DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 11 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 7 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 09/13/1998 Volume 11, Number 7 Circulation: 679 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb For Bronna 1 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Vibril 17-Firil 7, 1016 A Star To Steer By Jim Owens Firil 10, 1016 Paula's Star Don Will Firil 8, 1016 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet. We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project. Please address all correspondance to or visit us on the World Wide Web at http://www.shore.net/~dargon. Back issues are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 11-7, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright September, 1998 by the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb , Assistant Editor: Jon Evans . All rights reserved. All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution. Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden. ======================================================================== Editorial by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb As 1997 came to a close, the DargonZine writers took time out to think about our victories and our shortcomings, and how we might improve in 1998. We felt that our biggest shortcoming was the fact that we had only printed one new writer in 1997, and we came up with a bunch of ideas to address that problem. One of those ideas came from (now ex-) project member Clayton Fair, who suggested a periodic writing contest, where many writers would write about a common theme or event. This would give new writers an immediate story to work on, create more crossovers between storylines in the magazine, and get all our writers writing more. We all thought it was a great idea, and Mike Adams immediately volunteered to own setting it up and making it happen. Two months later, in February, Mike told us what he expected: a story of 30 KB or less that included the manifestation of a comet over the town of Dargon, which had to be ready to print by July 31, 1998! Well, it's been a long road from there! About a dozen people took up the challenge, yet only six stories were ready to print when the deadline came. And we had to throw out the 30 KB limitation, since some of our writers have trouble writing short stories! But our writers diligently cast their ballots, and Mike tallied the results. In the end, there were two works (both of them multi-part stories) that received substantially more votes than the rest of the pack. The runner-up is Dafydd's two-part tale "For Bronna". It begins in this issue, and tells the story of a merchant who commissions a portrait from a somewhat eccentric painter. It will culminate in our next issue, DargonZine 11-8. And the winner of our contest is Stuart Whitby's three-part "A Spell of Rain", in which a mage resorts to dubious magical means to augment the power of his apprentice son. Part 1 appears in DargonZine 11-5, and Part 2 appears in DargonZine 11-6. Ironically, although being "ready to print" was a criteria for entry into the contest, Stuart wasn't able to put the finishing touches on the final chapter of his story before this issue went to print! So, like Dafydd's story, "A Spell of Rain" will also culminate in our next issue. We've enjoyed participating in this contest. It has definitely given us lots of great material to print, and we've introduced two new writers in Stuart Whitby, the contest winner, and Don Will, whose story "Paula's Star" appears in this issue. And we hope that you enjoy reading the stories! So, in addition to bringing you the first half of Dafydd's story, in this issue we also bring you two more contest entries from Jim Owens and Don Will. Look for more contest stories to appear throughout the rest of the year, and especially look forward to the conclusions of our two prize-winning stories in DargonZine 11-8! ======================================================================== For Bronna Part I by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Vibril 17-Firil 7, 1016 Dargon Vibril 17, 1016 I drew my heavy cloak closer about myself against the cold Vibril weather and once again debated the wisdom of making this journey. Not because of the cold alone, either. The farther I traveled down Oaks Lane, the shabbier the houses got until I feared I would be wandering the warrens of the slums before I reached the Street of Painters. And I worried for my safety, most of all. I was too used to the busier and better patrolled streets of the commerce district where my warehouses were, or even the neighborhood I lived in, full of tradesmen and merchants. There, where the houses looked cared for and neat, and the regular town guard patrol were well known faces. I was not dressed for this part of town. Though the clothes and jewelry I wore were only what any merchant of moderate standing would wear, I began to feel like I was wearing a duke's ransom compared to those who walked Oaks with me. But I had an errand I was already late in running and I knew that if I turned back to change, some minor problem or other would come up at work that would require my attention. I could just imagine runner after runner arriving at my front door with one trivial difficulty after another. Eventually I would succumb and head off to the warehouses -- present me with a challenge, and I will chase after its solution until it is solved -- and then I would end up putting off this journey again until it was too late. I had directions as far as the Street of Painters, but no farther. That was the best that Carlide, one of my warehouse foremen, had been able to find out in the brief time between when I asked him to find the painter Iocasee and when I resolved the last problem keeping me at work this morning. Perhaps if Carlide's runners had been faster ... Contrary to the promise of its name, Iocasee was one of only two painters on the Street of Painters. But it wasn't his address that had recommended the man to me. Having seen examples of both his and Mawdrenas' work in the homes of some of my friends, I found that I preferred Iocasee's style. Don't ask me why, I'm not a patron of the arts either by inclination or by lifestyle. The two paintings I own I purchased because I liked them. Not like those snobs in Old City, who buy art because it makes them look better in the eyes of their peers. Perhaps those Lords and Ladies could tell you what made a Mawdrenas painting different from an Iocasee painting. I can't, except that I was willing to purchase the latter, and not the former. Everyone on the Street of Painters knew Iocasee, and everyone felt the need to caution me about the artist. It seemed that Iocasee was special, different, fragile ... someone to take care speaking to and dealing with. Everyone was determined to care for the man, to cushion him from everyday life as much as possible. I got the impression that they would have preferred he not have visitors at all, if that wasn't completely contrary to his occupation as a portrait painter. So I stood next to the blazing brazier on the corner of Oaks Lane and the almost-alley that was the Street of Painters and listened to the locals lesson me about their favorite artist for what seemed a bell or more. Some of these locals seemed well disposed to stay by the brazier until the sun went down, but others drifted past and joined in the conversation with the stranger -- me -- to much the same end as their fellows, which is to say that I heard the same warnings about the state of the painter I was here to see over and over and over again. Eventually, one of the crowd of locals took pity on me and I ended up with better than directions: I got an escort. Rendon was the fellow's name. As he led me down the clean -- not a rat in sight -- and cobbled lane between the close-leaning one-, and occasionally two-, storied buildings that lined it, he revealed that he was a framer by trade, as well as a next-door neighbor of Iocasee. By the time we reached our destination, we had haggled out the price of a frame for the commission I was about to make. Iocasee's place of business, as well as home, was of a piece with this not-quite-slum lane it was located in. Plain wattle and daub which was long overdue for a whitewashing comprised the front wall of the single-story building. A simple wooden door, with a bell-pull beside it and a small plaque with a faded picture of a paint brush on it were all the ornament that this facade possessed. Rendon reached around me and gave a gentle tug on the bell pull, smiling at me somewhat apologetically, as if he knew my thoughts about the humbleness of Iocasee's lodgings. He gave my cloak and boots a glance -- of a nicer cut and of more expensive fabric than his own basically homespun cape and breeches, they marked me as being of a class above his own common-laborer's, even if not all that far above. Before the awkwardness could settle deeper around us, a call of "Come in," sounded and Rendon eased the door open and entered Iocasee's studio home. I took a deep breath, suddenly concerned about the constantly repeated warnings of Iocasee's "delicate" condition, whatever that meant. At least I wouldn't be alone in there with this well-liked madman. Steeling myself for the business at hand, I followed my guide. The studio space I walked into took up what looked like most of the house. A large fireplace took up the center of the far wall, flanked by two doors. The walls were whitewashed plaster in better condition than the exterior of the dwelling, and the floor was made of a light colored wood, somewhat worn but clean. The room seemed filled with light, what with those reflective surfaces, but something bothered me about that. I realized after a moment that there were no windows in the walls. There hadn't been any piercing the front facade; the walls to either side abutted the neighbors' houses; and the back wall was not even an exterior wall. No candles or lanterns were lit in the medium-sized room, and the fireplace couldn't possibly provide that much illumination. So where was it coming from? I looked around curiously, and finally looked up. The ceiling was very gently sloped and came to a peak two thirds of the way through the room, which meant that the chimney exited the roof on the rear slope. And set into the front slope of the ceiling were two large windows, extravagantly closed with thick, wavy glass. I was sure that such glazing was a rarity in this part of town, where waxed parchment was more likely to cover a window opening if anything covered it at all. A lord's ransom, perhaps, but more than necessary in a space like this: after all, you needed light to paint by, didn't you? I remembered that Giesele, my late wife, used to only do her needlework in the sunroom in full daylight, and I knew that reading my ledgers by candlelight on cloudy days was a strain that usually made my head ache. With a little sigh at the memory of my dear, departed wife, I continued to look around. Even without the expensive ceiling windows, it was obvious that an artist worked here. The trappings of a studio were everywhere: easels against every wall, paintings hanging up, standing on the floor, stacked in a corner, even some on easels in semi-completed states. There was a rack of