The ship lurched about in the seas with so little way on, but Dorrin felt no nausea. Instead, as the afternoon wore on, she leaned against a coil of rope, watching the sailors on the deck. Some hauled heavy, odd-shaped metal pots from the hold, setting a row of them down the centerline of the ship. One flaring side rose above the rest of the rim to the height of a man’s chest. Dorrin had no idea what they were for. A few slept—those on watch the previous night, she supposed. Two were mending—one a sail and the other a pair of the short trousers they wore. The one who had joined the ship in Bannerlíth to work his passage, recognizable by the long strip of red cloth he wore wrapped around his waist so often, climbed the mainmast. She had wondered whether the red meant he was Falkian, but the captain had told her so firmly not to waste his crew’s time that she had said nothing.
Now she wondered what he was doing up there. He had his knife out—she could see the flash of it moving in the light. Repairing something? The captain had explained that lines needed constant repair.
A bellow from the deck above interrupted her musing, immediately joined by a bellow from the main deck, the man the captain had introduced as his mate. The man on the mast came down quickly, the knife tucked into his sash; she could see the bone handle sticking out. Now they talked, low-voiced. She couldn’t hear the words and thought she probably wouldn’t understand anyway if it was all about the ship. But from the postures and expressions, the man had done something he shouldn’t have and was getting an earful. Dorrin looked away. No one liked to be stared at while that was going on.
She was surprised, therefore, when a little later the man came aft and sat on another coil of rope nearby. The glance he gave her was so calculating, so intent, that she frowned before she caught herself. He smiled then, a sly twist of the lips, got up, and walked back ‘midships.
As the afternoon waned into evening, a haze spread over the water—not as thick as fog but chilly nonetheless. The captain came down for supper before dark, shaking his head. “Wind change,” he said. “It may help us, but we’ll have to look sharp to our steering.” He did not explain more. Dorrin addressed herself to her meal and asked no questions.
With the last of the light, the captain ordered sails spread, and the ship headed south once more, all lights onboard shuttered. Because Dorrin’s cabin was on the seaward side, the captain had told her she could have a candle if she wanted but to close the window and curtain. She preferred fresh air and came out on deck, looking up at the stars. She had learned enough to know they were sailing south. Over the side, the ship seemed to move through thin veils of mist, though it did not rise to the level of the deck.
Far off toward the land, she saw a light, lower than a star and yellower. She squinted. It must be somewhere on the Eastbight, but … the captain had said the sunrising face was cliffs dropping sheer into the sea, uninhabited. She looked around the deck in the dim starlight; sailors moved about, hardly visible. Then, high overhead, a light sputtered and flared at the top of the mainmast, a peculiar greenish yellow Dorrin associated with wizards’ tricks.
The captain roared from the quarterdeck. Instantly, the thud of bare feet running on the deck—Dorrin could not tell how many. The mate snapped out orders; Dorrin backed into the cabin passage to be out of the way. The light above cast shadows and dim flickers of light onto the deck, making it impossible to see all that was going on. In that stuttering light, Dorrin saw one sailor leap for the foot of the mainmast and start up while two more raced up the rigging, each with a bucket hanging from his belt.
“One missin’, Captain,” called the mate from ‘midship.
“Our working passenger?” the captain asked.
“Aye, sir. Not on deck; might be below or overboard.”
“Arm the known crew. Send a detail below to guard the rudder cables.” A pause, then: “Passenger: arm yourself. You will be needed.”
Dorrin had changed as soon as supper was over, arming shirt, mail, and doublet, and had laid out gorget, bracers, and the rest of her gear on her bunk. Dagger drawn, she moved warily down the passage and into her cabin. She heard nothing, smelled nothing, but the usual. She closed the cabin door by feel, then covered the window and lit a candle to make finishing her preparations easier. On with padded cap that went under the simple helmet, on with the gorget, the bracers, the boots. She looked again at her sword—but the captain had given her a cutlass, better for fighting aboard. She grinned; she felt happier than she had since she’d boarded. This was her world, the world of blades. Ahorse, afoot—and now on board a ship. She blew out the candle, pinched the hot wick to be sure it was safe, and eased back out onto the deck. Now the light at the masthead was gone, but off to the west, where land loomed, another light showed.