Free Fevre Dream by George R.R. Martin Page A

frowning. “I am sorry. I did not intend to treat you with disrespect, or to frighten you. Your intent was good.” Marsh was startled to see his hand clench violently, before he steadied it. York crossed the dim cabin with three quick, purposeful strides. On his desk rested the bottle of his private drink, the one Marsh had caused him to open the night before. He poured out a full goblet of it, tossed back his head, and drained it straightaway. “Ah,” he said softly. He swung about to face Marsh again. “Abner,” he said, “I’ve given you your dream boat, but not as a gift. We struck a bargain. You are to obey such orders as I give, respect my eccentric behavior, and ask no questions. Do you mean to live up to your half of our bargain?”
    “I’m a man of my word!” Marsh said stoutly.
    “Good,” said York. “Now listen. You meant well, but it was wrong of you to wake me as you did. Never do it again. Never. For any reason.”
    “If the boiler blows and we catch afire, I’m to let you crisp in here, is that it?”
    York’s eyes glittered in the half-light. “No,” he admitted. “But it might be safer for you if you did. I am unruly when woken suddenly. I am not myself. I have been known, at such times, to do things I later regret. That was why I was so short with you. I apologize for it, but it would happen again. Or worse. Do you understand, Abner? Never come in here when my door is locked.”
    Marsh frowned, but he could think of nothing to say. He had struck the bargain, after all; if York wanted to get all upset about a little sleep, it was his business. “I understand,” he said. “Your apology is accepted, and you got mine, if it matters. Now, do you want to come up and watch us take the
Southerner
? Seein’ as how you’re woke already and all?”
    “No,” said York, grim-faced. “It is not that I have no interest, Abner. I do. But—you must understand—I need my rest, vitally. And I do not care for daylight. The sun is harsh, burning. Have you ever had a bad burn? If so, you can understand. You’ve seen how fair I am. The sun and I do not agree. It is a medical condition, Abner. I do not care to discuss it further.”
    “All right,” Marsh said. Beneath his feet, the deck began to vibrate slightly. The steam whistle sounded its ear-piercing wail. “We’re backing out,” Marsh said. “I got to go. Joshua, I’m sorry to have bothered you, truly I am.”
    York nodded, turned away, and began to pour himself more of his noxious drink. “I know.” He sipped at it this time. “Go,” he said. “I will see you this evening, at supper.” Marsh moved toward the door, but York’s voice stopped him before he could open it. “Abner.”
    “Yes?” Marsh said.
    Joshua York favored him with a pale thin smile. “Beat her, Abner. Win.”
    Marsh grinned, and left the cabin.
    When he reached the pilot house, the
Fevre Dream
had backed clear of the landing, and was reversing her paddles. The
Southerner
was already well down the river. The pilot house was crowded with a good half-dozen off-duty pilots, talking and chewing tobacco and making side wagers on whether or not they’d catch the other boat. Even Mister Daly had interrupted his leisure to come up and observe. The passengers all knew something was afoot; the lower decks were crowded as they sat along the railings and pushed onto the forecastle for a good view.
    Kitch swung the great black-and-silver wheel, and the
Fevre Dream
angled out toward the main channel, sliding into the brisk current behind her rival. He called down for more steam. Whitey threw some pitch in the furnaces and they gave the folks on shore a show, puffing out great clouds of dense black smoke as they steamed away. Abner Marsh stood behind the pilot, leaning on his stick and squinting. The afternoon sun shone on the clear blue water ahead of them, leaving blinding reflections that danced and shimmered and hurt the eyes, except where the churning wake of