She stabbed her finger at the map laid out on the desk, showing where the ship would enter the Maelstrom, and where, if luck was with us, we would be expelled.
Yuril said the Outer Reach of the Blood Sea was approximately three days away, assuming steady breezes and no problems.
"How long will we be in this . . . Maelstrom?" asked Kirsig a bit plaintively.
"Two days and two nights," replied Yuril, "if we stay on course."
Raistlin seemed to be pondering the map. I waited for him to make the decision.
A woeful-faced Flint whispered to me, "Don't you think we should consider the slower and safer method? We really have no proof that Sturm, Caramon, and Tas are in imminent danger."
Raistlin shot him a reproachful glance. Flint looked down, tugging at his beard.
I knew my old friend was no less concerned about the others than Raistlin and I were. I patted him on the back, whispering, "It will get us off this ship sooner." Then I spoke up in favor of the plan.
Raistlin nodded agreement, and Kirsig surprised me with a hug. I didn't dare look at Flint again, for I knew that the dwarf, embarrassed at his earlier remark and annoyed to be stuck in the middle of a sea voyage—with a broken leg to boot—would be glowering at me.
By nightfall, strong gales buffeted the Castor. Darkness blanketed the waters. The sea was cold and black and roiling. No stars graced the night sky. We are three days away from the suction of the Maelstrom, so it may have been my imagination already to feel the gradual, quickening pull.
SECOND AND THIRD DAYS
Frequent strange calms broken by heavy winds, hail and rain. We have sighted no other ships in this section of the sea. Even during the calms, our ship is being drawn in a northerly direction.
Did I describe the Castor?
A two-masted pentare, it is, with two sails and oar ports that are left unmanned except during calms. The crew numbers about two dozen, at least half of whom are female. They are all human and regard Flint and Kirsig, particularly, with some wonderment, even though I believe they have seen ogres before in their travels.
Some of the sailors are black-skinned, from remote northern islands, and I peer at them with equal curiosity. The women, especially, for they are beautiful to look at, yet well muscled and obviously seaworthy. They dress in leather and sandals and can climb the masts and rig the sails as well as any seaman.
They speak mostly in their own harsh-sounding vernacular, although almost all of them also speak Common.
None of the crew carry weapons, and so far we have had no cause to resort to any. There is a small armory aft, in which are stored swords, crossbows, ballista bolts, oil, some armor, and the ship's supply of brandy.
Yuril moves among the crew easily, barking commands that they hasten to carry out. She oversaw the building of four extra side rudders, crude in their design, shaped almost like giant flippers. According to Captain Nugetre's plan, they were attached to either end of the ship just below sea level. When we enter the treacherous perimeter of the Blood Sea, they will act to steady the Castor and, we hope, guide it during the worst of the buffeting it will surely receive from the Malelstrom.
With the extra rudders come an elaborate system of ropes and gears fastened to blocks of wood hammered into the deck. Two sailors volunteered to dangle off the side of the boat, plunging their heads below crashing waves in order to securely attach the additional rudders. They received extra rations that night and the cheers of their comrades.
Captain Nugetre presides over everything, his head held high. He says very little, and it is almost as if Yuril is in command. But he chides her when she is slow and laughs loudly when she barks an insult in reply.
Apart from the main deck and the captain's cabin, the Castor has a small galley with fresh water and food supplies, an aft and bow castle, the oar bay and lower deck, crew quarters (which the crew uses in shifts) and a cargo hold. As far as I can tell, we are carrying no cargo other than food, repair supplies, and the array of weapons already mentioned.
Near the cargo hold is a one-room brig, which has been empty of occupants since we left Ogrebond, and a small mate's cabin where Yuril sleeps—if and when she sleeps. She seems to stalk the deck at all hours. When the captain himself sleeps, she is his eyes and ears.
Fortunately, four small cabins serve for passengers—one each for Raistlin, Flint, Kirsig, and myself. They are spare, with a hammock, bench, window chest, and table in each.
By choice, Raistlin has been spending much of his time in his cabin alone. I suspect young Majere is collecting his strength for the ordeal ahead. The few times that I have seen him on deck he has seemed preoccupied. Surely he is worried about Caramon's well-being.
Flint has spent most of the first three days in his cabin as well, but not by choice, for he is somewhat immobilized by his bad leg. I'm not sure, what with his dislike of bodies of water, that he isn't happy to be so restrained, but it is hard to tell with Flint. Even in the happiest of states, he is perpetually grumbling.
Kirsig has cared well for Flint's leg. The swelling has gone down, the discoloration faded. It turns out that she does know some useful healing skills. I think my friend will be walking again by the time we reach the Outer Reach of the Maelstrom.
Kirsig refuses to leave Flint's side, doting on
