily from the raw seafood platter
After weeks at sea and in port, he's not surprised that she drifts about equally between the two sides of the platter, though she tends to slightly favour the meat over the seafood. She's not averse to trying new things, though, and will at least try the fancifully prepared ocean offerings. Always curious, the exploration tends to come with questions like "What is this?" "How do you open the hard crust?" or "What makes this go from black and blue to pink?"
Martin explains various bits of the oceangoing foods and some things about their preparation. Most of them are not raw even if they appear to be. Apparently some of them are prepared in a way that leaves them with a texture similar to raw fish.
Amidst all those questions, between quieter bites of the morsels, she says, "When I first boarded your ship, it was under the pretense of protection. Someone or something was coming after members of the Amber royal family. Alex was rescued from a prison with a number of his cousins, many of whom sound quite capable, yet were still captured."
Pausing, she snares one of the large, crustacean legs with an expected flourish of fingers, and cracks it open without any of the customized utensils. "Where are we going and how could I be more prepared to defend myself?" she asks.
Between bites, Martin explains, "You're--we're--going to Xanadu, which is where my father King Random is. And you shouldn't need to defend yourself there; it's a stronghold. The best defense, though not a perfect one, is to come into your gifts, and meeting with my father is the first step on that road. Assuming you can do that. Which I think you can, but Dad will know better than I do. He can tell; that's one of his gifts."
"It would seem that the gifts aren't uniform across the family. Are there certain ones that are always given and what are the more unique ones that have been given hitherto?" she asks, nibbling--there has been progressively less gnawing as the weeks go by--on steaming flesh, held perfectly like a maize-encrusted sausage with what remains of the leg's shell structure. "As generous as these gifts sound, are there caveats, whether they be mystical or political?"
"There's always a caveat somewhere," Martin says.
"Gifts is--a thing we say in front of outsiders. We can do certain things because of what we are. Walking the Pattern, which is the name we give among ourselves to the test of our heritage, lets us master the basic skills. There are some additional things people can learn on top of that. A lot of us have little knacks as well.
"Walking the Pattern," Martin says, setting down his fork, "gives you mastery of a number of things you may already be able to do. To walk in shadow, which is a faster version of what you've seen me do with adjusting the sky and sea on our route; to manipulate the likelihood of certain things happening or not happening; similarly, to find things you're not certain where they are." He ticks each of these off on his fingers as he explains them. "They're all different uses of the same ability.
"There's Trumps, the cards like the one Alex used to get here, which are related to the Pattern, but you don't have to be an initate to use them or make them. We think you have to be able to be initiated for someone to make one of you. That's a hard skill to learn and not everyone has it. Originally our great-grandfather created the Trumps and everyone else who knows how to make them learned from him, or someone he taught.
"And there's sorcery, which is a step removed from manipulating raw Chaos, and works by violating principles of Order. Like, time moves forward, right? You can't go back in time, but with Time sorcery you can. Or distance: a sorcerer can do something called 'parting the veil' that lets you step between one place and another place far away, across Shadows, in a single step. Unlike Trump, it's antithetical to Pattern.
"And there's shapeshifting, which is usually related to Chaos, but doesn't have to be. Not like what you have, where you change from one particular form to another, but more like if you could turn into any kind of creature you wanted to, or, maybe, a bunch of rocks as well. Again, not something that does well mixed with Pattern. Those are the basic things we know or can learn how to do. Beyond that it gets really complicated. I personally can only use the Pattern; I can't make Trumps, and I don't have any sorcery or shapeshifting. Pattern and a good blade are all I've needed," Martin concludes.
"It would be fascinating to be able to do that, changing into anything you wanted. It all sounds fascinating. I don't know what to choose... that is, if there's a choice at all. Have you had anyone one try to do something, like the sorcery or the Trumps and been unable to do it? It would seem likely that there would be limitations, but what you just described suggests otherwise," Rowen muses aloud as her mind grinds against the onslaught of new information.
"Trump and sorcery are skills that anyone who knows can teach. I don't know if there are family members who can't learn them. If there are, they probably haven't confessed it," Martin explains.
