Cook, Glen - Quiet Sea

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Glen Cook's last story here was a seagoing fantasy titled "Ghost Stalk" (May 1978), which proved

very popular. This new story is an immensely entertaining science fiction tale about an Earthman

who is shipwrecked on the quiet sea of another world.

Quiet Sea

By GLEN COOK

With dawn a hundred doves unfurled their varicolored wings upon the quiet sea, fluttering

nervously. The waves ran gentle now, but during the night the earth beneath the deep had groaned

and shaken like a brunwhal in its death throes. Ahead lay deep blue water, cool Fenaja water from

the arctic, but Rickli sensed no danger. They would reach the Pimental Bank before noon.

Meanwhile, he would mend sail, ignoring the aches in his heart and leg, and daydream of mountains,

forests, and snow. Maybe later, when they got ready to put the seines over the side and he would

only be in the way, he would limp down to the galley and swap lies with the Shipwrecked Earthman

and help sharpen scaling knives.

Such were the thoughts of Rickli Manlove at dawn on the Ninth of Eel in the year 866 of the local

reckoning. The Shipwrecked Earthman prefered 3060. He had lost count of his months and days.

After a few years he had given up trying.

Rickli, too, had given up. It had been a year since the Fenaja harpoon had shattered his knee.

For months he had hoped, but, finally, he'd had to accept the truth: never again would he ride the

bowsprit of a racing chaser and, with the salty spray stinging his eyes and soaking his beard,

plant his harpoon in the glistening back of a fleeing brunwhal. Nor would he ever again trade

insults and harpoons with the cruel Fenaja.

Once the crew had named him Left Hand Sea Terror. Now he was only The Crippled Sailmaker. So it

went. So it went. He bore the Fenaja no special malice. They had done what they'd had to do, as

did Man. When the grunling weren't running, the blackfin were.

He wet a finger, held it up, sniffed, and considered the bow of the sails. The breeze was barely

sufficient to keep way on. An inauspicious sign at dawn. The fleet could become becalmed. The

Fenaja would be hard pressed to resist such temptation.

But there was no feeling of danger in the deep blue water. Perhaps the Fenaja were elsewhere.

Far over the quiet sea, shell horns winded. A chaser's mainsail fat-bellied in the breeze.

Throughout the fleet youngsters scrambled into the rigging to watch. The brunwhal were the most

valuable, and most cunning, creatures of the deep. The Children of the Sky used everything but

the name.

The Shipwrecked Earthman had been amazed that they remembered their off-world origins after so

many centuries. But many things had amazed him here, their survival most of all.

Rickli and the Earthman were almost friends, close enough that the Earthman had confided that he

wasn't an Old Earther at all but a colonial from a world called Bronwen. The distinction seemed

important to him.

They hadn't always been friendly. There had been a time, before the big fight off LaFata Bank,

when Rickli had joined his peers in mocking the man for his incompetence. But a harpoon through

the knee, the Earthman's ministrations, and a year of mending sails had given him a new

perspective. The Earthman was no longer sailing his native sea, was almost a helpless as one of

the bottom creatures the divers brought up and, threw on deck. In the Earthman's water, Rickli

suspected, he would be more helpless than was the Earthman here.

The youngsters drifted down from the rigging. Rickli chuckled. Even at the winding of the shells

he had known there wasn't enough breeze for the chaser to overhaul the brunwhal. He carefully

inserted his tools into their brunwhalhide case, reached for his carved cane of spearfish ivory.

The ship grew quiet around him. Soon there were no sounds but the soughing of the wind in the

rigging, the sea whispering along the hull, and the creak of the vessel's planks and frame. Those

sounds, in the deeps of the nightwatches, could leave a man terribly lonely. He added the thump

of his cane as he hobbled aft.

There were times when Rickli cursed his leg for what it denied him, but as often he remembered

that he was lucky to have it at all. Had it not been for the Shipwrecked Earthman, he might never

have survived. As the augurs reminded them, when the grunling weren't running, the blackfin were.

"Thomas?" he called down into the galley.

''Here, Rickli." The man came to help him down the ladder.

Thomas Hakim, the Shipwrecked Earthman, was a small, dusky, dark-eyed man who had only recently

developed the habit of wearing his hair long and tied back in a tail, though he still kept his

beard carefully trimmed in a "space." It had taken years to break the habit of regular haircuts.

