textfiles/magazines/DARGONZINE/dargon.v11n7

  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
-=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
  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 <dargon@shore.net> 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 <ornoth@shore.net>,
 Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. 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
                           <ornoth@shore.net>

     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
                        <John.White@drexel.edu>
                        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
                      <cheribou@worldnet.att.net>
                             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
                         <gandalf@accessus.net>
                             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.

========================================================================