Sime and the coach of the Funkrad had a conversation with the steersman.
“Our boat is just beyond the sandbar,” Sime said. “The dinghy will take us out to it.”
The oarsman barked something. For a moment the mists parted and she caught a glimpse of a mast in the fog and something darker near the water.
“Two trips, it will take,” said the coach of the Funkrad. “It’s a tiny dinghy.”
Duvalier went in the first run with Valentine and Sime. She noticed that both the sailors had identical white pants and sockless shoes. From the waist up they were differentiated, however, one in a sweater, the other in a canvas shirt and insulating vest.
“Seems like an odd choice, to get on another ship after being on land,” Duvalier said. “Would have been a good deal easier to just take a ship the whole way.”
“The Baltic Straits might be patrolled,” Valentine said. “I think you can see land-to-land at some of the points. Or island-to-land, anyway. Easy to choke off traffic and do inspections.”
They had to get out of their rowboat at the sandbar and tote it, oars, and luggage over the grassy sand and back into the water. Duvalier tripped in the surf and got wet, but otherwise it was an interesting exercise.
They soon reached the ship. It didn’t draw much water, so it was able to anchor close to the sandbar.
It appeared that a sleek sailing ship would convey them on the next leg of the voyage to the mystery conference. Duvalier didn’t know much about sails; until this trip her boating experience had been confined to river craft and barges, and those were all motorized. This ship had two masts and a sharp bowsprit holding the forestay. A few portholes lined the side, light glimmering in some. A little tent of glass ran down its center; she presumed there was some kind of cabin beneath.
Duvalier didn’t like the look of it at first. All the other boats were built for sailors and their work at sea. This boat, though longer and far sleeker than the Out for Lunch, had a bathtub-toy shine to it.
A man with reddish-blond hair, wearing blue jeans, boat shoes, and a thick fleece with a Windbreaker shell, gave them a friendly wave. He handed her up on board.
His hands were like Sime’s, as sleek and polished as his boat.
“My name is Von Krebs,” the man said, tapping his chest with an unlit pipe. “Lorherr Von Krebs. I am the owner of the Windkraft.” He had more of an English accent than German when speaking their tongue, at least to Duvalier’s inexperienced ear. “The Baltic League tells me you are from the middle of the former United States, yes?”
“Yes,” Valentine said.
He had a good smile, and Duvalier felt somewhat better. Smiles usually told the truth about a person. “I am pleased, very pleased. One rarely meets Americans in these bad times.” He shook hands all around.
Duvalier admired his shave. He didn’t have so much as a shadow or a nick. Even Sime looked a bit ragged around the edges when compared to Von Krebs’s standard. He must be very professional with a razor.
“Welcome aboard,” Von Krebs continued. “Would anyone like some tea? I have milk, lemon, or sugar, all fresh, not from bottles or cans. We are great tea drinkers here in the Baltic. Even more so than our friends across the Channel.”
Valentine and Sime nodded, and a sailor appeared with a tray of steaming mugs. Duvalier noted there was a small brown bottle of rum with a picture of a thatch-roofed hut on a beach, if anyone wanted to strengthen the tea into a more warming libation.
“I anticipate a journey of a few days, depending on wind and weather. I hope you will find the trip comfortable. I am afraid you are all to sleep dormitory-style forward, but I imagine I can make private room for the lady.”
“No need,” Duvalier said.
“Our destination?” Sime asked.
Von Krebs pointed north, out into the sea. “I just found that out this morning. They keep secrets even from me, sixteen years with the Refugee Network. We are bound for the Finnish coast on the Gulf of Bothnia—a town called Kokkola. Trade port with rail service, lively year-round. It is a delightful little place, at least at this time of year. I believe you will enjoy yourselves.”
The second dinghy load arrived. Ahn-Kha heaved himself and his gear on board thanks to his apelike arms. The crew openly gaped at him, and Duvalier would have sworn that the deck rolled over a little as he stood at the ship’s side. Perhaps they’d have to lash him to the center, like cargo.
They met the crew, who all had white pants, save for the captain, a tall, hawk-faced woman who wore clam-digger jeans that showed off her legs.
Valentine did a little halt step as he moved up to shake her hand, and it set Duvalier’s antenna twitching.
The blond captain in the clam-diggers dropped Valentine’s hand. “Wait, you are Indian Man from Lake Michigan Wisconsin You Ess Ayy! We have met before—I know certain!”
“Pleased you remember.” Valentine smiled. “Yes, you were with the White Banner Fleet when I was a courier. I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Stepanek. Captain now,” she said. “You have changed. Scars, I see. When we met before you had still the complexion of a boy fresh off the mother’s teat.”
“Yes,” Valentine said. “We’re both a little weather-beaten. Still hunting for art?”