Blood of the Red

Chapter 17 - Ingold

Chapter 17 – Ingold

"I hate boats."

Ingold slumped against the ship's rail. He cast his gaze across the wideness of the ocean, unbroken from horizon to horizon.

"Captain Elbard says the Farland is a ship." Dain delivered his correction with just a hint of disapproval.

"Dan Elbard is a damn fisherman. Robbing me of six gold crowns for the passage to Conault doesn't make him a captain, any more than putting horns on a pig makes a cow." Ingold held his stomach and groaned. If the damn boat would stop heaving and lurching then so would his insides.

"Captain Elbard says that landlubbers often get aggressive at the start of a voyage. He said 'Until Ingold gets his sea-legs he's a bear with a sore head'."

"Tell Elbard he can eat my lute."

Dain skipped away, apparently to deliver the message.

Ingold shouted after him, "The 'Gods Foam' was a proper ship!"

He had boarded the 'Foam when he left Dain in Glorsa. His second departure, this time with Dain in tow, turned out to be a more hurried affair. He negotiated their passage on a burning dock front, countering all Elbard's objections with the application of more gold.

"I had a cabin on the 'Foam," Ingold shouted.

Ingold settled back onto some coils of thick rope. They stank of fish. He gave a sigh of resignation and ran a sour eye over the 'Farland'. An ambitious name for a small fishing tub to bear. The vessel creaked alarmingly in the swell of the open sea. To Ingold she seemed more a passing association of driftwood than a ship fit to cross the Straits of Attlus. Even so, her dirty sails were full of the west wind, her course straight for Conault.

Ingold recalled the moment the boredom of the first voyage and the slowly building need to touch the key had combined to wear away his resolve. He had dug in his pack for his prize and found the circle-key missing. A frantic unpacking followed, a minute inspection of every place it might be hiding, cursing all the while. The 'Foam had been sitting becalmed, two days out from Glorsa, with a sea fog rising. Ingold's face had gone stiff with shock. He'd felt cold fingers twist in his gut, but hope remained - he still had pockets he might have forgotten putting the key into. Fighting to remain calm he had forced himself to be methodical. Slowly he checked through each pocket, hope hanging on every chink of metal against metal. At last all the coins were counted, every pouch and pocket turned out, the lining of his cloak examined. He even took off both boots. Calm! Stay calm and think!

He had stood at the 'Foam's prow, gripping the ship's rail, head bowed. The fog rose around him and still he stood, motionless. Moment by moment he relived the night at the Oak Tree. Had she taken it? The strange pale girl with the greenest eyes? She'd been close. He felt her beside him before he saw her. He'd sensed her, cool and watchful. Then he'd turned and breathed her in, drunk her in. Was it her? When? How?

The fog had grown so thick that prow was lost to stern, and still he stood there.

"DAIN!" his shout had torn the mists. It'd almost shaken sailors from the rigging, and in the distance, an echo . . . or rather an answering 'haloooo'.

The boat that pulled up beside them looked more like a coracle than a fishing smack. Two brothers were at the oars, men cut from the same cloth, and a rancid cloth at that. The elder, a thin salt-crusted fisher with a cast in one eye and a hook-knife in his belt, hailed the 'Foam. He stood in his unstable vessel, hands cupped to his mouth.