shelves as tall as I against one wall, filled with row after row of small jars with daubs of different colored paint on their sides. The scent of brush cleaner and paint pervaded the space, adding to the ambience. A simple wooden table was positioned against the far wall, between fireplace and one of the doors. A man sat at the end of the table nearest the warmth of the fire with his back toward us. He was looking at a book opened before him, and didn't acknowledge our presence for a moment or two. Then he closed his book and, before turning around, said, "Thank you, Bronna. Welcome, Rendon! And who have you brought to me today?" How strange! How had he known who had entered his studio? Then I noticed the glass chimney on the lamp in front of him on the table, and realized that he must have seen our reflection in that surface. But why would he thank Bronna? How did he know my daughter's nickname? He turned around then, stood, and walked toward his neighbor, arm outstretched in greeting. Iocasee looked about 35 or 40, brown hair just beginning to grey, slight age lines in his face. He was average height, and somewhat slight of build. His face looked pleasant enough, no scars, not ugly to my sight, but there might have been something about those eyes -- something haunted about them, perhaps? Or was that just my imagination? He wore a close-fitting tunic beneath a loose sleeveless robe that had three pockets running up it on each side of the front opening. His leggings looked worn but comfortable, and he wore soft-soled shoes that made no sound on the wooden floor. He had paint all over his hands, but the rest of him was perfectly neat. He reached Rendon and they clasped forearms, then both turned toward me. "Please let me introduce Percantlin, owner of the Fifth I merchant house," Rendon said. "Percantlin, this is Iocasee, painter of portraits." Iocasee extended his arm. "Welcome to my studio, Merchant Percantlin," he said. And then with a glance at my clothing he continued, "I see that the Fifth I still does well for itself, eh? So, what have you sought me out for then?" There certainly didn't seem much wrong with this pleasant man, aside from that strange greeting. I collected my thoughts, and informed him of my errand. "I thought to commission a portrait from you, good painter, having seen and liked your work in the houses of some of my friends. My daughter is getting married in Firil and I thought to give her a portrait of myself as she and her new husband will be leaving Dargon so that he can take a job as chief clerk for Duke Kiliaen. Something to remember me by when she's so far from home." "A new commission, eh? Well, as you can see, I have a few pieces to finish, but all are in the last stages and none are required immediately. Come, have a seat at the desk and we can discuss the fine points. Bronna, could you go get us some tea?" Well, he wasn't talking about my daughter Bronna, because she wasn't with me. I looked around the room but there were only the three of us occupied here. I was about to ask about it when Rendon put his hand on my arm and when I looked to him, he frowned and shook his head. I remembered the comments and warnings, and closed my mouth again, nodding to him that I understood. Rendon said, "Why don't I help you with that, Bronna?" He didn't look anywhere in particular as he said that, but then he looked at me and continued, "Percantlin, why don't you go have a seat, and we'll be right back with the tea?" He gave me a little shove toward the desk and headed for one of the doors in the back wall. I went uncertainly over to the table that Iocasee had been sitting at and settled into one of the chairs there. I stared as Iocasee casually came over and took his seat again -- so this was what a madman looked like? I grew progressively more uneasy. This man had serious delusions; how was I to treat him? What if he did something crazy right in front of me? Then again, he already had, talking to the air as if to a friend. Would I be able to spend enough time in this man's company to get a portrait done? I liked his work, but was a bridal gift worth this? Iocasee was fiddling with some papers, trying to neaten up the table top in front of him. Then he opened his book again, and I noticed that it was a calendar. He must keep track of his projects in there. I almost began to feel better -- I used a similar kind of time-ledger in my business every day -- but then realized that the normal activities we shared only made him seem even stranger to me. Iocasee turned to me and started, "Now, tell --" and I almost yelped in surprise. Oh no, where was Rendon? I wasn't nearly ready to deal with Iocasee by myself. What if I said the wrong thing? What if I upset him? What ... what ... ? I was rescued by Rendon's reappearance, just in time. He carried a wooden tray laden with two stoneware mugs and a nice stoneware pot with steam coming from its spout. He set it down between Iocasee and me and then dashed back into the kitchen. Fortunately, he was back before I could panic again, a third mug in his hand. As he went to lean against the front door, he said, "Cas, Bronna said she'd be tidying things up in the kitchen for a bit. Straight?" Iocasee nodded, and finished pouring the tea into the two mugs on the tray. He set the pot down, and picked up one of the mugs, blowing on it a little before sipping. He smiled at the taste, and then turned his hazel-eyed gaze back to me. "As I was saying, tell me about this portrait? How large would you want it to be? And when do you need it?" I picked up my mug and took a sip to give myself time to recover from my nervousness. Despite the steam coming from the spout, the tea was just pleasantly hot, and it was quite a good blend. Finally, I felt ready to talk to Iocasee. I decided to treat him like just another client for the moment -- Rendon was there to catch any mistakes I might make, or so I hoped. "Let me see ... size ... I was thinking normal size would be fine. Like the others here, which are about what, two and a half bars by five bars? Oh, sorry, bars is a shipping standard measurement. How to translate that? Ah ... how about 9 hands by 18 hands?" Iocasee nodded and said, "Fine, fine. How long before your daughter's nuptials?" "Kalibriona and Tanjural will be wedded on Firil 8th. We have about seven sennights to get the portrait finished. Is that enough time?" "Hmmm. Well, it can be if you have the time to sit for me once every four days or so. It's the light -- there just isn't that much of it in these winter months, don't you know. If we finish by the second of Firil, then the paints should be dry enough to deliver it by the seventh. Acceptable? Good. Now, about the price." The haggling over price took longer. Not that I thought that Iocasee was not worth his initial offer, but I *am* a merchant, and I did not come to own the Fifth I by spending money extravagantly. Finally, though, we agreed upon a price that I think we were both happy with. He rummaged around in the papers on his desk and came up with a very simple contract. He filled in the appropriate items -- portrait, 9 by 18, 7th Firil, the price -- and signed it. I signed in my place, even though I would have liked a few more provisions, like an acceptability clause. But that was probably just the merchant in me. I only had seven sennights to get this portrait for Bronna done, and I liked Iocasee's work enough that I wasn't -- truly -- worried. We both rose and clasped arms. As I turned toward the door, he said, "Are you free tomorrow for your first sitting? The sooner we get started, the more likely we are to be finished in time." "Absolutely. What time? Right, the earlier the better. I probably shouldn't even go into work -- it can be impossible to keep appointments once I get caught up in that daily routine. I'll be here at about third bell. See you then." I smiled, pleased by the success of my venture, as I made ready to leave. Rendon strode over to set his mug on the tray, but since I was standing by the door he didn't offer to return it to the kitchen. I opened the door and stepped out but before I took a second step I heard Iocasee call out, "Bronna, dear, do you know where the number 3 yellow paint is? I need to put some highlights onto Santriciel's portrait, and I just cannot find my number 3 yellow!" All that time arranging the commission had distanced Iocasee's madness from my mind, and it was startling to hear evidence of it again like that. A chill ran up my spine at the thought of spending just the next day sitting for him, not to mention the next seven sennights of subsequent sittings. How would I manage it? Rendon bumping into me got me moving again, albeit unsteadily. He supported me while I got my legs back under me, and then said, "I'll stand you for a drink if you'll do the same. I think you could use something bracing, and maybe a little more of the 'over the fence' on Cas." My nod got Rendon to lead the way to the local corner tavern, which was two blocks away, in the middle of another narrow lane, and as far as I could tell unnamed. I was distracted enough to follow him through the door with only a cut in half metal mug on it without a worry about what kind of clientele might be within. I needn't have worried in any case -- the few patrons were only interested in gossiping among themselves and consuming the surprisingly potable ale that Rendon informed me was brewed in the basement. I settled into the comfortable dimness and found myself feeling almost more at home than in the bar I frequented after work. I took some time to calm down, and I had put myself outside of half a tankard of that house ale before I finally said to Rendon, "So, ah, about Iocasee ..." "You mean, 'about Bronna' don't ya?" he asked. Shaking his head, he took a pull from his tankard before continuing, "A sad story, that is. But ya should ... na, ya must know it, as ya're to be sittin' for him an' all. "Righty, ah. Now, Iocasee was always strange, ya know, even before Bronna. Easily upset, would fly into rages, or betimes go dancing down the street in his underclothes. But he painted good, an' we as live on Painters figured we needed some painters to earn our address. And what was better'n a crazy painter, huh? Lots of stories 'round the beer, right? "And then *she* happened. Bronna was Cas's first real love, his only one 'sfar as he ever told me. She wasn't a local. She didn't look or dress or act like one of us, but it weren't long before she fit herself in here on Painters, and we all treated her like family. She was beautiful! Long red hair, like fire sometimes; pale skin -- whatever her trade had been before she came to Painters it hadn't involved much time out doors. The shape of her face, her body: she looked like a sculpture of a goddess. Just as soon as Cas set eyes on her he said he just *had* to paint her. It wasn't until that portrait was about half done that he realized that she was a person as well as a perfect model. They courted swift, and soon she was spending more time at his studio than in her own house. "She was good for him. She was like all the parts of Cas that he'd been missing. He stopped bein' so touchy, so absent-minded, so strange. And his painting got better, too. She loved him back, no doubt no doubt, but she didn't need him like he needed her. And that need put a strain on her, like