Kitabı oku: «Witchsign», sayfa 4
CHAPTER FIVE
Kjellrunn
Though there is still much we do not understand, it has been documented that witchsign results in powers belonging to four schools, each with a ruling element. Telepathy and prescience are derived from those born with the element of wind, for example.
– From the field notes of Hierarch Khigir, Vigilant of the Imperial Synod.
Steiner’s departure marked the beginning of yet another long silence, a silence that Kjellrunn longed to shatter. She stood at the double doors to the smithy wanting to scream. She wanted the whole town to know of her frustration. She wanted to scream loud enough so the dead might hear her in Hel. She wanted to scream that Steiner come back and scream for the witchsign be taken away.
Her eye rested on the few lanterns in the harbour, bobbing gently with the tide, revealing the location of the frigate, but not the form. She could feel the way sea swirled against the hull, just as she could feel the cold wind on her skin. Come the morning the blood-red ship would spirit Steiner away and there was nothing she could do about it.
‘Come in from the cold,’ said Marek, laying a hand on her shoulder and pulling her into a rough embrace. She let his arms enfold her with reluctance, feeling an icy fury for the man who had suspected her of witchsign and said nothing.
‘I take after her, do I?’ There was no wistfulness in her voice, only a resentment that he’d not told her sooner. Discovering tiny truths about her mother should have been a happy event tinged with tears, not a revelation on Steiner’s last night in Cinderfell.
‘You have her eyes, and her hair too if you’d ever care to pull a brush through it.’
‘And where is she now?’
‘The Empire took her,’ said Marek. He stepped away, not meeting her eyes, gazing into the darkness outside their door. ‘We had a handful of happy years together, and two beautiful children, but she was always looking over her shoulder, waiting, waiting.’
‘Waiting for the Vigilants to find her,’ said Kjellrunn.
‘They can track anyone down given enough time.’ Marek prodded the anvil with his boot. ‘In the end she went of her own accord. Better that way.’
‘The Empire doesn’t know she had children?’
‘Of course not.’ He pushed the door closed and set the latch in place, locking the night outside. ‘They’d have killed you to make an example to the others.’
‘What others?’
He ignored that question and provided one of his own. ‘How are you …’ He frowned and tried again. ‘How are your powers?’
‘Powers?’ She gave a lop-sided smile, filling the word with disdain. ‘I don’t feel very powerful. I don’t feel powerful at all. They’re just sensations really. I know when it will rain, and what tide it is.’
‘That’s it?’ said Marek, and Kjellrunn felt a sting of shame.
‘Were you expecting some great sorcerer?’
‘Sorry, Kjell. I don’t know how it works and I forgot that you’ve not been trained.’
‘And that I’m just sixteen. You forgot that too.’
‘Yes, sorry, Kjell.’ Marek pressed his fingertips into the corners of his eyes and she could almost see the wave of tiredness wash over him. ‘So just senses then?’
‘I’m happiest when I’m in the forest; it feels more natural there. I imagine I can feel the animals moving around in their lairs and sets under the earth.’
‘You may not be imagining that so much as feeling it.’ He fixed her with a long appraising look, then gestured that she follow him into the kitchen.
Verner sat at the table, cleaning his nails with a small knife. He looked up at Kjellrunn but no expression crossed his face. The way Steiner told it, Kjellrunn was Verner’s favourite out of the two of them. She didn’t care. To her mind Steiner had long been their father’s favourite so it was almost fair, inasmuch as families are ever fair.
‘Don’t worry, Uncle, I’ll not call a storm down on your little boat next time you sail.’
Verner didn’t smile, simply put away his knife and stared into the fireplace where the embers glowed orange.
‘You shouldn’t joke about such things. People have died for the power you hold, died and suffered for it.’
‘You think I’m not suffering?’ she replied, her tone as cold and unforgiving as the Sommerende Ocean. ‘My only brother has no choice but to go to the island to be killed.’
‘We don’t know for sure he’ll be killed,’ replied Verner, getting to his feet. ‘And he may learn something useful if he keeps his wits about him.’
‘You can’t send him to the island.’ She gazed up into the fisherman’s eyes. ‘I won’t let you.’
Marek and Verner exchanged a glance and both turned to her with wary expressions on their faces.