"Shapeshifting like I'm talking about seems to be limited to people with close Chaosian blood. 'Seems' is the operative word there; nobody's ever told me that they tried and failed. I think having taken the Pattern would make it harder, but again, that's a guess. But not everybody speaks up about what they can do. One of our cousins, Lucas, was a Trump artist, but most of us didn't know that until he was dead." Martin makes a bit of a sour face. "Another one was secretly a sorcerer and it took him a while to fess up. I think I understand why he did it, but it sat badly for reasons that are long and involved and complicated to explain if you don't know family politics."
She possesses a healthy appetite, continuing strong as he starts to slow down. "Who are we likely to find in Xanadu? The books I had featured family trees but I expect they are outdated. I don't recall seeing a Lucas mentioned." A pause while she nibbles meat off a bone. "What is the nature of Xanadu itself? Ask I know if there is a Thing underneath it."
Martin is one of the few people Rowen has ever met who seems to eat as much as she does. "Most people don't stay in Xanadu proper. Usually my Dad, and his brother Gerard, who was injured when the castle in Amber collapsed. And," Martin adds reluctantly, "Folly, my wife and Lark's mother. Everybody else is in and out, some more out than in."
"Will there be expectations? Listening to Alex talk, it seems there are worlds that are vastly different than what I've known or were described in mother's books about Amber. How could I learn about those things. What magic are fones and television?"
"There are always expectations, but you'll be taught them as you go along. There's been a large influx of cousins in the last couple of decades, all from very different sorts of places, so we're getting used to accommodating different levels of technology and magic and the understandings that go with them."
Martin takes a bite of something to buy himself a little time to figure out how to explain telephones and televisions.
"Phones--telephones--are devices that people can use to speak to each other at a distance. Television is a form of over-the-air broadcast that has visual and audio effects; it's also the name of the device that receives those broadcasts. They can be news and information, or entertainment. Like a play or a musical concert that you'd listen to. They're common in certain kinds of shadows like the one Alex came from. You'd need a book from that kind of place or someone like Alex, or me, to explain how they work. But in Shadows where people have those devices, they're usually common enough that people know how to use them without knowing all the science behind them."
By the look on her face, it looks like he may have lost her somewhere over the air or casting broadly, though the expression disappears quickly, replaced by a neutral studiousness. "I may need a book," she says plainly, pausing her chew to speak. "Or a demonstration," she adds, considering his last statement. "These devices take the place of feasts and meetings like this, then? Is it just for the speaking and communication, like the cards? I did not hear of anything about food."
"They don't take the place of meals, but telephones can take the place of talking in a meeting, so similar to the cards in that respect. No stepping through, though. I think you're going to have to see a lot of this technology to get it, but fundamentally shadow tech and shadow magic for us are different routes with similar endpoints. You'll get there," Martin says with confidence.
"I think Dad limits the level of technology that works in Xanadu. It's got to be hard because he wants electricity and enough tech to make sound engineering and recording work but he doesn't want military technology. Anyway, not the point: the point is that nobody will think you're stupid for not knowing. You'll be fresh in from Shadow and people will tell you what you need to know."
Rowen's lips twist wryly. "It's what you need to know that others don't think you need to know that limits you." She shrugs slightly and goes back to gnawing on a rib.
"Probably the biggest piece of family etiquette is the sort of family hierarchy. Dad's at the top, because he's king, then his brothers and sisters, then our generation, sort of by age but also sort of by life experience. Since I'm relatively old for our generation, plus I'm Dad's oldest known child, I'm reasonably high on the list, but I still don't push it with the uncles unless I need to. Usually when we find each other in Shadow, we tell each other all our family news, and the younger one goes first. Or the guest goes first, but again, easier to just give some or most of your news to an older relative early so you're not perceived to be snubbing someone."
Illustrating with her hands at different levels, she asks, "By all accounts everyone in the family looks youthful enough and there are generational overlaps. I suppose we state our lineage and determine the pecking order from there?"
"Yes. There are nuances, though, even in that. Like, if Corwin takes a shine to you because you're Eric's, that'll move you up the line. Still, as a youngster and a new member of the family, you'll probably do better to start with the assumption you're junior and move your way up the line over time." He stops eating for a moment and tilts his head, looking at her. "I don't have a great sense of pack dynamics among the Weir, but I guess you'll have similar ways of working out who's senior and who's junior?"
