“—to the right here, then left immediately—”
“—and Prest and Prestsay. High Tross there beyond. The large one is Ommern.”
“—your mainsheet out here, but with care. The wind gusts after Tross. And a sweet way to the right as you go—”
So Wind’s Road threaded gently between tall emerald slopes and past low green humps, and Mitt listened and listened, trying to remember that song.
“Then you have Ommersay and Wittess, and we come out past lovely Holy Isle, the holiest of all. After, you will see Diddersay and Doen and the three Ganter Islands—”
Mitt thought it was not quite a song he had in mind. It was the astonishing turfy smell of the islands, or a mixture of the two. Anyway, had he not once, years ago, thought he knew this place and set out to find it? Navis came into it somehow. Mitt was so pleased to remember this much that he scrambled over to Hildy and beamed at her. “Hey, I take it all back about this place! You’re going to love it here!”
He was rather hurt at the pale, haughty way Hildy looked. “This,” she said, squeezing at her fingers, “isn’t the North.”
“Who cares?” Mitt said. “I think I’ll have a go at staying here myself. I wouldn’t mind—I really wouldn’t mind!”
“—left now—”
“—and there is Trossaver, with Lathsay beside—”
Wind’s Road slipped between long, high Trossaver and lump-shaped Lathsay and came into a wide space ringed with islands, where there was ship upon tall ship at anchor. One was just hoisting sail. Another was gliding in through a wide gap opposite, as if it were coming off patrol, but most were anchored, with bare masts. Among the anchored ships Mitt recognized the Wheatsheaf. She had no doubt sailed fast on wind above the islands that Wind’s Road was too small to catch, but she was evidently so far ahead of them that Mitt suspected Riss and Jenro had sailed them on a tour of the Holy Islands. That suited Mitt, but he wondered why.
They sailed toward a long horseshoe-shaped jetty, with a host of little ships tied to it. Behind it was a small town of gray and white houses, with what looked to be the Lord’s mansion rising above them at the back. The mainland was beyond again, as green and rocky as the islands, as if the town was also on an island.
“That is the Isle of Gard. The hardway to the land is behind,” Jenro explained.
“And a fine fleet in harbor,” Riss added proudly.
Hildy tried to unbend. “There are more ships here than in Holand,” she said. She thought she sounded as condescending as her aunts. She saw Ynen wince a little. So she became angry with everyone and did not say any more.
As Wind’s Road approached the jetty, Riss and Jenro sprang into sudden activity. Mitt had hardly had time to climb to his feet and offer to help before the sails were down, ropes out, and Wind’s Road was quietly nudging the jetty stonework, tied up and her long journey over. Mitt and Ynen stared at one another, tired, sad, and a little aimless. Riss, meanwhile, was out on the jetty, talking to a number of large blank-faced men who were sta
nding there.
“Will you go with these?” he said, coming back to Mitt and pointing to the men. “They are not of the islands.”
They were clearly not of the islands. They were dark and heavy, like a lot of men in Holand. But since they were standing in a line along the jetty, Mitt did not see he had any choice in the matter. “I suppose so. All of us?”
“If you will,” said Riss. “We shall see you.” He and Jenro both shook hands with Mitt, smiled warmly, and trotted away along the jetty. Feeling rather deserted, Mitt, Ynen, and Hildy scrambled out on the jetty, too. The men closed round them to lead them away. It was alarming. But it was also very silly because for a minute or so none of the three of them could walk. When they stepped forward, the ground was either unaccountably missing, or it came up and hit them before they were ready for it.
“Too long at sea!” gasped Mitt. “You have to wait.”
The large men waited, silent and impatient, while Ynen fell into Mitt, and Hildy into both of them, and Ynen and Mitt shrieked with laughter, and even Hildy was forced to smile. None of the men smiled, even when they were able to set out through the town, rolling like old sailors and giggling as they went. They were not able to notice the town much, though Mitt did see that there were fields in it, confusingly, among the houses, with cows or wheat stubble in them, and that, every so often, there was a short square-topped pillar about as high as his waist, where people had carefully laid flowers, fruit, and ears of corn. But they saw few people because it was still early morning.
They came to the mansion and were taken inside through a small door. Hildy relaxed a little. The small door meant they were probably prisoners, which must mean that nobody knew who she was. She was glad of that because she could soon put that right. Mitt was not so sure. He had simply no idea what was happening. The only thing seemed to be to wait and see.
They staggered their way up a flat flight of stone stairs to a sunny stone landing. They waited, while one of the men went to knock on a door. Then—bang! There was an explosion somewhere. All the windows rattled. All three of them jumped violently, and Mitt, at least, burst out in cold, trickling sweat all over. He was nearly as scared as he had been in the storm. But the large man did not turn a hair and did not pause in knocking on the door. There was a voicelike noise from beyond it. The large man opened the door.
“They’re here. Shall I show them in?”
“If you like,” said someone inside.
The man jerked his head. Hildy, Ynen, and Mitt trooped through the door into a long, sunlit room smelling of food and gunsmoke—as queer a mixture, though less pleasant, as the mixed smell of the islands and the sea. The food smell came from the table near the door. Al was sitting beside it, with his back to the table and Hobin’s gun supported over the back of his chair. Another table was against the wall at the other end of the room. There was a row of bottles on it and cups balanced on the bottles. One bottle was smashed. Al fired again as soon as the door was shut. It was deafening. A cup jumped and shattered, and there was a great deal of laughter.
“Got the hang of this flaming gun now, Lithar,” said Al.
“About time,” said Bence, the captain of the Wheatsheaf. He was sitting on a chair by the window, eating an apple.
The third man said, “Oh, Al! I have missed seeing you do that!”