Oathbreaker: The Knight's Tale by Colin McComb Page A

shut at the mouth of the harbor, we started off-loading our cargo. As usual, we were exchanging friendly insults and stories with the lubbers about the far-flung coasts we’d seen, but aside from the storms, the trip wasn’t anything special, not like the time we’d seen a wizard’s castoff eyeing the ship hungrily and we had to waste ten shots from the heavy guns at it. The ports we’d visited had been dull, deadly dull. So we invented some tall tales to make ’em feel like they were missing out on more than salt spray. But our hearts wasn’t in it, and they could tell, too. They didn’t rise to any of our half-hearted jokes, and that put a damper on everyone’s night.
    When it was done, we wanted to get to the Hulden guildhouse, get our pay, and go drinking—that might put some life back into us, but likely it’d take another sea voyage to wash this taste from our hearts. Besides, it was a dark night, and the sky was low with spring clouds, and none of us wanted to spend any more time in what would likely be a hell of a gusher when the clouds finally let loose. Still, we gathered the local gossip and discovered that we’d have the guildhouse to ourselves, a rare occurrence indeed—the other ships the Huldens or the Dengs controlled weren’t due in for a few days or had left earlier in the afternoon, laden with parts from the forges, steamshops, and alchemical presses. There was a single dirigible docked at the mast in the square, and that meant no friendly rivalries with those crews. We could have passed our time by visiting the guildhouses of other merchants, but that usually led to brawls, and we'd have enough of those in the days ahead, we figured. That was a last-ditch effort for fun.
    Loading done, we collected our pay chits from Galves, the first mate, gathered our gear, and tramped up the hills of Westport to our bunks at the Hulden Sailors Guild. If you’ve never been, it’s a low-slung, rough stone building, with hewn beams and arches holding its weight. With some crowding, it can hold about three ships’ worth of sailors—about three hundred. The ranking officers and mates stay on board their ship. The guild’s outer walls are dark and its windows are small and high—after weeks or months on the high seas, most of us’ve had enough of the damned sun.
    Well, except for sailors like me. My name’s Camila Voris. I’m a tiller’s engineer, so I spend most of my time below decks, slaving away on the great gears that keep the boat moving in the direction Captain “Early” Jon Meyels wants it to go. Working sixteen-hour shifts don’t give me much latitude to get up on deck, and when I do, I haven’t usually got time to watch the scenery, but what I do see, I hold as close to my heart as my lungs. I take the best chance I can to make up for that lost freedom when we hit land and we’re laid over for two weeks. So naturally, the weather set me off—I’d been hoping for sun and shine, and instead I got this coming rain. My berthmates, Pol Austin and Skag Madison, recognized it in me and kept mum, or more likely were as glum at the thought of rain. Even if we’re not aching for the sight of sun on land, none of us fancies being trapped inside during our leaves.
    So that might explain why we were less than courtly polite when we found our way blocked by that young man.

    Let me tell you about the Ocarina . She’s a fast vessel—not one of the fastest, but fast. She’s tough, too—again, not the toughest, but tough. She’s outrun the pirates of Elsidon and gunned down their fastest scout when it wouldn’t give up the pursuit. She’s a cutter with a steam engine that provides us enough power to haul heavy cargoes or other vessels and still make it to our destination on time, or else to put on a burst of speed when we’re running high. She’s got three heavy guns and two light guns each to port and starboard, and the iron-clad hull boasts a tempered-steel prow in case someone gets a little