Rowen snags a serving fork and shifts a few meaty items around. "There's a separation between the nobility and the rest of the Weir, of course," represented by dark meats and white meats. "Within each group, however, it's a mix of age and prowess. Which gets more prominence depends. Obviously, the best outcome is wisdom and ability. There's more focus on ability than just pure age. The elders get respect, but witless elders are still useless."
"What happens if you end up with somebody who," Martin pauses, looks for the right word and settles on, "goes crazy? Endangers the pack, or the nation, or whatever group you want to settle as important?"
"If it's something as clear as endangering the pack or nation, or the county, then they'll typically get a very stern opportunity to amend their ways," Rowen says, edging out a piece of white meat from the group of 'nobles' on the platter. "And if they continue to be recalcitrant... I suppose that depends. If it is a political inconvenience, they might be cast out. I believe you call it 'disowned.' But, if the transgression could be considered a crime, then they might be executed." Reaching for her own fork, she stabs the lone chunk of meat and brings it to her mouth for an exaggerated chew.
"Yeah, we have a rule about that too. Which is, don't," Martin says. "A crazy uncle tried to do me in and Dad would have let him walk at the battle at the end of the world. Things fell out another way and he got a bad case of dead anyway," he clarifies, "just in case you're worried about crazy uncles coming after you. But don't. If the family has to deal with a problem of that magnitude, it won't be you or me making the decision."
Rowen sits back, crossing her arms over her chest, leaving one hand free to hold her fork. "Sir Vargr's troops told stories of their time in Amber, and how Eric was ultimately deposed by Corwin." As she speaks, the fork begins to rotate and ultimately spin between her slender fingers. "Is there any lingering animosity between him and Eric's kin or kin to Corwin?"
"Not so far as I can tell. Corwin gets along fine with Jerod and got along with Cambina. Corwin has two kids that we know of: Merlin and Celina. Merlin was raised in Chaos and Celina's mother was the Queen of Rebma, and they're both more concerned about their own homelands--running away from it in Merlin's case--and each other than they are about revisiting old fights. Dad expects everyone to bury those old hatchets and not in each other, either.
"Another reason not to bury hatchets in each other is that sometimes we can and do issue death curses. Killing a family member will probably earn you their curse, and that would be," Martin says, stabbing a sole piece of white meat, "bad."
Rowen nods slowly, taking in the new information. "Was such a curse issued by Eric or your crazy uncle, assuming they are not one and the same?" she asks. "How does one issue a death curse? Can it be done without dying?"
"Corwin did it once, but he was busy having his eyes burned out at the time. He got better, which is to say his eyes grew back after some years. So: maybe," Martin says, "but don't get in that situation."
Rowen's face scrunches up a little as the blinding is recouted, but softens. "That sounds like a horrid fate. Is that regrowth also a gift of the family or one particular to... Corwin?" A pause, but short enough to come before an answer. "Are there any relatives who prefer to be, uh, formally addressed? Uncle, Majesty, Sir, or somesuch? It seems we can just use their given names in casual context."
"I'm usually pretty informal, but when I was a child I was the only grandchild of Oberon I knew of, and I wasn't acknowledged by my father, much less my grandfather, so I didn't have the closeness to call most of my aunts and uncles by that title," Martin explains. "These days it's usually Uncle or Aunt, and cousins by their first name. Corwin is King in Paris, so formally Your Majesty, and he'll be flattered if you call him that. Dad isn't a fan of formality and Celina, who holds the throne of Rebma, is doubly informal by Rebman standards. She's Corwin's daughter and not very like him in personality. Sir or Ma'am would also be good at first, since it's easier to let them decide to be informal and thus feel more control over the relationship.
Martin pauses for a moment to think about eyes. "I'm told many of our uncles and aunts have lost fingertips and parts of ears and things and those have grown back. Corwin's eyes are large and complex, so that's notable. But Uncle Ben, Benedict, lost most of one forearm and as far as I know he hasn't grown it back. And Uncle Gerard's back was broken and his legs were damaged in the Sundering, and that hasn't grown back, or grown back right, anyhow. So I wouldn't count on it working that way for you unless you already grow injuries back.
