“There now, have a rest,” Westley said, helping Trajan into a sitting position on the bed.
“I don’t want to impose on anyone. I’m quite alright to continue on.”
“Perhaps, but there are logistical matters. Inigo, how about it?”
“He, logistics?” A voice came from the doorway. “Did you not see the courtyard upon entry?”
Westley and Trajan turned to see a woman in an apron pulling her long grey hair into a ponytail.
“Come, let us take a look at him.” She pulled over a stool and inspected Trajan’s wounds.
“Inigo, really. Did you have to make such a mess of this lad?”
Inigo watched, defensive. “He challenged me to a duel. I didn’t harm him much.”
“Then why is he bleeding on my bedsheets?” she said, pouring some liquid onto a cloth bandage.
“Ma’am, please excuse me. A thousand apologies,” Trajan offered, wincing.
“Now, lad, none of that. I am Quidest. You go ahead and bleed all you want, it’s his bed anyway.”
“No, it’s not. I sleep –” Inigo began.
She cut him off. “It is tonight,” she said, dabbing Trajan’s wounds. When she finished applying hasty dressings she stood, put her hands on her hips, and stared at Inigo. “If you want to go off and gallivant around playing pirate with these fine gentlemen,” she turned and curtseyed to Westley, who did a gentle bow in reply, “so be it. But first you will allow your guests a good night’s sleep in a suitable bed, and there are really only two suitable beds in this place. I have no intention of giving up mine. It will take at least two days and nights while I get matters sorted.”
Inigo muttered something under his breath and looked away.
Westley bowed. “My lady, pardon our intrusion. I am Westley, and it is an honor to make your acquaintance. Shall I suppose you are our friend’s bride?”
Inigo scoffed.
“He should be so lucky,” Quidest answered. “No, our friend doesn’t believe in marriage, or being satisfied with riches, comfort, womanly companionship…”
“Meddling, hiding my clothes…” Inigo added.
“It’s called washing your clothes and had you sense enough to wash them yourself prior to the discarded articles sprouting legs and walking to bathe themselves, I wouldn’t bother.” She stared at Inigo again but she spoke to Westley. “No, I’m not his bride. I’m just everything else,” she moved to Inigo and lifted his hand into hers and looked into his eyes, “and he adores me.”
Inigo smiled, lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed it. “What would I do without you?”
“Ha. Smell, for one thing. Go wash. You reek of sweat and pickled herring.”
She turned back to Trajan. “You, as well. We can discuss plans for our journey after you’ve recovered. There are a hundred things to prepare, none of which should be done on an empty stomach. And you look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”
“Our journey? So you intend to accompany us?” Westley said. “That is splendid. There’s nothing to replace a woman’s touch on a journey. They remember the practical things.”
“Yes, yes,” Inigo added with a hint of sarcasm. “I will sharpen the daggers and she will remember the soap.”
Quidest patted Inigo’s face tenderly. “I wouldn’t trust Inigo to go to the market alone. He’d return with the swords of a dozen hooligans and completely forget to buy my eggs.”
Trajan woke the next morning to the singing of birds after the most rejuvenating sleep he had ever had. He sat up in Inigo’s bed; a pitcher of water and a tray with a fruit pastry sat elegantly arrayed on a table next to him. His stomach growled as he sat up; the tenderness of fresh wounds reminded him of his quest from underneath the bandages. He sighed heavily and surveyed the room, putting his feet on the floor and pouring himself a glass of water. He walked to the open window and smelled the sea air as it wafted up from the water far below. Westley’s ship, anchored in the harbor, was abuzz with activity as men loaded it up.
He walked around the room and found clothes laid out for him that were distinctly different from those he had been wearing. Gone were the regal tunic and satin undershirt that marked a gentleman of Guilder. In their place was a stiff vest, many leather straps, and the thick, many-pocketed trousers of a vagabond. Trajan examined them and noticed immediately that though the articles were ghastly, they were of extravagant quality – light, strong material and clearly expensive without being flashy. On another table near the door he found his sword freshly polished and sharpened, new boots, and a beside them both a black mask.
Trajan picked up the mask and stroked the material with his fingers. Images of the pirates who populated his nightmares flashed in his mind’s eye. He put the mask down and stared at it for several moments; a small kindling of the rage Inigo had stoked during their duel glowed.
