Kyroun had ordered the overhaul, as was his right since he owned the vessel. Had the Seer not done so, Muldure would have asked him to. He could not have borne to see a seacraft remain so badly damaged, even if it didn’t belong to him.
The work had gone well thus far. With the help of Matile carpenters, his diminished crew had re-planked the hole the collision with the wharf had punched into the ship’s hull. The broken mast had been replaced, and the Matile had provided new rope to replace snapped rigging. The Matile were also weaving new sails to replace the ones that had been ripped apart when Kyroun’s sorcerous shield could no longer hold back the storm.
Muldure marveled yet again at the Matiles’ generosity. In his time, he had sailed to more than a few places in which the inhabitants would have gleefully looted the crippled White Gull and sold its passengers and crew into slavery. At the very least, the “hosts” would have demanded goods, money, or unpaid labor in exchange for their hospitality. The newcomers’ lives would have been in peril at almost every moment.
But not with the Seer aboard, he thought. Not with the power he possesses ....
He suppressed a shudder, then berated himself for the discomfort that even thinking about the Seer still aroused within him. He remembered their first meeting on the Fiadol waterfront, and the way Kyroun had almost compelled Muldure to join in a venture at which he would ordinarily have laughed loud and long. And he suppressed another shudder.
Lyann stirred, as if in response to Muldure’s tension. Then she opened her eyes and sat up. As she raked a hand through her tangled yellow hair, the single sheet fell away from her tanned, sinewy body. Like Muldure, she was not wearing any clothing. Catlike, she stretched, back arching and breasts pushing forward.
Then she looked down at Muldure, saw that he was awake, and smiled. He smiled back at her.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
Lyann widened her eyes in mock concern.
“Uh-oh; we’re in trouble now,” she said.
Muldure laughed and pulled her down to him, trapping her in his arms. They wrestled playfully for a few moments, then kissed deeply. After a while, Lyann pulled away and looked into his eyes. The expression on her face was serious now.
“What is it you’re thinking?” she asked.
“The repairs are almost done,” he said.
Lyann waited, knowing there was more on his mind.
“Kyroun’s voyage was successful. He has found his so-called homeland. The Believers are happy here. And ... no one has tried to kill us.”
“So?” she asked.
“So why does Kyroun want the ship repaired? What does he need it for, if the voyage has ended to his satisfaction?”
Lyann had no answer to those questions. She made the only response she could think of: a shrug of her shoulders and a roll of her eyes.
“I’ll tell you something, Lyann,” Muldure said then. “This ship ought to be ours.”
Lyann slid away from him, drew her knees up to her chest and crossed her arms in front of her sheet-covered shins. Her expression showed her reaction to what Muldure had said: Oh no. Not again.
“Kyroun might not see it that way,” she said in a level tone.
“He owes us,” Muldure insisted. “He owes us for the lives of everyone who died on this ship – and the Swordfish.”
Lyann looked at him. She was experiencing a familiar, sinking feeling.
She had known Muldure for more than a decade. At sea, in a fight, or in bed, she would rather have him at her side than anyone else she had ever known. But she was well aware that when Muldure was not involved in direct action that required all his resources, both physical and mental, he was prone to self-destructive lapses in judgment.
She remembered his foolhardy venture into privateering. When her attempts to talk him out of it proved unsuccessful, she had joined him in the enterprise and shared his disgrace when disaster struck, as she had known it would. And she had stayed with him through the bitter consequences, as well as the seemingly suicidal venture the madman known as the Seer of Almovaar had proposed.
Luck, superb seamanship, and Kyroun’s sorcery had carried them through the Sea of Storms. The decision to transport the Almovaads had not been difficult. Landbound by decree, Muldure was dying by inches. It was far better for him to go out gloriously at sea with a deck under his feet. Lyann had been prepared to die with him then. But now ...
“Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?” she asked.
Muldure sat up, his bare shoulder brushing hers.
“Do you really want to stay here?” he asked, deflecting her question.
“Why not?” she replied. “The Ma-teel couldn’t treat us any better. When was the last time you ever saw anyone being this accommodating to strangers?”
“True. But this city is dying around them. I can see it. I can feel it.”
“Kyroun thinks he can bring the place back to life.”
“Maybe he can. But I don’t want to stay around to find out.”
Lyann looked at him without speaking. She didn’t have to say anything to convey her mood, which was worsening by the moment. Finally, Muldure sighed.
“All right, Lyann,” he said. “I’m just thinking now. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”
Lyann laughed.
“When have I heard that before?” she said.
Then she kissed him deeply, rose from the bed and padded naked to the privy that was closed off from the rest of the cabin. The light from the porthole picked out the long scar a sword-slash had etched across her back years ago.
Muldure had killed the man who inflicted that wound. Lyann had been part of his life ever since, first as a grateful friend, then as a lover.
Throwing the sheet aside, Muldure swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. There was work to be done. Muldure was still determined to learn the purpose of
