He nodded understandingly. “A few pebbles. Thoughts of them will keep your supercargo feeling younger than his years.”
“Broch’s a good fellow. Sharp mind, sound seaman. He’s devoted to me, and to the ship, and has made it his mission to see to it that both of us stay afloat. Enjoy your last moments on the Grömsketter, Etjole Ehomba. She’ll miss you, and so will I.” She stepped back from the railing. “There’s much of interest to see on the final leg of our approach into Doroune. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some small matters of navigation to attend to below.”
He watched her until she disappeared down one of the ladders that led to the main deck. Straight of back and purpose, she was a fine woman. The sea had burnished her like bronze, had knocked off all the rough edges and replaced them with the sharpness of salt and the fire of red coral. Mirhanja would like her, he decided.
High on the white cliffs above, dragonets and seabirds screamed as the ship came around. It would be strange, he thought, to have again beneath his feet a floor that did not roll. Were he not so devoted a herdsman, he had often thought he might have become a sailor.
But such a thing was not possible for a Naumkib. They were a people of their land. If men such as he went off to sea, who would watch over the village and the herds? He inhaled deeply of the fresh, pungent salt air, knowing that it might be some time before he could fill his lungs with it again.
Activity busied the docks of Doroune, but the crowds and freneticism he had encountered in Hamacassar were absent. There was about the people here a sense of purpose, but not desperation. They wanted to make money, but none were dying of the need to do so. It was a simpler place, an easier place, especially for four strangers.