clampin' a frame too tight can warp the wood instead of just holding it until the glue dries. "Mayhap she was too free a spirit to be happy as part of that kind of couple. He tied her down with his needs, trapped her on Painters. She got unhappy eventually, only he never saw. Never noticed her mood, never noticed her start to drift away. "One day -- pert near 10 years ago, less a month or so it was -- she walked out of his house, out of Painters, and eventually out of Dargon. Let me tell you, that was a hard time on Painters. He fair destroyed his studio with his disbelieving rage, and then he almost killed himself with weeping. The hardest-hearted mercenary would have wept to hear him cry at his loss, once he knew of it. "Something had to give, and in the end, 'twas his mind. At first, he was sure she had died, and he mourned her for months. There's a small stone in Commoner's Field that he made hers -- its inscription had almost totally worn away. He spent more time there than his studio even after we all repaired it for him. We were all worried for his health, but couldn't do a thing to bring him out of his grieving. "I've no idea why, but one day he didn't go to Commoner's Field. Lettie was the first to visit him, and she told the rest of us that Cas was back to painting like before, but he acted like Bronna was still there. He talked to her, he asked her to do things -- the months since she'd left just seemed to have never happened. "For a while, that was even worse than him thinkin' her dead. He just refused to believe she was gone and so she must still be with him. He wouldn't listen to truth from anyone, and nothing could prove to him that Bronna was not in the room or the house at all times. He might ask her to fix him a meal, and when it didn't appear he would make some excuse -- she needed a rest, or she'd gone shopping. There seemed to be nothing that he couldn't explain, nothing that could convince him that he was alone in his home. "So, we all adapted. We all felt for him -- he hadn't done anything wrong, and he was still our painter. We started to pamper him, to help him with his delusions -- cooking for him at times, doing his shopping, making sure his clients understood about his condition. Well, maybe you could say we didn't really help him, that his state just isn't healthy. But if you'd seen him just after Bronna left ..." Dargon Vibril 18, 1016 I arrived at Iocasee's door the next morning without a guide. The dress finery I wore -- suitable for a formal portrait -- was hidden beneath a more workmanlike cloak, so that I caught no undue attention from those who walked Oaks and Painters. I had even worn inconspicuous jewelry for the trip -- I would have to remember to change my ear and finger jewelry before Iocasee started to paint. Third bell was ringing out from a nearby tower, and yet I still stood in front of the door marked with the artist's brush. I had hoped to have more time to work up my courage before the bells rang, intending that Iocasee find me punctual. But first, my feet had led me down their normal path to my place of work without my even realizing it until I was three streets past the turn toward this side of town. And then, I had been walking rather more slowly than normal as my mind tried to think up some suitable solution to the Iocasee problem. Not the problem of sitting for a portrait in front of him, but the problem of his delusions. The man made me uneasy, and the prospect of day after day of constant unease was not something I was looking forward to. So I decided that I would simply remove the source of my unease by curing Iocasee of his delusions. I had put my mind to it the night before, and had reasoned it all out. Iocasee's delusions were not something he had been born with, nor was it a matter of some kind of unalterable physical deformity, which meant that the man could be cured and all I had to do was determine how. My options were many: Convince him that Bronna was not present? Bring someone else for him to meet? Find Bronna and get her to enlighten him? So many choices, and each with their special difficulties. I almost felt like I had been presented with a thorny delivery problem at my desk, or some kind of stocking issue at one of the warehouses. And I knew that even if by the remotest chance I did not succeed in my quest, I would at least keep my mind occupied with the attempt. But I also knew it took knowledge to meet any challenge, and I had only met Iocasee yesterday. I would be sitting for him regularly for the next seven sennights, so I resolved to gather more information before attempting any of my possible remedies. But to do that, I actually had to enter Iocasee's studio. Taking one more deep breath, I reached out and pulled the bell cord. When the voice called out, I opened the door and went in. "He'll be here soon, love." "I know, Bronna. Is the brace ready? Where are my fine brushes? Did you remember to fill the pitchers this time?" Iocasee busied himself getting everything ready for Merchant Percantlin's first sitting. The canvas was on an easel, gessoed and ready. The posing brace was set up in the center of the arc of sunlight from one of the ceiling windows. His paints were all where they belonged in the rack, and his brushes were also, except ... ah, there were the fines. He picked up the handful of narrow-bristled brushes and set them into their proper place. Everything where it belonged, well positioned so as to be easy to get to. And the comforts for his client? "The pitchers are full, Cas. I made sure this time." "Thanks, Bronna. I'm sorry, I'm just nervous. Percantlin is head of Fifth I -- his patronage can only be good for us, my love. More commissions from wealthy merchants -- someday, it will be a lord ringing our bell! So everything has to be perfect; he has to see me as organized, a professional, ..." "I know, Cas, I know. And you are a professional. He wouldn't have come to you if he didn't like your work. So relax. You know you paint better when you're relaxed." Iocasee smiled, and returned to puttering with his paints and palette, brushes and rags. The bell jangled, and he called out "Come in." "Dear, Merchant Percantlin is here." Iocasee, his back to the door but with a clear reflection before him in the side of one of the paint jars, said, "Thank you, Bronna. Would you please make yourself comfortable, Merchant Percantlin? I just want to get this particular shade mixed before we begin. You can hang your cloak on the pegs beside the door. There's water and some weak ale in the pitchers on the table over there." I looked around, nervousness under control so far, despite Iocasee mentioning his Bronna already. I slipped my cloak off and hung it on one of the pegs by the door, and then walked over to the table with the pitchers on it. I wasn't thirsty yet, but I poured a mug full of water for later. Iocasee was still mixing, so I exchanged my traveling jewelry for those I wanted in the portrait. Ear and finger jewelry were exchanged for flashier and more costly pieces. The two chains I wore about my neck had been hidden by the cloak and so didn't need exchanging. Same for the two badges that hung from my belt. I retrieved my flop hat from my belt and brushed out the red velvet a little before setting it on my head. Feeling fit to attend a reception held by Duke Clifton himself, I was ready to be painted. Fortunately for my retreating nervousness, Iocasee chose that moment to finish his mixing and he turned to me and said, "Ah, Merchant Percantlin. You look magnificent! Such a fine outfit, and that color suits you perfectly. I'm certain this will be a very special painting for your daughter. "I'm sure you are ready to begin, but I thought we should work out some further details before we get too involved. Many people don't realize it, but background and setting are almost as important as the subject himself in a portrait. Did you have anything in mind?" I have to admit that I hadn't even considered a background, or lighting, or any of the things that Iocasee and I went over for the next bell. He certainly impressed me with the thought and detail that went into a painting. He even showed me what he meant on the pieces laying around his studio -- how lighting could affect the mood of even a portrait; how elements in the background could highlight features, or accent accomplishments. It was all so complex! But we worked it all out to his satisfaction -- all I could do was trust that his ideas would work! And then, while we were working out just what exactly should be on the desk that he wanted to use to represent my job, it happened. "Ledgers, inkwells, pens. What else? Coins? That would be good. Do you usually have a coin box on your desk? Probably not, probably not ... but we can use some artistic license here, it will be a good effect. Now, how much and what kind? Maybe ..." "Cas, you are wasting the light, dear. You have fortnights to work out these kinds of details, and candlelight works just as well to haggle them by. Why don't you drag that table over and set it up behind the posing brace to stand in for Percantlin's desk, and start to work?" "Now, how much and what kind? Maybe ..." I watched Iocasee scribble away, taking down his thoughts and my few additions. And then, he just stopped in the middle of a thought, his head cocked as though he were listening to something. The silence stretched, and my stomach began to knot as I got an inkling of what was happening. Finally, Iocasee chuckled, breaking the silence. He said, "You're right, Bronna, I am wasting sunlight. Merchant Percantlin, my love Bronna speaks sense, does she not? Why don't we get started?" He stood and took his notes over to the table by his easel. Then he came back over and stood at one end of the guest table. He looked at me like he expected something of me, and I realized that the conversation that he had heard and I had not had involved us doing something. I panicked, but only briefly. He lifted the end of the table and gave me a "Well?" look, and I quickly -- well, not quickly but I did catch on eventually -- moved over and picked up the other end. I did my best to follow him without knowing where we were going, but it didn't take very long before I grasped what we were doing -- this table could be used as the desk we had been discussing, so we were positioning it behind the posing brace. By the time I had deduced that, the table was in place, but at least I had figured it out. Maybe I would be able to function in Iocasee's presence after all. The painter next adjusted the posing brace, positioning the wooden 'arms' just so and tightening the bolts that would keep those 'arms' in place. After stepping back to view the whole tableau, he asked me to take my position in front of the brace. He went around behind me to adjust the main part of the brace, the two hands wide vertical piece that would provide a surface for me to lean against. A narrow shelf was adjusted into position so that I could very nearly sit on it as I leaned against the vertical board. As Iocasee moved my arms into position atop and against the 'arms' of the brace, I mused about how silly and awkward I felt. Others who had experienced the brace while posing for portraits had commented to me about these feelings, but no one had refused its use, and I could understand why: spending bell after