‘Kjell, it’s not up to us. If there was a way to stop the Empire I would, but …’ Marek held out a placating hand to her but she had no mind to take it, no mind to be held by him when he had held back so much. The urge to scream came again, to howl like a trapped animal. Her hands closed into fists and the room took on a dreamlike sheen; she was suddenly light-headed and took a deep breath to steady herself.
The Empire mean to take my brother.
The kitchen door rattled on its hinges and blew open, smashing into the kitchen counter behind it. The fire in the grate was swept up and cinders and ashes swirled about the dim chamber, an angry blizzard of grey and radiant embers. An old rag was blown about like a discarded flag of surrender. Marek and Verner stumbled backwards, one of them calling out in alarm. Kjellrunn fled the kitchen, her eyes shut tight, almost tumbling through the door and out into the street.
Marek was at the door coughing, reaching after her, but she retreated from the man who used the truth so sparingly when it meant so much.
‘Kjell, please. You don’t know what it does to a person.’ His voice was a harsh whisper, afraid of being overheard on the quiet street. ‘Over time the body rejects the arcane, or is burned up by it. I’ve seen people turned to stone, petrified for all time.’
‘I won’t let them take him,’ she said, loud enough that a few curtains twitched in the neighbouring windows.
She sprinted down the street, glad to be away from the smithy and the smell of metal and fire, glad to be away from the low-ceilinged kitchen and the over-large table. And though she was loath to admit it, she was glad to be away from people, even her own father, her own uncle. People. She’d rather have the company of trees and her own restful solitude.
The wind howled, given voice by the jagged cliffs. It wailed and sang, filling Kjellrunn’s senses with a deep unease. She squinted through a flurry of grey snow, finding her way through the drab town, slinking through side streets and shadows so she might avoid the patrols of Imperial soldiers.
The winding roads were almost completely dark at this time of night and she’d fled without torch or lantern to light her way. Slivers of illumination spilled from windows, ribbons of glowing gold shining from the cobbles or glittering on the snows. How many families lived in Cinderfell, she wondered? How many families lived in these shuttered cottages? How many people with nothing to consume their thoughts but the simple pressure of existence? Where to work? Where to find food, find comfort, find peace? Here they slept, these simple families, beneath thatched roofs, untroubled by old secrets and unearthly powers. Only the howling wind and the ever-present cold troubled them, and Kjellrunn felt a deep wellspring of envy.
Bjørner’s tavern was a beacon in the darkness, light streaming from windows, declaring a welcome to any who might climb the steep street leading to its door. Kjellrunn’s teeth chattered as she pushed herself onward. She had no desire to be here, but it was the only place she could think of where Steiner might seek refuge. A burst of laughter sounded from inside, though it sounded coarse and unfriendly, and the smells that greeted her were no different. She wrinkled her nose as she lifted the latch on the door, pressing her shoulder against it.
‘Everything seems coarse and unfriendly tonight,’ she muttered to herself, willing the courage to look for Steiner and find him and bring him home.
She had no sooner placed one tentative foot across the threshold of the tavern when the wind gusted in behind her, blowing the door wide open. All eyes in the tavern turned to her and chagrin made her small as she struggled to close the door. No one moved to help her, no one spoke.
Bjørner came out from behind the bar, hands fussing with a cloth, struggling for a serious expression if Kjellrunn had to guess, though she hadn’t missed the shock in his eyes as she’d entered.
‘Kjellrunn Vartiainen,’ was all he said, and still no one spoke. Håkon the butcher stood behind the tavern owner and two dozen faces all gawped, mouths open, like fish caught up in nets and just as stuck.
‘I’m looking for my brother,’ she said, though the silence of the room made her words sound frail and weak.
‘He’s not welcome here,’ said Bjørner. ‘And neither are you, Kjellrunn.’
‘Has anyone seen him?’ She turned to the room, trying to make eye contact with any one of them, but they all turned to their drinks or cast guilty glances at their boots. ‘Has anyone seen Steiner?’ she said, and now her voice was loud, too loud in the strangling quiet of the tavern.
‘Best you head home now, girl,’ said Håkon, rubbing one hand over his huge beard.
Kjellrunn looked around desperately. ‘Someone must have seen him.’
‘You need to go now,’ repeated Bjørner. He stood a little taller now with Håkon beside him.
Kjellrunn glared at them, then held up four fingers. ‘Go to Hel, all of you can go to Hel for all I care.’ The door slammed after her and she stalked down the street trailing curses.
