by Deborah Hale
She directed an apologetic smile at the fierce-looking smuggler in front of her. “Is there more keeping the Han from the Islands than those things?”
“Aye. The waters around the Islands have a powerful warding spell upon them. They sense the presence of metal, and when any come too near, they swallow it up. After losing a few ships, the Han had sense enough to give the Islands a wide berth.”
“Of course,” Maura whispered, wondering why the idea had never occurred to her before.
“Then how are we to reach the Islands without being swallowed up by the sea?” asked Rath. “Does Captain Gull have a ship that is held together with string?”
Maura turned to skewer him with a look. This sort of bravado had worked last night to win the smuggler’s cooperation. Now a little courtesy would take them farther.
Suddenly, from behind her, she heard Captain Gull’s voice. “You may soon see how my ship is held together, inlander. If you have wit enough to leave behind your blades and other metal. If you will, then come. You have wasted too much time in talk.”
Spinning around to face him, Maura saw no sign of the colorful character who had ordered their deaths last night. Instead, only a gray-bearded old man stood beside Nax, clad in tattered garments that looked to have been woven with a waterproofing spell. Her heart went out to him, for his back was pitifully bent with a cruel hump deforming one shoulder.
As she watched, the hump seemed to swell and ripple. Maura’s gorge rose.
Then Rath let out a burst of scornful laughter. “That disguise won’t fool anyone, Gull, unless you keep that cat of yours from moving about.”
Maura chided herself for a gullible fool.
The smuggler performed a mocking bow. “Do not fret, inlander. The wharf guards are so used to seeing me shuffle past, they would not notice if Abri turned tumbles under my coat. I’m more uneasy about sneaking your wench by them. It’ll take more than a pair of breeches to make her look like a proper boy.”
He flashed her a smile that might have been meant to look admiring. His false beard and several blackened teeth quite spoiled the effect.
Rath brought his hands to rest on Maura’s shoulders. “I’ve already told her to stay behind me.”
“Do not fret about me!” Though Maura knew he only meant to watch out for her, sometimes Rath’s intense protectiveness vexed her. “If I dose myself with enough hundredflower, the wharf guards will pay me no more heed than the garrison at Windleford used to.”
“Hundredflower?” murmured Gull. “You’re an enchantress?”
Maura nodded and patted her sash. “Which is why I cannot surrender this. You have my word it contains no metal. But now that we understand about the warding spells around the Islands, my companion will gladly surrender his weapons.”
“Not gladly,” Rath muttered under his breath.
But Maura heard him ungird his scabbard and hurl it onto the mattress. Then he stabbed his knife deep into the wood of the doorjamb. It occurred to her how defenseless he must feel surrendering his weapons.
“You will be glad,” she assured him, “when we do not drown in the Sea of Twilight.”
“Come on, inlanders—” Captain Gull started down the hall “—or we will never get to sea this morning!”
Maura grabbed Rath’s hand and followed. A quiver of excitement gripped her belly. To think she would soon be sailing upon the great ocean!
Once the small fishing boat pushed away from the wharf, Rath felt as though he could breathe properly again, without iron bands of dread tightening around his chest. Passing under the scrutiny of the Hanish wharf guards without even the tiniest knife to protect himself and Maura was one of the hardest tests of nerves he’d ever undergone.
For a moment, he’d glimpsed a flicker of heightened interest in the eyes of one of the guards, perhaps seeing through Maura’s hundredflower spell to pick out a pair of unfamiliar faces among the regulars. When the guard approached, Rath had tensed, preparing for the worst.
But before the Han could challenge him, a scuffle had broken out in another part of the crowd, distracting the guard long enough for Rath and Maura to slip past and board a boat with Gull, Nax and another man.
“Stay to the back,” Gull muttered. “Make like you’re tending to the nets. Keep your heads down until we’re out of sight of the shore.”
He climbed up into the prow of the boat and detached the loop of rope that held it to the wharf pilings. Nax and the other fellow had taken their places on a wide bench in the middle of the craft and commenced to wield a pair of broad oars in strong, rhythmic strokes.