bell standing perfectly still while an artist worked sounded excruciatingly painful! It wasn't until Iocasee began fastening the clamps against my arms that I realized something about the brace: I would be not only supported and braced by it, held in one position so that the painter wouldn't have to worry about me changing position as I got tired, or fidgeting as I got bored, but I would also be effectively imprisoned by the device! Trapped in a studio with a madman! What if he got violent? What if he forgot about me at the end of the day? What if he expected his imaginary Bronna to let me go? I struggled as the last clamp was fastened in place, and found that the arm that Iocasee was clamping slid easily out of the three clamps that held that arm against the brace's 'arm'. Iocasee said, "I'm sorry, did I tighten that one too tight?" I just shook my head and fumbled for a lie. "No, no you didn't. It was just ... ah ... nerves, I guess. Sorry." I slid my arm back into the clamps, and tested the other arm just to be sure. The clamps gently kept my arms in the position that the brace's arms had been posed in, but they didn't bind me to them. I wasn't a prisoner. My heart stopped its frantic pounding as my nervousness receded again. Another fear I had been contemplating was making conversation with the painter. What if I said the wrong thing? My mind was full of Iocasee's tragic story, and I worried that I would just blurt out something inappropriate at the wrong moment or something. But he was concentrating entirely too heavily to be interested in small talk, and so I stood -- leaned, really -- in silence as time passed. The brace was surprisingly comfortable for a contraption of wood and a few metal screws. Almost enough to lull me to sleep, if I was the type to nap before sixth bell. As it was, I spent a lot of time watching the large rectangles of sunlight move across the floor, once I had memorized the contents of the only portion of the studio that I could see thanks to the elements of the brace that kept my head in a single position. Finally, I took to mentally reviewing some of the problems at work to keep myself occupied. Boring was only a very faint description for this posing stuff! "Cas, dear." When he was painting, very little else existed for Iocasee, so he didn't respond to Bronna at first. "Honey, it's sixth bell. Cas!" Her voice finally penetrated his concentration. He stopped painting and turned toward the kitchen door. "What, dear?" "It's time you two took a break, Cas. Lunch is in the kitchen when you are ready. I'm going to the shops. See you later." "Bye, love." Iocasee set down his palette and brush, took an appraising look at his canvas, and nodded. I assumed that his imaginary Bronna had interrupted him, and I wondered what she had told him. He turned to me, smiling, and said, "You should thank my dear Bronna, Percantlin. Without her I would paint until the light failed totally." He strode toward me and I wondered whether I really should thank his imaginary love. I hesitated. He had said 'bye' to her after all, and I didn't want to look the fool -- not to mention injuring Iocasee's 'reality' -- by talking to thin air. But he didn't look offended by my silence, so he must have been speaking rhetorically. He helped me out of the brace carefully, so as not to upset any of its positioning, but also because I had been motionless for several bells and he knew better than I how difficult it sometimes is to resume movement after that. He helped me to a chair by the repositioned guest table and I took a long pull from the mug I had filled before the posing started. It was horribly lukewarm. I looked at the beads of moisture on the sides of the stoneware pitcher I had poured it from originally and realized that I should have waited to fill the mug. Iocasee was walking toward the kitchen door, and he said, "Bronna has gone to the shops, but she left lunch in the kitchen. I'll be right back with it." I heard him as I was pouring another, much cooler, mug of water, but I didn't understand him fully until he was already back carrying a covered tray. Wait, now! How could the intangible Bronna have prepared us lunch? He set the tray on the table and pulled up a chair for himself. Then he lifted the lid from the tray to reveal an assortment of cold meats and cheeses, along with slices of a couple of kinds of bread and a small stone jar that contained mustard. Ah! Mystery solved. This could very well have been prepared this morning, before I ever arrived, whether by a visiting neighbor or Iocasee himself didn't really matter. Slightly amazed again by how normal things could be in this mad painter's house, I tucked into the quite filling meal. Conversation over lunch was minimal -- Iocasee wanted to get back to the painting. I asked him how it was going, and got a "Well, very well" that wasn't elaborated on. I couldn't come up with any more suitable pleasantries, so I endeavored to keep pace with the painter in devouring lunch and was soon settled comfortably against the posing brace again. The rectangles of sunlight continued to move across the floor, Iocasee painted, and I leaned. In self defense, my mind was once again occupied with warehouse and shipping business -- I found myself making rapid progress on several logistical problems I had been putting off dealing with at work. It seemed sudden, but the boxes of light on the floor were just getting ready to slide past where I was posed to plunge me into the relative gloom of the rest of the studio when a noise came from the kitchen. The sudden breaking of the silence that had filled the studio for bell after bell was startling to both of us: I jerked an arm out of the clamps on the brace turning toward the sound, and I was sure that I heard Iocasee curse as his brush slipped when he flinched. The kitchen door started to open, and I stared hard at it, nearly convinced that I was going to see Bronna by some means. Perhaps Iocasee's madness was catching. Or maybe I had gone as insane as he from standing so idle for so long. But it wasn't Bronna who poked their head through the door, it was Rendon, looking sheepish. "Sorry, Cas -- I hope I didn't startle you two. Bronna asked me to help her bring the shopping back, and I tripped while I was helping her put stuff away. "Anyway, she wanted me to remind you that it is getting late and the good light is almost gone. She says you should let Percantlin go home to supper -- he's probably bored out of his mind from standing there so long." Iocasee was already wiping at the streak his slipped brush had made, and he said, "She's right -- it is getting late. And no, you didn't startle us too much, Rendon. No harm done, eh Merchant Percantlin?" I shook my head, bemused at Rendon's 'shopping' reference. Iocasee had mentioned that Bronna had gone shopping, hadn't he? How had Rendon known? Putting that aside for the moment, I stepped out of the posing brace carefully. I was as stiff as before, and Rendon darted across the room to help me steady myself, so I didn't fall and disturb the brace or hurt myself. I stretched stiff muscles, got my balance, and walked slowly over to where the painting rested. "Can I take a look, Iocasee?" He had finished minimizing his mistake, and was busy wiping his brushes down and dropping them in a jar of really strong smelling stuff. He said, "Sure, sure. Just remember, it is only a beginning, though it *is* going well I think." The canvas looked like a charcoal sketch, but done in colors. Outlines everywhere, capturing details exactly. Me, my clothes, even my jewelry. The table was sketched in behind me, its top empty for now. I was both amazed at how little had actually been finished after all that sitting -- nothing had been colored in, nothing looked "finished" really -- and startled at how good even this preliminary sketching looked. I was sure that my Bronna would be proud to hang the finished product in her new home in Kiliaen. "Amazing, Iocasee, just amazing," I enthused. He beamed, and said, "And if you like it now, you will love it in seven sennights!" I had to agree. Rendon also approved, though he didn't look as surprised as I had. He said, "How about another round before you head home, Cant?" I said, "Sure," and then automatically turned to the painter and said, "You're welcome too, Iocasee. You've certainly earned a good stiff drink." I didn't see Rendon's head shaking an emphatic 'No' until I had already done the deed. Iocasee seemed to be mulling it over, and I could swear that he had decided to come when he turned toward the kitchen as if listening to someone speaking from there. He wore a rueful smile when he turned back, and he said, "I'd better help Bronna finish putting the groceries away. Maybe another time? "Now, I'll see you again in four days time. Same bell if you can. And think about bringing some stuff from your desk at work -- it will help me fill in those details. I probably won't need them next time, but soon. All right?" Rendon had visibly sighed when Iocasee turned down my inadvertent invitation. I had a few questions for the helpful neighbor, so I retrieved my cloak, said farewell to Iocasee, and we left. Back in the local bar, most of a tankard of that fine ale already gone, I began, "Ah, I wanted to ask a few things, Rendon, if I could. Like, Iocasee said at lunch that Bronna had gone shopping, and then you show up with groceries. How did you know that he had said that? Were you in the kitchen? Did you fix t hat lunch while I was posing?" "No, no, tis simpler'n that, Cant. This is the day one of us always brings the shopping, that's why he said Bronna had gone out. As for the lunch, I think Cas fixed it this morning. It was cold meat and bread, right? Easy for him to do, and I've seen him do things before, and then say Bronna did 'em." I nodded. I should have thought that Iocasee's food needs were resupplied regularly. And I had been right about the lunch, too. Probably. "Okay then, what about when I asked him here with us? You didn't seem to think that was a good idea. Why?" He took a drink, then said, "Ol' Cas doesn't do quite as well in strange parts as he does in his home. He doesn't come out often -- maybe twice a year, once on his birth day, and once on the anniversary of the day Bronna left him. That one he calls Bronna's birthday, even though Bronna was born in Nober, and he celebrates it in Firil. "But there's always a large group of us with him, to keep him in the right frame of mind. I remember once in Yuli, his birthday, only three of us could make it out with him. I don't know why, maybe there was too much of reality pressing in at him, but he reverted back to the 'Bronna is dead' times, and started weeping and wailing about how his life was over. The three of us had a troublesome time getting him back home, but once he was there, it was like everything was back to normal all at once. He went from despair to the happiness of celebrating his birthday just crossing over his threshold. Very, very strange, but you can see why I wasn't eager for him to join us today. "That studio is more than his livelihood, Cant. It's his sanctuary, plain and simple." ======================================================================== A Star To Steer By by Jim Owens Firil 10, 1016 Simon pushed his vendor's cart down the muddy lane toward his small hut. Simon