Prologue:
A Scribe from Asperiche met me on the docks one morning, her right hand resting fondly on the right shoulder of her young son, perhaps 15 or so. Something of a simple, quiet boy, he had little hope of becoming an adequate Scribe himself, despite both of their best efforts. She begged me to take him, to teach him, make a man of him and show him Thassa's ways. She had no idea what she'd asked. Learn the Slut's ways he would. Better than anyone.
I have no idea why I agreed, but I did. Maybe it was her eyes.
A very long time ago, . . .
*At once exhilarated and shaken by the gale as it buffets the ship, my voice is raw and hoarse from trying to roar my orders to the men through the storm. Noticing the serpent listing toward the Asperiche side, foundering to the left, I snap my gaze astern and glare, enraged by the sight I behold.*
*The same inept helmsman who rammed Judas' dock a few hands back, pulls hard to the Helmutsport beam in his panic, fighting against the efforts of the tandem rudder and the rest of the crew. To say nothing of my instructions. I grab a hand from his station, bailing water at the gunwhales and motion for him to follow me aft as I fly up the pitching deck and seize the lubber at the helm. Resisting the urge to throw him overboard again -- the agony of it would be too fierce even for him -- I slap the man and wrench him away. The rudder released, the helm swings free and the tiller smacks into the waiting hands of the steady sailor accompanying me.*
*Dragging the miserable wretch below to be bound in chains, I stumble abruptly over a slave as she races toward the deck. Thrusting out my left hand futilely, I try to catch her by the arm to stop her but she eludes my grasp, her soft skin bathed in the icy rain, far too slippery to hold.*
*With a glance to the Helmutsport oars now waving futilely through the air as the deck rolls and Thassa's fury crashes over the Asperiche beam I shout to the oarmaster “Maintain discipline!” and I hurry back after the slut, perhaps the most beautiful among all above-deck girls I have ever seen. A credit to you, her owner, she is well used and well loved by the entire crew, loved even more by one. Before he took her ... or, rather, before she had him, ... he was a mere boy*
*A luffing sail distracts me from my quarry, and I sidestep across the deck to aid the hand trying to trim it. Nearly frozen, the drenched halyard burns through the sailor's already blistered fingers and flies free of his grip, whipping through the air, curling and lashing across the left side of my neck. Staggered, driven down to one knee by the searing pain of it, I reach up across my chest with my rt hand to cover the wound at my neck and protect it from the salt and the sea, and I find a new respect for slaves and even more for you, ... a FW who has suffered the lash, and inevitably will again.*
*Gazing up to the mast through tears and the stinging rain, I realize the tattered sail is neither help nor hindrance any longer. I lunge to my feet and renew my search, scanning the decks for the exquisite and reckless slave. She wails as the Solitude bobs all but disabled through the troughs, lurching from man to man in frantic search for her boy-Master, grabbing shoulder after shoulder, looking into each face as they ignore her, set hard to their tasks: battening, bailing, fastening the sea-sleen tarpaulins, doing whatever needs doing to master the storm.*
*The wind throwing her wildly about, she clings desperately to sleeve after sleeve, her adrenaline and her ardor the only thing to steady her feet, her body practically weightless against the squalls. Horrified, I scream "GRAB HER" to the oblivious men toiling through their own terror. And time stands still for just an ihn as she spies her beloved at the bow, and he, looking back over his shoulder, sees her. In slow motion she reaches out to him with both hands, drenched and exhausted, her legs buckling. Before her knees hit the deck, Thassa rises up, and the Slut claims the slut. Gust and wave conspire, whisking the beauty overboard while she shrieks out her sailor's name. Entirely helpless, I watch the young man who would be her Master, his eyes widening, his face contorted as he looks accusingly back to me. And then with a look of peace settling over his features -- he leaps after her to his death. Staggering through the wind and the rain and the crashing spray to the bow, I swallow the lump in my throat rising with my grief, clutching instead to a wave of rage, screaming to the slut and the Slut both, "Take him! TAKE HIM! He's ... a backward, FOOLISH BOY!!!"*
*Again time stills as I sag, abject at the bow, staring into the swell of lost life and love, and I feel your devotion, your moans and your passion through the storm. Noticing the swell of my own, I reach down and give the bulge a squeeze and a tug through my leathers as my yearning for you and my resolve are roused together. Thinking of you, I remember that there are times when it's utterly impossible to fight the tempest! Nodding to myself, I turn and stride erect, stem to stern, laughing and calling out "We're laying ahull men! Stop fighting her! The ship will withstand this Slut's tantrum, we will weather the blow, and I WILL spend this night with my Woman!*
*Immediately, as if in response to my determination to come home to you, the gale blows out and, battered but not beaten, the ship limps back to Helmutsport, hardly a word spoken among the weather-weary men.*
Epilogue:
Later that night, my passion expressed and my Woman sleeping chained to the slave ring at the foot of my couch, heated flesh pressed to the cool tiles of the floor, I walked alone on the beach by the light of the moons. In obeisance, the Slut too, having been well mastered, calmly and gently lapped at my boots on the shore. Deliberately, one at a time, I pulled my boots away and turned my back on her. Thassa's a greedy Slut. There is no love. There is no devotion.
And I needed to send word to Asperiche.
