Guinalle managed a faint smile. “Yes, thank you. I must admit, I didn’t think it would take me so long to get my sea legs.”

“Do you know how long we’ll be stopping here?” he asked.

“We need to take on water, any fresh food we can find, make some repairs,” Guinalle grimaced. “I’d say we’ll be here just long enough for me to get used to being ashore again, so I can spend another handful of days with my head in a bowl once we set sail again, Larasion grant me strength.”

Temar smiled at her, thinking how even more attractive she was with her enviable self-possession just a little dented like this. “Shall we find some breakfast?”

“Not just at the moment.” Guinalle shook her head with a theatrical shudder. She pushed her braid back over her shoulder and reached for her gown, laid ready on a stool. “Could you lace me up? Elsire’s not up yet and the maids are busy.”

Temar watched with carefully concealed appreciation as Guinalle pulled the sensible brown gown over her head and settled it on her hips before turning her back to him. He pulled the laces tight and breathed in the scent of the pennymint she used in her linen as he tied them off securely.

“Do you know where Messire Den Fellaemion is?” Guinalle was all business now, dignity put on along with her clothes.

“Let’s see.” Temar scanned the camp. “There, by that stack of water casks.”

Guinalle stood on tiptoe and squinted uncertainly. “Oh yes, I see him.”

With a touch of regret Temar watched her go and then turned to look for some food, waving off a tenant who was heading his way with a disgruntled expression and a waterskin clutched in one hand.

Breakfast was all too soon over and Temar found himself scooping the last of his porridge out of his bowl as he took a seat at a rough trestle table where his ship’s steward was waiting with an array of ledgers and wax tablets. The sun had climbed high over the glassy waters of the strait, burning the morning mists from the trees, by the time Temar had an up-to-date record of stores remaining, water required and all the various minor injuries and disputes on the five ships that were carrying D’Alsennin tenants to their new home.

“Do you have a report for me?”

Temar looked up to see Messire Den Fellaemion pulling up a stool. The commander had a definite touch of color on his thin cheeks and his eyes were bright, the rough clothes of a sailor suiting him far more than the elegant dress he had worn in Zyoutessela.

“I should have it written up in a chime or so.” Temar hastily drew his scribbled notes together and reached for an ink-pot.

“That will be fine,” Den Fellaemion nodded easily. “After that, if you’ve no other calls on your time, you might like to see what game you can find for the cook-pots tonight. Take young Den Rannion with you.”

Temar couldn’t restrain a surprised smile and the older man laughed. “I think you’ve both earned a little recreation and since we’re going to be here for a handful of days, everyone would appreciate some fresh meat.”

“How long is the second half of the crossing?” Temar looked up, pen poised.

“With good winds, another twenty days or so.” Den Fellaemion rose. “We’ve done the worst of it.”

Temar nodded at the memory of some of the foul weather the ships had had to contend with.

“These islands are certainly a blessing from Dastennin, Messire,” he commented a little hesitantly. “I don’t recall you mentioning them before we set sail.”

Den Fellaemion grinned down at the younger man. “No, I didn’t. I’d rather any other would-be explorers continued to put my ability to cross the ocean down to my consummate seamanship and Dastennin’s particular favor. Once we have got the colony established, we can set up a permanent settlement here; that’ll be time enough to let the secret be known.”

“My compliments on your wisdom, Messire.” Temar sketched a ceremonious bow and the commander chuckled.

“My gratitude for your appreciation, Esquire,” he replied in the same mock formal tone before striding off to consult with the captain of one of the other vessels.

Temar bent to his notes with renewed zeal and finished his report in less time than he had anticipated. Carefully sanding the document and checking the ink was dry, he folded it neatly and tucked it in the breast of his jerkin before going in search of Den Fellaemion. The commander was standing by the stack of water casks again, deep in conversation with Guinalle and two of the ships’ captains.

“Thank you, Temar,” he said as he reached for the proffered parchment. “I think that’s all we need, Guinalle; why don’t you take some time for yourself this afternoon? You’ve been so busy lately, what with taking sightings and keeping the charts. Make the most of the stop, before we take ship again.”

“Thank you, Uncle.” Guinalle looked a little surprised. “I’ll just see to that milch cow, though.”

“Anything I can do to help?” asked Temar quickly.

“Perhaps; come on.” Guinalle led the way to a sturdy corral on the far side of the camp where the expedition’s precious livestock was securely confined.

“There you are, my lady.” One of the stockmen bustled up, relief palpable on his blunt face. “We’re all ready for you.”

Temar followed Guinalle to a pen of rough hurdles set some distance from the other beasts, his curiosity rising. A brindled cow with a white stripe down her back was lying there, eyes glazed and jaw slack, flanks heaving. One of her forelegs was crudely splinted with canvas and a broken spar.

“Give a hand on the ropes, lad.” The stockman evidently didn’t recognize Temar, giving him a gentle shove toward the waiting gang on the far side of a sturdy frame, lashed up of rough-cut green wood.

“Are you ready?” A faint frown creased Guinalle’s brow as she concentrated on the cow, starting a soft incantation that raised the hairs on the back of Temar’s neck.

The cow’s eyes rolled up in her head and her labored breathing rattled harshly.

“Quickly!” The gang hauled on the ropes to raise the beast on the frame as the stockman rapidly sliced through the great vessels on either side of her neck, the rich blood gushing into a cauldron waiting ready with oatmeal, herbs and dry fat.

Guinalle sighed and turned away as the men waiting to butcher the carcass moved in with gleaming knives; nothing was going to go to waste, not if they could help it.

“Are you all right?” asked Temar with some concern at the sadness in Guinalle’s eyes.

“Oh, yes.” Guinalle rubbed a hand over her eyes. “It’s just that I could have mended that leg, given the chance, but I didn’t have the time to spare, not with keeping track of the currents and the winds. I can’t say I liked just keeping the poor beast alive and insensible until she could be slaughtered here.”

“Oh.” Temar couldn’t really think of anything to say to that, but Guinalle didn’t seem to notice. He tried to stifle his own guilty pleasure at the thought of blood sausage, something he had developed quite a taste for, even if it was peasant food.

“The problem is that we just don’t have enough people with skills in Artifice, at least not beyond the very basic levels.” Guinalle shook her head determinedly. “That’s going to be one of the first things I remedy when we land.”

“Good,” nodded Temar. Guinalle looked up at him, a touch of humor returning to her expression.

“I’m glad that meets with your approval, Esquire.”

Temar swept a florid bow. “Your wisdom is only excelled by your beauty, Demoiselle.”

Guinalle laughed with a little more amusement than Temar would have liked, but at least the sadness lifted from her eyes.

“So what are you going to do with your afternoon?” he asked genially.

Guinalle let slip a look of slight disdain. “Probably listen to Elsire complaining about the effect of sea water on her hair and lamenting the limited space she has for her wardrobe.”