was the only one who used the narrow alley between two larger houses, as his hut sealed the alley, preventing other traffic. Often he had considered fetching some flagstones and paving the dirt lane, but it always seemed easier to just push the cart through the mud -- just one more compromise in a life of compromises. Once at the end, he slipped the cart alongside the wall, pushing a small stone under one wheel to hold it in place. Only then did he stop for a moment, looking up at the glowing arrowhead newly appeared in the night sky. Apprehension clenched his stomach as he noted that it was brighter tonight than yesterday. It was almost a mene before he moved again. With his cart safely parked beside his house, Simon carefully lit his small lamp and stepped inside his hut. He surveyed the contents of his home with an appraising eye. A lifetime of possessions were arrayed before him. Over the years the lesser used items had slowly migrated to the rear of the hut, where they now stood in silent witness to his many travels. The story of his life lay there, to anyone who could read it. Among the clutter, a few things stood out. Toward the front was his seaman's chest, now mostly used for holding clothes. Beside it was his fishing gear and rods. In the front left corner was a narrow but sturdy table, its simple wooden surface marred with innumerable cuts from years of slicing, dicing, filleting, mincing, paring and otherwise preparing food for cooking. On a shelf above it were his carefully sealed jars of spices and herbs: all ingredients for his stew. Hanging on the right wall was his hammock, stowed for the day. Beside it was an oilskin-covered window. Below it was a shelf, with his tools and utensils, along with his inkpot, pen, and a solitary scroll. Simon picked his way over to that shelf and set his lamp down. He picked up the scroll and carefully unrolled it. The first thing that appeared was a series of notes, written in the graceful script of a captain long dead. The notes were actually a manifest: an inventory of goods acquired and prices paid. As Simon unrolled the scroll further, a map appeared, the original use of the scroll. Finely colored and quite accurate, it was a survey of a port further south. Simon stared at it for a long time, expressions flickering across his face as memories flowed through his mind. When he finally continued unrolling, he saw another cargo manifest, this time in his own hand. He frowned, eyes watering ever so slightly. Simon squinted as he tried to read the manifest. He held the scroll closer to the lamp, but still his aging eyes could not quite make out the characters in the flickering light. Sighing, he turned and held up the scroll in the dim light coming through the window. That yielded no better results. Again he sighed, slowly lowering the scroll. For a time he stared out the window at the dark. He then returned to the lamp on the shelf. Simon unrolled the rest of the scroll. He didn't need to be able to read the scroll to know what was there. Old notes from meetings long ago gave way to more recent records of transactions and accounts from his life in Dargon. Simon noticed that as the entries became more recent the letters grew larger, and easier to read. Names like Aardvard Factotum and Levy Barel made appearances, as the entries became less businesslike and more philosophical. When he had finished reading the last entry, Simon continued unfurling the scroll until the end. There remained perhaps a handsbreadth of empty space at the end, and the entire backside could be used; the scroll was still quite valuable. He had occasionally considered selling it, along with another item he no longer had much need of. Simon reached for that item now. It was a clay cylinder with a simple lid that sat on the shelf beside the inkpot. Simon lifted and opened it. He removed a small leather sack from the jar, then upended the jar and shook something out onto his hand. It was a flat, brass cylinder with a glass cover. Inside was a thin iron needle, balanced on a pivot. As Simon turned the cylinder about, the needle pointed in the same direction, heedless of the movement. Simon carefully set the device on the shelf and waited while the needle settled into position, pointing just a bit off the sailor's star. Simon turned back to the window and looked up. He stood for a long time, watching as clouds alternately hid and revealed the ghastly, glowing vision filling the heavens. Unlike the magic, navigating needle, the heavenly visitor was oriented toward the setting sun. Simon wondered if that was mere coincidence or if it hid a deeper, more sinister meaning. He returned once more to the shelf. He carefully considered the scroll, turning it over in his hand and feeling the texture of the material, as if weighing it. He then picked up his pen and opened the inkpot. Dipping the pen in the pot, he began to make a list of items in the shack. Beside each one he appended a name. He hadn't gotten far when a clatter outside drew him to the door. A figure was huddled against the wall near the mouth of the alley. "Who's there?" Simon called. A gasp answered. "Oh, Simon, you frightened me," came the reply. Simon seized the lamp and strode down the alley. The dim light revealed the face of Dralyn Kepson, a guardsman. Relief almost hid the fright on the man's face. "I ... I dropped my sword," he stammered, scrabbling on the ground for the lost item. Simon wasn't surprised; new guardsmen often used his alleyway to relieve themselves until they realized it was occupied. He noted, however, that Dralyn's belt was still fastened, and his scabbard was in place, but empty. The sword had not fallen, but had been dropped. "Why did you draw your sword?" Simon asked. He cast about for any nasty characters, but the street was deserted. "Um, ... uh, nothing, nothing, just checking its edge. It was hanging uncomfortable, anyway." Dralyn's breath was laden, however, and Simon felt that there was more to the story. "Have you ... eaten ... this watch?" Simon asked, knowing the penalty for drinking on duty. "We're not supposed ..." Dralyn started, but Simon took him by the arm and steered him down the alley. "Koren never minds you carrying a bite with you as you walk," Simon explained to the young man. "Besides, I've had problems with rats lately -- I need you to watch while I empty my cart." "Rats, yes, rats. I'll watch while you ... while you work." Dralyn held up his newly retrieved blade, mud smearing the edge. Simon opened up his cart again. He cast an appraising eye at the tipsy guard, then deliberately reached for a hefty portion of his infamous sun-sweet stew. He handed a round of bread with the wicked mess to the young man, who, unaware, took a large and hasty bite. Simon smiled and began shuffling things about in his cart, never really moving anything. "How has the watch been?" he asked. "It's quieter now. Folks have mostly ... " The reply trailed off as tears sprang from the poor fellow's eyes and sweat beaded on his face. Simon watched, struggling to keep a straight face. The odor of the stew would mask anything else, and sweating would purge the alcohol from Dralyn's blood. The pain was a small price to pay for insurance against the devastation of being discovered drunk on duty. "Damn, Simon!" Dralyn finally choked out. "What did you give me?" "Something to keep you awake," he explained. "Can't have you nodding off while on duty, can we?" Dralyn looked askance at Simon, but took another bite nonetheless. Simon unconsciously glanced up at the fell light overhead as he waited for the guard to swallow. Simon didn't wonder why the man had been drinking. After two days under the baleful stare of the celestial monster the inns were running low on beer, wine, cider, anything that might bring a moment's escape. The townsfolk were running scared, and Simon didn't blame them. Scores had left, although from what Simon had heard, the awful vision was the same everywhere. The temples were filled with supplicants, and there had even been looting in the bad parts of town. "Don't look at it!" hissed Dralyn suddenly, drawing Simon back down. The young man's eyes were wide, and fear had crowded back in. "Why?" "They say it will steal your soul if you look at it too long." Dralyn cast a fearful but brief glance upward and made a magic sign to ward off evil. Simon marveled -- he knew the young guard slightly, and had always been impressed at his rationality. Simon could see now that it had been merely a thin shell, easily shattered by the strangeness of the real world. Simon had seen many amazing sights lately -- the whole town was affected by the celestial visitor. It was driving people to do strange things -- drink, fights, flight, even to take stock of their lives, Simon reflected ruefully. "Who says that?" Simon finally replied. "Roji said that the priest said it last time he was at temple," Dralyn explained. "He says that it," he made a furtive gesture upward, "is sent by the gods to punish the evil and steal the souls of the weak." Simon studied the man a moment. "Are you weak, Dralyn?" Dralyn stopped for a moment, staring at Simon, as if suddenly aware that the stew vendor could read his inner being. After a moment he waved the stew at Simon. "Why did you give me the real hot stuff? It nearly killed me." Simon frowned. "What do they do with guards who drink on duty?" "No one cares," Dralyn muttered, "not anymore. Nothing matters anymore. Some of the priests are saying that all of Dargon will be destroyed unless something is done," Dralyn continued. "What needs to be done, Dralyn?" "The Duke needs to make a sacrifice," Dralyn explained. "We're all going to die unless he does something." Perhaps it was the stew, perhaps it was the drink, perhaps it was something else, but tears were running down Dralyn's cheeks from his wide eyes. "Why? What kind of sacrifice?" "I don't know!" Anger was starting to leak into Dralyn's voice. "All I know is that he needs to do something and he's not! We can't stop it -- only he can!" Simon reached inside his cart and took out a set of wooden rods bound together with cord and fabric. He let drop all but one, and the contraption opened out into a small, folding stool. He offered the stool to the guard, who took it, and then Simon sat himself down on the stoop. "Dralyn, do you ever go to a temple?" "Sometimes." The guard took another, careful bite of the stew, chewing attentively. "When was the last time you went to a temple?" "Mmmmm, maybe a year," came the crumbly reply. "Did you ever hear of the story of Tred and the kellis-weed plant?" "No." "Well, Tred was walking through the garden, looking to pick some gourds. He picked a whole armful, more than he could really carry, actually. On his way back, he stumbled over a kellis-weed, and spilled all the gourds -- every one was smashed. He went back to his house, and said to his wife 'The kellis-plant needs to be uprooted, because it has destroyed all the gourds.'" Dralyn paused halfway through a bite of stew, looking at Simon. "That's supposed to mean something, isn't it?" "What do you think it means?" Dralyn continued to eat. Simon shifted his weight on the cold steps, glancing up at the unwanted sign. "Dralyn, did you ever think you were going to die?" Dralyn considered, chewing. "During the war, I thought I was dead a couple of times." "You