“Where are we bound for?” asked Rath as they drifted out into the foggy darkness, the lights of the wharf growing dim behind them. Off in the mist, he could hear the dip and splash of other oars, and above them, the screech of seafowl. “We aren’t rowing all the way to the Vestan Islands in this, are we?”
Though he had heard plenty of tales about the Islands, he did not have a clear idea how far off the western coast of Umbria they lay.
“Inlanders!” Gull let out a hoot of mocking laughter as he peeled off his false beard of brushed fleece. “This poor little dory would not last more than a mile or two off the coast. Which is why the Han will not let us fish in anything bigger.”
He did not offer any further explanation, but continued to remove his disguise.
Rath glanced sidelong at Maura. Did she guess whatever Gull was not telling them?
She only shrugged and murmured, “We will find out soon enough, I suppose.”
True, but Rath did not like surprises. What would he do in Gull’s place, to get around the Hanish edicts that bound seagoers so tight to the coast?
By the time he had come up with a couple of possibilities, the fog did not seem quite as thick as when they’d pulled away from the wharf. Behind them, dawn had begun to light the sky for another day.
“Ease off, lads,” Gull ordered his oarsmen, peering into the mist. “We’re getting close.”
True to his word, a large, dark shape reared up out of the fog before them. Someone called out a challenge, to which Gull bellowed back an answer, neither of which Rath understood. They sounded a bit like the Old Umbrian language, twara, of which Maura had taught him a few words.
Now he understood what was happening and reckoned himself a fool for not guessing earlier. “They must keep a sea ship anchored in some hidden cove,” he whispered to Maura, “then they sail the little fishing boats out to meet it.”
Gull made a sound between a chuckle and grunt. “You’re clever enough…for an inlander. The Han still haven’t figured it out after all these years. Mind you, we keep the local garrison busy enough that the officers aren’t eager to stay on the Dusk Coast a day longer than they have to. Before they guess our little scheme, they’re back to Venard or over the mountains where the locals don’t give so much trouble.”
Perhaps Maura resented the smuggler’s tone of contempt for the region that had been her home. Rath heard a sharp edge to her tone when she asked Gull, “Do the wharf guards not get suspicious when the small boats don’t come back at night?”
Someone on the deck of the ship tossed down a rope, which Gull caught and tethered to their boat. “Never fear, wench, we make certain the same number return at night as sail in the morn. And with a good catch, too. That’s all the Han care about. They never notice if each boat is missing a man or two.”
Grudging admiration for the smugglers of Duskport began to grow in Rath. He knew the penalties for their trade were as gruesome as those for attempting to escape the mines.
A rope ladder rolled down the hull of the ship. Gull scrambled up it with the hillcat still clinging around his neck. Motioning for Rath and Maura to follow, he called. “Welcome aboard the Phantom, inlanders. The most elusive vessel in the whole Sea of Twilight!”
Rath scrambled up the ladder behind Maura and climbed onto the deck. There he found Captain Gull with his arm wrapped around her waist and his hip pressed tight aga
inst hers. With the speed of events since they had wakened, Rath hadn’t had enough time or light to fully appreciate the tantalizing way those breeches and that shirt clung to the sweet, womanly curves of Maura’s body.
Gull glanced up at Rath with an impudent grin. “The wench is a mite unsteady on her feet. Common for inlanders.”
“I’ll take her, then.” Rath struggled to hide his jealous temper. It would only amuse Gull and vex Maura. “You must have plenty of tasks to oversee before we sail.”
“True, alas.” The smuggler lifted Maura’s hand and pressed a slow, provocative kiss upon it. “Else I would be tempted to linger here all day in such comely company.”
The hillcat on Gull’s shoulder gave a hiss that Rath was tempted to echo. When the creature swiped its paw toward Maura, she drew back and he was able to pull her into his own arms without too obvious a tug-of-war.
