Lions and Lambs

Chapter 11

Azli

Inch by inch bits of Azli's old life crumbled and drifted into the ocean like dust mites; soon the name Arel Lavi came easy to him, and his hands lost their childish smoothness. Slaving away on a ship became routine, though the worst part was scrubbing at the blood-stained deck, but Azli managed to distract himself enough to imagine that it was only spilled wine.

Azli had not mentioned what he had seen to Marius, though it was obvious the boy knew at least a general idea of what happened. When he had returned that night, Marius only gave him a pitying look then turned over in his cot.

From then on he followed close in Marius's footsteps, not daring to draw the attention of the Quartermaster or the Captain. Despite his young age, Azli could recognize the chaotic danger that raged within those men.

The crewmembers, on the other hand, had taken to warming up to him considerably after he witnessed their tradition. Milo still grinned foully at him and boxed him on the head whenever he could manage, but Kra paid special attention to him from time to time. Azli still didn't understand how the man could stomach the murder of his own people, but when he considered those peculiar black eyes, he observed no hate. In fact, the small man was surprisingly gentle, a fact that Azli saw most obvious when he cleaned the carcass of that great beast they'd captured.

As Azli was mending the ripped portion of a sail, he watched Kra carefully peel the gray flesh from the animal's muscle.

"What do you call this thing?" He finally asked, his curiosity too intense to ignore.

Kra didn't look up from his task. "Golden whale," he said in his clipped accent. "In your language."

"Why golden?" he asked, eyeing the whale's gray marbled hide.

"They are valuable, very expensive bones. Good for killing."

It took Azli a minute to understand what Kra meant, but when he studied the knife in his hands he noticed the bleached nature of its blade. White gold indeed.

"What will you do with all of the meat?"

Kra shrugged and tore off one long strip of skin then smacked it on the ground. "Eat it."

Azli looked at the fatty slabs skeptically. "Does it taste good?"
Kra seemed to consider his question for a long time, and Azli began to worry that he had spoken too vaguely.

"As a boy, my mother made me stew of it." He spoke deliberately, as if translating each word in his head. "It tasted well then, but here it is not so well."

Azli nodded in agreement; so far every meal he'd eaten had been a lesson in keeping food down lest he starve to death. Whoever the cook was, he did not seem to care much for flavor.

"Where is your mother from?" he asked carefully.

"She was Shai, but lived in Freed Cities. Father is Macenean."

An odd mixture, one that would explain his small stature yet thin build. Maceneans tended to be a scrawny crowd that stayed either in libraries or behind a pottery wheel. By all stereotypes this man should have accepted a peaceful lifestyle, one where he raised a family and wandered the clean streets of the Freed.

"Why are you here?" Azli did not mean it to sound rude, but he didn't know how else to word it.

Kra did not look offended. He shrugged with his whole body, but tilted his head towards the sea.