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Nimir began shaking his head when Curamir asked him if their fathers might have known each other. “Forgive me, Curamir,” he said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to give you the idea my father was a soldier. He was only a farmer, a smallholder. There wasn’t a garrison near our village, so when the Corsairs attacked, he and the other men in the village did their best to defend it themselves. I never met a soldier until I was recruited.”
Sensing his new friend’s disappointment, Nimir fell to polishing the next sword. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he said quietly, “I’m sorry I can’t help you. Your father must have been very brave.” He hoped he had not offended his companion.
Both young men silently cleaned and polished the last few swords. Despite the awkwardness caused by their conversation, Nimir examined the weapons curiously. He had no sword of his own, for a good one cost more than his family could afford. As a hunter, bow and arrows had always served him well, as had good steel hunting knives. He wished there was someplace on the ship where he could practice shooting, but common sense told him that he was unlikely to have lost his skill as an archer in the short time that he had been assigned to the Ráca.
After putting the last sword away, he and Curamir collected the polishing cloths and oil and put those away also. By this time, it was dark, and both of them were hungry. Nimir cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Let’s see if we can find something to eat,” he said tentatively.
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