Chapter 398

"Hey, boss, go down and rest for a while; I've got this."

A drunken voice approached from behind; alcohol distorted the owner's steps and swollen tongue, making him in the icy sea's night wind like a clumsy bear that had hoarded too much fat, ready to slip away on the thin ice of the deck at any moment.

"You? Just don't fall in for a winter swim." William licked his dry, cold lips, pulled his hand holding the wine flask out from under his coat, and rejected the second mate's suggestion to take over the watch. "This isn't the Bingshan; it's very hard to pull someone back up."

Every inch of his mouth urged him to unscrew the cap and moisten his throat with the liquor.

But this was strong wine for warding off the cold; the consequence of craving it would be skipping half a day or even a whole day, missing the best star-gazing opportunity for the coming week.

For the seventeenth time tonight, he looked up at the sky in the direction the compass pointed.

Thin clouds had lingered for several days and nights, like frosted glass or a dancer's gauze skirt, constantly disturbing his vision at a distance, blocking that tiny yet crucial point in the sky.

That star located at the far north, the axis of the firmament, seemed to be behind some wisp of cloud, teasingly leaking threads of light, making one believe it would reveal itself in the next breath.

But until the arm holding the sextant ached and the eyes grew dry and itchy, that blurred, faint brightness had never truly appeared.

A few days ago, they had almost finished loading the last batch of cargo on the very tips of a blizzard and set sail to return.

The cold current and cloud wall sweeping across the entire ice plain were tripped up by the mountains, stopping at the edge of the land, yet its sphere of influence was far from limited to this.

The temperature gradually dropped, and the sea mist grew heavier night after night; the hull of the Bingshan could no longer be seen clearly at night, and the two ships could only judge their positions relative to each other through the fire baskets hanging at their bows and sterns, communicating by horn.

According to past experience, this meant they would soon encounter a period of bad weather, unable to determine their distance from the southern voyage via the stars.

By rights, this shouldn't be a big deal; even at the fastest sailing speed, it would originally take at least half a month to head south. As long as the direction was correct, they would eventually wait for the sky to clear, and it would still be time to calculate then.

Old sailors all understood this principle, so they were not nervous, and the few newcomers also calmed down after learning the situation.

The atmosphere of the Consecration Festival had been brewing on this skiff far from the faith of the Heavenly Father for many days; even at the start of the voyage, one could hear the tunes of the festival interwoven in the sea shanties.

From time to time, one could see rough wreaths woven with old rope knots instead of branches, hanging on the portholes and masts, adorned with decorations made of dried orange slices.

By today, the atmosphere had finally reached a climax. On the sea far from home, the sailors celebrated the arrival of the festival joyfully, lighting bonfires in small iron pans behind the windbreaks, sitting around to share their privately stored good wine, and roasting caught sea fish and dried bread.

Even the sternest captain had no right to prevent the crew from enjoying this moment of joy. Except for a small number of unlucky ones chosen by lot, almost everyone had been granted half a day off.

Rough food and intermittent songs could make one briefly forget they were still at sea, regaining the sense of security of the land in a slight intoxication.

When this thin warmth reached the top of the ship's house carried by the cold wind, very little remained.

Only one person was still stubbornly struggling against the clouds.

For the eighteenth time, he turned his back to the firelight, stretched his neck out from the high collar full of fluff, pressed it to the observation line of the quadrant, and aimed at the most familiar position in the north.

As expected, the Heavenly Father did not favor the merchant who was still calculating profits on the night of the Consecration Festival.

As if deliberately teasing, the thicker part of the cloud layer shifted slightly by half a point, and the tiny movement once again plunged that glimmer of brightness back into gray darkness.

After waiting a while longer, the brightness flickered faintly when he turned his face away to dodge a gust of wind; it was still in the same place, still tiny, still only a breath's distance away, yet it never truly appeared again.

"Hic... what's wrong with you?" The second mate scratched his full belly in confusion; of course, he could see what the captain was waiting for, but the question was why insist on this trivial, optional matter on a festival night.

They were not sailing along the coast; on the vast sea, there were no reefs, no currents, only water after water.

One only needed to know they were heading south; as for the exact location, it was temporarily unimportant.

"Nothing, just wanted to take a look." William put away the quadrant and stuffed it back into its velvet bag.

In fact, he didn't know what was going on either; rationally speaking, the fleet was in the part of the voyage requiring the least worry.

Perhaps it was the caution brought by the bulk cargo, or some instinct peculiar to old captains; an inexplicable anxiety had always lingered in his heart, making him subconsciously perform an action only a novice would do.

"I just want to know how far we are from the ice plain."

"At least a hundred leagues, right? This sail is really sturdy; it runs no slower than a small boat." The drunkenness did not affect the second mate's professional competence; after a brief calculation, he gave a rough figure.

Relying on the daily measured speed and multiplying by the sailing time, it was not difficult to arrive at a similar answer—on the condition of sailing in a straight line.

This could not satisfy the captain; he needed a more reliable reference to ensure he was moving away from the land, especially that ice-and-snow-covered land.

Admittedly, it was the source of wealth, but the instinctive repulsion could not be faked.

"Have we counted all the cargo?" William interpreted this as another manifestation of his worsening psychological problems and tried to distract himself with other trivial matters.

"Counted. Two hundred and forty-five bundles of fur, all placed in the upper moisture-proof hold here. About ten rolls that got wet are being dried by the fire; the rest are wrapped in oilcloth, and no mold spots have been found for now."

"There are eighty-six barrels of minerals in total, not yet sorted, arranged by weight in the bottom hold. Most are iron sand and blocks of azurite; the quality is passable."

Speaking of the cargo, the second mate sobered up a bit. "As for the cargo given by those 'new friends,' it seems there's... silver inside. It looks more beautiful than the best mines in the south. People have already been assigned to guard it."

"We're going to make a huge profit this time."

"Yes, if you hadn't refused to go ashore, we would have stayed in Port Solace for a week, wouldn't we?"

"Fine, on this return trip, don't say a week; if you have the ability, you can stay for half a month." Thinking of the profits from the cargo, even the most anxious person would reveal a smile from the bottom of their heart.

This was turning stone into gold without miracles; the most common wheat and ordinary tools had been exchanged for real gold and silver.

The laughter lasted only a few seconds; the joy, like moisture exposed to the cold wind, cooled and solidified before long. "By the way, what about the rest?"

"Those unseen associated minerals? We've separated them here, totaling less than half a barrel, and some fragments are on the Bingshan. I don't know if they can fetch a good price. I hope the first mate didn't mix them up."

"It's fine... lower the sails a bit, blow the horn to notify the rear, and we'll speed up." William wiped the snow pellets from his beard; rather than worrying in vain, he preferred to dispel his anxiety with concrete action. "Faster, shake off the bad weather behind us."

"Raise another two-tenths of the sail, lads, we're going home!" The second mate repeated loudly, blowing the brass horn in long and short notes to send the same command to the ship behind.

The mist shaved the edges of the sound; the metal echo was no longer bright, dragged down and suppressed.

The waiting time for a reply seemed dragged out as well.

After a few breaths, or perhaps half a minute, a dull, muffled, and moist response came:

Intermittent and hazy, the distant distance folded it into several segments, and the tail of the sound was swallowed by the waves slapping against the ship's belly.

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