Steven hauled the little sheet in and reached out to take hold of the boom himself. He held it steady, pointing directly east into the fjord.
The catboat slowed almost to a stop, her sail flapping, empty and ineffective.
‘Steven?’
‘Just wait for it, Gilmour, one more second…’ The little boat rode up one side of a huge swell, hung on its crest, hesitantly overcoming inertia, and then slid into the trough. Just enough of its snout peeked into the crosswind for the sail to fill with the tendrils of the northerly breeze.
At first, it was a gentle gust that tugged at the sheet and took up the slack in the rigging; the sail puffed out a bit, and Steven let go of the boom but clasped the rig line, keeping the sheet close and the bow pointed directly through the channel. ‘This isn’t bad,’ he murmured, as much to convince himself as anything, ‘we can do this.’
As the little skiff cleared the granite gates of the fjord, the full force of the crosswind slammed into them like a broadside cannonade. The sail, surprisingly tough, took the punch and held on. The boom ran out to starboard and the rig line tore through the flesh of Steven’s palm, leaving a red stain on the last few inches of hemp.
‘Holy shit!’ Steven shouted, ignoring the blood and clamping his injured hand down on the rope. He hauled it back in as far as he dared and quickly made it fast to the tiller cleat. ‘Mother of Christ, that hurt!’ he yelled as they began to pitch hard to starboard; they were going over.
‘Let it go, Steven!’ Gilmour yelled, ‘we’re going to sink!’
‘Get to port,’ he called back, ‘throw your weight against it. Get up on the gunwale; sit on the bastard if you have to!’ Steven pressed his back and shoulders against the port rail himself, pushing the tiller as far to starboard as he could with one foot. He watched the rig line strain against the cleat and cursed himself for tying it off too soon. There was no way to reach the line and let the sheet out, even a few inches, to ease their starboard pitch. ‘Come on baby,’ he urged, ‘come back, just an inch or two, you can do it!’
For a few seconds, the little sailboat balanced on a knife’s edge. With the sheet filled to bursting, the tiller hard to starboard and all the ballast Steven and Gilmour could muster far to port, they waited, holding their breath and praying that they would right themselves.
‘Stay over, Gilmour,’ Steven cried, ‘and pray to all the fucking saints in Christendom! Just another breath-’
They were being blown northwest, the deep fjord slipping away to the south and the rocky shallows off the northern gate closing fast.
‘We’re going to hit those rocks!’ Gilmour cried.
Steven smiled despite his terror; this was exhilarating, and any thought of giving up and using magic to guide the little boat through the channel was lost in the excitement of the moment.
When the keel finally gave, correcting to port, Steven shouted, ‘Woo hoo! What a ride, Gilmour! Goddamn, that was something!’ He started for the cleat, wanting to let the sheet out, just a little, when they started to pitch back to starboard. ‘Stay over, Gilmour,’ he cried, ‘straddle the rail if you have to!’ He loosened the rig line and let the boom slide a bit further out; with the tiller still pressed to starboard, the keel righted and they slipped through the channel like quicksilver.
Gilmour stood in freezing ankle-deep water and looked questioningly at Steven. ‘And for your next trick?’ he asked, grinning.
Steven smiled and wiped his face. ‘Get bailing. We don’t want to swamp.’ He too grinned, and when Gilmour looked quizzical, he added, ‘It’s just that I’m staggered at how often my maths obsession has saved our necks on this little vacation. Be glad I wasn’t a poetry junkie!’
Gilmour started cupping handfuls of water and shovelling them over the side, but there was twice as much coming in. He growled, then stood up and shouted a quick spell. The bilge-water suddenly turned into a miniature tidal wave, rolled from stern to bow, and then up and over the gunwales into the sea.
‘That’s better,’ Gilmour said, retaking his seat beside the mast. ‘Tell me again why we didn’t use magic to get through there.’
‘Mark might find us, and anyway, I was too distracted by the physics of the whole thing.’ Steven watched the water bailing itself over the side. ‘Can he detect that?’
‘No, it’s a carnival trick. It would be like him finding a burning candle.’ Gilmour pushed his matted hair away from his face and said, ‘Distracted, huh? Weren’t you distracted when the floodtide swallowed us in the river outside Wellham Ridge?’
‘That was different; I was afraid of dying and the magic just burst out of me in an explosion of frantic self-preservation.’
‘And you weren’t – aren’t – afraid of dying today?’
Steven smirked. ‘Mathematics can be pretty distracting, Gilmour! Now hold on, we’re about get clobbered again.’
‘Do you want me up on the railing? I don’t think I can get any wetter than I am right now.’
‘No, this one shouldn’t be that bad. We don’t need the tailwind here; so I’ll let the sheet out, come about, and then haul it in gently. We’ll get kicked, but it won’t be anything like that last one. You start watching for Garec and Kellin. They’ll likely be the only ship out there – any captain would be near-on suicidal to be in this close today-’
They plunged into a deep trough, burying the bow beneath the waves. ‘Shit and shit and shit,’ Steven said, ‘I didn’t see that one coming. Keep bailing will you, or we’re screwed running.’
‘Got it,’ Gilmour muttered, repeating his spell, but adding a lilting phrase to the end of his incantation, something he hadn’t said before. The water, deeper this time, began receding almost immediately. ‘That ought to keep us dry, but watch the bloody road, will you?’
‘You sound like my mother,’ Steven said. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, a captain would have to be raving mad-’
‘Or exceedingly well paid,’ Gilmour finished.
‘Exactly. So we’ll signal the closest ship we see and hope to hell it isn’t the Malakasian navy.’
‘Or your roommate.’
‘That would be awkward, too.’ Steven checked the sheet, let go the boom and pulled the tiller slowly to port. As they came about, he hauled the sail in and caught the wind before the northerly swells overwhelmed their bailing spell. It was a clumsy tack, and the little boat jolted as Steven held fast, tearing a bit of fresh flesh from his already bloody palm. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’ll have to mix up another couple of gin and tonics after that one. I guess I’m rusty.’
‘Rusty? At sailing a rickety skiff through a gale? I’m disappointed; I had such high hopes for you.’
‘This isn’t a gale; this is just… bumpy.’ They were running north now, canting steeply to starboard but making way with alacrity. Steven let the sheet out a few inches more; he didn’t want to be stuck out here having to make repairs, especially with the fjord fading behind them.
‘Just watch for anything hull-up on the horizon,’ he said. ‘I trust you’ve thought up some creative way to signal them.’
‘I’ll handle it.’ Gilmour dug in his tunic, withdrew his pipe and a pouch of dry tobacco.
‘Does that stuff ever get wet?’
‘Once, yes, some fourteen hundred Twinmoons ago. Southern Malakasia. It wasn’t a good day.’
‘There,’ Sera said, pointing over the starboard cathead, ‘d’you see it?’
‘Pissing demons,’ Marrin said, ‘what is that? Fire?’
‘That’s them,’ Garec said. ‘Can we get in that close?’
Captain Ford watched the fireballs leap over the swells, climb as high as the Falkan cliffs and then explode in colourful pops. He didn’t like it. For a moment he considered turning about, giving back the silver and making the near-impossible run to Orindale, close-hauled on the wind.