Their skiff was making a weird noise... again. A grinding, grating screech that was stuck somewhere between breaking and collapsing. It had been making strange noises for a few days, but this time looked or rather sounded serious.

Garot peaked out under the brim of his hat, squinting past the glare to watch as the mercenaries scuttled across the deck. They moved with the anxious purpose of men who really, really wanted to get paid on time.

He watched as one man stuck his head out over the salt, peering down at the hull as the endless white expanse rushed past beneath him.

It had only taken Garot two days to get sick of that sight. And that was… many days ago.

Shouts rose on the deck as the captain bellowed something at the lookout.

"Why in Heston's name were you not lookin where we was goin?" He roared, his many keys and knives jangling as he rushed over to the bridge. He wiped the sweat from his rather fearsome brow, cursing like the sailor he might have been if there was water.

Since there wasn't, he was a skiff captain—much the same thing, but with fewer sea monsters and a sight more… boredom.

Garot was perched at the back of the skiff, leaning up against an old barrel with his hat low over his face. He didn't need to look to see the problem because he – like everyone else – had felt the runner snap.

Skiffs were great hulking masses of wood and steel, which only managed to get around by relying on enormous skis and a vast sail. When one of the skis broke – as was the case for their skiff – they were as good as shipwrecked.

The captain - whose face was now beet red – rushed at the young boy who wasn't looking out properly, hitting him with his hat. "Tis another damned bone!" He screeched, "what'd I say about bones!?"

Looking down at his feet miserably, the boy muttered something inaudible.

"Speak up!" The captain snapped, "I'm not your dirty mother!"

Garot noticed that the boy visibly recoiled when the captain said this, as did a few crew members. It was common knowledge that many men who ended up in this line of work didn't have the most glowing parental figures.

Garot's own mother was... Not something he wanted to think about it.

"You said to watch out for the bones, sir," the boy replied meekly, "and that if we hit one… I - I was to be dragged behind the skiff by a rope around the ankles."

The captain nodded sternly, "So y'aren't deaf?"

"No sir."

"Then why in Heston's name d'ya not listen!?"

“…” The boy had no answer. He could only stand there gloomily. At the time, the captain's threats had seemed like a joke, but now… well, he really hoped they had been a joke.

"Cut im some slack, Jonny!" A burly man with an eyepatch and more teeth missing than there shouted. "The bones are the same damn colour as the salt. How's he sposed to see em?"

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Jonny, the captain, turned to face the man – scowling, "I've got eyes, I'can see that!" He yelled. "But I don't get paid to look out, do I?"

Garot closed his eyes, allowing the ensuing argument to drift past. Part of him suspected that the captain actually enjoyed arguing. Otherwise, he wouldn't spend all his time doing it. Garot got exhausted when he even thought about yelling that much, so he could only offer a prayer for the captain's poor vocal cords – exhausted as they must be.

Not that a prayer from Garot would do much good for anyone. Prayers from Garot didn't even do him much good, seeing as he ended up on this skiff.

"Where's the damn repair boy?" The captain bellowed. A sound that pricked Garot's attention since they were talking about him.

He winced and considered just staying where he was. But all it took was one glance at the boiling captain to know that wouldn't end well. Garot was already not very well-liked – on account of him being new… and a few scandals involving 'unfair' gambles.

Stumbling to his feet, Garot was assaulted by his oldest foe – a hangover. His head ached, specifically on a spot below his eye where he had been punched last night… on second thought, maybe it wasn't a hangover after all.

Picking his way across the cluttered skiff, Garot stumbled down some stairs that – if he were a truly dedicated repairman – he ought to have done something about.

Noticing his approach, the captain whirled on Garot, bellowing as he loved to do.

Fazing out the noise and a rather conspicuous glare from a fellow Garot vaguely remembered conning out of a few Drach… hm, now that he was looking closer, that fellow's fist and his face seemed to be acquaintances.

Shaking his head, Garot ignored the droning captain and leant out over the skiff. It was still moving - if a little slower than before - but it wouldn't be for long. A great splinter arched down one of the runners, splitting the massive wooden ski into two distinct sections. With every bump and rock they passed over, the splinter widened ominously.

Garot shook his head again and spun around to face the captain.

"Three days," he said, chewing the fingernail on his thumb resolutely.

"Three days!?" The captain blustered. "The Solstice is in a week's time! How in the holy-loving-mother are we sposed to get to that damn mountain on foot?"

Garot shrugged. "I've no idea, but that's how long it'll take if you want the job done well,"

Narrowing his eyes, the captain asked, "and say - say I don't want it done well…."

"I can get her going in a couple of hours… but… she won't last long."

"I don't need her to last long. I just need to get where I'm goin."

With another shrug, Garot accepted this and said, "well, I can't fix her while we're moving,"

What followed was a series of shouts as the skiff ground to a halt – all the while, the runner screeched in protest.

It finally stopped, and Garot, along with a few other men, jumped over the side, landing beside the damaged runner. As he directed them to different points along the ski, Garot gazed off past the skiff, admiring the endlessly rolling waves of sand in the distance.

If he didn't know better, he would have thought the dunes were made of gold.

Unfortunately, he did.

They had been travelling parallel to those same dunes for days, following some scatter-brained star chart that made sense only to those willing to lie to themselves.

But they were getting closer, and even with this delay, Garot expected them to make it to the mountain on time.

He set to work, wrapping bands and ropes around the runner, as well as attaching splints in particularly perilous areas. Honestly, if it were up to him, he would have put armour at the end of the ski, but the captain had better things to spend his money on.

Like Garot, for example.

Why make your ship unbreakable when you can buy an indentured servant to fix it for you? They weren't called slaves anymore. Not since the sixth uprising, anyway.

Garot went to work, slapping together a rag-tag solution that would make anyone who knew anything about skiffs nervous.

When he had finished, night had begun again, a time that brought with it only problems.

"Garot!" A high-pitched voice drifted down the side of the skiff. "I'll be winning back my Drach tonight! Kerry says he can beat ye this time, fer sure!"

Tilting his head up at the bridge, Garot couldn't help but smile. Yes, night brought with it problems, and Garot loved those problems.

Perhaps, a little too much.