Black Sun (Between Earth and Sky, #1)(30)
The man let out a sigh. “So there’s maize.” He gave her a look that conveyed his lack of surprise. “In balls for flatbread and porridge, of course. But also fruit. Papaya, melon, and lime. Salted fish, maybe more than one kind.” He straightened, wide eyes getting wider. “Fowl soaked in vinegar, musk hog dried and cooked, mangrove oysters…” He smiled. “I do believe Lord Balam has given us some of his private food stores.”
Xiala patted a much-cheered Patu on the shoulder. “Good, then. Make us a meal. A feast. Well, perhaps not too heavy, but the things that won’t last as long. Fruit and oysters, yes? Maybe there’s some balché on that list?”
Patu grinned. “There’s better than that. There’s a crate of xtabentún.”
The anise and honey drink she’d had so much of the night before that she’d ended up in jail. Part of her wanted some desperately. But the rest of her, the captain part of her, knew better. “Ah, let’s hold that. First day, after all.”
“Of course.” The man stood, clearly refreshed. “I better get started. Callo’s got us almost to shore.”
Xiala looked, but she didn’t have to. She could tell they were getting closer to land by the rocking of the canoe under her feet, the feel of the swell that changed as the waters shallowed. But she didn’t explain, only nodded in agreement and started to walk back to her place at the helm.
She stopped in front of the door to the single enclosed space on the ship. Most of their cargo was in wooden crates or wrapped in woven fiber cloth and stacked beneath the thatched reed roof, but there was this small room, probably no more than ten paces square. Big enough for a bench and a bed and a scribe’s table, perhaps. Usually it was used as a captain’s quarters or for a cargo too precious to trust to the open sea air. On this voyage the precious cargo was a man. A man who hadn’t shown his face in the six-odd hours they’d been on the water.
Xiala wondered why not. Balam had said the man was blinded and scarred. A religious recluse of some kind. Some old and wrinkled monk, she assumed, from some obscure Obregi order she cared less than nothing about. She inevitably didn’t get along with religious types. Always so dour with their prayers and their morality that they felt the need to force upon others. And never did their theologies have room for her, be it her Teek heritage that proved to be the abomination, her fondness for drink, or her sexual preferences. The more she thought about some old pruned-up Obregi in there, no doubt ready to press her to conform in the name of his gods, the more annoyed she became. Until she was feeling ready to throw him overboard on principle, promise to Balam or not.
Stop it! she told herself. He is not here to sit in judgment of you. He is your guest. Your only job is to deliver him to Tova.
And so she would. Although she had to admit she was curious. She had not met many Obregi in her travels. The country was deep in the high southern mountains and did not produce many sailors or have cause to participate in much sea trade. Even though she had met people from dozens of cities and places on the Meridian continent, Obregi was a landlocked mystery.
She decided she would introduce herself, see to his comforts should he need anything, and keep matters professional and polite. It was her duty, after all.
She reached her hand out to push the door open, but before she completed the act, a shout went up from Callo. She felt the gentle thump of the hull against soft sand. They were on land.
She sighed and withdrew her hand. The Obregi would have to wait.
* * *
She was the last one off the ship. Callo had led the crew of two dozen to the sandbar. It was a wide, gently sloping cay perhaps an eighth of a mile long and fifteen paces wide, set off from the mainland shore by half the length of the ship itself. The water was shallow enough to be a chest-high walk at low tide and an easy swim at high. The water on the ocean side went from drop-off to sand in a matter of seconds, making it a perfect place to anchor. Easy to get the canoe back in water deep enough to row without the aid of a dock.
Patu had been busy. The crew sat on the ground crowded around blankets spread with the wealth and variety of food Balam had provided them. Patu’s corn cakes were there, cooked over a pit fire with bits of squash. Oysters had been cracked open and drizzled with melted avocado and pepper seeds, and there was a plate heaped with fish, their dead eyes and orange scales glimmering in the fire.
Someone had popped the lid off a clay barrel of balché. A cleaned bowl-shaped seashell was being dipped in the barrel, filled with the milky alcoholic drink, and passed around. Laughter and low peaceful talk filled the air, the sound of a crew who had worked a hard day under the sun and were being rewarded for it. They would have more hard days ahead of them, but for now, in the cool darkness in front of a fire and a spread of food fit for a merchant lord, all was proper and right.
“Captain,” a voice called to her as her feet touched the sand. “Come join us.”
A solid cheer went up from the crew. She slipped off her sandals to dig her toes into the still-warm sand. The balché shell was filled and passed her way, and she tipped the bowl back, draining the cup in one long swallow. Another cheer and a laugh, and someone called out, “Teek!”
She grinned and gave a small bow, which elicited more laughter. A few of these men she’d drunk under the table in times past.
She passed the shell back to the man who had handed it to her and dropped down in front of the blanket piled with food, folding her legs beneath her. Patu offered her an oyster and a small black blade that was no longer than her maimed pinkie finger. She used the blade to pry the meat out and sucked it down, the pepper seeds burning her mouth in a pleasant way. She used the same small blade to fillet a fish, a quick and practiced slice that bared the spine. She tossed the guts and dug her fingers in to pull flesh from delicate bone. It was delicious.