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. "Mariners often buy wind from seaside
warlocks. They keep the wind bound in knots of magical
cord. When the ship's master needs a breeze, he unknots as
much of a blow as he dares."
"Is there much magic on the sea?" Sturm asked, wide-
eyed.
Soren wiped mist from his helmet brim before it could
drip off. "Far too much to suit me, young lord. This fog
seems too clinging to be nature's work."
Midday was no brighter than dawn. The sea flattened
out like the puddled wax around Sturm's study candle in
Castle Brightblade. The lapping waves fell silent, and the
sail stayed slack against the mast. Captain Graff emerged
from below deck with a length of rawhide two spans long.
Sturm peered through the sterncastle rail as the captain
crossed the waist and mounted the steps to the poop.
"Sargo," he said to the helmsman. "I'm loosing a knot."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Graff put one end of the cord in his teeth. There were a
dozen knots along its length. The idea of a magic cord
intrigued and repelled Sturm at the same time. Such power
was forbidden to the knightly orders.
Graff picked at the first knot with his blunt fingernails.
In the stagnant air, each of his mutters was clear.
"Come loose, you son of a snake," he said
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