Marek and Verner were waiting for her when she returned. They had built up the fire and swept out the ashes, but made a bad job of it as men are wont to do. A lantern had been lit and the room had a cosy glow to it after the bright light and stark truth of the tavern.
He’s not welcome here, and neither are you, Kjellrunn. Had Bjørner meant the tavern, or all of Cinderfell?
‘You didn’t find him then,’ said Verner. He looked strange, with his beard fringed in milk. A steaming mug sat before him and another before Marek.
‘Why are you drinking hot milk like old women?’ she replied. ‘I would have thought you’d be well into the mead by now.’
‘Mind your mouth,’ growled Marek. ‘No good comes of getting drunk at a time like this. It’s a cold night is all. Perhaps if you keep a civil tongue in your head you can have some too.’
Kjellrunn dragged a chair out and slumped into it, crossed her arms on the table and rested her head on her forearms.
‘Where did you go?’ asked Verner softly.
‘To Bjørner’s, of course,’ replied Kjellrunn, not looking up. ‘Where else?’
‘Not much of a welcome there, I suspect,’ said Verner.
‘There won’t be much of a welcome anywhere after this,’ said Marek. ‘We’ll be lucky not to be run out of town.’
‘Why is the witchsign regarded as a bad thing?’ asked Kjellrunn. ‘I’m hardly a great danger, am I? A girl of sixteen who can predict the weather.’
‘You’ve heard the tales, Kjell,’ said Verner. ‘You’ve been asking me for stories of dragons and the arcane for as long as I can recall.’
‘But surely that’s all they are. Stories. The dragons have been dead for nearly a hundred years—’
‘Seventy-five,’ said Marek, pouring hot milk from the pan into a mug.
‘Longer than living memory,’ replied Kjellrunn, determined to make her point.
‘There are those who remember the war, Kjell,’ said Marek. ‘And those whose fathers fought in it passed their memories to their sons.’
‘But the witchsign as something dangerous?’ Kjellrunn frowned. ‘That’s just old tales, embellished by time.’
‘Embellished,’ said Verner, and grinned. ‘She even speaks like her mother.’
‘She certainly doesn’t get her vocabulary from me,’ said Marek. Kjellrunn slipped her chilled fingers around the mug and felt the warmth.
‘The Empire blames the emergence of the arcane on the dragons,’ said Marek. ‘And for that they will not rest until all trace of it is scoured from the world.’
‘Even if it means murdering children?’ asked Kjellrunn, her thoughts straying to Steiner, though he could hardly be mistaken for a child these days.
‘Even if it means murdering children,’ replied Marek. ‘There is nothing they will not do to keep the arcane out of the hands of commoners and serfs.’
Kjellrunn drank and drank deep, but there was a bitter note to the milk that caused her to hesitate. Marek and Verner continued to sup and stare at the fire, as if the answers to Steiner’s predicament might be found there.
‘Drink up now,’ said Marek, and she did. The stairs to the loft seemed many, and harder to climb than ever before. How had she become so tired? It had been a long day, true enough, but she fell into bed still dressed, too exhausted to rise again. She shucked off her boots, and curled into a ball.
‘Where are you, Steiner?’ she whispered to the darkness, but no answer came.
CHAPTER SIX
Steiner
Cinderfell holds especial importance, lying as it does on the North-western coast of Nordvlast. It is the last stop before taking ship to Vladibogdan, and the last town that many of the taken children will ever see. The people of Cinderfell have watched us take scores of children year after year. I fear that if there is some uprising then it must surely occur in Cinderfell, or close by. We must be watchful.
– From the field notes of Hierarch Khigir, Vigilant of the Imperial Synod.
Steiner had not meant to be late. It seemed as if all the people of Cinderfell had crowded around the lonely stone pier to witness his leaving. He descended the rutted track leading to the coastal road, not bothering to call in at home. He had no wish to speak with those who had cast him to the fate awaiting him on the island. The crimson frigate lay at anchor and rowing boats headed back and forth, ferrying cargoes of children with witchsign from all across the Empire and Scorched Republics. The sky resembled a vast quarry, inverted, the clouds all arrayed in shades of brutal grey, jagged and dangerous.
‘There he is!’ shouted a voice from the back of the crowd. Heads turned and the crowd parted. Steiner’s head was a dull throb of pain and his guts fared no better. Pieces of straw clung to his tunic, evidence that he’d spent the night in a stable. Better that people not know which one.
