“Is that near Haestal?”
The mate nodded. “Just south of there.”
“And it’s in the Highlands?” From Quaeryt’s study of the maps of Tilbor, Haestal was on the coast, but didn’t have a harbor.
“Aye … the east cliffs drop near on three hundred yards into the sea. There’s not even shingle at the base of the cliffs, and in a nor’easter, the waves might break halfway up.”
“Is a nor’easter likely this time of year?”
Chaenyr laughed. “You can get a nor’easter any time of year. They happen more in fall and winter, and they’re worse then.”
Quaeryt glanced forward. “No clouds in sight now, but the wind’s freshened and shifted. It’s more out of the east now. That’s usually a sign of a change in the weather.”
“The weather changes all the time once you get a few days north of Estisle.” Chaenyr cocked his head, his eyes squinting. “Might be a blow coming. Might not. Might just be a shift to a sou’easterly. We could use that. Calmer seas and a mostly following wind.”
The scholar looked to port where, just on the western horizon, there was the thinnest line of darkness-the coastline of eastern Telaryn. “Where are we now?”
“We passed the headland at Edcloin just after sunrise … most likely we’ll be coming in sight of the Barrens before long. They’ll be hard to see. The captain’ll be turning some to the east. Won’t want the winds and currents to fetch us up there.”
“The Barrens? Are those low sandspits or islands?”
“Hundreds of ’em. Stretch for a good three hundred milles, and that doesn’t count the shallows to the north. They say there were once more towns and good harbors there, but the waters changed and filled them with sand, and the folks all left, most of them, anyway. I’d dare say more ships been lost to the shallows than to the Barrens. One good thing that the Lords of Telaryn did-they cleaned out most of the shipbreakers and their false lights and fires. Still some on the Shallows Coast, though.” The mate spat over the rail. “About the only good thing the Telaryns did.”
“Doesn’t sound like the Telaryns are much liked in Tilbor.”
“Telaryns are fine. We could do without the armsmen and the extra tariffs. Some folks wouldn’t even mind the tariffs if the coin went to building better roads or replacing the breakwater in Tilbora. All they see is the parties and balls in the Telaryn Palace.” Chaenyr frowned. “Where are you from?”
Quaeryt laughed. “I can’t say as I know. The scholars in Solis took me in when I was too young to remember. They told me later I could speak a few words, but no one knew what because I didn’t speak whatever it was properly.”
“You know a bit about the sea.”
“I spent a few years before the mast, then went back and studied some more with the scholars. That didn’t turn out quite the way I thought it might.”
“You a scholar, then?”
“I could claim that.” Quaeryt laughed again. “I kept leaving the Scholars’ House often enough that they never bothered to de-scholar me. Then I found a patron, and they decided it wasn’t worth the trouble.” All of that was true, if not precisely in the way or order in which he’d related it.
“Why are you headed to Tilbor?”
Quaeryt offered a rueful expression. “There are good things and bad things about having a patron. The best thing is that you know you’ll be provided for. The worst thing is that they often want things done … or obtained … or looked into…”
Chaenyr laughed. “Some ways I prefer dealing with the captain. It’s clear what he wants, when he wants it, and how.”
“Everyone I talked to, asking about shipmasters heading north, said he was a fine mariner and shiphandler.”
“That he is, no question about it. And if others were as honest as he is, he’d have more than the Moon’s Son.”
Quaeryt nodded and waited, sensing that a question would close off learning more.
“But most folk aren’t so much honest as self-serving and trying not to seem so. That’s the way of the world, and you and I and the captain just have to do the best we can.” Chaenyr turned. “I’d best be checking with the bosun.…” With a nod, the mate headed forward.
Quaeryt looked to the northeast. The sky above the horizon was clear.
18
For the next four days the skies remained largely clear and the winds generally out of the east, but the seas gradually became heavier, so that the swells were running a good three yards in height, and sometimes more, by midday on Solayi. By midafternoon, everything changed. Within the space of two quints, the wind abruptly shifted and increased markedly, coming hard out of the northeast, while dark clouds scudded toward the ship from the north-northeast. Chexar changed course so that the Moon’s Son swung to the south.
Just what I needed, thought Quaeryt. Running before what looked to be a solid storm was certainly the wisest course, but in even a few glasses, they’d cover more milles to the south than they had in a day heading northward. Still, essentially reversing course was better than fighting a storm.
Less than a glass later, the entire sky was overcast, and the swells were closer to four yards in height and far less regular. The blue of the ocean had turned blue-black, the darkness emphasized by the white of the foam on the waves. Then rain began to pelt the ship, if in intermittent wave-like gusts.
Quaeryt hated the thought of being belowdecks in a blow. That was one thing that hadn’t changed over the years. At the same time, there was little sense in remaining topside and getting soaked through. So he returned to the tiny bunk cabin to wait out the storm.
After spending close to a glass getting bounced around and hanging on to the bunk supports, Quaeryt made his way back to the hatchway, from where he could take a look. Things were even worse than he feared.
He could barely hear Chexar yelling out orders, but the riggers had understood, and they had furled the sails, set a storm jib, then set storm sails in place of the main courses on both the fore- and mainmasts. Even so, the ship seemed not to lose any speed, although it was clear that the storm was moving far faster than the Moon’s Son.
You would have to disregard superstitions.…
“Hold tight!” yelled someone.
Quaeryt glanced around, only to see a wall of water that had to be at least twenty yards high about to break over the ship from the port side. He forced the hatch shut, tightening it as much as he quickly could, then braced himself in the narrow passageway. The entire ship rolled and then pitched forward. Water sprayed past the edges of the hatch and sloshed down the passageway.
Quaeryt had the feeling that the entire ship was underwater for a time before she sluggishly righted herself. When there was no more water coming under or around the hatch, Quaeryt opened it, only to see that the mainmast was broken and splintered no more than a few yards above the deck, jutting out over the starboard side at an angle, held in that odd position by the stays, sheets, and what else remained of the rigging. Both storm sails were shreds, but the storm jib had somehow survived, although one sheet had parted.
“Cut away!” bellowed Chexar.
Quaeryt understood that. In a calmer sea, the captain would have wanted to save what he could, but not in the storm that buffeted the damaged ship.
“Drogue’s away, Captain!” called another voice, that of the bosun.
The crew managed to get another storm sail in place on the foremast-or it could have been a reefed main course-and the Moon’s Son began to gain some headway, rather than being tossed by the waves. Chexar kept the vessel from getting swamped-and the crew from being washed overboard-for the next several quints. Somehow the upper section of the mainmast and the tangled stays and rigging were cut away.
Quaeryt never saw exactly what happened, because he dogged the hatch shut and waited. Then another wave crashed across the decks, and after the ship struggled to right herself, and he looked again, the broken section was gone. So were several riggers. The wind continued to rise until it became a howling force that blotted out all other sounds, and every swell threatened the ship slightly more than the previous one.