He dressed himself in the new clothes, enjoyed the perfectly fitting boots, and finished by strapping on his sword, its familiarity a comfort to him. He examined his reflection in the mirror and gazed upon a simple yet powerful stranger he knew his mother would not recognize. He glanced back at the table before leaving the room.
The pirate mask stayed where it lay.
He wandered the hallways and heard familiar, muffled voices from downstairs. As Trajan descended a spiral staircase, he paused when he saw two paintings side by side on the wall.
One was of a man with a striking resemblance to Inigo, certainly a person of some relation. The other painting was of a massive figure and Trajan wondered if the artist understood normal human proportions. The subject’s hands, resting on his thigh, were the largest Trajan had ever seen and he got the impression that the giant who sat for the painting was trying to hold in a smile.
Down another hall he located the source of the voices and was surprised to find them in the servants’ kitchen. Westley, Inigo, and Quidest sat casually while two servants who seemed more like companions laughed while washing dishes.
“Ah, the sleeping master awakes.” Inigo stood with a wide smile. “Now we can be off.”
“Inigo. Let the young man eat,” Quidest said. “Besides, he must have a hundred questions and the ship is hardly provisioned yet.” She rose and pulled out a chair for Trajan.
“I say,” Westley stood, sizing up Trajan. “You look fabulously dangerous in that new attire.”
He glanced down at his clothes. “Thank you,” he said, uncertain.
“Thank her,” Inigo gestured toward Quidest with the mug he held. “But don’t expect to see your clothing again.”
“On the contrary,” Quidest said while taking Trajan’s hands in her own, “they’re already cleaned and loaded in your sleeping quarters onboard. Along with several others of this sort.” She straightened his collar. “Westley is correct, you look striking.”
“I suppose these clothes will allow me to get close to Roberts?”
“Precisely,” Westley said. “You’ve an aptitude for improvisation, I’ve learned, and let me add, your skill with a blade matches it stroke for stroke. Where did you train?” Westley asked.
“My father trained me himself right up until he left for…when he left. After that I had to put down my sword for the plow. I didn’t use it again until my mother took me to a man named Pilbrick.”
At the mention of this name, Westley appeared in thought, then interrupted. “About this Pilbrick…stout fellow, highly intelligent in a bookish manner, rather fond sea birds?”
“I suppose that might be him.”
“Yes, I think I recall this Pilbrick. Is he a master fencer now?”
“No. Most of what I learned of fencing I learned from my father. Pilbrick sharpened my skills in more, um, pirateish fighting.”
At this, Inigo moved to sit directly in front of Trajan. “You fight well. Perhaps better than Roberts, who spends less time practicing fencing than he does working his quill.” Inigo looked at Westley.
“It’s true. I never imagined how much accounting is involved in piracy,” Westley said.
Inigo nodded. “I was never one for numbers. So much drudgery – food stores, the navigation, maps, tides, costs of sail replacements…every battle put a dozen holes in the sails. They are expensive, you know.”
“And then the cannonballs…” Westley offered.
“Don’t even get me started on the cannonballs.” Inigo downed another swig of coffee.
“I had two whole ledgers devoted to bribes,” Westley said. “Various middle managers of nations along our normal trade routes. The pirate life is one punctuated with action while trying to keep a hundred bloodthirsty savages happy enough leave you and your gold stores alone long enough for you to stumble upon another craft.” He looked at Trajan. “Are you sure you want to continue? This will not be as straightforward as you think. It’s not just Roberts you will confront. His crew may have something to say about it.”
“Pilbrick said that pirates are loyal to no one.”
“My point exactly. Killing Roberts to them will mean a considerable loss of income. It is a delicate matter.”
“I hope they will fight us,” Inigo said with a fire in his eye. “They are worthless creatures.”
“True, but that is beside the point. What does our young man say? This is his quest; we are merely escorts.”
“No.” Inigo stood and set down his mug, then kneeled in front of Trajan. “I spent years seeking out the man who killed my father. Years of fruitless disappointment and devastation. I will swear to you this: I will get you safely to Roberts, and I will die before I let anyone stand between you and him. Westley, we will provide him this chance to look his enemy the eye, the man who torments his memories and dreams. And when we do,” Inigo stared hard at Trajan as a father looks at his son, waiting for the acknowledgement of lessons learned, “what will you say to this man before you pierce his heart with your blade?”
Trajan’s eyes darted around to the others. Finally he answered, “I suppose I haven’t really thought about that.”
Inigo closed his eyes and shook his head. “We have a lot of work to do.”
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