‘Took your sweet time,’ said a gruff voice.
‘They’ve almost got all the children aboard,’ chided another.
‘Thought you’d try to run,’ said another voice.
‘Don’t mind me,’ replied Steiner, senses too dull to form a more biting response. He walked and glowered and walked some more.
‘Not such a smart-arse today, eh?’ said Håkon, the butcher.
The crowd withdrew from Steiner as if the taint of the arcane was contagious. Men and women and dozens of children watched; a few kissed their fingertips as he passed – the old sign for warding off evil. Steiner struggled not to curse at them. At least Kristofine was not among the townsfolk, he was glad of that. She was the last person in Vinterkveld he trusted; he’d rather she’d be spared witnessing his departure.
The pier was clear of everyone but soldiers, six of them forming a cordon to keep back any desperate parents, though none had followed their offspring north from the other Scorched Republics. Hierarchs Khigir and Shirinov lurked together, all folded arms and stooped shoulders.
‘I told you the boy had spirit,’ said Khigir in his deep drone. The frown on the plain bronze mask was no less strange.
‘I was about to order the sacking of the blacksmith’s cottage,’ said Shirinov from behind the silver smile.
‘Sorry to have made you wait in the cold so long,’ said Steiner. ‘Must be hard when a chill gets into old bones.’
Shirinov slunk forward, then raised his hand.
‘Steiner!’ The shout came from the crowd.
The Hierarch stopped and looked at the newcomer but Steiner had no need to turn. He knew the voice well enough.
‘Steiner, I have something for you.’ Marek’s statement was a plea, but Steiner had no care to answer it. ‘Steiner, please?’
He flashed an angry glance over his shoulder and saw the blacksmith and fisherman side by side, held back by soldiers. Kjellrunn was nowhere to be seen, probably for the best with Vigilants so close at hand. Marek held a rough sack and offered it towards him.
Steiner walked to the cordon of soldiers and eyed the sack.
‘What am supposed to do with this?’
‘It’s for the journey,’ replied Marek, his expression pained.
‘Keep it,’ replied Steiner. ‘I want nothing from you.’
‘Steiner, I’m sorry.’ Marek’s voice cracked.
‘Just remember I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for Kjell.’
‘Steiner.’ Marek looked crushed but Steiner couldn’t find it within himself to feel much pity. He turned on his heel and walked the length of the pier, away from the cordon of soldiers, away from the despairing eyes of his father. The sound of the Spøkelsea washed over him and several gulls pierced the quiet with mocking calls, setting his nerves on edge.
‘You turn your back on family?’ It was Khigir, the frown of the pitted bronze mask no less intimidating up close.
‘What do you care?’
‘There are some who are taken and never truly let go of their previous lives.’ Khigir looked back towards the crowd. ‘Yet you are not one of them.’
Steiner shrugged and watched the rowing boat leave the ship.
‘You are a contradiction, yes?’ added Khigir.
‘I’d say I’m straightforward if you’ve a care to know me.’
‘Straightforward how?’
Steiner took a step towards the Vigilant. ‘When I’m happy I smile and when I’m angry I frown. I don’t need a mask to hide behind.’
‘You will change in time. You will have a mask soon, I think.’ Steiner thought he heard a mocking tone in Khigir’s words.
‘Why would I need a mask?’
‘Come now, boy,’ said Khigir. ‘It is time to depart.’
‘I’m not your boy,’ he replied through gritted teeth. ‘My name is Steiner.’
The wind gusted across the bay and the townsfolk drifted along the coastal road in threes and fours, like frail autumn leaves. Steiner glanced down the pier one last time and saw the crowd part around Marek as Verner led him away. Anger burned brightly even as a stony desolation filled his chest. A light rain began to fall, making a susurrus on the surrounding sea.
Shirinov was elsewhere as Steiner descended from pier to boat, shouldering his way between surly children who scowled as he sat down. Steiner struggled to keep his composure and he bowed his head, clenching his hands into tight fists.
The last words he’d said to his father rang in his ears, Just remember I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for Kjell. Anything to keep her out of the hands of the Empire and its Vigilants. Rain dripped from his nose and down his temples.
At least no one will notice if I shed any tears, he thought.
