Free Foxmask by Juliet Marillier

absence of paid work; it would take him too long to train another. When they found these islands, Thorvald could talk to his mysterious father, Sam would do a spot of fishing, and then they’d come home. From half moon to full should see the trip accomplished and the two of them back where they should be.
    So it was straight out into open sea, with no more than guesswork to guide them. Sam did not use sunstones, since the
Sea Dove
fished solely in the coastal waters of the Light Isles, where cliff, dune and skerry were the only markers a man needed. But he watched the light and the clouds, and eyed the birds passing overhead on their wind-harried journeys, and as dusk fell Thorvald could see him squinting upward, working out what the patterns of sun and moon could tell him. It had grown calmer; for a while, Thorvald had wondered if they would both have to stay awake all night, clinging to line or thwart or steering oar as the sea clutched and released, heaved and subsided. But the gods had had enough of playing for now, and the
Sea Dove
settled, creaking, to a gently swaying movement. They lashed the steering oar in place and dragged a sea-anchor, heavy rope with a conical bag attached, to slow their progress. It might be possible for each to snatch a little sleep, while the other kept watch for reefs and skerries, whales and sundry creatures of the deep. Who knew what lurked in these untraveled waters? Somewhere to the west, perhaps not far at all, was the very rim of the world; a man might be swept over before he knew it, and find himself falling away into the true unknown. Perhaps, after all, they would not sleep.
    â€œFood,” grunted Sam, kneeling to retrieve a skin water-bottle and an oiled bag of provisions from the box where he’d stowed them. He was used to long days on the water; he and his hand were often out from before dawn until nearly sunset, and Sam was a big man with a big appetite. Salted mutton, flat bread baked hard, an egg or two boiled in the shell—his hens were laying again—under the circumstances, it was a feast. Sam leaned across to pass the water to Thorvald, and froze suddenly as if turned to stone.
    â€œWhat?” Thorvald queried, somewhat alarmed. “What is it?”
    â€œShh,” hissed Sam, now staring intently at the pine decking between his feet. “Listen.”
    At first Thorvald could hear nothing beyond the constant creak of the boat’s timbers and the wash of the sea. But wait; perhaps there was something else, a sound like a faint moan or a sigh, and a sort of scrabbling noise, very small, down there under the boards.
    â€œRats?” Thorvald suggested, brows raised.
    Sam, it appeared, had something other than vermin in mind. His broad, amiable features had turned pale, and now he was levering up the boards that lay loosely over the boat’s ribs to allow for easy adjustment of cargo or ballast. One short plank, two, three, and Thorvald, taken aback by the speed and intensity of his friend’s reaction, moved forward to peer down into the shadowy hull of the
Sea Dove
, near the bow. There was a smell; someone had been sick. And a sound, not the animal scrabbling now but a voice, a girl’s voice, shaky and weak. “Sam?”
    Without a word, the two men clambered down into the open hold between the fore and aft decks, where their load of provisions was stored; they scrambled over the crossbeams, moving sacks and bundles until they had made a narrow way through under the foredeck. Creidhe was crouched on the ballast stones behind the fish crates, in a hiding place that seemed scarcely big enough for a mouse. They hauled her out, Sam with a modicum of gentleness, Thorvald with hands that shook with fury.
    â€œWhat in the name of all the gods are you doing here?” he demanded. “How did you get on board? Odin’s bones, what will your father say?”
    â€œNot now,” Sam said. “She needs water, and we’d