The rest made even less sense. Belle was one of those packs who spoke almost perfect Samnorsk, but sometimes part of her would rattle on even after her main attention was elsewhere. Timor noticed that the pack was intensely focused on the wreck, her long necks twitching back and forth. She had been even more eager than Timor when Gannon Jorkenrud had invited them to come along. He followed the center of her gaze. There were barrels bobbing in the foaming surf.
“So if the Tropicals are such problem, why are you interested in the wreck?”
“That’s the thing, boy. These shipwrecks have been going on since time out of mind; I remember legends of them. Every few years, a crowd of Tropical singletons gets washed ashore. They’re always a problem, the ones who live. But the rafts usually have valuable junk on board, stuff we normally don’t see, since the Tropics are so filled with disease and choirs that no pack can survive there.”
She paused. “Hei, some of the barrels are on the rocks. I can hear them breaking up.” Two of her scrambled to the edge of the rock. Her oldest hung back, watching to keep them all oriented. “Okay, Timor, you stay here. I’m going down to have a look.” Her two youngest were already sliding and scrambling down, risking cuts and sprains in their eagerness.
“But wait!” shouted Timor. “We’re supposed to stand watch.”
“I can do that close up,” she said. “You stay up here.” Her two youngest were out of sight now, hidden by the edge of the boulder. Two others were helping old Ihm to negotiate the slippery rocks. She emitted a Tinish chord that Timor recognized as evasive mumbling. “You be the overall lookout, okay? Remember, Gannon is depending on you.”