Covariance

Chapter One

The fire in the lamp hanging by the bed was starting to dim when Quenton Dahl became conscious. The giant gash on his brow, though it had finally stopped bleeding, still stung from the concoction he'd used the night before to disinfect the wound. The linen he'd shredded to make a bandage for the wound had moved during Quenton's sleep, and was starting to chafe the skin.

Quenton resisted the strongest urge to slip his fingers beneath the cover of the bandage and scratch at the itchy skin, but abstained, knowing the wound would fester if irritated any further. He'd already had to undress it twice now in the last two days to ensure no infection was starting.

Never had Quenton been so grateful to have endured so many dull hours of Senator Harod's tales from his days in Fedron's navy. While the man was an absolutely boring creature (something to which his own wife would attest) he had learnt the trick of all grizzled old storytellers that the key to capturing your audience's attention was through vivid detailing. And how fortunate had Quenton been when Harod had chosen such vivid imagery in describing those two dozen incidents in which Harod had to bandage up one of his fellow marines who'd suffered one war wound after another.

The knowledge had helped Quenton keep his wits about him when he'd woken on the deck of his ship the night after the horrible storm, with a pain in his head for once not having to do with enduring one of Harod's "surprise" training exercises that Harod had claimed would serve Quenton well in the future. The thought had occurred to Quenton that the old man's insanity might have carried some merit.

But lying on his bed in his small cabin, on his small ship, his head fiercely aching, Quenton was in no mood to admit gratitude. Even the cool rocking of the ship on the ocean's waters did little to abate the young man's bad mood. It only served to remind him that, once, the waters had been a churning, rebellious commotion that had thrown Quenton's plans into jeopardy.

The storm had been an unexpected hitch in Quenton's expertly planned escape from Veron Ridge in Fedron, to the Port of Constantine in Delmar. Not only had the storm injured Quenton and damaged his ship, it had thrown Quenton off course. The turbulence had completely torn the ship's sail right off the rigging, taking a piece of the mast with it. With no sail to carry Quenton forwards, the young man was essentially stuck in his ship, floating listlessly on the ocean to wherever the waves carried him.

At first, Quenton had been optimistic that he could use the emergency sail (he knew all the proper attachment methods and whatnot), but what he had abundance in intellect he lacked dearly in muscle. His first three attempts to rig the sail had all ended in failure, with the last attempt cut short by his falling from the rigging, and nearly cracking his head on the ship's deck. After that fourth attempt, Quenton had resigned himself to focusing his attention on more important tasks.

Tasks such as sulking.

Looking around the interior of his minuscule cabin, Quenton couldn't keep himself from longing for the comforts of his rooms in Sir Harod's manor, with their spacious interiors, plush furniture, and abundance of comforts of which Quenton's recent time at sea disallowed him. Though he'd done his best to furnish his cabin comfortably, with his checkered bedding, soft pillow, stuffed mattress, single trunk of most prized possessions, and, of course, his small private collection of books with which he'd lined the shelves bordering the left, right, and back of his bed, he'd neglected to bring anything to make the drab walls of his cabin anything less...isolating. The windowless darkness of the cabin did little to help the matter.

'Stop your moping,' a voice in Quenton's head scolded harshly. The voice sounded remarkably similar to that of Quenton's grandfather, Baron Wilhelm Dahl of Cohlstone. Though the man was far from Quenton's side, no doubt comfortable behind his fat oak desk in his study in the Dahl family's manor, just the thought of him brought Quenton a wave of spite.