Kushiel's Dart

the better ships, which would bear Drustan mab Necthana, as well as Hyacinthe, Joscelin and I, who were of no help at sailing. We would be safer, all of us, with the Admiral than anywhere else.
    It would have been a comical sight, I imagine, in less serious circumstances; a small continent's worth of ill-matched vessels, moving awkwardly across the water. Leaning over the side, I watched one of Phedre's Boys shout at a hapless group of Cruithne, attempting to drive a raft with oars, their uncoordinated efforts sending it spinning in slow circles.
    "Azzalle has a fleet," Quintilius Rousse muttered, seeing the same thing. "Mayhap'twould be better if we crossed alone, and sent the fleet back for them."
    "Azzalle's fleet may be halfway up the Rhenus River, my lord Admiral," I reminded him. "As might your own. But if you think it best, give the order now, before anyone founders."
    He looked dourly at the struggling raft. Under the D'Angeline sailor's frantically gestured orders, the Cruithne got the knack of it and began moving forward. "Let 'em try. I'm not minded to cross the Straits more than once, unless I need to."
    I couldn't blame him for that, not after having seen the Master of the Straits; I'd no wish to risk seeing him again, either. And in truth, once we got underway, a strange thing happened. The winds held, light and steady, blowing off Alba's shore toward distant Terre d'Ange; the winds held, but the sea grew calm, scarce ruffled by the breeze. Our fleet strung out in a ragged line, lurching forward, slowly and surely. The shore fell away behind us, white cliffs looming, receding yard by yard, until the yards became a mile, and one mile two. The Albans didn't lack for courage nor hardihood; set to an unfamiliar task, they laid to with a will, hands calloused by sword-hilts wrapped around oars, backs bent to the task.
    Here and there, across the water, D'Angeline voices arose in a rower's chant, marking the time, adapting the words of their chosen marching tune to an oarsman's beat.
    " Alan or woman, we don't care; give us twins, we '// take the pair! But just because we let you beat us; doesn't mean you can defeat us !"
    Other voices took it up, Cruithne and Eiran alike, meaningless syllables mangled in foreign tongues. At the helm, tacking slowly to keep apace of the fleet, Quintilius Rousse shook his head and grinned. "Never been anything like it!" he shouted. "This crossing will go down in history, I promise! And Elder Brother bids fair to keep his word!" He jerked his chin at Hyacinthe. "What do you say now, Tsingano? Care to point our way to landfall, eh?"
    Hyacinthe stood in the prow, gazing out at the smooth waters, wrapped in his saffron cloak, now salt-stained and travel-worn, and gave no answer.
    With a frisson of alarm, I made my way to his side. "What is it? What do you see?"
    He turned his face to me, black eyes blurred with the dromonde , wide and unseeing. "That's just it. I don't. I can't see our landing."
    "What does it mean?"
    Hyacinthe looked back at the sea. "It means," he said softly, "that somewhere between here and the far shore, lies a crossroads, and I cannot see beyond it."
    I would have asked him somewhat else, but a great clamor arose at that moment off our port bow, shouts of laughter, scuffling and blows. Such was the noise of it that all of us who were idle on deck went to look, even Hyacinthe, forgetting his fears.
    It was one of the small rafts, with some fourteen of the Tarbh Cro-
    Segovae tribesmen, they were-and a single D'Angeline. Without enough oars to go around, three of the northern warriors had disported themselves by lying at the edge of the raft and peering into the clear, still waters, thrusting their arms into the sea and wriggling their fingers, attempting to catch fish bare-handed.
    A good trick in riverbeds, I am told; it shouldn't have worked at sea. Nor would it, save for one very large, very curious eel.
    Which one of the Segovae had caught round the middle with both hands, and hauled onto the raft, thrashing like fury. It was that eel they were trying to subdue, with shouts and flailing blows of oar and fist, and Rousse's sailor yelling out helpful directions in incomprehensible D'Angeline, the raft rocking wildly.
    I think we all laughed, for a moment. Until one of the Segovae caught the eel a good pounding blow on the head and it shuddered and became still, wet and gleaming on the raft, a full five feet or longer.
    And the wind went dead.
    And I