"Which it occurs to me: I don't know that about the Weir. Do you?"
Rowen shrugs, considering how to answer the question. "The severity of the injury matters. Little things we can grow back. Muscle is easiest. Organs may grow back, but not fully. I don't know if eyes would ever grow back. Bone breaks heal. If you lose the bone, it's likely not growing back, or at least no one has lived long enough to see it happen."
"That sounds comparable to what we've seen with the uncles," Martin says. "Corwin's case was considered an outlier. So you have a good idea of what the risks are if you get in a fight with someone or something as tough as you are without me explaining in more detail. And there are people and creatures out there as tough as we are, especially in ones and twos."
Rowen picks out a drumstick of some bird -- Far better than one from a fish -- and lightly nibbles at it. Her bites are precise, ultimately leaving nothing on the bone. "Are they common, those people and creatures?" she asks, thinking back to her own sparring drills with the Weir. For a moment she looks very slight, though still with the bearing of confidence.
"Common--" Martin starts to say something, reconsiders and stops. "We're rare. There are a few dozen of us in the infinite multitude of shadows. But we have a kind of gravity, so we tend to encounter each other more often than a completely random universe would imply. Usually things that are as tough as we are share our gravity, so they're drawn to us or we're drawn to them. I wouldn't call it common for us to encounter Moonriders and dragons and half-gods and the like, but it's not unexpected."
"I should not be surprised that Moonriders are more than legend. They stand in a place of great animosity among my people, for they are the ones who originated our curse," she says, putting down her food to consider her dinner companion. "You are implying that the chances of me running into one is now greater?"
Martin nods once and sets down his fork. "Yes. We have the daughter of their Marshall as a guest-hostage and an embassy is visiting them now," he says. "I'm not in touch with the embassy myself but one of my cousins, one of the older ones, is leading them. Nobody who'd be in your books."
Rowen leans forward, wiping her fingers with a napkin before folding it and setting it before her. "Why treat with them at all, or the Queen, if their destruction would far benefit us all?" she asks, an undertone of predation seeping into her voice, her posture.
"I've gone toe-to-toe with the Marshall. It's not that easy," Martin answers with the resigned authority of a man who's considered that option and decided it won't work.
"Amber is great and powerful, though. Surely it could muster an army," she assumes naively. "Why allow such a threat to continue to exist?"
"There are more of them than there are of us, by which I mean members of the family with the full power of the blood. And while we can, for the most part, beat them one-on-one, with a couple of exceptions like the Marshall, they can usually beat individuals without our gifts.
"They do this by manipulating Time, so they can run a series of options of how to counter a blow faster than most people can decide how to strike. Which they can't do to me, and in time you," Martin pokes in Rowen's general direction with the back end of his fork, keeping the tines toward himself, "because we can control probabilities.
"The other thing they can do is toss people and beings around in Time. So if one of them was to fight Reynard, for instance, Reynard might be cast back a decade or two and have to come forward the long way. Or we'd have to find a sorcerer to rescue him. I don't think there are many more than a few hundred of them, maybe?" He wrinkles his nose in thought for a moment. "Anyhow that's enough to render a lot of our strategic advantages tenuous if not negate them outright. Also the victorious option is slaughter, and even if I favored it without consideration for the moral issues, there are some strategic problems with mass murder. Not least of which is it makes other people angry."
"Is that part of their curse, then, their wielding of Time?" she says, more of a bit of verbal blabbering while she processes the information. "How do they toss someone in time? How does one guard against it? I would expect I would still be vulnerable until my time comes to control probabilities."
"It's part of what makes them different, yeah. What the Queen did to them. I don't know how they do it. And until you've come into your powers, you'll be pretty vulnerable," Martin explains. "It's not really something I can explain until you've Done the Thing. Until then, I would just--refuse to go, is as close as I know how to explain it, and hope your native Realness holds you in place."
Rowen considers his warning quietly. "Have you ever seen them do it? Do they need to touch you?" she asks, gauging how much distance to keep. "I can will myself to stay in the current time. What should I tell Reynart? Keep his distance?"