The Hierarchs struggled to take their seats, aided by the arms of four stronger, younger soldiers, who joined them. The effort of embarking ushered a coughing fit from Shirinov, who slumped into a doze when the wracking passed.
They were halfway to the frigate, bobbing across the dark green waters, when another rowing boat passed them. Romola was aboard, stood at the front without a care, heading towards the stone pier. A few crew manned the oars and shot sour glances at the Hierarchs and darker looks at Steiner himself.
‘Romola?’ said Steiner.
‘You have seen her before?’ intoned Khigir.
Steiner nodded. ‘Does she work for the Empire?’ he asked, annoyed he’d let the Vigilant goad him into conversation.
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘Is that the same manner that murders children?’ asked Steiner.
‘Such spirit,’ Khigir leaned forward, ‘will not last for long. Vladibogdan changes everyone.’
Any romantic notions of sailing Steiner entertained were quickly drowned. He’d not had a chance to take in his surroundings before being forced into the hold. There were no seats, only old crates, the smell of salt water and darkness. The sole chance to fend off the spiteful chill was to choose from a selection of mangy blankets, though lice roamed the folds of the fabric causing children to squeal as they shook them loose. It was difficult to count just how many captives were confined in the gloomy hold. Steiner had not expected the ship to groan and creak and struggled to keep the alarm from his face. The motion of the sea did nothing for his hangover and he settled down between two crates and closed his eyes.
Invigilation began at age ten and continued once a year until a child left school at sixteen. Many children dropped out of school long before then, required to attend the Invigilations all the same. Steiner had heard tell of cunning parents who sought to keep their children off the school registers in remote villages, far from the prying eyes of the Synod. None of their efforts mattered in the end. A vast network of the Synod’s clergy scoured the continent, sending their finds north and west until the children fetched up in Cinderfell, escorted by soldiers.
Steiner recalled his father’s words from the previous night. The thing is, the children sent to the island aren’t executed.
At least we don’t think so.
‘I’m not dead yet,’ said Steiner to no one in particular.
He was answered by a whimper and opened his eyes to find a boy of ten squatting down and clutching himself. He had a hint of Shanisrond blood in him; his delicate eyes were at odds with his plump, olive-skinned cheeks.
‘Hoy,’ said Steiner. ‘Get yourself a blanket.’
The boy shook his head.
‘What’s your name?’
‘M-Maxim.’
‘Why don’t you get a blanket?’
Maxim raised a hand towards a pile of crates where a blond-haired boy sat atop an improvized throne. ‘He won’t let me.’
Steiner pushed himself to his feet and rolled his shoulders. He felt scores of eyes upon him and realized he was the eldest by a couple of years, and certainly he was the largest.
‘Wait here,’ he said to Maxim. The boy nodded and his bottom lip quivered with misery. Steiner crossed the hold, stepping over huddles of children until he stood before the pile of crates. The boy who sat at the summit had nestled among a dozen blankets, looking impossibly smug.
‘And who might you be?’ Steiner asked with arched eyebrow.
‘I am Aurelian Brevik; my father is the richest man in Helwick. I won’t be staying long.’ He smiled. ‘Once my father has paid off the Empire I will return home.’
‘Is that so, son of the richest man in Helwick?’
‘Of course.’ Aurelian pouted. ‘There’s been a mistake. I can’t possibly have witchsign, not like these disgusting creatures. Not like you.’
Steiner guessed Aurelian was around sixteen years old. He had eyes as cold as the north wind and was dressed in sheepskins dyed red, splendid and expensive. His heavy boots were fine and new.
‘How about you hand over some of the blankets?’ suggested Steiner.
‘I think not,’ replied Aurelian.
‘Listen to me,’ said Steiner, voice low. ‘I’m hungover, I’ve just lost everyone I’ve ever cared about, and I didn’t pack much in the way of patience.’
‘Am I supposed to be intimidated?’ sneered Aurelian. He stood up but the smile slipped from his face. The throne had given him the impression he was taller than Steiner. They stood face to face and Steiner knew Aurelian wouldn’t back down. Money never did.
‘Why don’t you crawl back to your side of the ship like the peasant you are and I’ll forget—’ Aurelian got no further as Steiner’s fist took him on his left eye and nose. He fell back against his improvized throne and released a whimper, holding a hand to the source of his pain.
‘You dare strike me?’
