The good ship SKELTER lay fast against a long wooden
pier. Short and round, she was freshly caulked and painted.
Sturm wondered what exotic cargoes had been carried
under the green planking of her hull.
Dark-skinned sailors clung to the rigging, doing
mysterious things with lengths of rope and bundles of
sailcloth. Sturm never took his eyes off them as he trailed
after his mother and Soren down the pier. The captain of the
SKELTER greeted them at the foot of the gangplank. He
clasped his own hands across his belly and bowed shortly to
Lady Ilys.
“Captain Graff, at yer service, ma’am,” he said. His
beard was plaited in intricate braids, and a dull gold bead
hung from one earlobe. “We’ll be weighing anchor ere the
sun strikes the housetops of Thel. Will ye board now?”
She made only the slightest nod of assent. Mistress Carin
went ahead, and two husky sailors fell upon their baggage.
Soren stood aside, one hand on the pommel of his sword.
Sturm stayed by him, taking in the busy spectacle of a ship
being readied for sea.
“Will it be a long voyage, Sergeant?” asked the boy.
“Depends on the sea and the wind, young lord. And the
skill of the mariners.”
“Couldn’t we wait a while longer? For news from
Father?” asked Sturm.
Soren did not reply. He stared at the housetops of the
town, waiting for the pink sky beyond them to blaze yellow,
then blue. Vapor steamed from his nostrils in the chill air.
“Sergeant, I shall board now,” Lady Ilys said. Soren
offered his arm. “Come along, Sturm,” she said. The boy
responded with a sigh. He dragged his feet up the worn
plank, looking back often to the barren hills east of town.
Lines fell from the ship to the water. Gangs of sailors
manned two broad sweeps and rowed SKELTER out of Thel
harbor. Open pilot boats guided them past the bar into the
Inland Sea. Sturm watched them turn back as SKELTER’S
single sail was raised.
Captain Graff rigged a screen of hides below the
sterncastle for Lady Ilys and Carin. Barrels and crates of
trade goods were pushed aside to create a space for the
women under the castle platform. A smoky oil lamp was lit,
and Mistress Carin set to making pallets for her lady and
Sturm.
The ship rolled with a steady motion to which Sturm
quickly adapted. He wanted to go on deck and watch the
sailors at their work, but Lady Ilys forbade him. The strain
of recent days was bearing on her hard, and she wanted
most of all to rest.
“Stay by me, Sturm,” she said. “I need a strong man at
my side while I rest. I won’t feel safe otherwise.”
She took off her fur cape and lay down, pulling the soft
wrap around her as a blanket. Sturm lay down, his back to
hers, vigilant as a knight and wary as a Brightblade – for all
of ten minutes. Then he, too, lapsed into heavy slumber.
He sensed a change. The ship’s motion had lessened.
The air in the hide enclosure was close and hot. Sturm
rolled to his feet, tightened the drawstring of his pants, and
went out on deck.
A cold, thick, white fog had settled on the warmer sea.
The SKELTER glided under a feeble following wind. They
were far out in the midst of the Inland Sea. No land was
visible; indeed, nothing could be seen ten paces beyond the
ship’s rail.
Sturm prowled the waist of the ship, scampering out of
the way of the sailors as they tightened the mainsail tackle.
The big square of canvas hung limply in the misty air,
flopping only rarely when a stray gust struck it.
Soren was on the poop. The steersman leaned on one
leg behind the sergeant, shifting the thick black staff of the
rudder with practiced ease. Timbers and rigging creaked as
SKELTER eased across the flat, languid water.
The weather was no fairer the second day at sea,
Captain Graff and his first mate – a squat, dwarvish fellow
with yellow eyes – put their heads together by the mast.
Naturally, Sturm was on hand to listen.