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kneelboats, shouting names, offers.
The pilot he closed with brought on board four others; Terwel Mo was annoyed
two was customary, four was an imposition, but he didn't argue. He knew
better. The Nagamar were touchy and if his pilot refused to guide him, no
other would take her place; more than that he'd be jeopardizing his access to
the Rekkah for several years, perhaps forever, depending on the influence of
this pilot and the degree of her vindictiveness.
The extra two were tall tough females. The moment Skeen saw them, she knew why
they'd come aboard; if she'd had a hope otherwise, the way they looked at her
would have erased it. Cool, calm, measuring, giving nothing away. She gave
them back the same with an additional touch of bland and beaming vacancy, and
was quietly delighted that the Skirrik male had his pallet in her cabin, that
Timka slept with the Captain and kept the stolen gold under the Captain's bed
behind a door that locked. Maybe I should borrow your crystal diviner, little
Seer. Caution does have its points.
When she strolled to her cabin on the second night after they picked up the
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pilots, she caught one of the Nagamar searching her cabin, mimed anger and
ordered the woman out. A long insolent inspection, hair to heels, then the
Nagamar left.
In the morning, Skeen warned Timka to be sure the gold was well hid, in case
the Nagamar managed to get into the Captain's quarters. Not likely but they
certainly had the gall to try.
With one Nagamar swimming ahead, the second at the wheel, the ship moved
swiftly through the wetlands; other reed villages were visible at some
distance, but the Captain called for no stops until he reached the mouth of
the river and the largest of the marsh settlements, a city not a village.
Standing at the rail, the Aggitj crowded around her, Skeen saw her second
queenhouse, a huge edifice of reeds woven, bound, braided, compacted. The
Captain dropped anchor, the deck passengers scurried about, the evil-tempered
Chalarosh and other cabin passengers had their goods on deck, there since
first light that morning. As soon as the sails came down, the waters swarmed
with reed boats loaded with:
perfume, essences, drugs, pearls, feathers, live birds, furs, reptile skins,
meat, dried seeds, liqueurs, lengths of cloth, art objects.
their paddlers seeking:
blades, axes, machetes, spear heads, cooking pots, charcoal braziers, beads,
glassware, bottles, mirrors, silk from desert looms, damasks from the Lumat,
batiks from the Balayar.
The pilots and the spares stayed below out of sight until dark, continued to
linger as long as they could push it, left reluctantly. Skeen hunted them out
and made sure the Captain knew they were aboard; they ignored his annoyed
questions, went over the side with silent ease, no protest but resentful last
looks at Skeen. They'd found no evidence she was the one who invaded Duppra's
House. She watched them drop into empty kneelboats, sighed with relief and
exasperation as they paddled off. And decided she'd better spend the night
patrolling the rails to make sure they didn't come back.
Shortly before dawn she stood close to the mainmast, hidden in the shadow
there, the moon still up but just barely. She heard a soft chunk, not enough
to alert the two sailors standing guard, one on the quarterdeck, the other in
the bow, or the sleeping deck passengers. Bona Fortuna touching her on the
shoulder for once, Skeen happened to be looking in the direction the sound
came from and saw the small grapnel bite into the wood. A shaggy head followed
almost immediately. Before the intruder was high enough to swing over the
rail, Skeen called out, "Come farther, whoever you are, and I'll drop you
before you get one foot on deck."
At her first word, the form went still, by the time she finished the sentence,
it disappeared. She heard two very faint splashes, then nothing more.
"What is it?" The guard on the quarterdeck called down to her.
"Nothing now. Stickyfingers, most like, not waiting to explain."
"Fuckin'frogs."
There was more stirring, muttered complaints as peddlers and small merchants
riding the Meyeberri's deck roused themselves to guard their goods from any
return of the rousted thieves. Skeen looked around and decided she could leave
angry traders to keep the watch and get some sleep herself. She was tired and
bored, the edge gone off her alertness because she was reasonably certain the
Nagamar wouldn't be back.
With dawn's first stain, the Captain upped anchor and started across the Tenga
Bourhh, heading for Rood Meol and the multi-city Atsila Vana.
THESE MIN, THESE MIN!
or
NEXT TIME I LEAN AGAINST A TREE I M GOING TO PINCH OT TO SEE IF IT SQUEAKS.
Tenga Bourhh. The Mother of Storms the Balayar called the stretch of water
straddling the equator. It lived up to its name. They ran into one of the
Tenga's offspring a little after sundown. The crew fought the wind to tie the
stormnets over the passengerwell and the Captain chased all his cabin
passengers off the deck, ordered them to lock down the storm plugs and stay
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put, keeping out of his hair until they passed out of the storm.
The ship began leaping and cavorting like a drunken mountain goat, the
movement sending Skeen's stomach into uneasy knots. By the time she staggered
into her cabin and forced the door shut, the young Skirrik had tucked himself
into the upper bunk and was very quiet, even managing to look a bit limp
despite his rigid exoskeleton. Poor little nit, looks like he feels worse than
me and me, I feel like the ash-end of a three-day drunk. She jerked the plug
from its spring clamps and slammed it into the windowhole, but not before she
got a face full of icy spray. Working by touch, she brought the hasps around
and clanked home the pins that locked them in place. Slammed from wall to
wall, floor dropping on her then threatening to slam into her chin, she
staggered to the bunk and sat clutching the end post and contemplating the
fuzzy blackness about her. Wonder how long this lasts. She swallowed
experimentally, then swallowed again. Djabo, dry land for me. Can't believe I
was complaining so much about a silly little thing like humidity. At least the
ground was steady under me.
She heard a groan. Poor kid, he sounds bad. Wonder if Skirrik vomit? Djabo,
his head's this end, maybe I better take a look. No looking in this mess,
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