Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [135]
“I don’t know how—”
“Then make an educated guess.”
With a brief glare for his companion he hurried down the stairs, into the cabin and its attendant cargo space. In the galley he located a candle and a pack of matches by moonlight. That lit, it was a bit easier to search. The turbine was similar to one he had seen before, the last time he had made this crossing, and he tried to remember how its owner had worked it. He looked about for fuel, located the furnace door, and started things going. It would be a short while before there was enough pressure to drive the boat, but until then the wind would have to do. He allowed himself the brief luxury of sitting down beside the small engine and of taking several deep breaths in succession. Tarrant would keep the wind going until the turbine kicked in, and then he would turn it around to slow their pursuers. If he could. Damien reflected on how hard it was to command the weather like that—even within such limited parameters—and the fact that Tarrant couldn’t use the currents for power, but must rely upon the limited amount of fae that was stored in his sword, surely wouldn’t help. Then he decided not to think about any of it. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried not to reflect upon what they had just done. But he couldn’t help it. The blood was still red on his sword, and a gory spattering covered his right leg and boot. The feel of his weapon cutting into human flesh was still hot in his palm, and he rubbed his hand against the thigh of his breeches as if somehow that could cleanse it. In his ears he could hear the sounds of innocent men screaming as the horses bore down on them, unseen but all too keenly felt—
“Well?”
It was Tarrant, calling down to him. He opened the valve on the turbine the way he had seen a captain do it once before and was somewhat surprised to hear the small engine rumble to life. Its owner must have had it Worked for it to start that fast; had Tarrant Seen that when he chose this vessel? “It’s on,” he called back, and he made one last check of its dials and settings before he climbed back up to the deck.
Tarrant had sheathed his sword, which meant that whatever Working he had crafted to control the wind was over and done with. God willing, it would work. The horses were grazing on imagined grass, and one of them had left its last meal as a gift on the deck. Damien almost stepped in it.
“Do you think they’ll try to follow?” he asked Tarrant.
“Unlikely.” He turned the wheel slowly as he spoke, forcing the boat to head into the waves. “Hunting down a small craft on the Serpent at night would be a nearly impossible feat, even for one of Calesta’s power. However,” he added grimly, “we can certainly bet that all the northern ports will be watched, and that we can expect a similar welcome there if we try to land.”
“In all the ports?”
“If he anticipated our journey, then he’s had a good week to prepare. If not ... then he still has a whole day left to warp the minds of those who might otherwise assist us.” He said nothing further on that point, but no words were necessary. The Hunter couldn’t leave the shelter of the boat while the sun was shining. Either they reached the northern shore and found safe harbor within hours—an unlikely task—or they would have to remain on the river until tomorrow’s sunfall. “I’ll take the wheel until dawn. You go below and see that there’s secure shelter for me somewhere, then try to rest. Oh, and see to the horses.” He glanced at the animals. “Secure them inside the cabin if you can. They won’t like it, but if the sea grows rough, they’ll be safer there.”
“Gerald—” He hesitated. “I can’t handle a boat. You know that, don’t you? I don’t know the least thing about sailing—”
“Then I suggest you see if there are any books on the art lying about.” The pale eyes glittered. “And pray that we make landing before dawn. Weather-Working is a chancy art at best, and to rush it as I did ... that might well draw a storm.”
Damien looked out at the choppy waves—was there more froth riding