The ship moved not just through the water but on the water. Dorrin had heard of ships “rocking” and had thought of them as like a sea-going rocking chair, but it was more complicated than that. The ship could, at any time, lean one way or the other or a combination of two, and it was never completely still and level. Nor was it quiet. She had imagined, seeing the ships on the Immerhoft Sea from shore, that they glided along without a sound. But there was one noise or another all the time, in rhythms it took her days to understand. Shouted commands, shrill whistles, the thud of bare feet on the deck as sailors obeyed, the creaking of wood as the ship tilted this way and that, the flap of sails when they changed direction or the wind did, the splash and gurgle of water along the ship’s sides, the bell that rang the turning of the glass, the louder gong that called crew and passengers to meals. At first Dorrin alerted to every shout—shouts ashore meant some emergency—but here they meant nothing to a passenger.
When Captain Royan invited her to come to the upper deck, she could easily see the Eastbight, its mountainous mass jutting into the ocean on the sword—no, the starboard—side. The ship kept well away from it, so she could not see any details.
Royan spent most of his time on that deck, keeping watch on the sea, the ship, the sailors, and any other ships they met. Ships came to Bannerlíth from the far Eastern Continent as well as from Aarenis, so on most days they saw at least one. Royan explained what cargo they likely carried, from where, and for what market.
The first days, she later realized, were easy. They had left in fair weather, and it continued for a hand of days. By then, Dorrin could keep her balance on the open deck as she walked to and fro. On the sixth day, when she came out on deck, Royan shouted down to her from the upper one.
“Look at the sky: we’ve weather ahead.”
Dorrin looked up into a sky with a pattern of clouds like fish bones, pale against the blue. They looked harmless to her, nothing like the thunderheads of summer storms inland or an approaching blizzard in winter. The wind continued to blow as it had; the sea was no rougher. But all the morning, a faint haze dimmed the blue between the fish bone clouds, and they thickened until they looked more like the curds in buttermilk than fish bones.
Royan came down for lunch and said, “We’ll be fine as long as we’re this side of the Eastbight, but tomorrow we’ll be past it. There’s storm coming—not unusual this time of year. Can’t tell how bad yet.”
“What should I do?”
“Stay in your cabin as soon as you can’t keep your feet, or if I say so. Don’t eat much; you’ll heave it up, and the smell will make you sicker. Dry bread and water is best. Always have a hand for the ship—a hand on something fastened down. If it’s a bad storm we’ll go around it—out to the middle of the ocean if need be.”
In the afternoon, the wind freshened a little, with occasional stronger gusts. Dorrin could just see where the dark ridge of the Eastbight dropped sharply to the sea and disappeared. Far ahead, the water looked different, with short lines of white drawn on it. The ship had developed a stronger movement, so the lamp hanging from the ceiling—overhead, she reminded herself—at dinner swung noticeably, but she did not feel sick. She sat down with a good appetite and ate as she normally would.
“Best get in your bunk,” Royan said when they had finished. “Latch everything in; hook the netting up. Best leave the jug in its niche until you need it, but don’t wait too long. Try to heave into that and not on the bunk or the floor.”
“I don’t feel sick,” Dorrin said. The fresher wind had cleared her head, and she felt more excited than scared.
“You will,” he said. “Everyone does, first storm. Especially in the dark. Do what you need to now and then stay in.”
“Yes, Captain,” she said.
This time he smiled. “That’s the way. You’ll be a sailor by the end of this trip.”
She finished in the ship’s peculiar arrangement for personal needs, latched the chamber pot into its compartment under the bunk, then lifted and replaced the slat that secured the jug into its niche at the head of the bunk so she could be sure of finding it in the dark. She was sure she would not need it. She was ready for whatever might come, she decided, and lay down, leaving the window open for the fresh air and light. The light dimmed quickly; the ship moved and creaked a little more. She might as well sleep, she thought, and—unconvinced it was necessary—hooked the netting onto the bulkhead.
She was dozing off when the ship suddenly heeled. She rolled into the netting and then back onto her bunk as it righted. A blast of wind came in, smelling of fish, then a spatter of either spray or rain. She could hear the wind whining through the rigging and the loud crack of sails. She struggled to find the bar by which she could pull the window shut, but while she was half-sitting, the ship tipped down and heeled again. She lost her grip on the window as she rolled into the netting again, then banged her arm into the bulkhead when she rolled back; the ship tipped up next, so she slid backward, her head bumping the end of the bunk.