know, we only have so many days. Some say that our days are counted out for us at our birth. Others say we live longer or shorter depending on what we do and who we are. What do you think?" "I don't know." "Let's say we only have so many days to live. We don't know how many days there are, so we have to live just as if there were an uncertain amount, right?" "Ummmmm, yeah, I suppose." "Some say that everything we will do is decided for us before we are born. Do you think that's true?" "Mmmmm," he swallowed his bite, "mmm, no, I don't think so. I think we all decide what we will do. Didn't Stevene say that?" "Why Dralyn, I didn't know you were a Stevenic." "I'm not," he replied defensively, holding his food at a careless angle. "But he did say that, didn't he?" "Hmmmm. Actually, no. But that's beside the point. Let's say for the moment that all our decisions are made for us already. We aren't told what they are, so we have to live our lives as if we were making them, right?" "Uh, ... sure. Yeah. That's right." Simon stared at the guard. A glimmer of understanding came into the man's eyes. "So if we live or die is up to us, is what you're saying," he commented, unheeding of the stew leaking out of his bread and into his boot. "Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say that, but even if our decisions are determined ahead of time, as far as we're concerned, we still have to make them." "Hmmmm. And so you're saying, as far as our lives go, we still have to live them, even if someone else is really in control, right?" "Wouldn't you think so?" Dralyn nodded, rolling up the rest of the empty bread and stuffing it in his mouth. He arose, a thin trail of stew oozing out the top of his boot. "I need to be back on patrol. Thanks ... thanks for the stew." He nodded sagely. Simon could see the rational man was back again. "Have a good evening, guardsman. Be careful who you talk to tonight -- I don't want to have to bury you in the morning." They both glanced upward. "You won't," Dralyn answered, and plodded back toward the mouth of the alley. He paused a moment, shaking his boot and trying to scratch himself through it, then headed out into the night. Simon resealed his cart and returned to his hut. He looked over the scroll, sitting on the shelf beside the magic needle. He took the device and shook it gently, but each time the needle returned to the same heading. Simon had bought it toward the end of his sailing career, but hadn't used it much: he fairly well knew where he was going. He set it down, took up the pen again, and continued to lay out his life on the scroll for the future. ======================================================================== Paula's Star by Don Will Firil 8, 1016 Paula pulled a bare foot from the clinging clay and straw mixture, placed it on the pit's rim and rubbed a grimy forearm across her brow. Her whole body ached with fatigue, and it was still nearly two bells until dusk. She glanced up to the scaffold above her and saw Reghr watching her as he lounged against the newly-mortared wall. The second stonemason, Deski, troweled mortar on a corner stone a few feet away. They were nearly finished with the repair of the war-damaged warehouse wall. Her head suddenly jerked forward as Bontar, the master stonemason of the crew, cuffed her from behind. "Get that mud mixed, laggard!" he growled. "You get back to work!" he yelled up at Reghr. "Can't lay stone without mortar," Reghr said laconically as he chewed on a stem of straw. Paula dodged Bontar's blow this time as he ordered, "Get some mud up to the scaffold." She hurriedly scooped some of the straw and clay mixture from the pit and slapped it into the hod, a wooden implement to carry mortar. She added two more quick scoops before shouldering the heavy mortar-laden hod. Her small feet made a loud sucking sound as she pulled them from the mud. Approaching the ladder, she paused as she noticed a pair of men watching from the street nearby. The larger one, a red-bearded giant with face and arms wind-burned to a deep russet brown, lifted a grimy wineskin to his lips and drank deeply. The smaller man, appearing so only because of the girth of his companion, was flamboyantly garbed in a yellow shirt and bright emerald sash. The giant's leather trousers and sleeveless brown shirt were drab in comparison. From their attire it was plain that the pair were not residents of the city. Realizing that Bontar would soon assault her again if she didn't keep moving, she placed a small grimy foot on the first rung and pulled herself upward, ascending with the heavy load of mortar. Looking down from the sixth rung, she saw Bontar standing right below her. The perpetual frown that creased his hard features was even more prominent now. The combination of fatigue, the slippery clay still on her bare feet and Bontar staring up at her caused her to slip on the next rung and the heavy hod tilted, precariously dumping a generous gob of mortar with unerring accuracy on the head of the master stonemason below. Bontar bellowed with rage and grabbed her ankle before she could ascend beyond his reach. He yanked hard and with a yelp of surprise she toppled from her perch, the hod somersaulting away. Even as exhausted as her body was, she managed to twist and land on her feet, avoiding serious injury but her momentum hurtled her forward to roll limply at the edge of the muddy pit. Foolishly, her first thought was to wonder if the change in tenor of her voice brought on by her surprise had been noticed by her fellow workers. She was learning how difficult it was to disguise her voice all of the time. "Cephas' bloody tears, you've caused some trouble! You'll pay for your clumsiness this time," Bontar snarled and backhanded her across the mouth, sending her sprawling on her back to land near the wall they were working on. Bright flashes streaked in front of her eyes and she tasted the coppery taint of blood from her split lip. Ignoring the pain, she breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn't noticed the change in her voice. She was struggling to regain her footing when Bontar's foot impacted against her shoulder and sent her face-first back into the mud beside the mortar pit. Bontar grabbed the coil of rope lying on the stack of stone blocks near the wall and prepared to flog her. "Hold!" said a soft voice near her. She turned her head to look up at the speaker and saw the red-bearded spectator from the street. She watched Bontar turn in disbelief as the big man spoke again, the command barely above a whisper this time. The yellow-shirted man was nearby as well, his hand carelessly fingering the hilt of a dirk in his sash. His narrow lips curled into a smirk before he said in a voice much deeper than his companion, "My friend doesn't like to shout, but his words hold the strength of his size, none-the-less. I wouldn't flog her." "This's none of your business, sea-dog," Bontar said. "Go back to your squirmin' boat!" "Ye'll not flog the stripling while I watch," the giant said, still not raising his voice. "Hestor and me see'd the whole thing and it were plainly an accident." His companion, still smirking, nodded his head. "The boy's my laborer and I'll flog my property if I feel like it," Bontar said as he raised the rope. The red-bearded man strode determinedly over to Bontar and grabbed Bontar's wrist, smashing it painfully against the pile of stones. Shock and pain loosened Bontar's grip and before he could regain it, he felt the rope snatched from his grasp. The coarse fibers of the hemp inflicted painful rope burns across his fingers. He felt pain again, but this time from his cheek as the red-bearded man whipped the coil of rope across his face. Fury raged in Bontar's eyes as his gaze darted about, searching for a weapon to use on his assailant. Noticing a stout wooden pole leaning against the wall near the ladder, he ducked away and snatched it before the rope could flog him again. "Cephas help me, I'll kill you for that!" he yelled as he brandished the club between them. "Ye place a lot of faith in yer deity," the red-bearded man said. "Mayhap ye ought to place a little in yer legs to move yer rump before ol' Lars makes ye eat that twig ye picked up." Bontar swung the club furiously, aiming at Lars' head, but the red-bearded man ducked under the swing and stepped inside the stonemason's reach, grabbing the club before Bontar could react. Bontar gripped his pole tightly. The giant wouldn't snatch this weapon from him as easily as the rope! He soon learned the error of this action. Lars, however, turned his side to the stonemason and using Bontar's grip on the pole for leverage, easily threw the burly man over his shoulder into the mortar pit. Bontar barely had time to spit out a mouthful of clay before a large, booted foot smashed against his cheek and sent him face-first into the mixture of clay and straw filling the mixing pit. Lars calmly placed the same foot on the back of Bontar's neck and used his considerable weight to push the foreman's face deeper into the sticky clay. On the scaffold above, the two masons had a birds-eye view of the fight. When Bontar's struggles against Lars' foot became feebler, they started for the ladder. "I'd remain spectators, lads," Hestor, the red-beard's companion said, "Unless you'd like a taste of my steel." They saw he was now holding the shining dirk in his slim hand. "But he's killing Bontar," Deski protested. "The bully deserves it for trying to flog the boy," Hestor shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, casually cleaning his fingernails with the dirk. Paula scrambled to her feet and grabbed Lars' muscular forearm, trying to drag him from his stance over Bontar. "You can't kill him!" she cried hysterically. "Yer friend?" the giant asked, looking down at her but still not moving his foot from Bontar's neck. "No, but you still can't kill him! I won't let you!" she said defiantly as she tried again to pull Lars away. Lars shrugged her hold away, removing his foot from the stonemason's neck and stepping out of the mud of the mortar pit. He grabbed a handful of Bontar's hair and pulled him from the pit. Dragging him as easily as a jackal might drag a rabbit, Lars pulled him to the wooden buckets filled with water and stuffed his head in one. He swished the stonemason's head around inside and then drew it out, shaking the water and mud from it and upsetting the bucket, spilling the water that remained. He held the man for a moment and was rewarded with a bubbling gasp as Bontar tried to draw a breath through mud-caked orifices. Lars ducked the stonemason's head into another bucket and repeated the procedure washing more of the mud away. Satisfied that the man was able to breathe now, Lars relaxed his grip and let him fall to the ground. He turned his back on Bontar and walked toward Hestor. Paula glanced back and forth from Bontar to Lars, still in shock from the sudden violence. Lars stopped and turned toward her. "Ye going to be all right, boy?" he asked. Paula nodded, unable to speak now that the conflict was over. Bontar groaned and drew a few wheezing breaths as he struggled to get up. "You better be gone before he wakes up, boy," Reghr advised. "He'll blame you for the beating." "But ... but I need the job," Paula answered. "When Bontar finishes with you, you'll not be able to work