Chapter XXVI
Swells Over Still Waters, Part 3: Bending (+Audiobook)
24th Day in the 4th of Ründ’s Months, Dry Season, in the First Year of King Feyaz’s Reign, 126th Reckoned Year
What is the most important part of a ship?
Is it the sails, who catch the winds?
Is it the masts, whose strength holds the sails?
Is it the hull, whose thick boards keep the waters at bay?
Is it the rudder, who steers the ship with a subtle hand?
From ‘Wisdom of Saint Delód’, the Church of the Deep, Written by Saint Delód in the Unreckoned Years
Sprig clings loosely to the ratlines as he stares out westward at the King’s Haul. “What d’ya think they’re doin’ over there anyway?”
Cheese gnaws a piece of rope until it is severed, speaking around the rope in her teeth. “Don’t know. Maybe shcrubbin’ eh decks.” She spits out some thin fibers and continues, “But I know what you ain’t doin’ here: helpin’.”
Sprig turns from gazing at the Haul and helps Cheese tie some extra rope into the rigging. Cheese looks at it and nods in approval. “There, that ought to hold. Maybe we won’t need it, if we’re lucky. That stiff — what’s his name, Wiltcher-whatever — this were his stupid idea. I’ll bet my favorite boots the Flower pulls in that sorry scrap of wood. Look at her: she ain’t even been cleaned in Saints only know how long. If I had to die on that ship, I’d be right fuming.”
“I feel bad for the Cap’n. And Pet, I guess. I kinda like him now. He’s got a funny name an’ he knows a lotta big words.” Sprig begins to climb down but just then, a prattlebeak, wearing something like a scarf, lands in the rigging next to him.
Sprig pats the top of his head and then the prattlebeak starts to speak. “Tell him we’re okay for now, but we’re drifting.” The bird finishes the message and then hops closer. Sprig pulls some food from a pocket and feeds the bird, receiving a satisfied squawk in reply. Sprig pats his head again and the bird tilts its own wide head just slightly. Sprig speaks slowly to the bird, as though it were old and feeble. “Tell the Cap’n we’re ‘bout done with his list, and we’ll be lookin’ for the signal. Okay? Got all that, bird?” Sprig feeds it another tasty morsel, then pats the round squat head. The bird flies off without delay. Cheese remarks at the sight, “Saints, Spriggy. That’s quite the ‘lil messenger ya got there. Ya oughta charge for usin’ it.” Cheese climbs down the ratlines and Sprig watches the bird fly off toward the Kings Haul.
While Sprig makes his way down, Harlan lays his face against one of the cannons below decks. The Big Man looks at Harlan, confused. “Why are you doing this? We do not need to be hugging it. Harlan remains there, face pressed against the cannon and arms wrapped wide around it in an embrace. The Big Man stares at Harlan quizzically until he eventually unsticks himself from the cast iron form. Harlan looks into Benafield’s eyes without blinking or flinching, as though he is looking through them. He speaks in his characteristically quiet and monotone voice. “I was aiming it.”
Harlan walks away and the Big Man watches him ascend the stairs up to the main deck. He looks down at the cannon and lowers his face against it. He squints one eye to judge Harlan’s aim, and finds the cannon pointed just above the King’s Haul.
Harlan walks across the deck to the foredeck at the bow. Below the foredeck, Bor and Pickett are cooking together. They appear to be entertaining a small, furry audience of two: Bungle wags his stubby tail as he eagerly watches Bor’s dexterous knife hand. A small rock-like shape sits next to Bungle, and a furry head slowly pokes out of its front. Tussle’s typically placid face has been supplanted by a voracious look. The smells wafting from under the foredeck are as magnificent as always. Pickett silently prods and stirs a spicy pot of large meaty hunks basting in various juices and spices. Occasionally, Bor will add something into the pot, but neither of them says a word. Sprig suddenly comes running up and tells Pickett, “It worked, the bird worked!” Then he runs off again. Pickett still doesn’t speak.
Sprig runs across the deck, jumping over a length of rope that is trailing across the center of the deck, snaking between the masts. General Tar and Shushilah are working together to wrap the long rope around a thick spool. Shushilah holds the spool and turns it backward to wrap the rope around it. The General is carefully laying out the rope so that it doesn’t tangle. Shushilah says, “In the North War, I am thinking: how long it was until the fighting?”
“Hmm… The Shot happened,” the General responds, “and then there was all that chaos and madness: fighting in the streets and all that. I remember the Flooded Markets were a veritable battle ground. The Coldor gave us a good bloody nose there.”
“The Shot — this is when the Coldor were trying to kill the Fellpost, yes?” Shushilah asks.
“Yes, there was a great deal of tension boiling, then the Cleave publically tried to assassinate the Fellpost of Broadfell — the current one, HelBenledore. He failed, obviously, and was killed in the process,” Tarlatan becomes thoughtful, “I believe his name was… Höalám. The Coldor people all went mad then, and they were able to beat us on land, since they live primarily on solid land. There was plenty of fighting there, but the first navy battle of the North War — or at least when we sailed against the Cleave — well, that wasn’t for a fortnight or two after the Shot. But that’s when the tides turned. Dintish prowess in the water outmatched them ten-fold.”
