Guild Wars: Sea of Sorrows (22 page)

Macha played another row of cards. “Ackle again.”

“Right, right. Fifteen points.” Sykox began to scribble.

“Eighteen point seven five, actually.” The charr huffed in surprise as Macha preened. “The second one’s worth twenty-five percent more. If I had a denth as well, it would have been an additional five times the inceptor of the highest card on the table.”

The charr’s claws tightened around the charcoal stick, cracking it between his fingers. Glaring at her, he growled, “I think I’m starting to figure out how your little game works, asura. How many points do I get if I stab you?”

Macha ignored him. “You know, Cobiah . . .” She drew enough cards to fill her hand before passing the turn. “The fact that an astrolabe can direct us only north and south of the sun’s rising is terribly inefficient.”

“Inefficient?” Henst sneered. “I suppose you can just wave away more than six hundred years of sailors’ wisdom in an instant and come up with something better?”

Macha stiffened at the challenge, snapping her cards together in her hand and glaring at the dark-haired sailor. “I’m a genius-ranked member of the esteemed College of Dynamics,” she retorted. “
Of course I can.
”

Cobiah stopped shuffling, looking up from the brightly painted cards. Even quick-witted Isaye took a second glance at the asura, doubt written across her face. Henst was the first to speak. “Oh?” he asked mockingly. “Next you’ll tell us that you’re the queen of Rata Sum!”

“Rata Sum is far too enlightened to practice primitive lineage-based feudalism, you rot-witted skelk. The Colleges of Rata Sum are the premier educational facilities in Tyria. An asura works all her young life to create an invention good enough to be
accepted
to one of the colleges, much less graduate with genius-ranked honors! This is exactly what I’m talking about.” She smoothed down her braids and sniffed disparagingly. “The reason humans have lost every significant battle with the charr in the last hundred years isn’t because they’re tougher than you. It’s because they’re
smarter
than you. They have training. Education. Murder drills and combat instruction. They keep learning while you stupid humans sit on your butts and pray.” Before Henst could respond, Macha pressed on, her voice as vibrant and sharp as the feathers woven into her multicolored braids. “Consider this: Tyria has one sun and one moon, you monolithic moron. We measure latitude, or the distance north and south, by measuring the point of the sun’s rise on the horizon with an astrolabe. So, you addlepated, mouth-breathing digestive tract on legs, it stands to reason that we should be able to determine our east-west position
by the movement of the moon—if we can find the right measuring stick.” The asura’s smirk contained as much pleasure as anger, and her black eyes flashed in joy.

Sykox frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. They move the same dir—”

“Shhh.” Cobiah elbowed him into silence. “Don’t interrupt her. She’s on a roll.”

Putting down her cards, the asura rose to face Henst, jamming her hands onto her hips as if she were a colossus straddling the sea. “I have to admit that it was a human who gave me the idea. Though, clearly, a human with more brain cells to rub together than the ones you have inhabiting the cavernous, lonely space between your obviously vestigial ears. He told me something elementary that changed my perspective.” She turned to Verahd. “Isn’t that right? Once we take into account the factors that misalign the sigil’s plane, we can predict a pattern along that plane.”

Verahd nodded absently.

“So, shut your festering blister of a mouth, you earless, witless, clay-brained blowhard!” Hands on her hips, she glared at Henst as if defying him to prove her wrong. Infuriated at the asura’s mocking tone, Henst clenched his sword hilts, drawing them free of their scabbards with a ringing tone . . .

 . . . As Sykox leveled a flintlock pistol inches from Henst’s left cheek. “That’s my friend you’re threatening, mouse,” the charr growled blackly. “Now, I recommend you put your weapons down and let the little lady finish. Or didn’t your Ascalonian grandfather teach you how to be polite?” Outmaneuvered, Henst let his weapons slide back into their scabbards and lowered his hands. Sykox nodded for Macha to continue.

“Time.” The asura narrowed her eyes like a preening
cat. Blue sleeves fluttered as she crossed her arms over her chest, and her hair swayed with the rocking movement of the
Pride.

The wind rippled in the sails, and the ocean lapped playfully against the side of the clipper.

Clearly unhappy with Henst’s treatment, Isaye nevertheless prodded Macha with, “Time?”