anyway," Deski observed. Lars stepped to Paula's side. "Best ye go with us then, lad," he said as he placed a strong arm around her shoulders and steered her toward the street. Behind them Bontar managed to sit up, still struggling to get his breath and alternating between coughing and cursing. Paula hung her head and allowed Lars to lead her away from the construction site. A few blocks away, she stopped and turned to her rescuers. "Thank you for helping me, but it wasn't necessary; Bontar wouldn't have flogged me much." "One stroke's too much when it's not deserved," Lars said. "I've flogged men meself when it was called for and I'd do it again. But I'd nae do it, even on a captain's word, if the man be innocent." "Not even for Ebon?" Hestor said, the smirk on his lips again. Lars turned quickly and confronted the smaller man. "Not for Captain Ebon either, ye little bilge-rat," he said and cuffed Hestor on the shoulder, nearly sending him colliding with the wall of the building beside them. Hestor chuckled, not seeming to take offense. Paula spoke hesitantly, "I think I'd better go now." Her tremulous voice drew Lars attention from his companion. "What will ye do then?" "What do you mean?" "Ye said you needed the mud-mixer's job. Will ye be trying to go back to work for the masons?" "I guess so," she replied. "I don't know of anywhere else I can earn money and I've got to eat." "I do not think that would be wise," Lars said. "Ye do look like you need a good meal," he observed reaching over and nudging her side with a large hand. Paula yelped and slapped his hand away. "I like a lad with spirit." He said and slapped her across the back, nearly knocking the breath out of her. "Come, we'll get some food in ye at yonder tavern." He gestured toward Grey Talka's. "But first I need to wash some of this mud off." He walked over to a rain barrel near the entrance to an alley. He ducked his head in first and shook it fiercely, scattering water drops everywhere. Then he washed the mud from his arms. Apparently finished, he turned to Hestor and Paula and said, "Yer turn, laddie. Give me your shirt." "My what?" Paula exclaimed, stopping short of his reach. "Yer shirt. Ye've got mud all over the back. I'll wash it for you while you clean up." "No!" "What? Ye ungrateful whelp! I offered to buy you supper but I'll not take you in Grey Talka's with ye looking like a muddy pup." "You can brush off the back if you want to," Paula offered. "I'm not going to walk around Dargon City with wet clothes. They'll think I ... I fell in the river." She stayed out of Lars' reach. "All right," Lars said, satisfied with the compromise. "They'll not be looking tae closely at us anyway as long as we got a poppy like Hestor with us." Hestor shrugged and grinned when Paula looked at him. By the time Paula had washed her face and hands and Lars had brushed her shirt clean to his satisfaction, the sky had turned from a deep blue to a dark violet. With only the sparse light from the widely scattered street lamps to dim their glow, the stars were peeking out of the darkness. "Look at that!" Paula exclaimed as she pointed to the bright, unusual light westward high over the rooftops toward the sea. It was a brilliant, shining globe with a long shimmering tail following it. "That infernal light again! `Tis the portent of some evil god's doing!" Hestor grumbled. "It is only a star with a tail," Lars said. "If it's some evil god's doing then `tis poorly created." "You're a fool to blaspheme against the gods, Lars," said Hestor. "The only gods that I worship are those of the winds and sea. I doubt that any of those lay claim to that foolish bauble shining there," Lars scoffed. "You two have seen it before?" Paula asked, still staring at the strange light. "Aye, it gleamed over Dargon City as we sailed north last evening. Caused a bit of a stir with superstitious folk like Hestor here," Lars said. "Come, I'm getting hungry." "Maybe it is a bad omen," Paula said. "I've lost my job and I've only a Bit to my name. I can't even go to bed tonight." "Why not?" Hestor asked, unable to see what the strange apparition had to do with that. "Because I sleep in the straw pile we use to make the mortar. I can't go back there to sleep now because Bontar might find me." "Aye, I see now," Lars said. "But first we eat, then we find sleeping arrangements for you, laddie." "What do you mean?" Paula asked apprehensively. "Mayhap I know a place where you can sleep tonight." "You're not planning what I'm thinking you are, are you?" Hestor said. "Why not?" Lars grinned. "The lad can climb and he's agile as a spider, ye seen it yerself." Paula was confused. "What are you two talking about?" she asked. "He's planning to take you on the _Sanctuary_, Hestor grumbled. "What's the _Sanctuary_?" "Our ship. Captain Ebon's ship," he added. "I've never been on a ship before," Paula said. "You'll not be going on the _Sanctuary_ either if it be up to me," Hestor said defiantly. "I like my skin attached to my back." Paula was so amazed at his statement that she stopped in her tracks. "You'd be flogged for taking me on your ship?" she asked. "Lars be First Mate but Captain Ebon runs the ship with a firm hand," Hestor said. "What's a First Mate?" Paula asked. "The first officer on a ship," Hestor explained. "Answerable only to the Captain." "Then what are you?" "I'm the Bo'sun," he answered proudly, his chest swelling a bit. "What's a Bo'sun?" "The man who's in charge of the deck o' the vessel. Seein' to the rigging chores, makin' sure the crew does their jobs." "But your Captain wouldn't want you to take me on the ship?" "Ebon Bloodhawk's a fine lady and a good captain but she brooks no foolishness aboard the _Sanctuary_. Lars sometimes forgets that she'd likely flog him as quickly as any other man in the crew if he provokes her." Paula's eyes opened wide, "I thought you called her a lady!" "Aye, and if you meet her, you'd best do the same!" Lars continued a few more steps before he realized they weren't following. "Come, laddie. Don't listen tae Hestor. We'll get some stew and an ale, then we'll talk about what we'll do with you." Paula looked at Hestor but he shrugged indifferently and followed Lars to the door of Grey Talka's tavern. The tavern was busy but Lars found a place in the corner, or rather he suggested that the previous occupant vacate the table. The man scowled but did not protest, at least not within earshot of Lars. "Three stews and three ales," Lars ordered when the barmaid approached. "Ale?" Paula asked, forgetting to deepen her voice in her anticipation. "Of course!" Lars said with a grin, apparently not noticing her slip. "Even a wee laddie needs a tankard with his supper." Neither noticed Hestor's eyebrows raise slightly at the sound of her voice. Chuckles were heard from the occupants of the next table, but all laughter ceased when they saw the stern look in Lars' eyes. When the food came, Paula tried to practice restraint but soon she was shoveling the stew into her mouth as fast as she could chew and swallow it. The tankard of ale disappeared in a couple of menes and Lars had the barmaid refill it. "Blood and skulls, laddie, when did you eat last?" he finally asked when she paused over the nearly empty bowl. "Two days ago ... unless you count the apple I ... found." She burped loudly, almost forgetting to cover her mouth. Lars grinned, "No wonder ye're famished. What is yer name, laddie? I can't call you laddie all the time." "It's ... I go by Jamie." "Jamie, eh?" "Yes." "Where are your parents, Jamie?" he asked. "My da's dead, killed by a tree he was cutting. My ma's went and married again." She tried hard to make her voice sound more masculine. "So ye run off? Why?" "My step-da ... hurts me... Hits me," she added quickly. "So you go to work for a mason who tries to flog ye?" "Bontar was the only one who'd hire me," she said quickly, using the first excuse she could think of without having to explain the real reason for her disguise. "I'd been in Dargon for a few days and I had to steal food because I was hungry." At least that was the truth. "Bontar didn't try to flog me until today and that was because I was tired and I got clumsy." She didn't trust Lars enough yet to tell him that others might be looking for a runaway girl. "How old are you, Jamie?" "Fourteen," she answered. "Ah. Well, we'll get ye another bowl of stew and then we'll take you tae see Ebon." Across the table Hestor shook his head slowly, watching her intently. Finally he shrugged his shoulders and raised his flagon of ale, draining it quickly. He belched loudly and ordered another when the barmaid looked his way. When they left Grey Talka's, the sky had turned to a deep midnight blue. The stars were shining bright and the strange light was just above the horizon to the west now. "I don't really believe it's a bad omen," Paula said looking at it. "It's too pretty." "Lars might believe it after he takes you to Captain Ebon," Hestor said. "Maybe I'd better find somewhere else to sleep," she said, looking at Lars. "I don't want you to get into trouble. Here's my Bit. I know it won't pay for what I ate but it's all I have." "Keep your Bit," Lars said. "If you don't go with us, what will you eat tomorrow?" "I don't know. I'll find something." "Ye keep stealing food, yer going to get thrown in jail or dance on the gallows when they catch you!" "I can't have you buying food for me again. I don't have anything to pay you with." "If Ebon agrees, ye'll be earning your food." "What do you mean?" Paula asked, wondering what Lars was suggesting. "I mean joining the crew of the _Sanctuary_." "I don't know anything about boats or the sea," she protested. "It's a *ship*, not a boat, for bloody sake," Hestor said. "All right, ship then. I still don't know anything about sailing." "You can learn if you want to," Lars stated. "I don't want to. I don't want to leave Dargon." "Then you can go home or starve in the city." "I can't go home!" she said emphatically. "It doesn't look like you have many choices, laddie." "All right," Paula agreed sullenly. "Let's go see your Captain Ebon." By the time they had walked to the docks, the bright star had traveled a bit further west in the night sky. Paula wrinkled her nose against the scent of tar and rotten fish as they got closer to the harbor. The reflections of the stars and the bright crescent of a moon joined that of the apparition on the dirty water. A sleek three-masted ship was moored to the long pier far to their right. Even this late at night, the wharves were busy. Rugged laborers and burly dockhands sweated side by side, unloading and stacking various sizes of crates and bales. Strange and exotic smells wafted by on the evening breeze. Scents of spices, liquors and raw cotton mixed with the odors of clams, oysters and other denizens of the sea. Lars and Hestor made their way easily through the chaotic maze of cargo piled on the wharf. Rounding a precariously-stacked pile of wooden beams, they walked along a narrow strip of planking between the lumber and the water of the harbor below. The circuitous path and her fatigue coupled with the two flagons of ale she had drank made her footsteps unsteady. She felt a bit nauseous as she saw the stars reflecting on the dark water rippling against the pilings. "I can't swim," she said suddenly. "You can't what?" Lars boomed. "I