“And then,” he whooped, slapping his fat thigh, “they’ll probably cannonade each other to flinders, each thinking the other is us! Hoo, hoo, hoo!”
“Mennirox had better be with us,” said the mate, paling. “It’ll take damn tight calculating and more than a bit of luck. We’ll be going by dead reckoning; not until we’re almost on them will we see them; and if we’re headed straight at them it’ll be too late to avoid a collision. Wharoom! Smash! Boom! We’re done for!”
“That’s very true, but we’re done for if we don’t pull some trick like that. They’ll have caught us by dawn – they can outmaneuver us – and they’ve more combined gunfire. And though we’ll fight like grass cats we’ll go down, and you know what’ll happen then. The Vings don’t take prisoners unless they’re at the end of a cruise and going into port.”
“We should have accepted the Duke’s offer of a convoy of frigates,” muttered the mate. “Even one would have been enough to make the odds favor us.”
“What? And lose half the profits of this voyage because we have to pay that robber Duke for the use of his warships? Have you lost your mind, mate?”
“If I have I’m not the only one,” said the mate, turning into the wind so his words were lost. But the helmsmen heard him and reported the conversation later. In five minutes it was all over the ship.
“Sure, he’s Greedyguts himself,” the crew said. “But then, we’re his relatives; we know the value of a penny. And isn’t the fat old darling the daring one, though? Who but a captain of the Clan Effenycan would think of such a trick, and carry it through, too? And if he’s such a money-grabber, why, then, wouldn’t he be afraid to risk his vessel and cargo, not to mention his own precious blood, not to mention the even more precious blood of his relatives? No, Miran may be one-eyed and big-bellied and short of temper and wind, but he’s the man to hold down the foredeck. Brother, dip me another glass from that barrel and let’s toast again the cool courage and hot avariciousness of Captain Miran, Master Merchant.”
Grazoot, the plump little harpist with the effeminate manners, took his harp and began singing the song the Clan loved most, the story of how they, a hill tribe, had come down to the plains a generation ago. And how there they had crept into the windbreak of the city of Chutlzaj and stolen a great windroller. And how they had ever since been men of the grassy seas, of the vast flat Xurdimur, and had sailed their stolen craft until it was destroyed in a great battle with a whole Krinkansprunger fleet. And how they had boarded a ship of the fleet and slain all the men and taken the women prisoners and sailed off with the ship right through the astounded fleet. And how they had taken the women as slaves and bred children and how the Effenycan blood was now half Krinkansprunger and that was where they got their blue eyes. And how the Clan now owned three big merchant ships – or had until two years ago when the other two rolled over the green horizon during the Month of the Oak and were never heard of again, but they’d come back some day with strange tales and a hold brimming with jewels. And how the Clan now sailed under that mighty, grasping, shrewd, lucky, religious man, Miran.
Whatever else you could say about Grazoot, you could not deny that he had a fine baritone. Green, listening to his voice rise from the deck far below, could vision the rise and fall and rise again of these people and could appreciate why they were so arrogant and close-fisted and suspicious and brave. Indeed, if he had been born on this planet, he could have wanted no finer, more romantic, gypsyish life than that of a sailor on a windroller. Provided, that is, that he could get plenty of sleep.
The boom of a cannon disturbed his reverie. He looked up just in time to see the ball appear at the end of its arc and flash by him, It was not enough to scare him, but watching it plow into the ground about twenty feet away from the starboard steering wheel made him realize what damage one lucky shot could do.