( Spumes and sea roiling and, at dawns, waters dark like opening maws. Fickle. He does not question when the task of rowing seems to deliver little progress, when they fight the wind to advance. When the girl raises herself and her sorcery is sound, a distant cousin but same blood of his own wielding of the zither.

Scarcely shifts, past discarding the oars obediently, like orphaned sons lined in the belly of the boat, allowing the tide to turn and their ship to soar. There is an expectation, as with all children of sorcery, that the girl's spell will give — a risk of blatant, tragic failure. And then, they have reached the creaking, leaking swell of the waiting merchant's ship, and that risk is already gone.

The infuriating stillness of the early hour rattles him, steels his spine straight. Sharpens his gaze and keeps the grip on his sword, sheathed. She has brought them here, unerringly. And so, leaning out to drag his hand over the ship's exoskeleton until it snags on bound cotton —

He has found the rope. ) You are adept at climbing rope?