A Game of Three Hands

by Tim Stead

  “I won your contest,” Arla said, struggling to control her voice. Her hand was definitely shaking now. “You’ll take me to see Sage Dahl.”

  “I will,” Jat agreed.

  “Well,” Arla said. “What are we waiting for?”

  Privately she made herself a solemn promise to spend an hour a day at the butts when she got back to Samara. If she got back to Samara.

  23 The Gull Takes Flight

  Radiant Taranath stood back and looked at the work he’d done. It wasn’t something that would have pleased his master back on High Green, but it was solid. The hull was finished, the caulking tight and sealed with thick oil that was even now drying to a tar-like consistency. It wouldn’t leak.

  He’d inspected the deck that morning, and the villagers had done a fair job replacing the broken decking, fitting new spars to the mast and repairing the railing. The Laughing Gull was seaworthy again.

  Taranath was filthy, tired, his hands were blistered from the unaccustomed work, reminding him why he’d given up shipbuilding in the first place, but he was pleased.

  There was a high tide due two hours after dawn tomorrow, and he’d kedge her out into the bay when it peaked. That meant as many men as possible at the anchor capstan, and he’d use men with ropes on the headlands to help get her wet again, but he didn’t see why it wouldn’t work.

  “It’s finished?”

  Ansel was there, staring up at the beached ship. He’d had her and Worrel on guard duty for two days, watching the coast road.

  “Aye, finished,” he said. “We’ll take her out tomorrow.”

  “And you reckon she’ll float?”

  “She’ll float.”

  “I hope so. We’ll all drown if she doesn’t.”

  Taranath looked at her and raised an eyebrow. She shrugged and walked away. He climbed the rope ladder that lay over the side of the ship and scrambled onto the tilting deck. Torgan was there drilling what was supposed to be his crew. Torgan knew nothing about ships, but he was a quick study and knew when to obey orders. He had the men hoisting and striking rag sails – holed bits of cloth that couldn’t catch a gale. It would be too dangerous to hoist their real sails on the beach. Even a breeze could shift the ship and damage it.

  Torgan saw him come over the side. “Captain, how goes it?”

  “We sail in the morning,” he replied. “Are they ready?”

  “As ready as they can be, I reckon,” Torgan said.

  They looked a lot better than the day before. The confusion and clumsiness had almost disappeared, but he wouldn’t have sailed with them out of choice. He looked up at the sky. It was clear for the most part, but the few clouds were high. It was hard to judge the wind up there, though it looked calm enough. He didn’t want to take this crew out in a storm. He’d known captains that could look at the sky and predict, with supernatural accuracy, the next day’s wind. But he’d never learned the knack of it. The sky was a closed book to him.

  Ballasting was a worry. They had no dock here and he couldn’t load the Gull up with rock on the beach – they’d never pull her off fully ballasted. He’d have to manage it somehow when they were afloat in the bay, and they only had one boat.

  There was one option, but it would mean some people working the night.

  “Torgan, can you get folk to stack rock on that headland?” He pointed to the higher, eastern arm of the bay.

  “Aye, we’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “I need two tons of rock up there by dawn if we’re to sail.”

  “Dawn? You want us to work all night?”

  “Not you, and not a man of the crew. Those who are sailing need to sleep, but we’ll need to ballast the ship, to make her heavy, once we get her in the water.”

  Torgan shrugged. “Wouldn’t she float better if she’s light?” he asked.

  “Come with me.” Taranath climbed down from the ship again and walked across the beach, Torgan in tow. He stopped at a rock pool and pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. This he quickly folded into a hull shape, a simple trick he’d learned his first week as an apprentice. “Do you think this’ll float?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Torgan said. “Paper’s light enough.”

  He placed the paper boat in the rock pool, and it promptly fell on its side and took on water. “Wouldn’t want to be on a ship that floats like that,” Taranath said, snatching it up again before it became too waterlogged. He scooped sand from the beach and packed the bottom of the paper hull. He put the boat back in the pool, and this time she floated upright. He blew on her and she rocked, but righted herself. “You see?”

