David Farland - Sons of the Oak

“I cut myself,” Fallion said, raising his still-bandaged left hand. The bandage was dirty and gray now.

Stalker shook his head. “Blood only gets in the ’ilt like this when you stab something deep, when it bubbles out all in a frenzy.”

Fallion dared not come up with another lie, for that would only hurt his credibility.

Borenson came to his rescue. “He cut himself, like he said. It made a damned mess.”

He said it with resolve. That was the lie, and they were both going to stick to it.

Damn, Stalker told himself, Streben’s mother is going to be mad.

“Right,” Stalker said, rising from his chair with a grunt. “Right. Streben was a rascal. No one will be sheddin’ tears for him. Got what he deserved, most like.” He forced a smile, peered hard at Fallion. The boy didn’t squirm or look away.

Damn, he’s a saucy one, Stalker thought. Nine years old, and he draws his own blood when the time comes, like a true warrior.

Stalker’s appreciation for the boy ratcheted up a couple of notches.

“Still want that job?” Stalker asked. “I could use a cabin boy of your… demeanor.”

Fallion nodded, but Borenson shot Fallion a worried look. “A job?”

“I asked if I could be a cabin boy,” Fallion said. “I was hoping to learn how to run a ship.”

Right now, Stalker imagined, Borenson was trying to understand why he’d be rewarding the lad for killing his nephew. Stalker had to wonder himself.

Because I like cunning and courage, Stalker realized. If I still had kids myself, I’d like ’em feral.

Rhianna lay in bed for much of the morning. As the other children rose and climbed up the ladder to eat, she just lay wrapped in her blanket. Myrrima cleaned the room for the day, folding clothes, making beds. She studied Rhianna and asked, “Hey, you, ready for breakfast?”

Rhianna shook her head. “Not hungry. I feel sick.”

“Seasick or sick sick?”

“Seasick.” It was a handy lie, and wouldn’t require her to hold a lamp to her head to produce a fever.

“The whole Ainslee family is down with it,” Myrrima said, referring to a refugee family that slept in the hold, near the pens of chickens and ducks and pigs. “Want a bucket, or can you make it topside when the time comes?”

Rhianna’s stomach was in a jumble. Murder didn’t sit well with her. “A bucket.” Myrrima produced a wooden bucket from under one of the bunks, apparently left for just such an emergency, and Rhianna lay abed. Borenson and Fallion came back down to the cabin; Borenson told

Myrrima, “Streben is dead.” Myrrima held her breath for a moment, and said, “You killed him?” “Nah,” Borenson said. “Someone else did it for me.” “The captain thought I did it!” Fallion chimed in. “They found Hum frey dead.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Myrrima offered. She leaned over and gave him a long, heartfelt hug.

“And Captain Stalker found the strengi-saat’s blood on my knife,” Fallion continued. “And he thought it was Streben’s blood.”

Rhianna felt even worse with that news. She had a sudden vision of Fallion swinging from the yardarm for her crime.

Borenson guffawed with laughter. “Go clean your knife. You know better than to leave it in such shape.”

Fallion hurried toward the ladder.

Myrrima hissed. “You can’t send him up to clean his knife. The crew will see. They’ll see it as a confession.”

Fallion faltered in his steps.

“ I’m not going to clean it,” Borenson said.

Rhianna wondered if she should offer to clean it. It would only be fitting that she get the blame.

“No one should clean it,” Myrrima said. “Leave it bloody for a couple of days, but leave it sheathed.”

She peered at Borenson and said, “So what now? Is the captain going to put Fallion on trial, or what?”

Borenson chuckled. “He asked Fallion to be his cabin boy. I don’t think he believes that Fallion is innocent, so he’s rewarding him.”

“Rewarding him for killing a man?” Myrrima asked, incredulous.

Borenson shrugged. “It’s the pirate blood in him, I guess. I’m not worried about the captain. He seems to like Fallion. But we might have to worry about some of the crew.”

Myrrima said, “Streben couldn’t have had many friends. I don’t think we’ll have to worry about reprisals too much. Besides, anyone could have killed him.”

“Yeah, but it was Fallion’s ferrin that’s dead.”

Myrrima thought for a long moment, then asked, “Fallion, is there something that you’re not telling us?”

Borenson guffawed. “A fine family we make, all sitting around the breakfast table accusing each other of murder!”

“I didn’t do it,” Myrrima said. “And you didn’t do it. And Humfrey was in the cabin when we went to bed. He crawled over my feet a dozen times during the night.”

“You know how ferrins are,” Borenson said. “Most likely he found a rat hole and got out on his own. Or maybe one of the kids went up to the poop deck in the night, and Humfrey bolted out the door.”

Borenson held his breath a long moment. Rhianna lay beneath her blanket. She imagined that everyone was peering at her. They’d finally put two and two together. So she peeked up over the edge of the blanket.

No one was looking at her. They all sat with their heads bowed in thought. No one suspected her.

I’m just a child in their eyes, she realized. I’m just a sick little wounded girl.

With that, she knew that no one would suspect her, ever.

“I’m sorry about your nephew,” Fallion told Captain Stalker later that afternoon when he reported for duty in the captain’s cabin. He wasn’t sure why he’d said it. He was glad that Streben was dead, and he suspected that Stalker didn’t care much either way.

The captain fixed him with an appraising stare and said, “When I was a lad half your age, me father put me on his knee and told me somethin’ I want you to remember. He said, ‘Many a man, when ’e gets angry, will go about threatenin’ to kill a fella. ’E’ll scream about it and tell any neighbor who is willin’ to listen. That’s one kind of fella.

“ ‘But then there’s another kind, the kind who won’t tell a soul. But ’e’ll come to that man’s door one night, and ’e’ll have a knife up his sleeve.’ ” His voice got soft and thoughtful. “ ‘And ’e’ll ’ave a hole dug in the fields nearby. And when ’is enemy comes to the door, ’e’ll give no warning. ’E just takes care of business.’ ”

Stalker went silent for a long moment. “ ‘That’s the kind of man I want you to be.’ That’s what me da tol’ me.”

Stalker hadn’t taken the advice, of course. For years he’d worked as an honest merchant marine, determined to forget his past, his upbringing. But when you do that, he’d found, you get soft, and the world can come crashing down on you in a hurry. Sometimes he thought that if he could start all over again, he’d have been better off listening to his father.

Stalker thought for a moment. “Streben killed your ferrin, and you killed ’im. Don’t cry about it now, and don’t pretend to be sorry. When it comes time to gut a man, just take ’im down quietly. That’s the dignified way. Got it?”

Fallion nodded, hurt that the captain thought he was guilty.

“Good,” the captain said, slapping him on the shoulder. “I’m ’appy to meet a lad of your character.”