Sail ho!” the lookout shouted from the masthead.
The Emerald Storm was now two weeks out of Aquesta, slipping across the placid waters of the Ghazel Sea. The wind remained blowing from the southwest. Since rounding the Horn of Delgos, they made slow progress. The ship was close hauled, struggling to gain headway into the wind. Mr. Temple kept the top crews busy tacking the ship round, wearing windward, and keeping their course by crossing back and forth, but Hadrian guessed that a quickly walking man could make faster progress.
It was midmorning, and seamen who were not in the rigging or otherwise engaged in the ship’s navigation were busy scrubbing the deck with sandstone blocks or flogging it dry. All the midshipmen were on the quarterdeck taking instruction in navigation from Lieutenant Bishop. Hadrian heard the lookout’s call as he returned to the galley after delivering the previous evening’s pork grease. Making his way to the port side, he spotted a small white square on the horizon. Bishop immediately suspended class and took an eyeglass to see for himself, then sent a midshipman to the captain’s cabin. The captain emerged so quickly that he was still adjusting his hat as he appeared on the quarterdeck. He paused for a moment, tugged on his uniform, and sniffed the air with a wrinkle of his nose.
“Lookout report!” he called to the masthead.
“Two ships, off the port bow, sir!”
Hadrian looked again, and just as the lookout had reported, he spotted a second sail now visible above the line of the water.
“The foremost is showing two squares—appears to be a lugger. The farther ship … I’m seeing two red lateen sails, single-decked, possibly a tartane. They’re running with the wind and closing fast, sir.”
“What flag are they flying?”
“Can’t say, sir, the wind has them blowing straight at us.”
Hadrian watched the ships approach, amazed at their speed. Already he could see them clearly.
“This could be trouble,” Poe said.
Hadrian had been so intent on the ships that he had failed to notice his assistant appear beside him. The thin rail of a boy was busy tying the black ribbon in his ponytail as he stared out at the vessels.
“How’s that?”
“Those red sails.”
Hadrian looked back out across the water. “And why’s that a problem?”
“Only the Dacca use them, and they’re worse than any pirates you’ll run across.”
“Beat to quarters, Mr. Bishop,” the captain ordered.
“All hands on station!” the lieutenant shouted. “Beat to quarters!”
Hadrian heard a drumroll as the boatswain and his mates cleared the deck. The midshipmen, dispersed to their stations, shouted orders to their crews.
“Come on!” Poe told him.
There was a pile of briquettes at the protected center of the forecastle. Hadrian ignited them with hot coals from the galley stove as soon as the surrounding deck had been soaked with seawater. Around it, archers prepped their arrows with oil. Seamen brought dozens of buckets of seawater, along with buckets of sand, and positioned them around the ship. It took only minutes to secure for battle, and then they waited.
The ships were closer and larger now, but still the flags they flew were invisible. The Storm remained deathly silent, the only sounds coming from the wind, the waves, and the creaking hull. A random gust fluttered the lugger’s flag.
“They’re flying the Gribbon of Calis, sir!” the lookout shouted.
“Mr. Wesley,” the captain addressed the midshipman stationed on the quarterdeck. “You’ve studied signals?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Take a glass and get aloft. Mr. Temple, run up our name and request theirs.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Still no one else moved or spoke. All eyes were on the approaching vessels.
“Lead vessel is the Bright Star. Aft vessel is …” Wesley hesitated. “Aft vessel isn’t responding, sir.”
“Two points aport!” the captain shouted abruptly, and Wyatt spun the wheel, weathering the ship as close to the wind as possible, heading them directly toward the lugger. The top-men went into action like a hundred spiders, crawling along the shrouds, working to grab every bit of wind possible.
“New signal from the Bright Star,” Wesley shouted. “Hostile ship astern!”
Small streaks of smoke flew through the otherwise clear sky. The tartane was firing arrows at the Bright Star, but the shots fell short, dropping into the sea a good two hundred yards astern.