I once used the old expression "you don't use a sledgehammer to kill a housefly" to the Khan. Of course, then I had to explain why one would want to kill a housefly, and while the Khan didn't seem to understand that, he said that he thought that if it was so very important to do so, a sledgehammer was a perfectly appropriate tool for the task.
Most don't think the Khan has a sense of humor.
I am one of those most.—Gray
The English were strange.
Everybody knew that, of course, but these knights were strange even for the English; on that Stavros Andropolounikos and Nissim al-Furat could easily if privately agree.
The gossip among the hired-ons aboard the Marienios had it that the knights had spurned the luxurious captain's quarters aboard the Wellesley for what was available on the Marienios. Stavros wasn't sure he believed that; English commanders had great power aboard their own vessels, even when there was nobility aboard, and perhaps the captain had simply told them to travel aboard the Marienios, rather than having them underfoot on the Navy vessels.
Which, of course, would have meant that Salim Abdullah should have been expelled from of his captain's quarters at the stern, and probably Matir Abdullah from his, as well.
Instead, the four knights had taken up residence in a compartment in the now-empty forward cargo hold, having had a couple of the marines stringing up sleeping hammocks rather than asking the ship's carpenter and mate to build them proper beds—something that the carpenter and mate could have done both easily and quickly.
That neglect didn't bother the carpenter, a diminutive Thessalonikan named Spiros, who would certainly have cooperated, but would probably have considered such a thing beneath him and simply assigned the task to the carpenter's mate.
It most certainly didn't bother the carpenter's mate, the mate being Stavros, and the mate having more than enough work to do as it was.
Nissim al-Furat felt differently. Nissim would have very much liked to have had the opportunity forced on him to spend some time with the knights. The English were an indiscreet race, and some interesting things might drop from their lips. And, had he been put to work in their quarters, it wasn't impossible that he could find a few private moments to go through their things—although that would have to be carefully done, if it were to be done at all.
But, alas, the Fates and the knights had made things otherwise.
Still, on a boat the size of the Marienios, you couldn't get far away from anybody, although it felt like you could, when you had a deck between you, so he had expected that he would have some time to observe them.
But most of their time seemingly was spent on deck, while almost all of Stavros's was below, under about the most disgusting conditions possible.
Maintaining a ship was a constant race between repair and decay, and the Abdullahs, merchants all, were getting every hour of work for every copper they—or, more likely, their English employers—paid out. The aft hold looked and very much smelled like it had not been cleaned out in years, and the two-layered decking had to be replaced; there was only so much that wood could do.
The tearing-out had only taken a day, with all hands that could be pressed into service—all of the hired-on ones, save for the cook and his mate—and both Spiros and Stavros had been surprised to discover that the rot hadn't actually gotten to the knees.
That would have made things easier, he supposed, as there would be little point in replacing the deck over the rot.
Samir Abdullah, after a careful inspection—accompanied by both Sir Cully, and the young Pironesian knight, who apparently had never seen the actual insides of ship before—had pronounced the knees fit, and the real work begun, with Spiros up in the fresh air the most of the time, working with plane, froe, saw, and chisel, and Stavros spending his days up to his knees in the stinking bilge water, setting the diagonals and joists for the underdeck, and only then moving on to fitting the underdeck, plank by plank.
The only time that Spiros deigned to join him, it seemed, was to check the underside of the underdeck. When he got tired of working, Spiros would have Stavros stop his work to improvise a cofferdam of unset planks and waxed sailcloth, then have Stavros take a pail of fresh seawater and pour it over the partially completed deck while Spiros went into the bilge with a lantern, only emerging to point out spots where the underdeck leaked—usually at the joints, of course—and peremptorily ordering Stavros to recaulk those spots.
And then, usually, while Stavros was working, Spiros would just stand and talk.
His great theory, which he explained in far more detail and at a greater volume than Stavros cared to hear about, was that a proper deck shouldn't rely on the pressure of the planks against the hull to help the caulking maintain its seal, but on the anchoring of the deck planks to the joists.
That theory would have sounded more reasonable, all in all, if it hadn't resulted in Stavros spending endless hours on his knees with caulking iron in hand, swinging the oak caulking hammer to drive the heated mixture of pitch and horsehair and God-knew-what-else into every gap—
—and then having to redo the whole cursed thing every time that a plank would tear loose.
To hear that idiot Spiros tell it, it was only Stavros's particularly clumsy pounding that could tear a plank loose, and as tempted as he was to invite the carpenter to switch places and demonstrate, Stavros kept his head down and stayed at work, saving his complaining for when he took his evening meal up on the poop deck. It would have seemed strange if he hadn't eaten with the others or voiced any complaint, after all.
The work left little time for anything else save for smearing fat over his blisters, and by the end of the day, his ears were ringing incessantly from the steady thwock-thwock-thwock of his caulking mallet against the iron.
But as night fell, he finally climbed up the ladder, through the hatch, and onto the deck, relishing the taste of the fresh air, which was about the only thing he was capable of enjoying the taste of, at the moment. Another day in the hold, the reek of the tar fighting with the stench of long-dead fish, had left him no appetite at all.