“Mind your ship, Gull,” he growled, “and I’ll mind my wife.”
Gull’s dark brows shot up as he mouthed the word wife. Then he strode away calling orders about hauling anchor, hoisting sails and other sea-going cant that meant nothing to Rath.
He eased Maura out of the way as Gull’s crew swarmed over the deck of the Phantom and up the rigging of the large, three-cornered sails. Meanwhile, the small fleet of fishing boats that had borne them from shore dispersed. A stray breeze caught the sails and the ship began to move.
“Did you mean what you said to Gull?” asked Maura. “Or were you just trying to make him leave me alone?”
That sounded like a worthwhile reason for saying…whatever it was he’d said.
“You don’t even remember, do you?” She shook her head. “I suppose that answers my question.”
“You mean about being my wife?” A flash of heat kindled in Rath’s cheeks. “Your pardon if I got ahead of myself, but you are…at least you’re meant to be. You will, won’t you?”
She had to, didn’t she, if he was the Waiting King and she the Destined Queen? That was the one part of all this that made the rest almost bearable.
“Of course I will.” Maura leaned into his embrace. “Once we reach the Islands, I think we should have a proper wedding with one of the wizards to bless our union. Perhaps even the Oracle of Margyle.”
At that moment, the Phantom broke through the last tatters of fog. It surged out into a vivid, sparkling world of blue, white and gold. The majesty of it took Rath’s breath for a moment.
No wonder Captain Gull and the others risked their lives to ply this trade. Rath sensed it was not only for riches, but for the tang of adventure they smelled on the sea air. He could almost feel it stirring his blood.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deep, invigorating breaths.
A while later a young crewmen approached them. “Captain says he’d show you around the ship if you care to see.”
Rath was more than eager. The only watercraft in his experience were small rafts of the kind he and Maura had used to cross the Windle. He wanted to know where and how the Phantom had been built, how Gull and his crew navigated the vast, open stretches of water and made the vessel take them where they wanted to go.
“Shall we?” he asked Maura. She didn’t look quite as anxious as he for a tour of the vessel. In fact, she looked pale and a little…green.
But she nodded, just the same. “Perhaps it will help me keep my mind off my belly. It feels like everything inside me is sloshing around and trying to get back out.”
“Don’t fret,” said the young crewman who’d been sent to fetch them. “I had that when I first sailed. Comes back now and then when the sea is rough. Here.” He rummaged in his trouser pocket and pulled out a tight-packed little brick a disgusting greenish-brown in color.
Rath made a face when he caught a whiff of it, for it stank of salt and fish. “What is that?”
“Dried sea grass,” said the lad. “Once you get used to the flavor, it’s a treat to chew. Calms a sick belly better than anything else I’ve ever tried.”
“Thank you.” Maura took it from him and broke off a small pinch. Then with a dubious look, she shoved it between her back teeth and began to chew.
She grimaced at the taste but did not spit it out or hang over the deck railing retching up her breakfast. After a few moments, she even managed a wan smile. “Perhaps this stuff is like cheeseweed—the smell is a sign of its potency. I believe I feel a little better already.”
She kept up a valiant appearance of interest while Captain Gull showed them over his ship.
Rath did not need to pretend. “Amazing that you were able to build a craft this size without any metal at all!”
Gull shrugged. “The sea is not kind to iron. Wooden pegs swell in the wet and hold better than nails that will rust away. The Phantom was built in a shipyard on Galene. Some of their trees produce wood that is almost as hard as metal. And some bits have been treated with strengthening spells.”
He ran his hand down the middle mast in a proud caress such as a father might bestow on a beloved child he was praising.
“Why do your sails run the length of the ship and not its width?” asked Rath. “Would they not catch the wind better that way?”
Gull grinned. “When the wind is blowing in your favor, that is true, inlander. The Han rig their sails as you describe. That is why their fleet must sail only at certain times of the year. Like now, to take advantage of the Midsummer Blast.”
“Midsummer…?”