“Time! Time! Time!”
Macha leapt into the air, arms raised above her head and braids flying. “That’s the secret, don’t you get it?
That
was the clue I needed to revolutionize navigational theory. As simple as that. See, once you’ve chosen a central meridian—Rata Sum, of course—the rest is just a matter of counting the ticking clock back and forth from that cardinal point.

“Observation of altitude of celestial bodies is useful only if it is measurable. As we chase the moon across the sky, east to west, we alter our own time scale on Tyria. All I had to do was discover a way to measure time irregardless of the sun.”

“That’s not a real wo—” Henst began.

The hammer of Sykox’s gun clicked back. Isaye bristled.

“Er . . . go on. Do go on,” the Ascalonian said through gritted teeth.

Cobiah stepped to Sykox’s shoulder, slowly placing his hand on the charr’s outstretched weapon. Gently, Cobiah pushed the gun’s muzzle toward the floor. “Tell us what you’ve figured out, Macha.” Sykox sighed in resignation and pushed the pistol back into his belt.

“It’s probably too complex for your limited minds, but I’ll explain anyway.” Macha feigned annoyance. “Between my amazing scientific discovery and Isaye’s knowledge of the tides, I believe that I can plot the singular course of the
Salma’s Grace
through the shoals of the Ring of Fire Islands.”

A smile lit up Cobiah’s face. “You’re a genius, Macha.”

“Council certified,” she said, preening.

“Do we know when the
Salma’s Grace
left Port Noble?” Cobiah asked, tossing his handful of cards into the discard pile.

“Six days ago. Or so said my brother’s wife’s old college friend’s roommate,” she mused sorrowfully. “Right before the zombies ate him.”

“Then we make for the Ring of Fire Islands and lay a trap for the
Salma’s Grace
.” Cobiah reached for Macha’s shoulders, nearly lifting her from the deck. “You’re sure you can do this?”

She grinned in delight. “I can. The question is whether
she
can.” The asura jerked her thumb at Isaye. “Even with my invention, we need to know the tides, or the reefs and wreckage of the Ring of Fire Islands will impale the
Pride
long before we see the
Salma’s Grace
. That’s another reason they sail there.”

All eyes turned to Isaye.

The dark-haired pirate woman stood near her crewman, unable to stop the argument between Henst and Sykox, but clearly displeased by its tone. Now that everyone was staring at her, she narrowed her eyes and set her shoulders as if going into battle. Cobiah set Macha down. “What’s wrong, Isaye?”

“It’s the
king’s
ship.”

Cobiah scoffed in amusement. “Oh, come on. Baede has enough money to build a city and buy an asura gate. He can afford to lose one ship full of gold. C’mon, Isaye. You said you knew the tides,” he coaxed her with a smile. “Here’s your chance to prove it.” Cobiah’s smile faded as Isaye shook her head and looked down.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she sighed.

“What?” Cobiah frowned. “Don’t doubt yourself. Of course you can.”

“I don’t doubt anything, Cobiah.” Isaye fiercely raised her eyes to meet his. “I can’t attack the king of Kryta. I’m Krytan. It’s my nation! The people have been through enough already, and I can’t add to their suffering by stealing from them.”

“ ‘The people’ won’t miss that gold, Miss High-and-Mighty,” Macha grumbled. “It’s been in the king’s vaults for years.”

“Macha’s right. And, technically, we’re stealing it from the asura, not from King Baede.”

“It’s taxed from the people, and it’ll be the people who get taxed again to replace it.”

“Look, Isaye.” Cobiah stepped closer. He didn’t like the pain in her eyes, but she had to see this was the only way. “We can find—”

Before he could take her hand, Henst shoved himself between them. “Don’t touch her,” he said darkly. Still angry from the asura’s upbraiding, he growled, “Isaye said she doesn’t want to do it, so back off!”

Cobiah stepped back, anger lighting in his blue eyes. Isaye shoved Henst away with a flash of anger. “I can defend myself, thanks.” The black-haired Ascalonian didn’t step back, but instead continued to stare daggers at Cobiah.

Half turning, Cobiah shrugged as if the offense was of no importance, but instead of stepping away, he rocked on the balls of his feet and shot back like a recoiling wave. He lashed out fiercely, cracking the Ascalonian’s cheek with a blow that knocked the sailor full to the ground. Henst landed hard, cursing, swords clattering to the deck. A trickle of blood ran from a split along his cheekbone.

