Flight of the Gazebo

Chapter 17 - Shipshape and Bristol Fashion

"I'm not going to climb up there," said Nev. "Who do you think I am?"

"I didn't mean you necessarily-"

"I shouldn't need to tell you that unless we get up speed soon, we'll shortly be having a very unpleasant conversation with those goons." Nev pointed at the guards milling about in the sailing boat. They had a determined look about them.

With a back held huffily straight - a gesture that would have looked better if it had been made by anyone other than a rather oddly clad skeleton - Nev returned to the poop deck. As he reached the wheel, he looked at Drome, who was still in the same spot, staring up the mast.

"Climb up there! Loose the sails, you idiot!" shouted Nev.

This had an electric effect on the garflung who twitched, spluttered and sat up. Its middle eye rolled while the other two blinked rapidly.

"Sailwrights!" it roared. "Tops'ls!" It patted his chest and from under its coat it pulled out a whistle attached to a cord around its neck. It put the whistle to its lips, gave three short blasts and sank like a deflating balloon, eyes shut.

The nest-like structures, dangling like bloated fruits from the yardarms, shook about. Splits opened in their sides and out burst scores of eight-legged creatures. Had Drome been present in the throne room during the recent divining performed by Panslatch he would have recognised the creatures as ceptacs - although a larger breed than the ones used by the High Priest to catch his exudations - and he would have already seen how fast they could move. As it was, he staggered back in surprise as ceptacs swarmed onto the topmost yards and quickly released the gaskets holding the sails. The topsails billowed and filled as their lower edges dropped, aided by ceptacs loosening the lines that had been holding them up.

The ship heeled over with the wind, and Nev gave a hoarse cry of joy.

Their job done, the ceptacs scurried back to their nests, slipping in through the slits like coins being shoved into a slot machine by a compulsive gambler.

Drome hurried to the poop deck. Nev was spinning the wheel first one way then the other, cursing with frustration.

"Bloody ship isn't doesn't steer like I thought it would," he said.

"But... there was this creature..." said Drome, "Yellow. Small head. It tried to kill me."

"Not now! Can't you see we need to get away? I've got to concentrate on steering us out of the harbour! See if you can wake up that garflung and get it to make the other sails come down."

The ship's bow had lumbered around and was pointing away from the wind, in the general direction of the harbour mouth. The topsails were taut; the mast creaked, and the ship gradually picked up speed.

Drome cast a glance astern. The guards' boat had set off, its triangular sail expertly set and catching the wind nicely, but the crossbowmen on the quay had vanished. With that threat removed, Drome felt safe enough to walk upright as he approached the garflung - whom he reasoned was probably the captain - and gave it a tentative pat on the shoulder.

It was like touching a corpse and about as rewarding. The captain didn't move a muscle. Not even the tiniest tic crossed its broad face. Drome rubbed his forehead and wondered what to do. It wasn't as though he knew anything about garflungs, or any other aliens for that matter. What if patting a garflung on the shoulder was considered a deadly insult... or a romantic advance? What if he couldn't wake it? What if -

The captain snorted, heaved a great sigh, then subsided. It didn't seem to be breathing. Was that normal? Was it dead? He shook the captain's shoulder and received exactly the same non-response as last time.