Free Scimitar's Heir by Chris A. Jackson Page A

week if the trade winds held true, sooner if a single god smiled on their venture. Not that Huffington was a religious man. In his line of work, one could not afford to put one’s values over one’s duty.
    He huddled in the small cabin and ignored the smack’s boisterous crew, tucking the satchel under his head and closing his eyes, not even wondering at what lay within the stout leather bag. Curiosity could also be deadly to one in his position. What he did wonder, however, as he tried to force himself to sleep, was exactly what his position had become.
    ≈
    “The trade winds are flagging,” Cynthia said to Chula as she paced the afterdeck of Peggy’s Dream , her eyes drawn up to the sails. She could feel the winds course through the rigging—filling, pulling, urging the ships along, but not fast enough.
    “Aye, Capt’n. We be flyin’ every stitch of canvas she’ll hoist, but we’ve lost t’ree knots since de end of de mid-watch.” He peered to windward and she followed his gaze; the swells had lost their white caps, and there were even patches of slick, airless sea interspersed among them. A bad sign. “Comin’ inta de doldrums, I’m t’inkin’.”
    “Sooner than I thought,” she said as she peered back at Orin’s Pride , which was also flying all her canvas but losing headway. They were less than a full day’s sail south of the Fathomless Reaches, and though they had been making excellent time, that was changing quickly. Cynthia caught a glimpse of something flying between the ships; Mouse, with another message. She and Feldrin had been using the sprite to pass notes, as it was much quicker and easier than communicating by signal. Mouse landed on her shoulder with a chirp and handed her the rolled piece of paper.
    “Thank you, Mouse,” she said absently. Cynthia read the note and frowned; Feldrin had reached the same conclusion. They needed more wind. “Pass the word for Edan, please, Chula. It’s time he started earning his keep.”
    “Aye, Capt’n,” he said, flashing his pearly grin, then shouted for the boatswain. “Fetch Masta Edan, if you be pleased, Mista Gupa!”
    “Aye, sir!” The new boatswain saluted and shouted below for Edan, and word passed through the ship. In moments the young man’s distinctive brush of red hair appeared from the fo’c’sle hatch, and he worked his way aft around the newly completed ballistae that crowded the deck.
    “You called for me, Cynthia?”
    “You’ll address her as Capt’n or Mistress, Masta Edan!” Chula snapped. He had been complaining to Cynthia about the boy’s attitude, and apparently had reached his limit of tolerance.
    “But she’s not my captain, and she’s not my mistress, either, Chula,” Edan said with a shrug.
    “As long as you on dis ship, she’s—”
    “It’s all right, Chula. Let it be.” Cynthia waved a hand in dismissal, as if the point were moot—which, as far as she was concerned, it was. “I don’t expect Edan to address me with respect. I haven’t earned his respect, at least not lately.”
    “I didn’t mean to—”
    “I don’t care what you meant either, Edan. I called you up because there’s work to be done; it’s time for you to start helping us. The winds have slacked and we’re not making our best speed.” She gestured to the flagging sails. “We need to fill the sails. The same direction, just a bit more strength. It shouldn’t be much of a strain, but I thought we’d take shifts; two hours each to start, then maybe more when you get used to it.”
    “How long do we have to do this?” he asked, eying the sails. Cynthia could feel his questing touch on the wind, and almost smiled.
    “Until we reach Akrotia, which will be days, at least, maybe even weeks. We have no way to know until the scouts find the scent of my son.”
    “Weeks?” he scoffed. “How can we keep the winds up for weeks? We’ll get exhausted, even taking shifts.”
    “Yes, we will, so we’ll make what time we can