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On his ships, he had said, short hair had been mandatory.

The people of Quiet Sea all wore theirs long. Hair became rope and twine. On Quiet Sea all

available resources were exploited.

"Looks like a peaceful crossing."

"Good. Good." The Earthman returned to his scaling knives. "A pity we can't make peace with the

Fenaja."

It was, Rickli thought, one of the Earthman's favorite themes, one whose futility the man

recognized. Natural competition made peace and cooperation impossible.

"The augurs say we'll do well here. No one's been to Pimental Bank for years. The sandweg should

be tall."

The Earthman was ever a devil's advocate. "So? And what then? We build another ship. For what?"

Rickli chuckled, playing the game. "Why, so we can gather sandweg faster and build another ship

sooner. Someday we'll have the biggest fleet on Quiet Sea."

"You already have it. One of those days you'll all listen to me, say the hell with it, and go

sail off the edge of the world."

"That's what I like about you, Thomas. Always a cheery outlook."

"Christ!" But he smiled. The manner was a pose, Rickli had learned after having been thrown into

Hakim's constant company by the Fenaja harpoon. "What were the horns about?" Though he had been

with the fleet for years, Hakim still couldn't read signals.

"Brunwhal. They didn't get him."

"So it goes."

"When the grunling aren't running, the blackfin are. You need any help?"

"No. I'm almost done. Nothing till the salting starts. Checkers?"

The game had made the Shipwrecked Earthman famous across Quiet Sea. Before his falling-star

arrival, all games had had to do with the sea. Checkers had caught on as a simple alternative to

tradition. Hakim had tried teaching other games as well, especially chess, but the Children of

the Sky had rejected them as too complicated. Their culture, Hakim had told Rickli, was too tight

and changeless, with never-varying, simple goals, to accept unnecessary complexity.

The Children, though, enjoyed it when he told fortunes with a now ragged deck of tarot cards,

though the augurs frowned at his treading on their heels. The Earthman thought that it was the

pictures which seized their attention, not the patter. Pictures were almost unknown on Quiet Sea.

With. Hakim's aid, Rickli returned to the maindeck. They set up the board atop a cargo hatch.

People not otherwise occupied came over to watch. They were the best players on board.

"So tell me about Outside," Rickli said after a few moves. Hakim never lost his zest for

reminiscing. Rickli didn't believe a tenth of what he said, nor did anyone else, but his tales

were always entertaining. Also, they distracted him from his game.

"Did I tell you about the Iron Legion and the war with Richard Hawksblood in the Shadowline on.

Blackworld?" Hakim scanned his listeners, responded to their headshakes with: "It started

centuries ago, before the Ulantonid War, but the high game, the endgame, was played out on

Blackworld...."

The crowd grew till Dymon Tipsword, captain of Rifkin's Dream, came round growling at people off

their watch stations. It was one of the Earthman's best stories. He got into it so deeply that

Rickli beat him three straight.

Despite his crankiness and inability to master the simplest skills of seamanship, the Earthman was

well liked. Aboard Rifkin’s Dream, at least as a storyteller, he had become an honored

institution.

"Pale water!" a lookout shouted from the maintop.

"The bank," Rickli said. All aboard relaxed slightly. The Fenaja shunned shallow, warm water.

Hakim gathered the checkers. "Even in paradise there's work for the sinful," he muttered. Rickli

had become accustomed to such cryptic remarks, remarks Hakim seldom explained.

For the hundredth time Rickli wondered what twist of fate had brought Thomas to Quiet Sea. Though

Hakim willingly chattered about himself, he refused to explain how he had come to be in a small

ship, alone, near this long-forgotten world, nor would he tell what had led him to crash. His

sole recorded remark on the affair was an observation that he had been lucky to set down near the

fleet.

Rickli remembered the day well. He had been a rigging boy then, a maintop boy, when the morning

sky had shown sudden, short-lived, unknown stars, and it had been during his masthead watch,

later, that the sky had opened up and a shooting star, throwing off blinding-bright fragments of

itself, had come roaring down with thunders worse than those of any storm The main body had hit

the water beyond the horizon. A great column of steam had risen to mark the site. The augurs,

versed in the old lore, had turned the fleet that way, though the object had splashed down in

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Fenaja water.

