He ground his teeth. Finally he spoke, and his voice differed violently from the slightly tentative tone he normally used with her. "She isn't a slut. Don't you ever say that about her again. As for crying, I hope she's not. She's got enough to cry about. Her husband and her three sons are eight weeks overdue from their last voyage. She was on the South Mole fighting to see that they had a home to come back to, if they ever come back. And she's worth ten of any princess I ever met." He turned on his heel, and left her standing alone and stunned to wordlessness at the rail.
They felt their way carefully out of the channel, pulled by cautious teams of rowers in longboats, and with lines to the moles. Nervous sailors peered over the bow, until the three masted barquentine felt the first rise of the swell of the open sea. A cheer of relief went up, and the bosun's salt-crusted voice bellowed for hands to hoist the sails.
Keilin had few memories of his only other sea voyage. Besides, that had been in the Narrow Sea, where the waves are small. Here, in the open water, were waves that had had a whole third of the globe in which to build up. The Starchaser corkscrewed on the great blue-gray swells as she angled across them, the water frothing and bubbling at her bow. Keilin found that relief at getting clear of the harbor was entirely reserved for good sailors. He and Shael, having each decided to avoid the other forever, were abruptly reunited leaning over the stern rail and barking at the seagulls in tandem. An amused and somewhat sadistic cabin boy came and rang the chow bell at them and bellowed, "Brefaaaast! Cooome for brefaaast! Cookie got nice gurry bacon a swimmin' in gurease, an' luvery slimy arf-coooked eggs, sloppin' about your plates!"
Keilin turned, releasing the rail from his desperate clutch. "If you say another word . . . I'll kill you." His gray face was in such deadly earnest that the boy retreated in haste. Shael forgot she was never going to speak to him again, and groaned a heartfelt, "Thank God. Oh Cay . . . I'm going to die!"
He just groaned.
* * *
Seasickness doesn't last forever, although to the sufferer it feels as if it is going to. By evening Keilin was feeling totally drained, but at least he felt reassured that surviving until tomorrow would not simply mean more punishment. In the morning he ventured cautiously into the officers' mess, wearing the necklace of onions and garlic cloves given to him by the same grinning cabin boy. The Princess was already seated, eating an insubstantial breakfast of tea and toast. She sniffed when he came to sit down. "Don't you ever wash? You stink . . . but I think your jewellery suits you."
He sat down cautiously. "I think," he said in a loud voice, "I'll have gureasy bacon, and half-coooked slimy eggs." He had the satisfaction of seeing her turn green, when a bellow came from above. "Hands! All hands to your stations!" The ship yawed and shuddered as they changed course. They went up on deck to find out what was happening. The grim-faced mate explained. "Masthead lookout spotted raider sails. We'll run nor'east and try to lose 'em. We usually beat those square-riggers trousers down quartering the wind."
They did, but by late afternoon they saw another raider, and had to beat further east into the darkness. Keilin was up on deck the next day, sitting and sharpening his assegai blade when the yell came from the swaying masthead "Sail. Nor'-nor'east."
"What sail?" came the bellow from the bridge.
"Small craft, sir. Lateen." A few moments later the gray-haired harsh-faced skipper himself was climbing the rigging with his telescope.
"What is it, Captain?" Keilin ventured onto the bridge. He was nervous, but he knew he had to find out what had been decided at the masthead. As usual S'kith followed him up.
"Small boat, young man. Maybe a Hashvilli trap. We'll bear away a point or two," the Captain said matter-of-factly, not paying a great deal of attention.
"No. They have no more water, and some of them are dying. They are from Port Lockry," Keilin said in a voice so emotionless it might have come from S'kith. He did not say that, amid the images of thirst and desperation, there was also the image of a face he knew. However, that was why he raised the assegai, until the razor-sharp spearpoint rested on the skipper's breastbone. Behind him he heard the rasp of S'kith's sword coming free. "You will order the crew to make all possible sail and bear for her."
The captain was a tough man, master of his own bridge. He didn't flinch. "This is mutiny, boy. You know what the penalty for that is?" he said, in a voice that showed no sign of quavering.
"I don't want to hurt anyone. But I will kill you if I have to. On that boat there is a Captain Sven Barrow. You are going to rescue him," Keilin said in the kind of voice that brooks no argument.