‘Me either.’ Steven clapped him on the shoulder. ‘That was some fine sailing.’
‘Nonsense.’ The captain was sweating in the cold night air, ‘all I did was to crank her over and hold on for dear life.’
‘History will one day recall your greatness and poise under pressure,’ Steven teased.
‘I think I pissed myself,’ he said.
‘Don’t feel bad about that; Garec did too.’
Still lying where he had fallen, Garec cried, ‘And I’m not ashamed to admit it, either!’
Gilmour laughed and helped him up.
‘Captain,’ Garec said, ‘permission to help myself to your personal store of beer?’
‘Permission granted,’ Captain Ford said, ‘but save eleven or twelve for me, if you please.’
‘Done – rutting whores-’ he stopped. ‘What time is it, anyway?’ He peered at his wrist in the firelight. ‘Three and ten minutes. Is that enough time for a beer?’
‘Enough for one,’ Steven said, ‘a quick one.’
‘I’ll join you,’ Alen said. ‘I could use a bracer as well.’
The naval schooner, having tacked arduously along the west bank, didn’t catch up with the Morning Star until well after dawn. As he passed the Pellia headlands, Doren Ford was exhausted, but he was also excited at the prospect of sailing safely through the blockade and running northeast along the west edge of the archipelago. Another morning of rare winter sunshine lit the North Sea like an undulating carpet of precious gemstones.
When the schooner captain gave the order to heave to, Captain Ford complied without hesitation. He ordered the brig-sloop’s sails reefed and even had Pel toss lines to Prince Malagon’s marines as their launch came alongside.
After explaining to the officer leading the boarding party that he had no idea the brig-sloop had been shadowed upriver, Captain Ford encouraged the Malakasians to search his vessel, jib to bilge.
They found nothing illegaclass="underline" no contraband, no political insurgents or partisans, no outlaw books, not even a sliver of fennaroot.
When asked where he was bound, Captain Ford explained that he had heard of some great storm that had apparently crippled the shipping industry in Falkan, and he was heading south along the Ravenian Sea, running empty in hopes of securing long-term shipping contracts from Orindale to Landry, or even Pellia, if the wind and tides were right.
The lieutenant nodded and started over the rail, then paused and asked, ‘Why’d you make that tack last night?’
‘Which tack?’ Captain Ford played dumb. He was so tired; he hoped the muscles in his face were sagging enough to make him look like the dough-head he’d been called.
‘Which tack? That suicidal tack across the river,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Why try that tack with almost no wind and at slack tide?’
Captain Ford gestured towards his crew: Hoyt (who had slept through it all), Pel, Kellin and Brexan stood sipping tecan and nibbling at breakfast. ‘Signed on a couple of new hands last Moon,’ he said. ‘They’ve been struggling a bit with the chain of command, so I thought I’d put the fear of the Northern Forest in them before we set out into deep water.’
The lieutenant, clearly amused, asked, ‘Did it work?’
‘We’ll see, my young friend. We will certainly see.’
‘Good voyage to you, Captain.’
‘Thank you, sir, and the same to you.’ He untied the launch and watched as the boarding party heaved away at their oars. Less than half-way back to the schooner, the lieutenant raised a blue pennant and his captain, watching from the quarterdeck, ordered the same pennant run up the schooner’s halyard. The Morning Star was free to go.
‘Set sail for Orindale, Captain?’ Hoyt asked, handing Captain Ford a mug of something that smelled suspiciously like beer.
‘To Orindale.’ Captain Ford took a big mouthful and swallowed, then shouted for his first mate.
JONES BEACH STATE PARK
Steven and Gilmour walked south along the Meadowbrook Parkway, a ten-mile stretch of highway connecting Jones Beach and civilisation. With their backs to Long Island, they could have been on any desolate road in South Dakota or eastern Montana, not twenty minutes from the most densely populated region of the country. Jones Beach in winter was windswept, barren and cold. Only the heartiest of joggers, cyclists and fishermen, and the occasional bundled-up nature photographer, ventured into the park before spring officially arrived in April.
Thinking ahead, Hannah and Jennifer Sorenson had provided hats, gloves and scarves, and a tiny pink snowsuit for Milla, complete with a matching bobble-hat and a pair of pink mittens. The trunk was packed with blankets and a small kerosene heater. They all believed Mark would send a force across the Fold – even if it turned out to be just a small exploratory group first of all – but though they were sure about the location, no one had any idea when it would happen.
The others were crammed inside Jennifer’s car, trying to keep warm. Garec insisted on sitting in the front; he was like a child, wanting to press all the buttons, twist the knobs and play with the electric door locks. He marvelled at the automobile, insisting that Jennifer drive back and forth along Ocean Parkway until he understood the basics of steering and shifting gears. He had shouted for her to stop when the car reached fifty miles an hour, and was a little embarrassed when Hannah told him fifty was comparatively slow. Now, with Milla in his lap, the two fiddled with the vents and listened to music, wondering where the smokeless fires were burning and how the car managed to generate such heat on such a frigid day.
When the first jet took off from Kennedy, banked over Jamaica Bay and whined noisily towards Boston, Garec burst from the car, bow at the ready. ‘Get down, you two! Get down!’ he shouted.
‘What is it?’ Steven turned on his heel, anxiously searching the dunes.
‘I don’t know what it is!’ He aimed at the jet, a mile up now and climbing.
‘Whoa, whoa, Garec.’ Steven took him by the wrist. ‘Don’t waste your arrows, my friend. It’s perfectly safe. We travel long distances in those.’
‘Up there?’
‘Up there.’
Garec said, ‘I want to go home. I’ve seen enough.’
Gilmour smiled. ‘You haven’t seen anything yet.’
‘I’m not sure I’m feeling well,’ he said. ‘And what’s this language we’re all speaking all of a sudden? It feels funny on my tongue.’
‘It’s called English, and it feels funny on all our tongues. Don’t fight it.’ Steven took the arrow. ‘We have to get rid of these, though.’ He helped Garec out of his quivers and took the Ronan’s bow. ‘We might be off the beaten path, but if a park ranger happens to patrol out here, you’ll be in handcuffs before lunch. Let’s put these away.’
‘I don’t like being here without my bow,’ Garec said to Gilmour, trying to hide the fear that was almost paralysing him now.
‘We’ll keep it close by,’ Gilmour promised as he ushered him back to the car.
They drove together to the Central Mall, where a stone tower in the middle of a roundabout overlooked closed concession stands, a restaurant and public toilets. A wooden boardwalk flanked the beach for about a mile in either direction, with concrete steps leading down to the sand at regular intervals. Behind the boardwalk, vacant car parks were interspersed with rolling dunes.
Further along the beach, the outdoor amphitheatre was silent, awaiting another summer of concerts and night-time shows.
‘Come on,’ Steven said, ‘I’ll show you the beach. Mark always says you can barely find a place to sit out here when the weather’s nice.’
‘But not today,’ Hannah shivered. ‘We have the whole place to ourselves.’
‘For now,’ Alen muttered, smoothing gloves over stiff fingers. ‘Who knows how many will show up later?’
The beach stretched ten miles east from Point Lookout, across the bay from Rockaway. The Central Mall was about five miles from the point, near the centre of the park. An elderly beachcomber, looking almost swamped in a big padded parka, wandered around.