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

while conditions are still good. Eventually the sea will become choked with weed, which will slow us further. At that point, I’ll clear the weeds while you provide the wind, which will be even more exhausting.” At his incredulous look, she gave him a thin, grim smile. “I never said helping us would be easy , Edan.”
    Chula chuckled in a low, amused tone, and said, “You gonna be a pretty busy boy now, Edan.”
    Cynthia saw Edan bristle as the first mate showed him the same lack of respect the young man had shown her. She found it troubling, how Edan expected others to automatically show him respect now that he had attained the powers of a pyromage. Well, he would have to learn that respect was earned by deeds, not by power.
    “That’s enough, Chula,” she warned, though her tone was mild. The first mate strode off down the deck, chuckling quietly. She turned back to Edan. “I know you can do this. It’s like your fire; practice makes perfect.”
    “Show me how much wind you need,” Edan said, squaring his thin shoulders in defiance. She knew his pride would make him push himself; in fact, she was counting on it.
    ≈
    “Na! Na!” Sam shouted, jerking the slack sheet from the cannibal’s hand and lashing it fast. She plucked another line from the row of secured sheets and halyards and thrust it into the man’s grip. “Tada! Noosh! Noosh! Pull, you pointy-toothed pollock!” She grabbed the line and pulled, pointing to where the head of the jib sail twitched on the First Venture’s forestay.
    “Ah!” He grinned at her and pulled. He rattled off a line of gibberish to his mates and three of them grasped the line and hauled away. The jib rose and they snugged it tight, then two others pulled on the line attached to the sail’s clew and sheeted it home. They even trimmed it sharply. They knew how to trim the sails, how to steer the ship, but that was a far cry from knowing what to do when. They were not competent sailors, not by a far shot, but they were learning.
    “Jib!” she shouted, pointing at the sail. They nodded and repeated the word, not mangling the pronunciation too badly. She moved to the line they had just secured and grasped it. “Halyard!” Then she pointed to the sail again and grasped the line at the same time. “Jib halyard!”
    Light dawned in the eyes of a few of her crew, but most just looked at her like she was an idiot. “You’re the idiots,” she mumbled in frustration. Finally, one large fellow she knew as Uag nodded and grinned, miming her perfectly, pointing first to the sail and saying, “Jib!” then to the line and repeating, “Halyard!”
    “Epa! Epa!” she cried, clapping him on the shoulder. “Epa, Uag! Jib halyard!”
    He grinned and repeated the phrase, then rattled off a stream of his own language. She smiled when she saw the light of understanding in the eyes of the rest of the crew. Uag had understood what she wanted and translated her orders to his fellows; an invaluable achievement. Then, to her astonishment, he moved to the row of cleated lines and picked out another. He tugged it and looked up to follow where it led, then grinned again.
    “Halyard!” he cried, looking to her for confirmation.
    “Epa! Ki! Halyard!” she said, grinning back. “Forestaysail halyard.”
    He stumbled at that, unable to pronounce the complicated word, but she broke it down by pointing forward, grabbing the forestay, then patting the sail furled on the forestaysail boom. In an instant, he understood, repeated the phrase, and instructed the others.
    “Fan-bloody-tastic!” she said, earning a few confused looks. She waved off their questions, and decided she had one more word to teach them this morning. She walked up to Uag and tapped him on the chest and said, “Bosun!” Then she followed it with two words of their own language that she had learned. “Pica” meant small, and “keffa” meant chief, which was a good definition of a boatswain’s job.
    They all cheered