  “She doesn’t turn over so easily. Aye, I see.”

  “We sail the Gull with no ballast and the first time the men all go to one side of the ship she’ll turn turtle. The first puff of wind, the first wave that broadsides her.”

  Torgan smiled. “I like when you explain it,” he said. “I’ll have those rocks on the headland by dawn, but how will that help?”

  “Baskets,” Taranath said. “You’ve got a lot of baskets in the village. We’ll double line a few of those and slide the rock down ropes.”

  Torgan went away happy, and Taranath sat by the rock pool for a while looking up at the sky. The clouds, thin, wispy streaks with their tails on the south made him uneasy. He’d seen them before. One of his captains had called them mare’s tails, but he couldn’t remember why.

  *

  The morning dawned bright and clear. Taranath was outside watching the stars fade and was pleased to see a lot of blue, though a stiff breeze from the south west might present a problem. He breakfasted with his new crew and led them down to the beach with fifty men following – the entire compliment of the village and a few more besides.

  At Short Hill Bay, The Laughing Gull lay tilted to starboard pointing at the sea as though eager to be herself again. The sea was well up the sand, creeping closer to the Gull every minute. They were lovers, yearning for each other, Taranath thought.

  He climbed the rope ladder and stood once more on the tilting deck, but now he was filled with purpose. He shouted orders and ropes were thrown, tied and tightened. The Gull quivered beneath his feet.

  The small boat rowed out of the bay until it stood fifty paces clear of the land. Worrel was aboard, and Taranath watched as the kedge anchor was dropped over the side. He shouted another order and the capstan turned, the rope grew taut. He ran forward and peered over the bow. The water was close now, a few drops of spray darkening the bow. It would still be some time before they could be floated off.

  He ordered the ropes tied off.

  Men were digging either side of the hull, throwing sand away from them at a great rate. It would only help a little, but every little would help. Others had propped the ship with timbers so that she wouldn’t roll so much when the water lifted her.

  The sea began to wash the Gull’s sides. The channels filled with water and the diggers retreated. Taranath gave the word and the men on the ropes began to pull, the ones on board strained at the capstan. The Gull shifted slightly, but declined to inch forwards.

  “More! Taranath shouted. “Pull harder!”

  Men strained. The few who were standing around joined in, bending their backs to their common fortune, and the ship lurched forwards. Taranath himself seized the line between the rope eye and the capstan and leant his weight to the pull. His hands were sore from burst blisters, but he leaned back, bracing his foot against a bollard on the deck.

  With a sound like a brisk wind in the trees the ship moved, and this time she didn’t stop. There was a lot of shouting from men down on the beach, but Taranath was busy at the bows again, shouting orders to each rope, and in a short while the Laughing Gull floated on the light swell in fifteen feet of water, pinned in place by ropes, anchored to the sea bed beyond the heads, secure.

  Now they began to ballast her.

  Basket after basket of stones slid down the ropes from the eastern headland. The villagers had attached five baskets to five
ropes, and each came down, was emptied and the stones carried below by the king’s men. Taranath saw no reason why they should not make themselves useful, though they grumbled at the imposition.

  “Peasant work,” the lieutenant said.

  “Necessary work,” he replied. “And you can rest once we’re at sea.”

  He began to move the ship out as she sank, inch by inch, into the bay. He could feel her firming up as the stones were stacked below. He supervised that, too, making sure the stone was evenly distributed and packed tight as they could make it.

  It was all going well. His only worry was the wind. It was still blowing from the south-west, and from the deck of the ship he couldn’t see past the headland, and he dearly wished to. The headland sheltered them in part, so he couldn’t even be sure of the wind strength.

  When the boat came back for the second kedge anchor he took Worrel aside.

  “When you get out there, look to the south-west. Have a good look and see if you can make out anything out there – clouds or rain.”