Thousands of dead sea creatures had floated round a burned arid twisted object wallowing deep in

the waves. It had been huge, frighteningly so, and made of metal.... That had brought awe into

the eyes of everyone who had not yet made the pilgrimage to Landing, where the remains of the Ship

still lay. When the strange object had cooled enough to be touched, every person, who could had

set about scavenging metal, much of which had proven, unworkable later. On Quiet Sea, where there

was no land at all and smelters consisted of charcoal hearths in the galleys of ships where

handfuls of bottom nodes, recovered by lucky divers, were worked, that much refined metal seemed

an unbelievable fortune.

Then they had broken through the outer skin and had found the unconscious man hanging in the

curious strapping. He had been a dark, angry little man whose features had borne the stamp of

intense concentration and fear.

Though fearful, the augurs had brought him out and had done their best to mend his health. In the

meantime, his vessel had been looted. Many of the Children still wore bits of glass and plastic

for jewelry. In the early days there had been a communications problem. Hakim hadn't spoken a

language anything like their own, which had evolved through the centuries into one whose primary

concern was the sea, its colors, deeps, moods, denizens, and the ships that sailed upon it. There

were language difficulties even between the older fleets, though the augurs did their best to

discourage diversion.

The Earthman's ancestors, and Rickli's, hadn't spoken the same language as contemporaries on Old

Earth. And Hakim's people had followed a far different road since then.

But he had been a fast study. Perhaps a hint of why could be found in his tales of adventures on

many worlds.

Though it had been obvious he would be a long time becoming productive, every ship in the fleet

had vied for possession of the castaway. The augurs had spread the news that he had come from the

semi-mythical world of their origin. The Children of the Sky had been hungry for news and

knowledge.

The competition had become so intense that the augurs, fearing violence, had ordered a lottery.

Rifkin's Dream had won. And had never been sorry, though at first the young people, Rickli

included, had resented his presence because he had been granted so much unearned privilege. But

when he had come to understand the tongue and culture, he had done his best to pull his weight.

Often over Dymon Tipsword's objections. The captain had sensed from the first that his new man

would never make a sailor.

Thomas Hakim had never seen a sailing ship before Quiet Sea. He could only admire the complex

relationships between the maze of booms, yards, rigging, masts, and sails, not begin to

understand. The youngsters, who had grown up on the ships, sometimes thought him retarded.

Where and when, the Earthman did what he could. He had settled into the galley because cooking

was what, it proved, he best understood. Signals sounded over the water as the lead vessels

entered the shallows. Orders shouted by dozens of captains carried over the quiet sea, sometimes

resulting in confusion. Sails came in with whines and shrieks of tackle. In places the Pimental

was so shallow that the larger vessels might run aground. The Bank was rich, but had to be

exploited carefully. One dared not risk losing the vessel that was one's only home.

Quiet Sea was a calm, peaceful, relatively friendly world which supported its human population

comfortably, in almost Polynesian ease, but there were pragmatic realities to be faced even in

Eden. Worst was the lack of living space. The ships were all they had, were difficult to build

for lack of land, and were always populated to their supportive limits. Humanity being fecund,

stringent measures were required to control population.

In Rickli's fleet this took its simplest form. Crews were segregated by sex. Male children were

allowed to remain with their mothers only during their first two years. In other fleets other

methods, often harsher methods, were employed, including drowning of unwanted newborns, the old

and halt. No technology of contraception existed.

The sexual mores of the society had been hard on the Shipwrecked Earthman. His great goal, he had

once told Rickli, was to make it possible to mate without breeding. He had shown Manlove one of

his ideas, a sheath of finest grunling gut carefully scraped and cured. Rickli had understood the

technical aspect, but not the emotional. He had simply remarked that the material could be put to

better use as sausage casing.

The fleet began to disperse. Some, like Rifkin's Dream, would seine. Chasers would range out in

search of brunwhal, which hugged the food-rich banks. Others would send divers below for

shellfish, useful bottom plants, sand, and stone, the latter for potential ore, ballast use, and

transport to the centuries-old project to create, at Landing, what Quiet Sea lacked naturally: dry

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land. Specialized vessels would harvest sandweg, a huge bottom plant that could be cut into

lumber. The stands were rich on Pimental, often rising five meters above sea level.

