“This ship is just going to jump in the water in six hours?” Mauvin asked incredulously.
“He’s talking about the tide,” Arista said.
“It’s low tide right now, or near it. I’m guessing at high tide the watermark will be up to the cliff’s edge. There won’t even be a beach here. Of course, the ship may still be touching bottom. We’ll set sail and hope the wind can pull us. If not, we’ll have to kedge off.”
“Kedge off?” Mauvin asked, and glanced at Arista, who this time shrugged.
“You take the ship’s anchor, put it on a launch, paddle it out, drop it in the water, and then with the capstan you crank and pull the ship toward the anchor. It’s not a fun drill. Sometimes the anchor doesn’t catch, and sometimes it catches too well. Either way, turning the capstan is never pleasant. All I can say is thank Maribor we have Elden.
“Of course, a ship this size doesn’t have a launch, so we’ll need to make something to float the anchor out with. Since we have six hours to kill, we might as well do that. I’ll need Royce, Hadrian, and Elden to help me set the ship in order, so could His Majesty grab a few of the remaining people and make a raft?”
“Consider it done, Captain,” Alric told him.
“We should also dispose of old Bernie, I’m afraid,” Wyatt said. “While it is tempting to just dump him in the sea, we probably should bury him.”
“Don’t look at me,” Gaunt said. “I didn’t even know the man.”
“I’ll do it,” Myron told them. “Can someone help me get him to the beach?”
“Good, then we’re all squared away,” Wyatt said. “We’ll set sail in six hours—hopefully.”
CHAPTER 13
THE VOYAGE OF THE HARBINGER
The tide had come in and Arista noticed most of the shore was gone. Waves slammed against the cliff edge, hammering the wall. Seawater sluiced in and out of the shaft they had come down, making a vague sucking sound with each roll out. The ship sat upright, the deck flat, and the whole thing rocked with each new set of waves, which lifted the stern.
Myron stood on the deck of the Harbinger, casting his eyes upward at the sails as Royce flew about on ropes, tying off the braces. Soaked to the bone, the monk created a puddle where he stood. His frock stuck to his skin, a bit of glowing seaweed was on his shoulder, and he had black sand in his hair and on his cheeks.
“All done, then?” Hadrian asked, tying the end of one of the lines Royce had dropped to him.
Myron nodded. “Well, mostly, but I thought…” He looked up once more. “I thought Royce might be willing to say a few words, since he knew him best.”
“Royce is a bit busy,” Hadrian replied.
Myron’s shoulders slumped.
“How about if I come? I knew him too.”
“Can I come?” Arista asked. She had been on deck coiling ropes and generally clearing the clutter. No one had asked her to. No one had asked her to do anything. Women were unexpected on board a ship and she did not think Wyatt knew what to do with her. She had tried helping Alric with building the raft for the anchor, but that had gone badly. Her brother noticeably winced each time she suggested something to Mauvin, Degan, or Magnus. After only an hour, she excused herself, saying she was not feeling well, and returned to the ship. She hoped Wyatt would have some use for her, but he only smiled and nodded politely as he passed.
“Of course,” Myron said eagerly, a smile brightening his face.
Arista jumped to her feet, feeling oddly relieved. Somehow she had expected Myron would exclude her as well. She regretted volunteering, as getting off the ship required wading in chest-deep water. It was very cold and took her breath away. Her robe billowed around her as she struggled to find traction in the ground below.
A strong wave struck her from behind and she started to fall face forward. Hadrian caught her by the elbow and held her up.
“Thank you. I thought I was going for a swim there,” she told him.
“Bad form on the wave’s part, sneaking up and attacking you from the back like that.”
“Not very chivalrous, was it?”
“Not at all—I’d complain.”
Myron moved ahead of them, splashing his way to a high point where the water was only a few inches deep. “He’s under here—at least, he used to be.” Myron looked about, concerned.
“I’m sure he still is,” Hadrian said.
“We’d best get started before he slips away,” Arista said as a wave’s retreat sucked her feet into the sand. “You start us off, Myron.”
“Dear Maribor, our eternal father, we are gathered here to say farewell to our brother Bernie. That’s his name, right?” Myron whispered.
Hadrian nodded.
“We ask that you remember him and see that he crosses the river to the land of the dawn.” He looked to Hadrian, motioning with his hand for him to speak.
“Ah…” Hadrian thought a moment. “Bernie wasn’t a good man, exactly. He was a thief, and a grave robber, and he tried to knife Royce once—”