MacKinnie nodded. “Suggestions?”

“Just fix the boat and hope we can outrun them. Sure as hell can’t outfight them. Oh, and this is a bigger boat than most of the pirate stuff. Faster. Warship, one of the best on the planet, I’m told. But there’s a hell of a lot of pirates. Without a full crew, if one of their ships boards us, we’re dead.”

“Yeah. Well, we cross that when it happens. How long to get the work done?” Now that Nathan was no longer watched by the Imperials every moment, he had control over his actions again, and the new sense of purpose drove him impatiently. He glanced about himself, took out his pipe, and borrowed MacLean’s lighter to fire it. “How’d you get this past?” he asked.

“This?” MacLean looked at the lighter as if he had never seen it before. It was an ordinary flint and steel device, not as elegant as the flameless units the Imperial Navy carried. “I just walked out with it. Landry saw it, but he didn’t say anything.”

MacKinnie nodded slowly. By Empire standards, the lighter was primitive enough to be classed with Makassar technology. He wondered how many more Samualite devices were strange to Makassar but would be overlooked by the Navy; it was a point to remember.

“How long until we can sail?”

MacLean scratched his chin. “With luck, a few days. Decking’s the hard part. There are a lot of hands to do the work, but they’ve never done this kind of thing before. Still, by the time you get the goods and provisions on board we should be just about ready to get under way.”

It took two of the local weeks. Although the Makassar day was somewhat longer than Samual’s and quite a bit longer than the standard Earth day, MacKinnie noticed that he and his crew soon became accustomed to living by local time, which was measured by sundials or not at all.

One reason the work went slowly was that the local church insisted on Sabbath-keeping, and in addition seemed to proclaim at least one Holy Day each week. These, and the inexperience of the locals with the construction methods MacLean insisted on, caused the first delays. Then when the ship was completed, another week was consumed in obtaining cloth suitable for sails and have the Drapers sew it.

MacLean was the only man available to design the equipment needed. He designed and cast anchors more advanced than anything seen on Makassar since the war; installed windlasses and winches, cast in bronze by the Ironsmiths; and had the Drapers lay up ropes and cables from local fibers. It all had to be done, and MacLean had to see to each detail personally. The days dragged on and on.

MacKinnie watched nervously one day when a party of Imperial sailors led by the junior lieutenant of the planet walked around the dockyards, but they evidently saw nothing to disapprove of. Anchors and winches were things for primitives, and the Navy men did not even understand the purpose of some of MacLean’s devices. As a precaution, MacKinnie had taught Brett the use of most of them, so that if asked he would appear familiar with the equipment. The Navy might think it in common use elsewhere on Makassar,

By the time the ship was ready for launching, the trade goods and weapons they would carry were piled on the docks. A light drizzle driven by the strong westerly winds thoroughly soaked the party as they stood watching the locals launch the ship. The primitive ways did not permit much sophistication — half the young men in the town simply lifted and strained until Subao was in the water, then fell to carrying aboard the iron ingots MacLean had selected for ballast. MacKinnie expected to get under way immediately, but found that there was more to do.

“What now?” he asked MacLean.

“Masts. Stays. Running the sails up to see how they fit. Securing the ballast. Trader, that ship may be on her ear in a storm one of these days, and you’ll hardly want the ballast shifting around down there. And we still have the leeboards to install. You can save time by getting your gear aboard today, but don’t plan on leaving for at least three days more.”

MacKinnie cursed, silently so that MacLean would not hear him. There was little else he could do.

That afternoon MacLean gave instruction on how to sail the boat. He discovered that young Todd had sailed small boats in the Haven harbor, and, under MacKinnie’s questioning, the boy admitted to being a military cadet for one of the wealthier families of the kingdom of Haven. MacLean immediately appointed him midshipman and quartermaster.

They learned the language the locals used aboard ships, although MacLean had to adapt several local words for terms they would not be familiar with. Then he had Todd drill everyone on the names of lines and gear on the ship. MacKinnie noted that Brett seemed very adaptable, learning faster than the outworlders, although his friend Vanjynk was almost uninterested. Stark, as usual, soon learned his tasks and drove the guardsmen to theirs, not a bit upset by Todd’s sudden promotion over him. That night Stark and MacKinnie sat in MacKinnie’s small room at the inn overlooking the water.

“Best we get the men some action, sir,” Hal said. “All that drill with sword and shield’s fine, but they get restless carrying stores and driving nails. Got some good pointers from that Vanjynk fellow, he’s gifted with this armor and stuff. Reckon he’s in the same business we are.”

MacKinnie nodded. “From what I can see, it was all he ever learned until he lost his lands and had to go wandering with the singer. What do you make of Brett?”

“Don’t know, sir. Takes my orders right enough, better than Vanjynk, but there’s no understanding him.”

MacKinnie nodded. “He’s a tough one. That’s a pretty strange partnership he’s got with Brett. Vanjynk seems to be one of the iron men Blatt forever tells us about.” He hoisted his glass and winked at his sergeant. “Iron MacKinnie’s new troops. Few enough of them. Had any success at recruiting?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, sir. There’s a shipmaster I’ve been drinking with, man named Loholo. He claims he can get us a crew for a price. Part of the price is he wants to go with us. Mr. MacLean wasn’t too interested in having a native shipmaster aboard, said there was enough command problems already what with nobody knowing who ranked who. He’s not happy with you being in charge, sir. But I can’t tell about Loholo; the Guild people seem to think a lot of him. Should I send for him? He’s in the Blueglass tonight waiting to hear.”

“No harm in talking to him. Sure, why not?”

Stark nodded and went to the door. He spoke briefly in low tones to one of the guardsmen outside. “Be here in a couple of minutes, Trader. Be best if I were on duty when he came in.” Stark took his glass to another table across the small room.

Captain Loholo was a short, dark-brown man, stocky and strong-looking, with a distinct slant to his eyes, reminding MacKinnie of the starship officers he had seen. He had seen many others of his type on Makassar, in sharp contrast to the tall, blonde men like Vanjynk. Loholo wore a golden skull ornament in his left ear, and carried a large curved knife in his belt. His clothing was of finer material than was usually seen on Jikar men, and everything he wore was freshly cleaned. He stood self-confidently in the doorway, coolly eyeing the star men.

“Trader,” Hal said, “I want you to meet Captain Loholo, shipmaster and merchant. I’m told he’s the only captain left in the port.”

“Please have a seat, Captain,” MacKinnie said, pouring a glass of wine. “My guard chief tells me you can raise a crew.”

“Aye.” Loholo fingered the glass, looked at MacKinnie for a moment, and drank. “Not a very good crew, Trader. The good men are at the bottom of the sea or run off to join the pirates. But there’s men here who can pull an oar. Not seamen. Apprentices from all the Guilds, boys on tithes who’d like to be men again.” He spoke so rapidly that MacKinnie had difficulty following him, and had to have Loholo repeat his words.