“Why is this?”
“Dintash has an unparalleled navy because we are the only nation with no solid land in our Borders. Both Broadfell and Coldor are primarily solid land.”
Shushilah smiles. “And Filkash does not like to fight, I’m thinking.”
“Mmm, very true. But the Oullman stretches beyond the maps and there is land they use for timber, down to the southwest somewhere.”
“I was not knowing this.”
Shushilah continues to roll the rope around the spool. “Who was leading the Coldor, when their Cleave was now dead?”
“Hmm, well the position of Cleave is held in equal parts by a married couple— hence the title — to cleave to each other and such. So, once Höalám was dead, the title fell entirely onto the wife’s shoulders. Strange really… doesn’t seem like a woman’s work. ” The General appears to become introspective, forgetting to lay out rope. Shushilah decides not to comment on the General’s poorly aging views on women.
“I was not knowing this, about the Cleave. Is an interesting thing.” Shushilah says.
The General snaps out of his thoughts. “Hmm? Oh, yes, interesting. Once she was killed, there was no Cleave at all and the North War ended, and that was that. Coldor retreated into the Northwest Waters and the Island of Three Nations was established to keep a watchful eye on the bloodthirsty beasts.”
“Who is leading them now, I’m thinking? Someone must be starting the fighting again.”
“Hmm, very true. I only wish I knew, Shush… ”
The two of them finish wrapping the large length of rope around the spool.
Two soldiers exit the Captain’s quarters and cross to the foredeck. The soldier, called Tonkish, asks, “Mealtime soon?” as he passes the kitchen. Bor simply nods, and Pickett doesn’t look up. The soldiers have enjoyed Bor’s cooking in the way a drowning man enjoys air. Tonkish nods back and walks away toward the helm where Mavis pilots the ship. The second soldier walks up onto the foredeck and finds Harlan at the starboard prow, gazing off toward the King’s Haul. The soldier, called Venlott, attempts to engage Harlan in conversation, but receives no response. Venlott speaks again, hoping to coax a response from Harlan. “So, you been crew’d up with this lot long?”
Harlan doesn’t move to look at Venlott but he does speak. “That is too easy a target.”
“What?” Venlott asks, baffled.
Sprig sighs loudly from behind Venlott and speaks with an annoyed tone. “Ahh, c’mon, Harlan. Why’d ya give me away? I coulda stole the shirt right off his drownin’ back.”
Harlan turns his head to look at Sprig over his shoulder. “If it is practice you seek, this man is too easy a target. Mavis would be more difficult.”
Venlott looks from Sprig to Harlan and then back to Sprig. Lazily, Sprig offers up a small coin purse to Venlott who grasps at the empty place on his belt. Anger brews in his features as he moves to snatch the purse. Sprig drops the purse just before he grabs it, and Venlott hastily grabs at thin air where the falling purse ought to be. Instead, Sprig laughs lightly as the purse dangles by its drawstring from the back of his upturned hand. Venlott scowls and Sprig tosses him the coin purse. As soon as he has it, Sprig scampers off. Venlott shouts half-heartedly after him. “Be gone, you weevil!”
Harlan speaks quietly as Sprig climbs up into the branches and sails. “I would count that if I were you.”
Venlott’s eyes widen as he opens the coin purse and counts out each scale. His face is relieved when he realizes all of his money is there.
Harlan walks away from the soldier as he finishes counting. He heads to the quarter deck where Mavis stands, unwavering, behind the ship wheel. Harlan stands next to the First Mate, both staring ahead with unreadable expressions.
“Did you get the cannon positioned?” Mavis asks.
Harlan responds, “I did. Though I do not think it will work.”
“You doubt the Captain?” Mavis asks firmly.
“I do not doubt him, I doubt his cannons.”
“Aye… hopefully we won’t be needing it.”
Harlan continues to stare off toward the Haul, an inscrutable depth behind his eyes. Mavis navigates the floating trees, watching as they rapidly approach the bow and then glide past the side of the ship. Down on the main deck, Harlan sees Shushilah carry a large spool of rope down into the hold. The General sits down at the Runny board where Benafield and Cheese are already seated. A thin line of something sways across Harlan’s vision, though he ignores it as it moves toward Mavis. A small glob of snagweed floats behind the First Mate, suspended on a near imperceptible string of pebbleclaw silk. Harlan continues ignoring the glob of snagweed as it slowly and delicately sticks to Mavis’s compass clipped to the side of his scabbard belt.
Mavis draws his sword, cuts the silk thread, and resheaths the blade, all in a single smooth motion. Sprig complains loudly from somewhere above. “Awww. I nearly had it.”
Mavis smirks just slightly and calls out without gazing up. “You’ll need to do better than that, Sprig. I expect more from you, master Finger Weaver.”
Mavis turns to Harlan and nods for him to take the wheel. Harlan obliges without saying a word and Mavis heads below into the Captain’s cabin to get some much needed rest. As reluctant as he is to pretend to be captain, he does enjoy the bed the job comes with.
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