Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

‘Aye sir, she is,’ Marrin said, then corrected himself. ‘Sorry, they are, Captain.’

Ford pretended not to notice. ‘Good, then we’ll get underway. I’ll be up in a moment, so up anchor and make ready.’

‘Our course, Captain?’

‘We’ll be heading north once we hit deep water,’ he said, his mind back on the log in front of him.

‘North?’

Marrin’s obvious shock made the captain look up. ‘North, sailor, that’s right. I’ll be up in a moment to give you a heading, but in the meantime, get all hands on deck and make ready. And, Marrin, I don’t like repeating myself.’

‘Uh, Captain?’

‘What is it?’ Ford was about to lose his temper.

‘Well, sir, I was just wondering- Last night, sir, you- I noticed you were gone for a stretch, sir, late last night, and I was wondering-’

‘On deck, Marrin, at once!’ Captain Ford roared. He had no idea how anyone knew he had left his room, but if that little piece of gossip was out, he’d have to prepare himself for days of rumour and innuendo. He sighed, then jumped a little as he realised Marrin was still there.

‘I’m just saying, sir, that I think it would have been cathartic for you to bring closure to your relationship, sir,’ he said.

‘Marrin!’ Captain Ford shouted as he rose from his seat, but the mate had already dashed away.

He closed his log and stowed it safely, laughing to himself. ‘Closure,’ he murmured as he made his way to the bridge.

*

There was a stiff breeze from the south and the Morning Star had already come about and was tugging at her anchor, raring to go. With the Twinmoon only days away, the tides pulled the Ravenian Sea towards the Northern Archipelago. In half an aven, when the slack water started to run, the little Pragan brig-sloop would dash north like a racehorse. With an empty hold she’d be skipping over the waves on a quick and lucrative journey to Averil.

It was the talk of the crew that the quiet Ronan, the one called Garec, was carrying a lifetime’s savings in silver: easy work for easy silver, something that rarely happened to a merchant sailor. On any other ship, they might well sail into deep water, kill the passengers, pocket the silver and be back in Orindale for their next cargo, but Captain Ford would have none of that; he was no killer – and even if the thought had crossed his mind, Brexan’s warning had set him slightly on edge. He didn’t know who was waiting for Garec and Kellin in Averil, or if they had alerted anyone in Orindale to their travel plans. And he didn’t know who the two strangers were – powerful strangers – that they were to pick up outside the city.

So given that degree of ambiguity, the captain had decided to transport these passengers as quickly as possible, and then start tacking for Orindale as soon as he had discharged his duty. Perhaps Brexan would decide to accompany them back; that would be fine with him.

No one was more excited about their current journey than Marrin, who had figured that with the Morning Star running empty, he and Sera had about thirty-eight fewer things to get done before making way. As far as he was concerned, this little jaunt was as near to a pleasure-cruise as he was going to get: a half-Moon at sea for no apparent reason. Lovely!

His enthusiasm was contagious as he fired off a series of ridiculous orders. ‘Mr Tubbs,’ he shouted, ‘secure the for’ad hold!’

‘We’re not shipping anything in the for’ad hold, Mr Marrin!’

Some of the men laughed, while others shouted off-colour jokes.

‘Common mistake, Mr Marrin; don’t let it bother you!’

‘Mr Tubbs,’ Marrin laughed, ‘secure the aft hold!’

‘We’re not shipping anything in the aft hold, Mr Marrin.’ Olren Tubbsward, a grizzled mariner who’d been sailing for more Twinmoons than Marrin had been alive, chuckled as he pawled the capstan.

‘Ah, Mr Tubbs, secure the main hold, stow the quartermaster’s inventory and cast off the barges. Get moving, Mr Tubbs, this tide won’t wait!’

Dropping everything, Tubbs snapped to mock attention. ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ Tubbs shouted and, to the amusement of the crew, took several steps before pausing and pointing a gnarled, arthritic finger at his temple. ‘Uh, sir?’

‘What is it, Mr Tubbs? Make it quick, sir, make it quick!’ Marrin gripped the helm, doing his best impersonation of Doren Ford.

‘Uh, sir, we’re not shipping any cargo, sir. There are no ledgers; we don’t have a quartermaster, and there are no barges to cast off.’

‘Very well then, Mr Tubbs, nice work. Why don’t you help yourself to a jigger or two from my private stores?’ Marrin was lost in his performance, so engrossed in playing up the captain’s idiosyncrasies for his appreciative audience that he didn’t notice the sudden silence that had fallen over the crew.

‘Do you really think that’s wise, Mr Marrin?’ the captain said. ‘Beer at this aven?’

Marrin stammered apologies, slinking back from the helm, his face blazing red despite the cold. ‘Sorry, sir, it’s just- Um, Tubbs looked thirsty, sir.’

‘Get us underway, please.’ The captain had been a good sport, but now it was time to work. The crew of the Morning Star leaped into action, each to his or her appointed place, some scuttling up the rigging like monkeys, setting the sails, checking the lines; others manned the capstan whilst the day’s first watch took up position as they came about for their run up the coast.

Captain Ford smiled. The Morning Star was his life, and he was happy to be back to sea. He felt the brig-sloop beneath his feet; he knew this ship inside out and could almost guide her through the water by touch alone. She was only a little larger than a naval pleasure-boat, but they were single-masted, with fore and aft rigging, while the Morning Star was square-rigged on both her fore and mains. She was sleeker even than the quickest of the Malakasian schooners, already fast, and running empty she’d make even quicker time. Ford wondered what the record was from Orindale to Averil. With a northern Twinmoon and an empty hold, whatever it was, the Morning Star stood a good change of beating it. Or we might heel and swamp, he thought, searching for Marrin in the rigging.

‘Marrin,’ he called.

The youth dropped to the deck.

‘Did we take on additional ballast for this run? With no cargo, the Twinmoon and a northerly course, an unexpected gust could have us heeling to the scuppers.’ He wasn’t angry, not yet, but making good time was secondary to keeping the Morning Star afloat.

‘We did, sir, just a bit. I thought you might want to hurry along so we didn’t add much, just enough to compensate for drafting so high.’ As Sera Moslip joined them, Marrin elbowed her in the ribs and said with a raucous laugh, ‘The ballast, Captain, and whatever Sera’s added to her backside. I know you always count on that for a bit of additional weight. That old Nedra could certainly cook, couldn’t she?’

Sera, excited to be underway as well, pressed her lips into a thin smile before rearing back and slugging Marrin hard across the jaw. She shook an aching fist and muttered, ‘Sorry, Captain.’

The crew roared as Marrin fell to the deck.

The captain didn’t bother to hide his own grin. ‘May the gods bless and keep you, Sera,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘Thank you, Captain,’ she murmured back, equally quietly.

Marrin, bleeding from a split lip, pulled himself up and stood on trembling legs. He turned to the captain, embarrassed, and shouted, ‘I do love this job!’

A roar of approval came from the sailors busying themselves on deck and in the rigging. The boy knew how to take his licks. It would be a fine sea day.

Garec laughed so hard his head hurt. He hooted and whistled and shouted Sera’s name along with the crew, while Marrin pulled himself together. ‘Did you see that, Kellin?’ Garec said, clapping her on the back. ‘That was beautiful; she’s like Versen, no gods-rutting warning at all, just, blam! and you’re on your backside waiting for the fog to lift. Oh, he would have loved this.’