“Attaboy, Coby,” Sykox chortled.

“
Never
tell me what to do on my own ship, Henst.”
Cobiah’s voice was as cold as the waters of Orr. “Next time you won’t survive it.”

Glowering, Isaye bent down and took Henst’s arm. He shook her off, snatching up his swords and glaring at Cobiah. She whispered something, low and urgent, and Henst’s movements slowed. He nodded, allowing her to help him stand as he shoved his swords back into their scabbards with a sullen thrust. With a sigh, Verahd moved to join them, steepling his fingers and whispering quietly to Isaye.

Angry that she’d sided with Henst, Cobiah crossed his arms and glared at all of them. “You want off this ship? Then you do what I tell you. I don’t care two figs about the king of Kryta, his people, or the asura in Rata Sum. I care about this ship and this crew, and while you’re aboard, you’re going to put them in front of any other loyalties. While you’re on the
Pride
, you take orders, and you do as you’re told.

“If you don’t like it, you can swim home.” He met Henst’s murderous stare unflinchingly. Turning to Isaye, Cobiah’s tone softened. “We get the money, you get your freedom.” She kept her hand on Henst’s arm and didn’t meet Cobiah’s eyes. Hurt, Cobiah lost his patience and snapped, “Fine. You heard me.

“Now get to work.”

“S
hift the cords!” cried Fassur, leaning over the banister of the quarterdeck. The sailors below saluted and ran to their posts, altering the rigging of the clipper as it slipped between two massive rocks. Fassur yelled, “One—two—hoist!”

Cobiah watched from his post near the ship’s wheel as his sailors climbed the high netting. The creaking took on a different tone as the sails shifted, letting the wind escape. It blew through the crevices of the ruined islands, lifting the ship over low coral reefs. For the first time in three days, Macha wasn’t at his side. Instead, she sat on the bowsprit like a strange, multicolored imp. She held an odd little telescope to her eye and a notebook in her lap, scribbling and muttering as the
Pride
drifted through shattered islets. Here and there, bubbles rose in foamy, sulfurous-smelling wafts where heat from underground volcanoes welled up beneath the ocean. These made the tides even more dangerous as warm waters rose to collide with the cold currents of the open sea.

Isaye held the ship’s wheel tightly, keeping her eyes forward and counting beneath her breath. She and Cobiah hadn’t spoken in days. Nor had Henst left her
side, which was part of the reason. The Ascalonian stuck closer to Isaye than her own shadow.

The weight of the sails shifted as the yardarms settled into a new position. Fassur called to the men in the sails, “Belay your pull! That’s far enough.” The dark-furred charr turned back toward the quarterdeck and yelled toward Isaye, “Pilot? What’s our heading?”

“Our position’s twenty-one minutes from the north latitude line,” Macha piped up. Fassur stared at her, and she began to explain her odd time-distance-north-south conversion. The moment she slowed her incomprehensible gibberish to take a breath, the first mate cut her off in desperation.

“Hush, you crazy asura. I don’t care what the damn lat-snood is, I need to know our heading.” The charr turned toward Isaye. “Pilot!”

Isaye answered soberly, “North by northeast. Wind’s from the west at six knots.”

Macha shot Isaye an evil look. She hopped down from the bowsprit and tucked her notebook into a pocket of her robe. “How soon can we get that woman off the ship?” she growled to Cobiah. “Can’t we just put her in a cannon and fire her at Divinity’s Reach?”

“Macha,” Cobiah scolded gently. “We need her.”

“Yeah. Like a trephination patient needs a head cold.”

Cobiah shot the asura an irritated glare. Macha’d been moody lately, up and down, ranging from happy to snarky—sometimes within minutes. She’d refused to talk about whatever was bothering her. Between the asura and Isaye, Cobiah felt as if he were walking on glass. “We should be sighting the
Salma’s Grace
soon, Captain,” Verahd murmured at Cobiah’s elbow. Macha was unpredictable, Isaye was angry, Henst was worse, and Sykox stayed below to keep the engines running—meaning
that the creepy elementalist was the only one talking to Cobiah. That didn’t make Cobiah feel better. If anything, it made him feel worse.