Hakim and Rickli, with everyone else not otherwise occupied, helped clean and salt the catch.

"Mixed catch,” said Rickli, puzzled, dragging a thrashing blackfin from a lively pile and stilling

it with one quick jab of the butt of his knife.

Halkin took a smaller, more easily cleaned grunling. "Not a good sign," he agreed. When the

Species mixed in the shallows, it was because the blackfin felt threatened by something in the

deeps. Blackfin preferred the cooler, deeper waters on the faces of the banks. The grunling

preferred the warmer shallows. "Fenaja?"

"Probably not. There would've been some sign."

Dymon Tipsword, too, was concerned. He had a caution pennant

bent to a halyard and run to the maintruck. Here and there, similar pennons ran to other mains.

"Whatever, we'll find out first," said Rickli. Rifkin's Dream was seining on the extreme left of

the fleet, nearest the deep water.

"Probably just the temblor last night"

"Maybe." But a feeling of wrongness had begun growing on Rickli. Why hadn't there been any Fenaja

sign during the crossing? They didn't attack often, but when ships entered their waters they

always came up to watch, their ugly, whiskered snouts trailing Vs on the surface as they dared the

humans to start something. Sometimes they would lift their dun, scaly foreparts from the waves

and croak insults learned from other men. But as long as there were no bone-tipped harpoons in

sight, their intentions remained peaceful. Their attacks, generally, came in waters where one of

their occasional, sudden, inexplicable population explosions had left the blackfin schools

depleted.

The winchmen hauled a bulging net aboard, scattering the sand-covered deck with flopping fish.

The youngsters, wearing brunwhalskin chaps and gloves, began heaving the smallest and females over

the side. Neither grunling nor blackfin had dangerous teeth, but their scales could rasp the skin

off a man with one caress. Dried blackfin hide was used to sand the decks. During fishing those

decks were covered two centimeters deep with sand from ballast meant to absorb spilled blood and

entrails.

"Uhm" Hakim grunted. "There's your Fenaja."

Rickli stood, ignoring the sudden sharp pain in his knee. "Part of one." He hobbled forward,

helped others pall the mangled corpse from the pile offish. "Dymon!"

Tipsword came down from the helm, spent a long minute staring at the remains. "All right. Back

to work. We've got a hold to fill. You three, put it back over the side. Its people will be

looking for it." As activity resumed, the captain stalked back to his station. A new set of

pennons ran to the main. The ship's armorer began making the round of battle stations, setting

out harpoons, axes, swords.

Rickli resumed his seat, said nothing for a long time.

"What is it?" Hakim asked. "Half the body had been eaten. It still had a broken harpoon in its

hand."

Hand was a misnomer, From the Fenaja's forward end, near what might pass as shoulders were it

accustomed to going upright, a specialized pair of tentacles grew; the ends of these had modified

into three finger-length sub-tentacles. The quasi-intelligent creatures used them as a man used

hands.

"Meaning he maybe died fighting something that was eating him?"

"Uhm." Naturally enough, the monsters of the legends and folklore of the Children of the Sky were

all creatures from the deep and, though Hakim had never encountered a man who had seen one, the

sea people believed in their existence as devoutly as their ancestors had believed in dragons and

trolls.

The.only known enemies of the Fenaja were human. But the Children of the Sky had little real

knowledge of what lived at the bottom of the deeps. Their interest was the banks, an ecological

cycle into which their ancestors had inserted themselves.

The seining, cleaning, and salting went on, though wary eyes kept glancing toward deep water. Yet

the crew trusted Tipsword's judgment. Had he believed real danger existed, he would have had the

nets hauled in and stored.

The tension bothered the Earthman. "Think I'll go get Esmeralda," he said, putting his knife

aside,

Rickli nodded, reached for another blackfin. The thing the Earthman called Esmeralda had been one

of the few possessions he had reclaimed after the looting of his ship. To Rickli it looked like

an ornate mutation of a shipfitter's mallet, except that Hakim always handled it backwards.

Manlove suspected it was some sort of Outside talisman. Hakim brought it out each time Rifkin's

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