Half the World (Shattered Sea #2)(30)

“Your son’s got talent,” he said to Safrit when she brought around the water.

“All kinds of talent,” she agreed, “but a mind like a moth. I can’t keep it on one thing for two moments together.”

“Why is it even called Divine?” grunted Koll, sitting back to stare off upriver, spinning his knife around and around in his fingers and somewhat proving his mother’s point. “I don’t see much holy about it.”

“I’ve heard because the One God blessed it above all other waters,” rumbled Dosduvoi.

Odda raised a brow at the shadowy thicket that hemmed them in on both banks. “This look much blessed to you?”

“The elves knew the true names of these rivers,” said Skifr, who’d made a kind of bed among the cargo to drape herself on. “We call them Divine and Denied because those are as close as our clumsy human tongues can come.”

The good humor guttered at the mention of elves, and Dosduvoi mumbled a prayer to the One God, and Brand made a holy sign over his heart.

Odda was less pious. “Piss on the elves!” He leapt from his sea-chest, dragging his trousers down and sending a yellow arc high over the ship’s rail. Some laughter, and some cries of upset from men behind who took a spattering as a gust blew up.

One man going often made others feel the need, and soon Rulf was ordering the boat held steady mid-stream while half the crew stood at the rail with hairy backsides on display. Thorn shipped her oar, which meant flinging it in Brand’s lap, and worked her trousers down to show a length of muscled white thigh. It was hardly doing good to watch but Brand found it hard not to, and ended up peering out the corner of his eye as she slithered up and wedged her arse over the ship’s side.

“I’m all amazement!” called Odda at her as he sat back down.

“That I piss?”

“That you do it sitting. I was sure you were hiding a prick under there.” A few chuckles from the benches at that.

“Thought the same about you, Odda.” Thorn dragged her trousers back up and hooked her belt. “Reckon we’re both disappointed.”

A proper laugh swept the ship. Koll gave a whooping snigger, and Rulf thumped at the prow-beast in appreciation, and Odda laughed loudest of all, throwing his head back to show his mouthful of filed teeth. Safrit slapped Thorn on the back as she dropped grinning back on her sea-chest and Brand thought Rulf had been right. There was nothing ugly about her when she smiled.

The gust that wetted Odda’s oarmates was the first of many. The heavens darkened and She Who Sings the Wind sent a cold song swirling about the ship, sweeping ripples across the calm Divine and whipping Brand’s hair around his face. A cloud of little white birds clattered up, a flock of thousands, twisting and swirling against the bruised sky.

Skifr slid one hand into her ragged coat to rummage through the mass of runes and charms and holy signs about her neck. “That is an ill omen.”

“Reckon a storm’s coming,” muttered Rulf.

“I have seen hail the size of a child’s head drop from a sky like that.”

“Should we get the boat off the river?” asked Father Yarvi.

“Upend her and get under her.” Skifr kept her eyes on the clouds like a warrior watching an advancing enemy. “And quickly.”

They grounded the South Wind at the next stretch of shingle, Brand wincing as the wind blew colder, fat spots of rain stinging his face.

First they hauled out mast and sail, then stores and sea-chests, weapons and shields. Brand helped Rulf free the prow-beasts with wedges and mallet, wrapped them carefully in oiled cloth while Koll helped Thorn wedge the oars in the rowlocks so they could use them as handles to lift the ship. Father Yarvi unlocked the iron-bound chest from its chains, the veins in Dosduvoi’s great neck bulging as he hefted its weight onto his shoulder. Rulf pointed out the spots and six stout barrels were rolled into place around their heaped-up gear, Odda wielding a shovel with marvelous skill to make pits that the tall prow and stern would sit in.

“Bring her up!” bellowed Rulf, Thorn grinning as she vaulted over the side of the ship.

“You seem happy enough about all this,” said Brand, gasping as he slid into the cold water.

“I’d rather lift ten ships than train with Skifr.”

The rain came harder, so it scarcely made a difference whether they were in the river or not, everyone soaked through, hair and beards plastered, clothes clinging, straining faces beaded with wet.

“Never sail in a ship you can’t carry!” growled Rulf through gritted teeth. “Up! Up! Up!”

And with each shout there was a chorus of grunting, growling, groaning. Every man, and woman too, lending all their strength, the cords standing out stark from Safrit’s neck and Odda’s grooved teeth bared in an animal snarl and even Father Yarvi dragging with his one good hand.

“Tip her!” roared Rulf as they heaved her from the water. “But gently now! Like a lover, not a wrestler!”

“If I tip her like a lover do I get a kiss?” called Odda.

“I’ll kiss you with my fist,” hissed Thorn through her clenched teeth.

It had grown dark as dusk, and He Who Speaks the Thunder grumbled in the distance as they heaved the South Wind over, prow and stern digging deep into the boggy earth. Now they took her under the top rail, upside down, and carried her up the bank, boots mashing the ground to sliding mud.