  “You think there’s weather coming?” Worrel asked.

  “Could be. Mostly I just want to know what is coming.”

  Worrel nodded and climbed back into the boat. Taranath didn’t have time to watch him go. He was back in the bow again shouting orders and guiding the ship foot by foot towards the open sea.

  The boat came back and Worrel climbed back aboard the Gull. The first that Taranath knew of it was the man standing beside him.

  “Something out there,” Worrel said. “Looks like rain.”

  “To the south-west?”

  “Aye, you’ll see it when we clear that head.”

  Taranath looked into the wind, but all he could see past the westerly promontory was a blue sky streaked with cloud.

  “I hope you fixed that anchor well,” he said.

  It shouldn’t have been a problem. They had two anchors out and a tide to carry them out of the bay, but a ship is a high sided thing, and subject to the wind. As the Gull began to clear the headland she crabbed to the east, putting extra strain on the ropes that held her off the rocks.

  Taranath joined the men at the capstan. He wanted this over as quickly as possible, but it was unpleasant. His hands were raw from burst blisters and there was salt everywhere. The capstan turned slowly and the ship crept forwards.

  A rope snapped. There’s no sound in the world like a breaking rope, and Taranath felt the ship shiver under him. He looked up, knowing that it would be one of the western ropes. There was momentary confusion on the headland. Some of the men on the broken rope had fallen, others leant their strength to the remaining three ropes.

  Taranath hoped it had been a flawed rope. If not, it meant that the others would fail fairly quickly.

  Some of the men on the capstan had raised their heads. They were looking where he was looking and the ship slowed.

  “Keep pulling!” he shouted. The desperation in his voice acted like a whip. Their efforts redoubled and the ship surged. Taranath worried that they’d pull the kedge anchors free, but there was no choice. He ran to the bow and looked seawards.

  Both lines were taut, but holding. On the western headland there was panic. The wind had hold of the ship and the men on the ropes were struggling not to be pulled over the low cliff into the sea. Another fifty paces and they’d be clear of the rocks. That was at least five minutes, maybe ten.

  The Gull couldn’t help herself – not yet. She had no way on her, no sails raised. She was no more than a lump of wind-drift riding the tide.

  He saw the lieutenant standing by the companionway.

  “You,” he said. “Get your men on the capstan. Relieve my crew. We need to get sails up as soon as we clear the heads.”

  The lieutenant, to his credit, didn’t hesitate. In less than a minute there were ten fresh backs bent to the capstan and ten tired villagers – the bulk of his crew – awaiting his orders.

  “Get up there,” he said. “Prepare to hoist the sail.” He pointed to the largest man. “You. You’re my helmsman. Come with me.”

  The villagers on the headland were still fighting to hold their ropes, but they were losing. The Gull was slipping to the east.

  Taranath swung the wheel as far as he could to the left, as though steering for the rocks.

  “Hold the wheel there,” he said.

  “But…” the man had obviously seen the paradox. He wanted to steer to the right, away from the rocks.

  “Just do it.” There wasn’t time to explain. He ran forwards again. Some of his crew had unstrapped the sail from the boom, others held the lines that would hoist the base of the gaff from the deck, and still others held the lines that would lift the gaff.

  The bow had cleared the bay. It was almost far enough. Almost. The men on the capstan were heads down, pushing for all they were worth. The Gull was easing forwards.

  Just another minute.

  A second rope snapped.

  On the west headland a man slipped and fell, clutching to the edge of the cliff and the Gull’s weight became too much. The others let go and suddenly the ship was free.

  “Hoist sail!” Taranath commanded, and the gaff went up. They did well. The sail was quickly filled with the wind, bowing out to port. “Tight as you can,” he called.

  The ship came alive. The bows began to turn to port and, as he had planned, the stern kicked out to starboard. He ran back to his helmsman.

  “Amidships,” he said.

