a rain barrel that, fortunately, was empty.
Strathcoe mimed disgust at Lurie for failing to impart a piece of vital information to their pupil. He ran forward to pull the knife out, bringing it back to Kit. Strathcoe made an elaborate point of wiping both sides of the blade on his trousers before handing it to Kit. She glanced at Lurie, puzzled, because the blade had not been wet.
'Strathcoe, he says, 'keep it dry,' ' interpreted Lurie.
'Why?' asked Kitiara, as she readied for another try.
Strathcoe made some indeterminate, strangled noises, ending with his characteristic grin. 'Truer aim,' said Lurie matter-of-factly. 'Water bends the knife. Dry goes in deeper, too. Always dry before big fight or after each throw. Very dry, best.'
This time Kitiara tried the throw by herself. A roll of the ship set her off balance at the last moment, and the toss went astray, clattering to the deck a couple of feet from the target. Exuberantly, Strathcoe hurried to retrieve it.
When the big slave got back, he showed her his style of grip and throw. Strathcoe's fingers tightened over the handle. His body tensed as he whirled in a half-circle-despite his bulk, Kitiara was struck by the grace of his motion-and the knife flew from his hand in a blur. An instant later, she saw that the blade had cleaved the chest of the doll target.
Lurie sauntered over to pull it out, came back, and, as he readied his own throw, cast a scornful glance at Strathcoe. It was as if Patric's slave should have been ashamed of himself for showing off. 'Score a mark,' said the captain's mate drily.
Lurie served as Kitiara's willing guide to all the workings of the ship, the better, she suspected, to avoid his regular duties. At just over one hundred twenty feet from stem to stern, the
The other passengers were quartered forward of the stern in ten or so cabins that were smaller than Kit's, but beautifully appointed. One day she and Lurie explored their small section. Several of the doors were open to allow for any wisp of a breeze. Ever curious, Kit glanced inside the cabins when she could and saw each was outfitted with oak paneling, plush velvet cushions, and elegantly functional furniture.
In one, she also saw a plump, veiled lady wearing a woolen dress despite the heat, reclining on her bed and breathing heavily. The young boy traveling with her was doing his best to keep her cool by waving a large peacock feather fan. Both were dressed absurdly for the hot weather, and Kit almost had a mind to say so. But Lurie gave her a nudge, and she moved on.
Through another doorway, Kitiara glimpsed a pale elf, pointed ears showing through longish white-blond hair, sitting on a stool and staring out a window at the sea. Although he sat with his back to the doorway, Kit had the impression that his eyes were closed. She heard murmuring, some kind of incantation it sounded like, from his direction. Next to her, Lurie shifted his weight impatiently and brushed up against the doorway, making a sound that caused the elf to turn sharply. He had such a frown on his face that Kit involuntarily took a step back and hurried on.
On another day, Lurie guided Kitiara down to the hold where a dozen chained minotaurs rowed their oars, during periods of calm, to a rhythmic sea chant. One of La Cava's men watched over them constantly. Still, Kit knew they were treated relatively well, eating the same rations of food and water as the sailors and rich passengers.
Kit stared at them, fascinated, remembering the first time she had seen a minotaur close up. That had been with Gregor before the battle against Swiftwater. These carried no weapons, of course, but their hulking, hair- covered forms awed her nonetheless. Their sharp horns looked deadly. Their huge eyes seemed to stare ahead at some fixed point invisible to mere humans. Despite the chains that bound their feet to the floor, they exuded an aura of power essentially untamed.
They also exuded a powerful stench. Lurie pulled out a handkerchief and covered his nose with it.
'They seem,' said Kitiara, searching for the right words, 'almost regal. Like they should be the ones in the cabins and we all should be down here rowing.'
'Sometimes,' said Lurie, holding his nose, 'they act up. Then, they trouble. Mostly, they work hard, do their job. But stink. Very stink.'
'Yes,' Kitiara had to agree. 'Very stink.'
After a week at sea, Patric and Kitiara received an invitation to dine with the captain on the occasion of his birthday. Unlike most nights when they ate in the ship's dining room, this time they were privileged to be invited to La Cava's quarters.
Patric had seemed particularly remote that day, and in an
effort to please him Kitiara planned to dress up for the occasion. She dug through his mother's trunk and chose a white dress that left her shoulders bare. The diaphanous material swirled gracefully around her figure down to the floor. She wore the chrysanth pendant Patric had given her and fluffed her hair out. When he knocked at her door and she observed his reaction, Kitiara knew she had chosen well.
'A beautiful vision,' he murmured.
For his part, Patric was dressed in a uniform that must have been worn, at one time, by his father, for it fitted him a bit loosely. It was braided at the shoulder and hips and decorated with family emblems. At his waist, Kit noted with some surprise, was the sword she had given him, its precious stones winking in the cabin's light. He looked, Kit decided, thoroughly dashing. Impulsively, she embraced him and was pleased to feel his warm response. Hand in hand, they crossed over to La Cava's cabin.
Kit didn't know what she expected, but what she found were richly furnished quarters displaying a mixture of fastidious good taste with unruly evidence of a life spent at sea. La Cava had shelves lined with books and the occasional piece of driftwood, drawings framed on the wall alongside colorful navigational maps. Through the doorway into his sleeping chamber, Kit saw that his bed was covered with a finely sewn, multicolored quilt. In the sitting room, where they were to eat, a pedestal occupied a place of honor. Draped around it was a gray-green tentacled creature, the size of a large dog, with bulging eyes and razor-sharp spines covering its body.
'That thing got washed aboard during a storm,' La Cava said when he noticed Kit eyeing the creature. 'Wrapped itself around the helm. Those tentacles and spines shoot poison, and I had to fight it to regain control of the wheel. After I killed it, I had Lurie preserve the thing. It's not often I come that close to losing a fight,' he said, winking at Kit.
La Cava, too, had dressed handsomely in a fitted short jacket and dark pants, with a red sash tied at his waist and a red and white striped scarf knotted around his neck.
With a small bow, he invited Kitiara and Patric to be seated across from each other at a wooden table set with china and illuminated by candles. La Cava seated himself at the head of the table. The three of them smiled at each other a little awkwardly in this unfamiliar situation.
Any tension was relieved by Figgis, the ship's cook, who made a show of carrying in a tray of cooked pigeon, birds Kit had seen earlier in the day, caged among some of the other food supplies. The resourceful Figgis was followed by a small cabin boy who could barely balance a tray heavy with pieces of fish, marinated kelp, nut pudding, and dried fruit.
Ample portions of wine from the captain's private stock loosened them up as the evening wore on. La Cava was in good temper, but as usual spoke little, always choosing his words judiciously. Patric had warmed to the special occasion and ensured there were no gaps in the conversation. He talked expansively, telling story after story in a way that reminded Kit of the week they had spent together in Solace. Patric could be a bit of a bore, Kit acknowledged to herself, but he certainly was the most handsome man she had ever known-after Gregor, that is. She grinned at him beguilingly over the table.
'So my mother says…' It was past midnight, and Patric was in the middle of a long tale about how his father had tricked his mother into marrying him. La Cava was listening politely, though he no doubt had heard this one more than once before. Kit could tell that the captain was growing tired.
' 'I can't marry you, Alwith, I am betrothed to another.' 'Well,' says my father, 'either I will kill your betrothed
