She leaned across the desk. "How? What do you mean, Uncle?"
'There might be a way," repeated Nellthis, "but it will be difficult to arrange."
"Money? I have some, but I can get more. My word can be my guarantee."
Nellthis waved his hand to indicate that money was not the problem. "I have plenty of money."
"Time? Isn't there enough time?"
Again Nellthis waved his hand in dismissal. He was looking past her, up at the ceiling, making a show of thinking.
"What, then?" demanded Kitiara.
"Difficult," Nellthis said, pursing his lips. "But perhaps it can be arranged. The journey itself will require no money, only courage and good luck."
Although Kit had no idea what Nellthis had in mind, she could tell by his demeanor that he was serious. And in matters to do with family, she trusted Uncle Nellthis as much as Kitiara Uth Matar trusted anyone. Even though the trip seemed impossible, and Kitiara could think of no conceivable way that such a journey could be completed within a short frame of time, she found herself believing him when he said that it might be arranged.
She flashed him a warm, crooked grin. "I have the courage," she said, "if you can supply the good luck." More earnestly, she added, "I'll do whatever needs to be done and repay you in any way I can."
"Tut-tut, Kitiara," replied Nellthis. Staring at her fixedly, he lowered his voice. "I expect nothing but your gratitude. Oh, before I forget," he added nonchalantly, reaching for a tiny bottle of colorless liquid on his desk and holding it out toward her, "here's a memento of the part you played in bagging that leucrotta. I had the man who preserved the head set it aside—especially for you."
"What is it?" Kitiara asked, peering suspiciously at the thick liquid that floated in the small, innocuous-looking glass container.
"A vial of the creature's saliva," explained Nellthis.
"According to legend, it makes an effective antidote to love philters. Judging by that amusing episode in the courtyard, I think you might have more use for it than I."
Skeptical, Kit's eyes flicked back and forth from Nellthis to the vial. His expression was unreadable. "Take it," he urged. "It might come in handy someday."
Kitiara gave him another crooked grin as she pocketed the small vial.
"Now we must hurry," Nellthis added, taking up the quill pen again and scribbling a note. He folded the note into his pocket and rose from the desk. "We have things to do . . . friends of mine that you must meet. You must pack your belongings. You have to hurry if you want to be on your way by sunrise."
Chapter 4
Across the BloodSea
The first to awaken was Caramon, his head throbbing painfully. He had a vague sensation of having dreamed something—of being up in a high stone tower, buffeted by strong winds and driving rain. Only it wasn't a tower; it was the tallest tree in a forest, bending and swaying, with Caramon clinging precariously high in its branches. Lightning struck the tree, and it snapped in the middle, and Caramon was falling. But he could save himself. All he had to do was grab the anchor of a silver ship flying by, an anchor that bobbed and dangled mere inches from his fingertips . . . .
"Unh," he grunted. That sailor's mead was worse than dwarf spirits. Caramon reached up to massage the bridge of his nose, but something held his hand down. Opening his eyes painfully, he realized that, for some reason that escaped him, he was roped to a post along with Sturm and Tas, who were still unconscious. Caramon closed his eyes again and relaxed. It was just a bad dream. It would all go away when the mead wore off.
The sounds of the storm faded and were replaced by the cries of gulls, the sighing of the wind, and the gentle rocking and swaying of a ship. Then, after some time, other sounds became gradually audible . . . low grunts and scraping noises and the squeaking of oars.
Caramon's bleary eyes opened again, and he tried to assess the situation. Where was he, anyway? What had happened? Why were he and Sturm and Tasslehoff roped to the ship's mast?
Sturm leaned against him, his head thrown back and his mouth agape. Behind them, if Caramon twisted his shoulder, he could make out Tas, an ugly purple bruise spreading across his forehead. Caramon elbowed Sturm, but got no reaction. He could hear Tasslehoff as the kender began to stir and groan.
All three were bound and shackled to the center post of the Venora. As far as Caramon could see, nobody else was aboard the ship, which seemed to be drifting gently with the current.
Caramon combed his memory, trying to recall how he got there. The last thing he remembered, he had been on deck, swapping yarns and sharing mead with some of the sailors. They were on their way back from Eastport. It was a beautiful clear night, one of those times when all seemed right with the world.
Straining his eyes, he couldn't place the sun, but Caramon felt that it must be daytime. It was hot and humid. The sun must be up there somewhere, behind the filmy gray clouds. Not clouds . . . more like a warm-weather mist, which cast its pall over everything, so that Caramon could see only a short way ahead of him on the ship.
All of a sudden, the sounds that he had been hearing stopped and were replaced by other, closer, more distinct sounds. Footfalls. Clanking weapons. Voices.
"What is it?" whispered Tas groggily. "What has happened?"
"Shhh."
The mist cleared slightly. Caramon saw hands gripping the side railings of the Venora and figures climbing over the rail onto the ship. In twos and threes, they began to creep forward, coming closer, closer, so that soon Caramon knew he would be able to make
