Rat.”
“Yes. He knows something about land. Another?”
The second mate rubbed his big jaw, his chimes ringing; the sound irritated the first mate, but he’d learned years ago to keep his mouth shut about it. “One of the new ones? Young ones climb masts faster, makes sense they’d climb trees as fast.”
They looked round, making sure Gaffer was still below. Neither spoke about what was foremost in their minds, though no one was in hearing range. Gaffer Walic had been satisfied that the Marlovan wanted up and down the coast had died by accident in the battle, but First Mate—who had been at the head of one of the boarding parties—had conducted his own investigation. Walic wouldn’t like that kind of presumption . . . unless it proved to be right.
“Something still crosses my hawse,” he said in a whisper. “On how those orders got mixed. ’Twas Fox, near’s I can find, who killed that yellow-haired prince.”
But Walic liked Fox. He was never seen talking to anyone except maybe Rat, who was quiet and obedient. He fought better than most hands on the ship, and he carried out the training of newcomers with callous dispatch. They knew better than to accuse one favored by Walic without unassailable proof. So either they found the proof or waited until he fell out of Walic’s favor.
Second Mate lowered his voice. “New one, Stupid, stays away from Fox. Seen that over and over.”
The first mate said, “Seen it, too.” So that at least removed the fear of conspiracy. Having arrived at a decision, he sat back, lacing his battle-scarred fingers around a knee. “Send Stupid with Rat and the cousins. Whoever comes in with the least amount gets the rope-end, and watch-on-watch for a week. Meanwhile we use the time to sound that inlet again. The chart for these islands is rising ten years old, and the bottom’s bound to have changed.”
That decided, they turned their attention to the sails as the wind died, becalming them within sight of their islands.
Next morning before dawn a gust of wind brought the ship to life as the fiery eye of the sun appeared on the eastern horizon. Walic’s fleet, approaching from the south, carried more on the tide than by the wind, which was failing again.
Uslar had just woken; reddish beams of light shafted through the scuttle to highlight the wood grain of the bulkhead inside the stuffy forepeak.
“Uslar! Come see!”
It was Thog, outside the canvas that served as a doorway. The air was already stifling, so Uslar pulled on his clothes and plunged his head into the bucket. The zing of magic felt better than the warm water; blinking drops off his eyelashes, he ran up in time to see sunlight paint the sides of cliffs. The smell of vegetation had woven into his dreams during the night, raising his spirits. Now they soared as he gazed in wide-mouthed astonishment at the great carvings of winged figures on the sides of the sheer rock.
Eons of wind and rain had worn the edges from the figures, but the angle of the morning light highlighted the carvings with shadow, marking the round faces and narrow eyes on the figures as they sped upward, wings outstretched, toward the sky.
Round faces, narrow eyes: Chwahir, or not quite Chwahir, for “Chwahir” was the name the ones who stayed on land gave themselves. Those who took to the mountains, never to return, had taken new names, leaving behind only stories handed down through generations until the sense of them was as blurred as the details of those carvings.
Uslar and Thog lingered until a couple of stinging lashes from the rope end sent them scrambling up the mast to help with the sails. Both kept peeking back until the curve of the headland carried the carvings out of sight and all that remained were the ruins of an enormous, round-windowed building cut into the hills behind the cliffs. A plateau extended out from the southwest side, sloping gently away. Groves of trees grew in once-neat rows—peach, apple, pear, plum. On
“Yes. He knows something about land. Another?”
The second mate rubbed his big jaw, his chimes ringing; the sound irritated the first mate, but he’d learned years ago to keep his mouth shut about it. “One of the new ones? Young ones climb masts faster, makes sense they’d climb trees as fast.”
They looked round, making sure Gaffer was still below. Neither spoke about what was foremost in their minds, though no one was in hearing range. Gaffer Walic had been satisfied that the Marlovan wanted up and down the coast had died by accident in the battle, but First Mate—who had been at the head of one of the boarding parties—had conducted his own investigation. Walic wouldn’t like that kind of presumption . . . unless it proved to be right.
“Something still crosses my hawse,” he said in a whisper. “On how those orders got mixed. ’Twas Fox, near’s I can find, who killed that yellow-haired prince.”
But Walic liked Fox. He was never seen talking to anyone except maybe Rat, who was quiet and obedient. He fought better than most hands on the ship, and he carried out the training of newcomers with callous dispatch. They knew better than to accuse one favored by Walic without unassailable proof. So either they found the proof or waited until he fell out of Walic’s favor.
Second Mate lowered his voice. “New one, Stupid, stays away from Fox. Seen that over and over.”
The first mate said, “Seen it, too.” So that at least removed the fear of conspiracy. Having arrived at a decision, he sat back, lacing his battle-scarred fingers around a knee. “Send Stupid with Rat and the cousins. Whoever comes in with the least amount gets the rope-end, and watch-on-watch for a week. Meanwhile we use the time to sound that inlet again. The chart for these islands is rising ten years old, and the bottom’s bound to have changed.”
That decided, they turned their attention to the sails as the wind died, becalming them within sight of their islands.
Next morning before dawn a gust of wind brought the ship to life as the fiery eye of the sun appeared on the eastern horizon. Walic’s fleet, approaching from the south, carried more on the tide than by the wind, which was failing again.
Uslar had just woken; reddish beams of light shafted through the scuttle to highlight the wood grain of the bulkhead inside the stuffy forepeak.
“Uslar! Come see!”
It was Thog, outside the canvas that served as a doorway. The air was already stifling, so Uslar pulled on his clothes and plunged his head into the bucket. The zing of magic felt better than the warm water; blinking drops off his eyelashes, he ran up in time to see sunlight paint the sides of cliffs. The smell of vegetation had woven into his dreams during the night, raising his spirits. Now they soared as he gazed in wide-mouthed astonishment at the great carvings of winged figures on the sides of the sheer rock.
Eons of wind and rain had worn the edges from the figures, but the angle of the morning light highlighted the carvings with shadow, marking the round faces and narrow eyes on the figures as they sped upward, wings outstretched, toward the sky.
Round faces, narrow eyes: Chwahir, or not quite Chwahir, for “Chwahir” was the name the ones who stayed on land gave themselves. Those who took to the mountains, never to return, had taken new names, leaving behind only stories handed down through generations until the sense of them was as blurred as the details of those carvings.
Uslar and Thog lingered until a couple of stinging lashes from the rope end sent them scrambling up the mast to help with the sails. Both kept peeking back until the curve of the headland carried the carvings out of sight and all that remained were the ruins of an enormous, round-windowed building cut into the hills behind the cliffs. A plateau extended out from the southwest side, sloping gently away. Groves of trees grew in once-neat rows—peach, apple, pear, plum. On
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