Free The Empire Stone by Chris Bunch Page B

discernment, would hardly believe me guilty of what I’m accused of.”
    “Which is?” Peirol asked cautiously.
    “No, no,” Quipus said, “you’re right, there’s not a chance of it being anything other than a poor casting, or perhaps that damnable gunner double-charged, or, oh yes, I have it, it must have been a miscast ball, damme for using one of the new-cast ones, instead of the reliable stone sort I’ve grown accustomed to, perhaps the greater weight of the cast ball stressed the bronze, or no, no, it must’ve been a bad casting, casting, I vow the artisan, and I hate to gift the damnable fool with that, the man at the foundry must’ve had his eyes on a whore’s skirts, or perhaps, greatest shame of all, was away from his station, futtering his heart away, leaving me with the shame, shame of it all, being thought a murderer, a plotter, the shame, the shame.”
    Peirol blinked, but Quipus had disappeared into a world of his own, muttering “shame, shame, shame,” paying no further heed to his oarmate.
    Two things broke Peirol’s curiosity — the
Ocean Spell
rolled, dipped, and a wave drenched him; and the burly man on the catwalk shouted, “You! Dwarf! Your master wants you!”
    Peirol gaped; the man growled, lifted his whip.
    “He’s new,” Quipus said, suddenly reasonable. “Still learning. Have mercy, Barnack.”
    Barnack growled again, jumped down behind Peirol, went to his chain, lifted it, and whispered a spell. Suddenly the staple sprang open, and Peirol had an instant to vow he’d learn that spell somehow, someday, and then Barnack had the chain in one hand and was half-dragging Peirol to the catwalk. There were two guards there, with ready javelins. They prodded Peirol to the ship’s stern.
    Waiting was a thick-bodied man in elaborately worked armor, who he learned was Captain Penrith. With him stood a man not ten years Peirol’s senior, who also wore armor, but this even more decorative, worked with stars and the signs of the zodiac. This was Callafo the wizard.
    “Kneel,” Barnack ordered, and Peirol obeyed.
    “Stand, dwarf,” the magician said. “Who are you?”
    “Peirol of the Moorlands,” the dwarf said.
    “You claim to be a jeweler?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Are you any good?”
    “Very, sir. I apprenticed under the master Rozan, whom I am sure you’ve heard of, then I worked in the great city of Sennen, my shop was favored by nobility, and even sorcerers like — ”
    “Enough,” Callafo said. “All slaves have brags.”
    “But mine are true.”
    Barnack lifted his whip.
    “No,” Callafo said. “I’m amused, seeing someone of his size having courage.”
    Peirol thought of saying that was all that seemed left to him, but realized he had spoken as boldly as anyone would allow and just nodded.
    “I sought you for my galley because I believe small people have inordinate luck,” Callafo said. “Also, I wonder if, in time, your talents might not be profitable to me. I might consider allowing you to open a shop on the waterfront, as other artisans are allowed, assuming you show no signs of rebellion, such as that eunuch you slew when you were taken.”
    Peirol saw a bit of future hope. “No, sir. I’m a peaceful man.”
    “We shall see.” Callafo took something from a clip on his armor, touched a stud, and it grew into a wand almost two feet long, black onyx, with lights occasionally flickering its length. “But there is a more important reason I wished discourse with you. When I was casting our sailing spell, I smelled — detected, if you will — signs of other magic about. I traced those signs to you. Do you have the Gift, dwarf?”
    “I do not,” Peirol said, giving Callafo his most honest look, knowing little of Callafo’s concern except he could guess there’d be but one wizard aboard this ship.
    “Perhaps you have an idea why I smelled sorcery about you?”
    Peirol, seeing that the land was a mere haze against the horizon, thought the truth, or at