"For now, don't antagonize First, which he shouldn't be doing anyway. If it comes to a fight, yeah, don't let her touch him. I don't think she has to, but still, better to be safe by being somewhere else." Martin frowns thoughtfully. "I saw the Marshall do it, I think, but it was all very fast and kind of a blur and I was busy worrying about something else at the time. Edan might remember better; once you're introduced, at some point, you can ask him."
It's been a week or so since Rowen and Harsh had their first lesson in shipboard life when Martin joins Harsh on deck. He waits until Harsh has finished his current task to approach. "When you've got a moment, Commander," he says to Harsh, "I'd like your advice on a few things. No rush, particularly; it's just occurred to me that you've probably got some useful input on a problem I'm pondering."
Harsh has settled into the rhythms of life aboard this vessel, as have the other Golcondans. He's in an odd spot, somewhere between the Amberite officers and a guest, but he's been accepted as an honorary member of the wardroom. He'll take a watch from time to time, help with the navigation (learning much along the way), and generally jump in to help wherever he can.
The officers have been pleased enough to take Harsh on; on a ship this size (the Queen Vialle is the largest and newest in the fleet) there's always something that needs an extra, experienced hand. When he's not needed, Harsh has been asked to fill up a rutter with information on Golconda, clearly with the idea that the merchant marine will be sent to trade with his homeland in the future.
It's a curious thing, writing about one's homeland -- there are so many things that one takes for granted without realising that a stranger won't know them. Harsh has had some help from his fellow Golcondans, and has developed a habit of jotting down brief memoranda whenever something reminds him that Golcondan assumptions and practices are not universal.
While most of the crew are from Amber, some are also from the old Golden Circle kingdoms, and Harsh learns here about Bellum, Hamakaido, Etana, and Gateway, and stories about the undersea city of Rebma, where Prince Martin's mother was from. (He's considered a good egg by the sailors for singing a shanty that was written to satirize his father for siring him without marrying his mother instead of standing on his privilege and forbidding it. Also he knows better than to interfere with the running of the ship beyond "we're going to this place" and shifting Shadow, which he does in cooperation with the Captain.) The crew is collectively human, or near enough, but they do speak of having met creatures that are definitely not human in their sailings, and also, some of the survivors of the late war talk about the shapeshifting Chaosians.
Harsh is also able to pick up various scraps of information about the larger royal family in passing: more on the recent war including the fratricidal nature of part of it and the way it's all been patched up, the large spread of brothers and sisters (and now cousins), the Fleet Admirals Prince Caine and Prince Gerard, the latter now tragically injured and unable to sail, the mysterious royal abilities that are accepted as a normal part of life, and so on.
Today Martin finds him at the changing of the watch, and Harsh steps down from the helm and greets him with the Golcondan salute.
"Your Highness. Certainly, how may I help?"
"I am considering," Martin says, "my long term plans." He's clearly aware, as they step away from the helm, that he's being overheard and probably listened to. "Let's take a turn around the deck and talk about it--but if you'd rather have tea we can wait."
Speaking of assumptions ... Harsh reminds himself that the usual Golcondan dance of polite refusals and acceptances are not de rigeur here, and his answer is straightforward. "It's the tea that can wait, sir. Please, do lead on."
Martin takes Harsh's answer at face value, and does so. "It's not a secret," he says, "that my father and mother ran away together and didn't marry, and that my mother died when I was an infant. I was raised in the court of Rebma, where the roles that men and women generally have in Amber, and from things you've said, similar also to Golconda, are generally reversed: that is, women hold all the political power and men--and boys like myself--hold a lower status." Martin pauses there to let Harsh evaluate that for a moment.
Harsh has absorbed enough information to not be surprised at Martin's casual mention of his parents' marital status -- or lack thereof -- but it still startles him to hear it so plainly put, without shame. He schools his expression and nods: understood, go on.