Not at first—but a quick bath on the cutoff barrel mounted on the poop deck, followed by a change into his clean kirtle, thoroughly refreshed him, and he tore into his evening meal along with all the other hired-ons. Say what you would about the Abdullahs—and he heard plenty, little of it complimentary—they did feed you.
Shkelqim frowned over his bowl. "I think that Milos washed his kirtle in the soup tonight." Safer, all in all, to blame the Abdullah in charge of the cook and cook's mate, rather than Arno, who was sitting just a few feet away.
"I don't much care what I eat, long as there's enough of it," Stavros said. Shqiperese were always complaining, as they were a whiny race by nature, and since Stavros hadn't objected the last five times that Shkelqim had whined about the food, it was his turn, more or less.
"Andropolouniki,"Shkelqim said, with a derisive sniff, "don't care what they eat, or futter, eh?"
"I don't think there's anything wrong with the food," Arno said. "But if it's not to your taste, I can have a word with Milos Abdullah, and perhaps you'll be happier living off tack and water?"
As if he'd heard his name mentioned, Milos Abdullah walked up, spoon but not bowl in hand, and dipped it in the kettle, then tasted it. He nodded, as though to himself, then thought about it for a moment and, ignoring Arno's openly hostile glare, pulled some powder or other out of his many-pouched apron, stirred the pot, and tasted again, seemingly unbothered by being assigned to do a woman's work. Or had he volunteered? He was a pretty enough boy, at that—or, at least, he would have been if he hadn't insisted on trying to grow a beard that insisted on being thin and stringy, rather than manly.
With one of the owners present, the conversation lagged. Complaining was the staple of rear-deck talk, as usual, and also as usual, objection was much less often taken to complaints when the target of them was absent.
Stavros just ate and drank, and let his body sag back against the rail's upright, and watched.
He had a private bet with himself that Sir Niko would find an excuse to join Milos Abdullah on the deck, and it wasn't long before he won.
They didn't much like each other, that was certain, although Stavros didn't know what the source of the enmity was, and he would very much have liked to, if only because he didn't know much about these Order Knights, other than the legends and stories, most of which he didn't believe.
But they were important personages, certainly, and the fact that there were four of them aboard was probably important, and so obviously so that it would have been much more risky to pretend a lack of interest than it was to show one.
"Good evening, Milos," Niko said.
"And a good evening to you, Sir Niko." If Milos Abdullah's tone and posture were just a touch too formal, Niko didn't take apparent notice or manifest offense. The two boys didn't like each other very much, and while Stavros didn't know if that was significant, it was interesting—like the Hellenes said, all is sausage that comes to the butcher's back door.
The story was that on the short trip from the Abdullah's island to the city, Milos had first-named the young knight, and had been quietly taken below to be beaten by two of his uncles. Stavros wasn't sure whether or not he believed that, but for a fact there were fading bruises on Milos's broad back.
Not that such were uncommon; Stavros himself had several fresh injuries from when his first attempt at setting the diagonals had collapsed on him. Life was, Stavros often thought, little more than a series of cuts and bruises interrupted by a few moments of ease and joy, only to be punctuated, finally, with death.
Hmmm . . . now, that was interesting—Niko didn't present the bowl in his hands to Milos to fill; he just dippered some stew into it himself, then tasted it.
"Does it suit you, Sir Niko?" Milos asked.
"It's fine, Milos." The smile could have been intended to be friendly or insulting. "But it's not for me. One of the knights—one of the other knights seems to like yours and Arno's cooking. Even more than I do. So I thought I'd get him some more; I'd thought perhaps it had too little pepper in it, but it seems very good, and I'm sure that Sir Joshua will find it to his taste, as well."
"I'm honored."
Ah. So the junior of the knights was acting as food-taster for the others? That spoke of some suspicion, or perhaps simply a habitual caution.
Probably the latter; if they thought there was somebody aboard who would look to poison four knights of the Order, they would not be aboard, after all.
Stavros certainly would have tried to poison them, if he'd had any such orders. His training included the preparation and use of poisons, and while he knew of nothing aboard that would be particularly useful, he certainly could find something ashore, when they landed in Rodhos. No monkshood, of course—he had never seen monkshood other than in illustration—as Pironesia was too far south, but stavesacre or hellebore wouldn't be difficult to come by, although the trick would be in the administration, even more than in the acquisition.
His orders, of course, had given him no such instructions, but it was something to think on. He might just take a walk outside of the city when they made landfall in Rodhos, and see what he could find. If anybody was going to search through his sea bag, they had already had ample opportunity, and the a sealed bottle or packet could be concealed in the bilge against possible need.
Better to be prepared than to be found wanting.
The young knight had walked away, and Milos Abdullah, unsurprisingly, didn't offer to ladle Stavros more soup, so he helped himself, and returned to where he had been sitting.
Hmmm . . . it did taste better with more pepper, at that.