"No, no, no, no. Not with your aim. Captain La Cava, he need me to sail. If Lurie get hurt, whole ship be hurting, especially captain," Lurie proclaimed indignantly. Lurie could afford to brag. La Cava was down below, napping. The captain liked to take the helm at night, alone under a starry sky while everyone else slept. He caught up on his sleep in the afternoon.
Patric, too, was below. He had settled down in his cabin to write in his journal and had waved away Strathcoe, who otherwise would have stayed at his master's side. All the other passengers had retreated to their cabins, chased there after lunch by the midday sun. Even most of the crew had made themselves scarce. Only two or three sailors remained above deck. The minotaurs pulled at the oars to keep the ship moving, but did not exert themselves. The sky was hazy with reflected light, the water a deep, sapphire blue. The bow of the ship was pointed north by west.
Driven from her cabin by boredom, Kitiara climbed on deck in time to observe Strathcoe's forcible persuasion of Lurie. After almost two weeks of land travel with Strathcoe and a week on board the Silver Gar with Lurie, she knew them well enough to see that the quarrel was not serious. A fundamental camaraderie underlay their every activity.
"Hey! You two look like you need someone with the wisdom of the gods to settle this, and I want you to know that I'm available," Kitiara called out, grinning as she approached.
Kitiara had never been on any body of water larger than Crystalmir Lake, but she had taken to life at sea. During the first day or two she had thoroughly explored the ship, adapting to the sea swells and moving with her customary agility.
After watching Kit and answering perhaps her hundredth question, La Cava had decided she could be of some use. He had permitted Kitiara to help with some of the shipboard tasks—taking down the sails, climbing the rigging to untangle lines, and even having a turn at day watch in the crow's nest. The sun had toasted her skin to a warm golden tan, and the physical activity had added more sinew to her slenderness. The paying passengers gaped and sniffed at her as she clambered around, trading jokes and insults with the crew. La Cava indulged her the way a father would a spirited child. Slowly, most of the sailors, who were unaccustomed to a female behaving as their equal, grew to regard her as such, respecting her willingness to try anything. Kit found Patric's reaction difficult to decipher. She often felt his eyes on her as she moved around the ship. At times he seemed bemused by her energy and physicality, at other times proud, almost possessively so, of her and the admiration she attracted from the sailors.
In other ways, though, Patric had drawn apart from her. The longer and farther they sailed, the more protracted became his moods and silences. Kit could not figure out what preoccupied him.
Only at night, when they dined with La Cava, did Patric become animated, telling story after story about Gwynned and his family's estate, and other tales from the region. With looks and gestures, he included Kit in the embrace of his storytelling. Afterward, though, when they would walk up on deck, he spoke less freely and rarely touched her. Their kisses, which she usually initiated, were oddly chaste.
She shook these thoughts from her mind as she greeted Lurie and Strathcoe. "Show me how to do that," she asked them.
They nodded, and Lurie handed her the thick-handled knife they were aiming at the makeshift target, a foot-high straw icon of a hobgoblin. Kitiara hefted the knife in one hand, feeling its weight as she squinted at the target, about ten yards down the deck. With her other hand she shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun.
Kitiara had handled plenty of knives growing up, but she had never taken much target practice, nor actual training with a short blade like this. Gilon's knives were practical ones better suited for butchering meat or carving a table leg than for fighting. Strathcoe grinned encouragingly at her. He, Lurie, and Kit had become almost friends, a surprising development considering that Strathcoe could not utter a sentence and Lurie had his own idiosyncratic way of expressing himself, not always making sense.
"Here," said Lurie, "hold it this way." He put his arm around her shoulder and laid his hand over hers, showing her how to grip the knife with the fingers splayed along the length of the handle. Then he made a sideways, whiplike motion. The knife flew from her hand, missing the puppet target by several inches and embedding itself in 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.