"My childhood wasn't particularly happy; my father was held in low regard for his part in my conception and presumably my mother's death. When I came to adulthood and, over my grandmother's objections, came into my gifts, I promised myself that I wouldn't raise any child of mine in court. That I would do my best to give my children, not a normal life, because I don't even know what normal means, but at least a happy life. I've been thinking that raising Lark for the next decade or two on a ship--not a warship like this, but merchant marine--might be a relatively stable way to raise Lark. You've got a level of naval experience that exceeds my own, but you're also not involved in the politics of my homeland so that won't affect your answers. I'm interested," Martin concludes, "in hearing what you think."
"There are few men who would call life aboard ship 'stable', sir," Harsh says with a smile, "but I think I see your meaning. The perils are more ... physical than social, perhaps. And while such a life is not without its own kind of politics, in many ways it is a world where a man -- or a woman -- can be valued for their merit as much as their birth, if not more so."
Harsh has found a small wooden toggle in his pocket, picked up idly at some point during the day. He takes it out and begins to fidget with it, flipping it through his fingers and spinning it, only half aware that he's doing so; a nervous gesture.
"But I suppose it comes down to whether you reckon the potential dangers of storms, pirates, and hostile navies outweigh those of courtly machinations -- and which you think she is better capable of weathering."
Martin laughs, but not unkindly. "The last time I tried to settle down, we were chased out of our home by zombies. Lark already knows how to finish one off." It occurs to Martin then that Harsh may not even know what he's talking about. "Do they even have zombies in Golconda? Magical or technological?"
The word sounds vaguely Afric; it's a new one to Harsh. "What are they? Some sort of monster?"
"The magical ones are dead bodies, usually human, that have been animated. They eat human flesh," Martin says, "by which I mean tear people to pieces. There are various means of destroying them but it generally boils down to hack them to bits and burn the bits to ashes. And they're often contagious, in that an injury, particularly a bite, will cause the injured person to die and become a zombie. The technological ones, and in this case I mean biotech, have some kind of disease that emulates the effects of the magic, including the contagion through biting or clawing. I'm pretty sure the ones we encountered were the latter," Martin says. "I don't expect we'll encounter any but if we do, you run and I'll fight. I'm tough and apparently immune to the disease."
A number of words go over Harsh's head, but he gets the general idea. "We have legends in Golconda of the vetala -- spirits that possess the corpses of the dead. And ghuls -- corpse-eating monsters. But they're tales there, not real," he says. "I assure you that if I see one, getting out of the way will be the first action on my mind." A pause. "Did you find out about the immunity the, ah, hard way?"
"Yes," Martin says, "not deliberately, but yes. It didn't surprise me, though. I've always been fast to heal up and hard to knock down, and we're all immune to a lot of magics that would do in anyone else. That I turned out to be immune to this disease as well was par for the course."
"Fortunate," Harsh says with a small chuckle. "My fellow sailors have often said of me that I'm difficult to kill, but your people seem to be something else altogether. Though of course I've never been put to the test beyond the naval battles and the occasional ducking in the sea."
At least a couple of which incidents ought to have killed him, by all rights, he knows. Good thing he's lucky.
"Do you swim, then, Commander?" This seems to be a very interesting topic to Martin.
"I do. And a good thing, or you might not see me here now," Harsh says. "After we found the Cotopaxi, a storm blew us to Tortuga, and we might have foundered there with her but for the assistance of the people there. I was the last off the derelict and like an idiot, managed to fall right into the sea as I was disembarking. They fished me out, not much the worse for wear, but it was a near thing."
Martin laughs, not unkindly, but perhaps in recognition of the near-miss. "It's always seemed strange to me that so many surfacer sailors don't know how to swim. I was raised in Rebma so I could swim before I could walk properly. And the plan to not fall off the ship is always a good one, but unfortunately the universe doesn't always let us follow through," he says ruefully.
"Though I hope that won't be so much of a risk with what I'm thinking of. Probably it's not for you, since it might not be very interesting, at least not after the first round of trips, would be merchant marine sailing in relatively settled areas. Transport of goods and possibly of diplomats as needed, but not exploring new shadows. Ideally also avoiding zombies, religious cultists, dragons, and other troubles to the extent I can make it so. It would all be new places for you, though, so once Dad has taken your measure, if he doesn't have something better for you, it might be worth your time for a few years."