“…Blast.” Gull shook his head. “You are sadly ignorant of the sea. The Blast is a fast, cool wind that whips down the coast this time of year. The Han ride it with their big waddling tubs full of ore. Slow as oxen, they are, and just as stubborn to steer. But the wind is more fickle than a beautiful woman with many suitors. When we set our sails, we become masters of the wind, not slaves to it. If the wind blew against them, we could dance rings around anything in the Hanish fleet!”
Picturing it made Rath grin. “That sounds like fine sport! Do you often harry them?”
“Do I look like a fool, inlander?” Gull held up his hands and wriggled his eight fingers. “I am fond of the ones of these I have left and mean to keep them. My handsome head, too, for that matter and a few other bits I will not mention in the presence of your queasy lady.”
“But if you could dance rings around them?”
“Around the galleys, aye. But the Han are no fools—they do not send their precious ore back to their homeland unprotected. The fleet is escorted by fighting ships that would soon crush a greater threat than my pretty Phantom. They’re sleek and narrow, fast as demons when the wind is behind them. And if they catch a wooden craft like this one, they have a sharp iron prow that could slice through our hull like a hot blade through pudding.”
The smuggler’s warning put Rath in mind of the hounds the Han used to terrorize the people of Umbria—fast, sharp and vicious.
By the time Gull finished showing Rath and Maura around the vessel, the wind had risen and the clouds had massed on the eastern horizon, dark and threatening.
Gull sniffed the air. “Smells like a storm. Most often they come out of the west, but now and then the Blast will send one down the coast. It will get us to the Vestan Islands all the faster. I only hope it does not push us up the tail of the Ore Fleet.”
Before Rath could reply, Maura spoke. “Did you not say the Han sail faster when the wind is behind them? The storm should push them farther ahead of us.”
“Aye, wench!” Gull gave her a hearty slap on the back. “So you did mind what I was saying. We’ll make a sea-goer of you yet!”
Maura shook her head, chewing the sea grass harder as she clutched the little block of it in her hand. “I think not.”
The storm broke just as night began to fall. Rath took Maura below, where they huddled in dark, mute misery on a narrow shelf that folded down from the inside of the hull.
Time slowed to a crawl, until it seemed that day would never come again, and they would be trapped forever in the bowels of th
e pitching ship, deafened by the howl of the wind and the crash of the waves. The Phantom’s hull shuddered with every flex of the sea’s formidable strength. Soon Rath lost count of how many times they slipped between the jaws of death, only to slide out again before its sharp teeth gnashed. Each time left his heart pounding fit to burst, his belly churning, and a fine dew of sweat prickling on his brow.
The weight of his own helplessness and uselessness ground down his courage. If only there had been something he could do! He heard the muted thunder of footfall on the deck above his head with longing. Even if it had meant treading closer to the slippery edge of disaster, at least being up there with duties to perform would have given him some tiny illusion of control.
The knowledge that he would be worse than useless up on deck kept him below. And the conviction that Maura needed him.
“There, there, aira.” He held her head as her belly gave another violent heave and she spewed what little she’d eaten into the hold of the Phantom. “You’ll feel better once you get it all out.”
He didn’t have enough experience of the sea to be certain of that. But right now, he’d say any daft thing if it might ease her. He wished their places could have been reversed. He would rather endure this himself, than watch her suffer. No doubt she’d have tended him better, all deft and gentle and reassuring—unlike his rough, awkward efforts on her behalf.
She subsided against him, gasping for breath. “I’m sorry, Rath…should have listened to you and gone home to Windleford. What good will we do anybody…dying out here on the ocean?”
“Hush, now. We’re not going to die!” Had he ever spoke words he believed less? “Mind what you told me about believing in our destiny? Why, you were dead, or near as. Yet you came back to me.”
Somehow, his faltering effort to convince Maura began to have a true effect upon him—as if someone had thrown him a rope to cling to in this storm-tossed night. He did not know where the other end might be anchored. But as the night wore on, a feeling of certainty grew in him that it must be somewhere firm and true.