Neither Storval nor any of the hired swordsmen would admit it, but Reuth’s navigation saw the Lady’s Luck south through the Wreckers’ Coast. Only his uncle offered any acknowledgement of the feat, and this with mere cuffs across Reuth’s shoulder. Meagre fare, but more affection than the coarse, bluff fellow generally granted.

Reuth kept apart from the band of fighters Storval had gathered about himself: the sneering Stormguard and other disaffected swordsman from Fist. The Mare sailors generally avoided the fighting men as well, siding now with his uncle in any discussion regarding strategy or ship’s business.

It was, he knew, a very dangerous situation for the future of their venture – and for the future of his uncle, for that matter. Not to mention himself, he slowly began to understand. Navigator or no, the swordsmen in no way hid their contempt and dislike of him.

Again he wished Whiteblade were still with them. He would’ve sided with his uncle, he was certain. But then, who knew? Had the champion revealed himself these Stormguard might have attacked him immediately, as they had every reason to loathe and hate him for the loss of their Lady.

In any case, there was no way to know now.

Under Reuth’s constant guidance, the Lady’s Luck successfully rounded the tip of the Bone Peninsula and reached the mouth of the narrows. Here they found a great flotilla of vessels from seafaring cities and states from all four corners of the world. All at anchor while their pilots and steersmen studied the maze of jagged spars and stone teeth that were the Guardian Rocks.

Tulan ordered them to drop anchor here as well, and the Lady’s Luck joined the informal queue of vessels all awaiting some change in the currents, or a fellow navigator’s brash attempt to dare the rocks. Reuth had no doubt that everyone carefully watched how well these ventures fared: what course to follow, what turns to avoid.

For the rest of that day and the next he watched as well. They witnessed two attempts to thread the maze, both at high tide. One in the evening and one at the next dawn. Four ships set out in the evening. None survived the twisting, foaming course, though one nimble galley nearly made it through.

The wreckage of broken timbers and tangled rigging came washing out to pass between the anchored vessels. Few of the sailors waving their arms and begging amid the flotsam were picked up; most coursed onward past the flotilla to bob out into the grey waters of the Sea of Hate, where, Reuth was certain, all would eventually drown or be consumed by sharks.

At one point in the day Storval came ambling up to where Tulan and Reuth stood close to the bow. ‘Well, captain?’ the mate asked. These days the man said ‘captain’ in a strange tone, as if he were winking, or worse. It came to Reuth that now that they’d arrived, the mate and his gang must think themselves close to free of them. He knew that they had a long way to travel as yet, but he also knew there was no way Storval would listen to him.