It takes Harsh a second to fully grasp the last part of what Martin says; then he hesitates a moment before answering:
"Am I to understand -- and forgive my impertinence if I have misread you -- would it be your wish that I accompany your daughter on her travels? If so, it would be a profound honour. And if I have misunderstood, I beg your pardon humbly."
"Well Lark and me, but yes, if it's something you'd consider for a few years. I expect you may get a better offer," Martin says with a wry smile, "and if you do, take it. But a good leader who's adaptable and interested is worth a lot, especially one with naval experience. We're a seafaring people, we've been through a lot in the war, and we've lost a lot of resources. There will be a place for you, I can tell, with me and Lark or somewhere in the Navy, or who knows, with the shadowpaths all changed, maybe Dad will need some outright explorers. I'm just getting my bid in early."
"I am," Harsh says after a moment's frantic thought, "a son of Golconda, and ever shall be, and I hope to see her shores again someday. And I am determined to deliver home those of my men who wish to return. But in my heart I know I would be a fool if I were to turn down your offer." He presses his palms together in anjali mudra and bows. "You honour me greatly, your Highness."
Martin apparently doesn't know the anjali mudra and is wise enough in the ways of the worlds not to make a gesture he doesn't know the meaning of. He does make a neck-bow in return, adding, "Depending on how things go, we may be able to take a shot at Golconda after we finish this ferrying job, back to Xanadu. Though ideally not on a giant warship. I can see that being perceived as less than friendly."
Harsh chuckles. "Less than friendly and entirely uncanny as well. Tell me -- is there anything that I might do to help ... navigate to Golconda? I continue to fill the rutter that you requested, but if there is anything more -- something related to your Trumps, perhaps? Forgive me if I misunderstand how they work."
"That's not really how Trumps work," Martin agrees, "and in any case, I don't have the skill of making them. But what you can do that will help, if I do the shifts at night, is make a star chart. Colors help a lot too, but that's harder to explain to someone who hasn't seen the skies or seas you're looking for," he adds. "I do them gradually over time for a vessel like this and that gives me better precision. Fast shifts lose that, and also require the ship to be moving at very high speeds. I don't even want to think about trying to hell-sail this thing."
Martin pats the railing as if reassuring the ship he likes her anyway.
Harsh contemplates briefly what would be involved in getting a ship this size up to a particularly high speed and he has to agree; trying to sail her in seriously high winds would not be fun for anyone.
"I'll provide what information I can," he says. "And I trust that if we are fated to sail there, it will come to pass. In the meantime -- this plan of yours for you and your daughter. What else might I need to know?"
"I'm in very early stages with this plan," Martin says. "I don't even know what we need. Maybe an exploration vessel would be better, in the sense that we'd be going to places we don't know, or at least through them. I'm open to general suggestions. You're the expert here. What would you consider in my situation?"
Harsh ponders the question in silence for a moment.
"You'll want something halfway between a passenger ship and, well -- this. An exploration vessel isn't a bad idea. Something smaller, nimble, relatively shallow draught as you don't know what sort of waters you'll be in. Nothing that advertises 'royalty aboard, ransom at will'." A wry little smile. "Fast, in case you need to run. And if worse comes to worse, you'll want to be ready for a fight, but not look like you're spoiling for one. Cannon, but not as much as a warship, swivel guns. A complement of marines. I'd hire a scholar or a naturalist as well -- to document the places you go, and as a tutor for your daughter as well."
Martin nods slowly. "Cash on hand won't be a problem but possibly some trade goods in small and easy to pack quantities. And I'm the diplomat. It could work." He smiles, and it's hard to tell with Martin because Martin doesn't have a lot of tells, but Harsh feels this is genuine. "Thank you, Commander, you're a great help, even if you go on to better things."
Harsh nods in agreement with Martin's suggestions. He likes this prince, he's decided, and would be more than happy to sail with him. Having said as much to begin with, the etiquette ingrained in his head forbids him from seeming too eager, so he bows again and says, "If anything I've said is a help to you, it is but the smallest repayment I can make for your hospitality. Whatever may happen next, I look forward to knowing more of your further adventures."
Last modified: 3 June 2023