‘I dare just fine,’ replied Steiner. ‘And I’ll dare again if you don’t shut your stupid face.’
Steiner took the bundle of blankets from the throne of crates and began handing them out to the children that lacked them.
‘Shake it out. Get rid of the lice,’ he said to one child. ‘Calm yourself and dry your eyes,’ he said to another. ‘Here you go.’ He passed a blanket to Maxim and before long he’d drawn an audience of fifteen imploring faces, all sensing protection was at hand and drifting towards it.
‘Ugh,’ managed Aurelian from across the hold, but he held his tongue.
Steiner settled down among his adopted charges, massaging his aching knuckles, then cleared his throat.
‘All right, stop crying. I know it’s a sad business being taken from your families and all. And I know you’re scared. Hel, I’m scared too.’ More faces appeared at the huddle.
‘How will they kill us?’ asked a painfully thin girl, perhaps eleven summers old.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Steiner. He wanted to promise them they wouldn’t be killed at all, but it was a promise he couldn’t give in good faith. ‘All I know is that we’re being sent to an island called Vladibogdan. Stay together, work together, you’ll need each other if we’re to survive this.’
It was strange to have such a rapt audience. He’d spent his life being the son of the blacksmith, or the brother of the strange girl. He’d largely been ignored by the teachers at school. No one had paid him much mind before Kristofine. His face contorted as he thought of her, thought of never seeing her again. He shook his head and cleared his throat.
‘And I don’t want to see any more of this kind of foolishness.’ He gestured towards Aurelian. ‘All we’ve got is each other now.’
The younger children settled down and the older children spread word through the hold to other pockets of children. Maxim wriggled beside Steiner and fell asleep in his lap. Kjellrunn had been much the same when she’d been five and six. The memory of it brought tears to Steiner’s eyes, tears of frustration and tears of loss.
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Kjell?’ he whispered. For long moments he sat, head slumped, resigned to his misery. The feeling of being watched pressed against his awareness and he raised his head to find Romola peeking over the edge of the hold. She was not smiling as she had done in Cinderfell, nor did she give any indication she recognized him.
The Spøkelsea was not the serene expanse of water Steiner had hoped for. The ship lurched and rocked with each wave that broke against the hull. A few of the children began retching and the hold filled with the unmistakable scent of vomit.
‘Frøya save me.’ Steiner covered his nose. ‘I had to choose today for a hangover.’
Maxim looked up with sleepy eyes. ‘Wha?’
‘Nothing, but if you throw up on me I’ll toss you overboard.’
Maxim nodded with a solemn expression that said he would do the same if their places were reversed. The boy wriggled closer and went back to sleep.
‘How long does it take for a frigate to travel twenty miles anyway?’ muttered Steiner, just as a member of the crew climbed down from the deck above. She was a hard-looking woman with a black headscarf and a faded tunic the colour of mud. It was her britches Steiner liked the most: broad stripes in black and white.
‘I like your britches.’
‘Thanks. You Steiner?’
‘Am I in trouble?’
‘You tell me.’ The sailor shrugged. ‘Captain wants to see you. Follow me, and don’t get any fancy ideas. We’re already a good five miles from Cinderfell and I doubt you can swim that far.’
Steiner cocked his head to one side and considered it.
‘Trust me,’ said the sailor. ‘The current is strong and you’d likely fetch up in Shanisrond. In a few months after the fishes had nibbled on your corpse.’
Steiner dislodged the sleeping Maxim as gently as he could. ‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ he said when the boy whimpered.
‘Didn’t realize you had a little brother,’ said the sailor.
‘Neither did I.’ Steiner followed the sailor onto deck and was certain Romola had overheard him speaking to the children, just as he was certain she would have informed the Hierarchs. He didn’t relish another conversation with Khigir and Shirinov; they might suddenly realize the witchsign was mysteriously absent and throw him overboard. All these thoughts weighed on him like the coils of rope on deck, damp with mist and sea spray.
‘Here you are,’ said the sailor. She jerked her thumb at a door and then reached out a hand to steady herself as the ship lurched.
‘How much longer until we get there?’ asked Steiner.
‘The wind’s not on our side, so we’re not able to sail as the crow flies.’
‘What’s he like?’ asked Steiner.
‘Who?’
‘The captain. What’s he like?
The sailor smiled. ‘Best you see for yourself.’ And with that she opened the door and ushered him into the gloomy cabin.
