A Bearing in the Cloud

By midmorning, Brask had a jury sail standing where the Morrowfin's fore sail had been. It was an ugly triangle of patched canvas and spare rigging, pulled tight enough to catch a useful breath and loose enough not to tear the mast out if the wind shifted.

Orra stood below it with a coil of line over one shoulder while Brask tested each knot with a hard tug. The hidden island's landing shelf lay behind them. Ahead, cloudbank swallowed the open sky in a pale wall. The ship's remaining lift crystal hummed through the deck planks; the dead one sat dark in its cradle.

“Can she turn?” Orra asked.

“She can turn if the wind agrees and the ship remembers to listen.” Brask worked a knot with his thumb. “I can promise one of those.”

Vey had given them until the second bell to decide whether to leave the island. Nima was in the basin chamber, trying to read the pulse without provoking another one. Orra had come to help with the rig and found herself watching every line as if it could answer for her.

The instrument lay in its padded case at the foot of the companionway. She had sent the signal through the uncharted branch. The separate pulse had come back. Since then, the ship had not moved toward it, and the answer had not become any easier to understand.

Brask caught her looking down. “If you’ve got a thought, say it. That line’s not going to tie itself.”

“I’m wondering how much sail we can put on her without making that crystal do the work of two.”

“Less than I’d like. More than the captain will enjoy.” He finished the knot and leaned his weight into it. It held. “You can worry about the sail. I’ll worry about the mast.”

Nima called them into the basin chamber before Orra could answer.

She had shifted the astrolabe's brass arms into a low, wide arrangement. Their constellation points wavered as the ship's hull moved against the island's mooring lines. The basin beneath them held its usual dim light, route pillars dark around its rim. Orra took the keel-instrument from its case but kept it in both hands.

“Nothing from us,” Nima said. “I want that clear before we begin.” She rested one fingertip against an astrolabe arm. “The source pulse has returned twice since your test. Each time, the basin recorded it through the same branch. A separate rhythm from the hull's pulse.”

“How often?” Vey asked.

“Not regularly enough to set a watch by it. Regular enough to recognize.”

Orra put the instrument on the cloth beside the basin. “Can you get a bearing from here?”

“Only a rough one. The basin tells us which route carries the pulse. The astrolabe gives me a direction, but the island distorts the reading.” Nima looked up. “Move the ship a little way out from the island. If the pulse comes again, I can compare the angle.”