And yet, he mused. Somehow he managed to sail her all the way to Lossermark with a skeleton crew, without suffering another casualty. Hilemore decided a more thorough debrief of the marine was in order when circumstances allowed.
The cabin door opened and Zenida came in, closing it behind her and slumping into the seat opposite. Such niceties as knocking or requesting permission to sit were evidently beneath her. She was, after all, a fellow captain even without a ship.
“You look tired,” he told her, noting the red tinge to her eyes.
“Took over the wheel from that bilge-scum for a few hours,” she said around a yawn. “He was ready to drop. Navigating this course takes a toll. Mr. Talmant has the wheel. The channel’s far wider now and he’s a sure enough hand.”
Hilemore saw her press her lips together, her slumped form betraying a slight tension despite her fatigue. “You have something to discuss, Captain?” he enquired.
“Joining you on this venture was a mistake,” she said. “Even though I knew the risks. We had already survived so much, I couldn’t imagine it might be worse. And I owed you a debt. But I have a daughter to think of.”
“She may well have been no safer fleeing Lossermark,” he pointed out. “And leaving you both in the hands of Captain Trumane was not acceptable to me.”
“Even so, that Blue . . . I never suspected such a thing might even exist. It leads me to wonder what else we could find in these climes.”
“I cannot turn back.”
“And I would not ask you to.” Zenida averted her gaze and Hilemore realised she saw this conversation as a shameful episode. Admission of fear was never an easy thing for a Varestian. “But,” she added, voice heavy with reluctance, “when we reach Kraghurst Station, I will not be accompanying you across the ice.”
In fact he had been worrying over how to persuade her to stay behind, fully expecting an outburst of rage at the implied dishonour. “I see,” he said, deciding a tone of sombre acceptance rather than relief was appropriate. “Your skills will be missed.”
She nodded and got to her feet, moving to the door.
“Sea-sister,” he said in Varestian as she reached for the handle, making her pause. “The ship will be yours whilst I’m gone. You will wait four weeks. Not one day longer. In the event we don’t return, consider the ship as payment for prior service and sail where you will.”
“You think the crew will accept that?”
“I have every confidence in your ability to persuade them.”
Her gaze narrowed a little in realisation. “You’re saying this because you think it’s of no consequence who holds the ship. You think if you fail to return everything will be lost, so what does it matter if you hand your vessel over to a pirate?”
“Privateer,” he reminded her, which drew a brief smile from her lips.
“Four weeks then, sea-brother,” she said, opening the door. “Not one day longer.”
? ? ?
By morning the Superior was steaming through what Scrimshine called the Whirls, a fifty-mile-wide stretch of clear water between the Chokes and the Shelf. Hilemore assumed the name came from the swirling eddies disturbing the otherwise placid water. He had ordered the ship to dead slow upon clearing the channel, partly to conserve product but also due to the need to steer clear of the icebergs which slid across their path with worrisome regularity. He had also doubled the watch, ensuring as many eyes as possible were engaged in scanning the sea for the reappearance of Last Look Jack, despite Steelfine’s confident assertion that the drake must be dead. “A fearsome beast to be sure, sir,” the Islander said. “But still just flesh and blood.”
Except there wasn’t any blood, Hilemore didn’t say, recalling the sight of the ice descending on the giant Blue’s neck. He also took note of the fact that Scrimshine’s terror remained at a high pitch and his gaze darted about with near feverish energy whilst at the wheel. Fortunately, his entreaties to his ancestors had tailed off into an occasional mutter.
“Ship ahead!” came an excited shout from the speaking-tube to the crow’s nest. “Twenty degrees to port!”
Hilemore went out onto the walkway and trained his spy-glass on the given heading. A fine mist lingered over the water and it was a few seconds before he focused the lens on the dark, wide-beamed shape of a mid-sized Blue-hunter. He recognised her as an older ship from the hybrid configuration of paddles and sails. Her stacks were free of smoke and her mainsail swelled sluggishly in the listless morning air.
“Twenty degrees to port,” Hilemore called through the bridge window. “Increase speed to one-third. Mr. Steelfine, run up the Yellow Black, let’s say hello.”
Steelfine had the flag raised in less than a minute, the yellow-and-black pennant that all ships recognised as a peaceful greeting. Hilemore trained his glass on the Blue-hunter once more, grunting in relieved satisfaction at the sight of an identical signal ascending her mainmast. He could see some of her crew clustered on the aft deck, all waving in excitement. Soon the Superior drew close enough to make out the Mandinorian letters painted on her hull: SSM Farlight.
“A South Seas Maritime ship.” Hilemore turned to find Zenida had come to join him. She stood regarding the approaching vessel with a somewhat predatory cast to her gaze. “They were always my favourites. Holds fat with product and crews disinclined to fight. The captains could usually be counted on to come to a reasonable settlement.”
“Let’s hope they’re as accommodating today,” Hilemore said. He could see the faces of the Farlight’s crew now, taking grim note of the joyous relief on every face. They think we’re their salvation, he realised, suppressing a momentary urge to simply sail on. They may have useful intelligence.
The Blue-hunter’s captain was a tall South Mandinorian with a grey beard that reached halfway down his chest. He stood amidst his crew at the Farlight’s starboard rail as the Superior drew alongside, failing to join in their chorus of cheers. Lines were duly thrown and the ships slowly hauled closer. The Superior sat higher in the water than the Blue-hunter, meaning the bearded captain was obliged to stare up at Hilemore as the hulls bumped together. The man inclined his head as Hilemore offered a respectful salute, then barked out a command of sufficient volume and authority to instantly silence his crew. Hilemore noted their emaciated appearance, reckoning it had been several days since they had enjoyed a full meal.
“Remarkable vessel you have there, Captain,” the Farlight’s master observed. “Never seen the like before.”
“We live in an age of wonders, Captain,” Hilemore told him, seeing how the fellow’s eyes lingered on his face, an unmistakable glimmer of recognition lighting his gaze. “Have we met, sir?” Hilemore asked him.
“No. But I fancy I once served under a relative of yours. Name of Racksmith.”
Good old Grandfather, Hilemore thought. There’s isn’t a corner of the world where I won’t find an old comrade of yours.
“Then you were in the Protectorate?” he asked, summoning a smile.