“That’s fine, Etjole.” The swordsman made placating motions. “Take your time. Decide how to hold the weapon, which way to point it, what angle to incline the blade against the Earth. Only when you’re satisfied that you know what you’re doing should you go ahead.”
Ehomba eyed his friend speculatively. “And if I’m not satisfied?”
Simna shrugged. “Then we sit. And sweat. And try to think of something else.”
A thin smile curled the Captain’s delectable upper lip. “I’ve heard you boasting endlessly to the crew, swordsman. Perhaps we should put you in a small boat behind the Grömsketter and let you jabber there all you wish. Maybe that would generate hot air enough to fill the mains’l just enough to get us moving.”
He smiled back. “You don’t like me very much, do you, Captain?”
“Not very much, no. If you were under my command, I’d have you swabbing decks and bailing bilges all the way to Doroune.”
“I wouldn’t mind being under your command, Stanager—depending on the commands, of course.” He grinned irrepressibly.
She turned away, disgusted. “You are incorrigible!”
“Actually, I’m from a little village near Rakosy. Incorrigible is a bigger town that lies to the northwest.”
“Boat ho!”
At the cry, everyone tilted their heads back to look up at the mainmast. The lookout was gesturing slightly to port.
It took the better part of an hour for the small, single-masted craft to drift into view. Stolid and unimpressive, a wholly utilitarian little boat, its aft half was piled high with pilchard and sardine, so much so that it rode lower in the water than otherwise would have been expected. Nets fashioned of strong cord and spotted with cork floats hung from the boom and over the sides. Its lone sail hung as limp from the mast as did those of the Grömsketter.