  The Gull cleared the rocks by twenty feet, nosing out into the ocean, rising and falling with the swells.

  “We did it!” Torgan said.

  “We did indeed,” Taranath agreed. “But we still have to pick up the kedge anchors and sail two days to Darna.”

  Taranath kept the ship close hauled, edging out into the bay on one sail to pick up his anchors and give the small boat time to come alongside and pick up any who weren’t needed on the voyage. Now he had a little time, and for the first time he looked to the south-west.

  Where he’d hoped to see the horizon clear he saw nothing but darkness. An angry grey band of cloud obliterated the joining of sea and sky.

  “More than just rain?” Worrel said.

  He was standing behind Taranath again.

  “A storm,” Taranath said. “Just hope it brings more rain than wind. Getting wet doesn’t bother me.”

  24 Blaye

  Centuries ago, so it was written, the Kings of Samara had owned country estates, places where they would retreat and rest, be comfortable in the peaceful and ordered gardens, the beautiful houses.

  Blaye was like that.

  Calaine Tarnell could see as much from the Sword of Samara as they sailed into the bay. The city occupied a plain, flat as slate floor. An indolent river wound its easy way through the town, and everywhere there was the glint of water. The buildings themselves, mostly built of a striking red brick, peered through veils of trees at the sea.

  It was all new to her. She had often envied her friend Corban Saine his travels. He had seen every city, travelled a hundred roads, passed through a thousand villages, but this, this short voyage, was the sum of Calaine’s adventures beyond Samara. She was both excited and apprehensive.

  She had met Bren Portina before, of course. He had saved her life once, but this was the first time she would meet him with an understanding between them. She was to be his wife.

  She did not doubt that he was a good man, brave and honourable, generous, well liked by his people, but to Calaine he seemed to lack anything but the most rudimentary sense of humour. She suffered from the same affliction, she knew, and she regretted that her marriage would be lacking in this respect.

  She would miss Corban.

  Calaine put the thought aside. It was Samara that mattered, and her duty. This alliance would secure the city and unite the west of the world for a hundred years or more.

  She watched the sailors throw out half a dozen boat buoys and the boats racing to pick them up. They were towed by a cr
owd of oars to a mooring against an ancient stone pier where it seemed that half the city was gathered to greet her. What had been a secret in Samara was clearly a festival in Blaye.

  She waited until a wide board had been placed to bridge the gap between the ship and the shore and then stepped down onto the pier. Someone had taken the trouble to carpet the stone, and there were flowers strewn everywhere.

  Bren Portina, the King of Blaye, stepped out of the crowd. He had no guards at his side, and bore only a jewel-hilted dagger on his belt. Clearly here was a king who did not fear his people.

  He bowed – a short, polite bow.

  “I am most pleased to welcome you to Blaye, Calaine,” he said.

  Calaine returned the bow with precision. “As I am glad to be here,” she said.

  “Are you rested?” Portina asked.

  “I am.”

  “Then would you like to see something of the city? I will have your baggage taken to the house.”

  “The city it is,” she replied.

  There were horses waiting, and at last an escort, though they appeared more ceremonial than military. They used colour in the same way her father’s men used armour. They were adorned like sailors, but with considerably more style. Not a one of them jarred the eye.

  They rode down the pier, and cheering crowds parted before them. It was a new experience for Calaine. In Samara she was respected, perhaps even admired, but not like this. Men and women threw flowers in front of the horses as they passed, they waved, shouted words of loyalty. It struck her that this was what it should be like, being a king. Portina’s shield, his guard, was the love of the people. He needed no other.

  They rode into the city. Calaine had expected the river. She had seen it from the ship. What surprised her were the canals. The Blayish had dug them in a series of semi-circles so that it was possible to take a small boat to almost any point in the city, and the canals were all lined with trees, mostly fruit trees, so that the city resembled a single great orchard. Dozens of times they passed men fishing in the abundant water, and everywhere people stopped and waved, smiles on their faces.