Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

‘They’re not the big ones.’ He grinned and wiped the spray from his eyes. ‘We’re saving those for up north.’

‘Oh, good,’ Garec forced a smile, ‘because I was worried that perhaps this would be too easy. I mean, we’ve had such a quiet and enjoyable journey so far.’

‘I noticed your head. How is it? Getting better?’

‘Sure, and if I don’t drown when this boat rolls over, I’ll probably have Kellin take the stitches out in the next day or two. Right now it itches more than anything.’

‘I know the feeling.’ Captain Ford made a slight adjustment to their course, forcing Garec to release the helm for a moment and trust his footing. ‘I’m sure Tubbs or Sera have some tecan brewing if you want some. They’ll be in the galley.’

‘No thanks.’ Garec swallowed hard. ‘I don’t think I could eat anything right now. I like to swim on an empty stomach.’

‘The ship is fine,’ the captain assured Garec with an avuncular smile. ‘As a matter of fact, this is the way she likes to run, just like a horse; loose her reins and let her go.’

Garec thought of Renna, his much-loved mare. It was true; the fiery beast was never happier than when he let her have her head. ‘Can I bring you some tecan?’

‘No thanks, that’s a port drink, a luxury. Out here we drink our own brew, something Sera dreamed up about fifteen Twinmoons ago. It’s mostly rosehips; they grow all over southern Praga, right up to the waterline, too. They’re easy to find and we dry them over a beam in the for’ard hold.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Marrin tried smoking them once, just for laughs. He looked like his face was on fire.’

Garec looked anxiously across the rolling sea to where waves were shattering against the granite cliffs of western Falkan. ‘How much further?’

‘At this rate?’

‘Or a bit slower,’ Garec said. ‘Too many people hurry too much these days. It’s not healthy.’

‘We ought to be in sight of the fjord in about two avens, just after midday.’

‘What? That’s too early,’ Garec cried. ‘We’re here too early; it needs to be late tonight, or tomorrow morning.’

‘Sorry, my friend, a couple of avens and we’re there.’ He fixed his gaze on Garec, ignoring the ship for a moment. ‘Unless you want to make a run in there.’

‘Into the shallows?’ Garec shouted over the wind. ‘It looks rough.’

‘It won’t be the high point of your trip.’

‘Is there a way to wait out here for them?’

‘To stop? No. But we can reef the main, foremain and topsails. In this wind, the topgallants will keep us on course, but-’

‘But what?’ Garec was turning the colour of mould-cheese.

‘You’re going to feel every one of those swells; it’ll be like riding on driftwood.’ He hid a smile. Normally he would be angry at losing time with such a following sea, but he had agreed to take on additional passengers and that meant waiting.

‘Fine.’ Garec started for the galley. ‘Thank you, Captain. I’ll bring you some of your rosehip concoction.’

But the captain was already shouting, ‘Into the shrouds! Let’s go, all of you! Reef the main, fore and tops! I want to hit a wall! Let’s get the brakes on!’

‘Gilmour?’ Steven was at the tiller, double-checking that the sail was lashed to a wooden cleat near the stern. Gilmour sat in the bow, leaning against the mast with his legs extended, his ankles crossed, utterly comfortable. Steven thought he looked like he was sunning himself in a poolside lounger. ‘Do you remember when we talked about maybe crossing in this little catboat?’ Gilmour opened one eye and Steven went on, ‘I lied. I’m not going out there. It’s insane.’ They were at the mouth of the fjord, having enjoyed a pleasant, if chilly, run through the cleft in the Falkan cliffs. The swirling breezes inside the fjord had been tricky, and more than once Steven had cursed and changed course moments before splintering the sailboat against the sides, but compared with what lay before them, the fjord was a milk-run.

A narrow channel of deep water appeared to roll west to east with the rising tide, while the shallows on either side of the granite gates looked like they were closing in. Whitecaps were forming well out at sea, breaking, rolling and breaking again before reaching the cliffs in a noisy crash of spume and saltwater.

Steven was seriously thinking about turning back. ‘This is insane,’ he repeated. ‘We won’t make it beyond the breakwater.’

‘Of course we will,’ Gilmour said. He was irritatingly calm. ‘Just keep the boat inside the channel there in the middle and we’ll pass right through.’

‘The channel? You mean that tightrope of deep water swelling up and rolling in here, Karl Wallenda?’

‘Who?’

‘Never mind,’ Steven said, ‘but look at how the wind’s blowing; it’s a frigging gale. Once we clear this southern cliff, we’re either going to capsize or we’re going to start hauling arse to Gorsk like we’re being chased by the goddamned hound of the Baskervilles.’

‘Just think about what has to happen. Use your knowledge; use your determination and make it happen.’

‘This is too big, Gilmour. This is too much. I can’t-’

‘Yes, you can.’ Gilmour sat up and looked at his apprentice. ‘It’s just wind and water, that’s all.’

Steven watched the Ravenian Sea hurtle past the mouth of the fjord like traffic on a highway. Beyond the granite gates the scene was a seamless grey background for a dreary Expressionist painting; whitecaps and black storm clouds were the only things distinguishing sea from sky.

He thought about what he knew of physics and wave motion. The whitecaps crashing against the shore were not striking at right angles, but coming in on a diagonal tack, pushed by the wind and tide, and then they bounced, out of phase, back into the fray for another turn around the dance floor. If he could capture that breeze first, the reflected breeze off the cliffs, he would have a tailwind – granted, on an angle – but a powerful tailwind that would hopefully push Mark’s toy sailboat far enough into the crosswind that they wouldn’t find themselves splashed flat, like Wile E. Coyote, against the northern cliff face. With the fjord ending, there was no time to come up with another option.

‘I think I’ve got it,’ Steven said.

‘Do you need my help?’

‘Just keep your head down; try and stay dry.’

‘No, I mean my help. Can I do anything?’

‘No magic this time. I don’t want to risk Mark sensing us.’

Gilmour sat up, genuinely surprised; he’d decided to risk a bit of magic to reach Garec and Kellin, and then belay it entirely until their arrival in Pellia. ‘Really?’ he whispered, shrugging out of his cloak and kicking off his boots. ‘This ought to be interesting.’

Steven hauled the little sheet in and reached out to take hold of the boom himself. He held it steady, pointing directly east into the fjord.

The catboat slowed almost to a stop, her sail flapping, empty and ineffective.

‘Steven?’

‘Just wait for it, Gilmour, one more second…’ The little boat rode up one side of a huge swell, hung on its crest, hesitantly overcoming inertia, and then slid into the trough. Just enough of its snout peeked into the crosswind for the sail to fill with the tendrils of the northerly breeze.

At first, it was a gentle gust that tugged at the sheet and took up the slack in the rigging; the sail puffed out a bit, and Steven let go of the boom but clasped the rig line, keeping the sheet close and the bow pointed directly through the channel. ‘This isn’t bad,’ he murmured, as much to convince himself as anything, ‘we can do this.’

As the little skiff cleared the granite gates of the fjord, the full force of the crosswind slammed into them like a broadside cannonade. The sail, surprisingly tough, took the punch and held on. The boom ran out to starboard and the rig line tore through the flesh of Steven’s palm, leaving a red stain on the last few inches of hemp.