They rounded a headland, and just beyond there was what appeared to be a narrow channel stretching back between two rocky promontories.
“I’ll take her, Ox,” Sorgan said, laying one hand on the tiller. “Get the oarsmen in place, and drop the sail. Let’s not run her aground this close to the rich lady’s home village.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Ox agreed.
Hook-Beak considered his options as he steered the Seagull through the channel and on into the sizeable bay lying beyond. He was fairly sure that Longbow hadn’t been trying to deceive him, but it might be better to take things a little slow and steady here. He didn’t know these people, and they didn’t know him. He glanced at the sky. It was midafternoon now, and it’d probably take some time to locate the village and row up the bay to wherever it was. That could possibly bring them to this Lattash place at sundown or even later. It might be safer to drop anchor a ways out from shore and wait until morning. That way they’d arrive in broad daylight, and everybody could see what everybody else was doing.
“Shinny up the mast, Ham-Hand,” he told his second mate. “See if you can spot that village, and then find us a place to anchor for the night. We’ll sit tight until morning, and then we’ll go talk with the rich lady.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Ham-Hand agreed. “Let’s not rile up the natives if we don’t have to.”
They anchored the Seagull off a rocky shore where there was no discernable beach. Hook-Beak didn’t want anybody to come creeping up to his ship in the dark. He stationed lookouts aloft and others in the bow and on the stern, just to be on the safe side.
The night passed quietly, and everything seemed to be all right the next morning. The lookouts had seen several fires near the broad, sandy beach at the head of the bay during the night, and Sorgan called the crew of the Seagull to the aft deck for a little conference. “I want you men to mind your manners when we go into that village,” he told them. “Don’t start getting any ideas about their womenfolk or try to grab any trinkets from the men. We’re probably going to be outnumbered by about ten to one, so let’s all be real polite. These people seem to need some help from us, and there’s been some talk of gold as payment for that help, so behave yourselves. Don’t start waving your swords and spears around, and don’t snarl or shake your fists at anybody. We could be talking about a lot of gold here, and I’ll be very unhappy with anybody who does anything to upset the applecart. Have I made myself clear?” He looked around at his crew with bleak eyes and an even grimmer expression.
They all seemed to get his point almost immediately.
They raised anchor as the sun was just coming up, and the oarsmen slowly rowed the Seagull up to the head of the bay where the nighttime lookouts had seen the fires.
“Take her on in until we’re about a hundred yards from shore, Ox,” Sorgan instructed. “We’ll drop anchor there and wait to see how the natives behave. If they seem peaceful, fine. If they act belligerent, we’ll turn the Seagull around and go someplace else.”
“I get your drift, Cap’n,” Ox agreed.
Sorgan noted that the village of Lattash was quite a bit larger than the one where he’d met Longbow, and there were many canoes on the sandy beach, and fishnets drying on poles near the canoes. It appeared that the natives of Lattash were primarily fishermen. The houses, if they could be called that, were made, for the most part, of tree branches tightly woven about dome-shaped frames, and, though they appeared to be a bit crude, Hook-Beak was fairly sure that they kept the weather at bay. There was nothing in the village that could really be called a street, since the individual huts appeared to have been randomly placed.
There was also a well-packed ridge or berm between the village and the river, which came down out of the mountains just there, and that strongly hinted at the possibility that the river sometimes overflowed its banks.
It wasn’t long before a dozen or so canoes were paddled out from the beach by leather-clad natives. Sorgan noted that they were all fairly well armed. Their arrows and spears had stone points, but a well-sharpened stone point could probably find a man’s vitals almost as well as an iron one could.
The canoes drew up in a sort of half-circle between the Seagull and the beach, but a single one was paddled up to within a few yards of Sorgan’s ship. There were only two natives in the canoe. The one who was doing the paddling appeared almost as burly as Ox, and he had a flaming red beard that reached halfway to his waist. The other native was much older, and he had snowy hair, which he wore in braids.
The red-bearded native skillfully brought the canoe to a stop, and his older companion rose to his feet. “Welcome to Lattash, Sorgan Hook-Beak,” he said in a deep, rolling voice. “Long have we awaited your coming.”
“I am honored by your greeting,” Sorgan replied. A certain formality seemed to be in order here. He didn’t know these people, so he didn’t want to take any chances.
“I am White-Braid of Lattash,” the man in the canoe introduced himself, “and the younger men of this village even heed my advice—every so often.” The old man smiled faintly.
Sorgan had noticed that Longbow had also seemed to have a similarly dry sense of humor. He straightened. “I have been told that the Lady Zelana would have words with me, Chief White-Braid,” he said.
“I have heard so myself,” White-Braid replied. “This is my nephew, Red-Beard,” he said, gesturing toward the native who’d paddled the canoe. “He will escort you to the cave where she dwells. I shall remain here so that your men will need have no concern about your continued well-being. In time, these precautions may no longer be necessary, but we are strangers still, so let there be no possibility of deception.”
“You are very wise, Chief White-Braid,” Sorgan said, “and I shall be guided by you in this matter.” If White-Braid wanted formality, Sorgan was ready to pile formality on him until he was hip-deep in it.
The two of them rather carefully changed places. White-Braid came on board the Seagull, and Hook-Beak climbed down into the canoe. “Treat our friend well, Ox,” Sorgan called up to his first mate.
“Aye, Cap’n,” Ox replied respectfully.
“Why does the lady called Zelana live in a cave instead of in the village with the rest of the tribe?” Sorgan asked the red-bearded native, who was paddling the canoe smoothly toward the beach.