can't swim. I never learned how." "Sure you can, boy," he said. "Swimming's something that comes natural." "No, I can't. Real -- Eeek!" Intent on following Lars and Hestor, she stumbled over a pile of discarded clam shells near the edge of the wharf. Her feet slid on the slimy planking and with arms flailing frantically, she slipped over the edge and plunged into the dark, dirty water. Rushing to the edge of the wharf, Lars arrived just in time to see her go under. Hestor's sash and dirk hit the wharf planking and he was pulling his shirt over his head when her head broke the surface and she gasped a quick breath before floundering and going down again. In the fleeting instant before she went under she saw Lars stop Hestor from diving in to save her. "Hold a mene," Lars said as he knelt at the edge of the wharf and stared down at the dark water. A few moments later, Paula's head appeared again and with arms paddling wildly she managed to reach one of the pilings and hang on to keep from submerging again. Ignoring the filth and slime of the wharf planking, Lars dropped prone near the piling and extended a long arm down to her. Unable to reach her, he scrambled up quickly and unwound a length of rope from the splintery piling and lowered it down to her. Paula reached up with her free hand and grasped the rope with more strength than she realized she possessed. Straightening, Lars hoisted her from the water with ease and helped her back on the pier. She tried to stand and failed as her shaking legs refused to hold her weight. Coughing and gagging, she sank to her hands and knees, spitting a mouthful of brackish water out on the wharf. Another fit of shaking racked her slender body and the ale and most of her supper followed. Hestor knelt beside her, watching anxiously. When the retching stopped, he handed her his discarded sash to wipe her face. She sat up unsteadily and looked up at him before using it. He nodded, "Go ahead, boy. I've another on the ship." When she had wiped away the vomit and dried her face and hair, she looked up at Lars. "What did you do that for?" she asked bitterly, spitting again to get rid of the foul taste in her mouth. "Pull you from the harbor?" he asked, looking confused. "No, stop Hestor from saving me!" she snapped, pouting. "To see if you could swim," he said calmly. "I told you I couldn't. What were you going to do, let me drown?" "Nay, 'tis the way my father taught me to swim." "You mean he almost let you drown when you fell into the harbor?" she asked, amazed. "Not exactly, you see he had to throw me in first." Lars laughed heartily, turned and strode down the wharf toward the nearest pier, not watching to see if she followed. Hestor's laugh was muffled as he pulled his shirt back on. Then he took his sash when Paula offered it and turned to follow. Brilliantly-dyed fine cloth of that hue was hard to find. Paula watched them leave. For a moment she contemplated running back down the wharf to the city, but when the ocean breeze chilled her in her wet clothing, she decided to follow and trudged dripping after them. Several yards down the pier, a battered plank bridged the gap between it and the three-master anchored there. In the smoky glow of a torch burning nearby, she could read _Sanctuary_ burned into a plank spiked to the ship's bow. Lars and Hestor strode confidently across the plank bridge as if they walked down a city street. Paula paused a moment, then carefully walked across, the taste of the dirty harbor water still bitter in her mouth. She stepped down on the deck of the ship before she realized another person watched them board. "What's this you bring on my ship?" It was Ebon and her voice was pleasant enough, but there was an edge to it that brooked no compromise. "The lad's name is Jamie, Ebon," Lars answered. "He'll make a fine rigger." "You're bringing another stray pup on the _Sanctuary_?" the voice was sterner now. "This one looks half drowned already! You fall into the harbor, boy?" she asked. "Yes," Paula admitted grudgingly. "And where were the two of you when this happened?" Ebon asked Lars and Hestor. "Watching me drown!" Paula interrupted before they could answer. "At least Lars was. Hestor would have helped me if Lars had let him." "Why would Lars do that?" Ebon turned her attention back to Paula. "He wanted to see if I could swim," Paula answered sullenly. "Could you then, boy?" Ebon asked. "No, but he pulled me out afterwards," she explained. Ebon's stern countenance softened and she smiled. "Come to my cabin, boy, and we'll talk about this." She turned to Lars and Hestor. "You two wait on deck and stay out of trouble or your shore leave'll be over until after we dock at Miass. "Aye, Captain," came the answer in unison. Ebon led Paula to a stairway leading up to the aft deck. "Up here, boy. Have you ever sailed before?" "No," Paula answered, looking back apprehensively at Lars and Hestor before following Ebon up the stairs and through the door into a cabin brightly lit with lanterns. "So what makes Lars think there's a place for you on the _Sanctuary_?" "I don't know," she answered softly, wondering why Hestor seemed so scared of this woman. "I think he feels sorry for me ..." "And why would that be?" Ebon pressed. "I was in trouble ... or at least he thought I was. A man ... My boss was going to flog me with a rope." "Why would he do that?" "I dropped some of the mortar that I was carrying. It landed on his head. I worked for stonemasons, rebuilding walls damaged in the war." Ebon's lips curled into a smile. "I can see how that might make him angry," she said. "It did." "What did Lars say your name was, boy?" "Jamie, ma'am," she answered politely, remembering Hestor's advice. "Don't call me ma'am! Call me Captain or Ebon." "Yes, Captain," she corrected quickly. "Where are your parents?" "Like I told Lars, my da's dead, my ma's married again and my step-da beats me." "They live in Dargon City?" "No, in the country near Shireton. We had a farm." "And you think you could be a sailor?" "I don't know. Lars thinks I can." "Lars doesn't think. You're not the first waif he's brought to me." Paula stood quietly, not commenting. "Do you think you could be a sailor?" Ebon asked again. "I don't know. I guess I'm willing to try. I don't have anyplace else to go." She was beginning to feel more at ease. Maybe Ebon wasn't as bad as she had imagined from the way Hestor had portrayed her. "Life on board a ship is hard. There's storms and heavy seas. There's sun so hot it'll burn you scarlet, rain so cold it'll freeze you to the bone. If that isn't enough, there's Beinison caravels, reefs, pirates and worse. You'll go weeks without the sight of dry land. Are you sure that's a place for a girl?" "Why not? You're the Captain and you're ..." Paula suddenly realized she was about to give herself away. "Besides, I'm not a girl anyway." She made sure her voice didn't change. "Don't lie to me!" Ebon shouted and before Paula could stop her, the Captain hooked two fingers in the neck of Paula's shirt and yanked. The wet fabric tore with a sodden rip and Paula's budding breasts were revealed for an instant before she could clutch the torn cloth tightly to cover herself again. "Why did you do that?" Paula asked, tears of frustration nearly blinding her as she shrank away from Ebon, suddenly believing everything Hestor had said about the Captain. "If you sail on the _Sanctuary_, one rule you will always follow," Ebon said bluntly, her dark hair swirling angrily about her face. "What's that?" Paula asked, her voice quivering as she blinked the tears away. "*Never* lie to me!" Ebon's face was stern and hard, her eyes burning with an inner fire. "All right," Paula agreed, shivering in her wet clothing. She quickly stepped out of Ebon's reach as the captain went to the bunk across the cabin and pulled a warm blanket from it. She returned to Paula and draped the blanket over her shoulders. "All right then, what's your real name? I need it for the ship's log." "Paula," Paula answered, "Does that mean I'm hired on the _Sanctuary_?" "For now," Ebon answered. "At least until we can find you a place to stay where you'll be safe. You need to get out of those wet clothes. I'll find you something of mine that you can wear. It might be a bit large but it'll have to do." Paula waited while Ebon dug through a large chest, searching for the right apparel. Menes later, Ebon came back with a deep blue shirt of fine satin and dark brown pants along with a shift to wear beneath. Paula took the stack of clothes and went to the bench near the narrow bed. She set the clothing down except for the shirt which she held up to the light of the lantern. "I can't take something like this," she told Ebon. "I've never owned something so fine." It's yours now," Ebon said. "It was part of the booty we took off a Beinison galleon. The beldam that owned it had good tastes, but she won't have any more use for it. Go ahead and change now, then we'll talk with Lars." Ebon turned her back and made herself busy with some parchments at the desk giving Paula what privacy the small cabin could afford. "I'm ready," Paula said a few menes later. Ebon turned and nodded approvingly. The shirt was a bit large, especially through the bodice and Paula had rolled the pants up a couple of turns but she looked much more confident than the water-soaked little waif that Lars and Hestor had brought on board earlier. Ebon took her arm and led her to the door of the cabin. Lars and Hestor looked up as Ebon and Paula exited the Captain's cabin and walked down the stairs to the main deck. When they approached, Lars stared at Paula, his mouth hanging open in astonishment. "Meet Paula, your new shipmate," Ebon said. "What? How?" Lars stammered. Hestor lounged against the rail, his lips curled into a knowing smirk, enjoying Lars' discomfort. Ebon laughed cheerfully. "The next time you bring a stray pup on board, Lars, you might want to be sure of its gender." "But I never thought ..." "You never do," Ebon said, still smiling. "Now that you know Paula's a girl, you'll see that the crew treats her with respect," she ordered. "But she pulls her weight. She gets treated no better or no worse than the rest of them. Hestor!" Hestor had been sidling away from them. Now he turned back to Ebon. "Yes, Captain?" "Since you brought her on board, you're responsible for her education. You'll teach Paula how to work in the rigging. Climb, furl sail and all the rest. Understood?" "Yes, Captain," he said and frowned at Lars. Lars grinned back at him, having known all along that teaching Paula would be the Boatswain's job. He suspected that had been one of Hestor's motives for protesting his bringing her on the _Sanctuary_ in the first place. The quartet walked across the deck and stood by the rail. Across the harbor the brilliant, tailed star was disappearing behind rooftops of the city to the east. Paula looked up at Lars and then on an impulse put her hand on his muscular forearm. "See," she said, pointing with her other hand, "I told you it was too pretty to be a bad omen." Lars nodded and clumsily patted her short-clipped hair. "Aye," he whispered. Ebon stood at his other side. Only Hestor noticed the faint frown wash across her attractive features as she stepped closer to the big man. ========================================================================