"What are our chances now?" asked Tallia.

"Well, the cargo is gone, and that was more than the value of The Waif. But he'll still want the boat if he can get it, and bloody revenge on us for the loss of his profit."

"Yes, the pirates of Crandor don't have a pretty reputation. Then if we must die, let's give him a lesson he'll never forget."

"We're eight," said Osseion. "They must have at least twenty on board."

"I've an idea," said Pender, "if you trust me to attempt it."

"With my life," said Tallia. "What is it?"

"I believe we'd have the edge on him downwind. If we were to turn here, we'd lose way and he'd be onto us in a minute. But up ahead"-looking where he was pointing, she spied a group of islands across their path, and others beyond, all cliffed like the shore-"if we went between them, he'd lose sight of us, maybe for long enough for us to turn back to Roros. Then we'll see who's faster."

"I'm not a sailor, Pender, but won't we lose our wind as we go between the islands?"

"Somewhat," he replied, rubbing his chin bristles. "What I plan to do is tack a bit further out to sea, as though I am going around the islands, then on the last tack, dart through the gap between the two biggest. Because he's further to sea, it'll be difficult for him to do the same-those islands out there will be in his way. After we do that, he'll have to guess whether we've gone on to Twissel or turned back to Roros, eh!"

"What if he guesses right and turns back straight away?"

"Then we're finished! Hey, Rustible, come here."

They went into a huddle, reviewing the state of the tide, the probability of wind and currents being weaker between the islands, or stronger, the draught of The Waif compared to Poniard, surely less with the cargo and some of the ballast gone, and other technical matters that Tallia had no appreciation of.

They were now beating up into the wind on the last tack. The Waif edged a little further ahead, just out of bowshot. Poniard turned to cover her, moving further out to sea in the hope of catching a stronger breeze. Just ahead was a cluster of small rocky islands, then to their right two larger ones, cliffed all around and with flat tops covered with scrub. Beyond the right-hand one was a chain of smaller islands.

They passed inside the cluster, then turned smoothly on the port tack, picking up the wind and surging forward. Tallia ran to the rail, watching the other boat. It turned as well, staying seaward of the island cluster.

The tension on Pender's face was mirrored on the rest of the crew. Everything depended on what bel Gorst did next. Pender had been rather clever, Tallia saw, as they ran toward the gap between the two larger islands. Beyond them, the cliffed coast turned sharply south, a shortcut to Twissel and the wind more to their advantage, if they could get there. Bel Gorst must be worried now, knowing that if they got through first they could turn back or pick up the wind and be well away to their destination, while he either went round the long way or worked his way through the islands.

"What's he going to do?" Pender cried, screwing up his face in his agony. He turned sharply, heading between the two larger islands toward the cliffed coastline beyond. They picked up speed with the wind.

"He's starting to turn," Rustible shouted. Pender swore and Tallia's heart sank. "No, he's going straight on, around the outside."

Pender let out a whoop. They drifted into the lee of the island, eddies flapped the sails, then the wind died completely. Momentum carried them on, drifting dangerously close to the rocks. Osseion and Rustible stood ready to fend them away with oars. With agonizing slowness they drifted between the two islands and out the other side, but still there was no wind, for they were in the lee of the chain of islands beyond.

"I thought we'd catch enough of a current to carry us through," said Pender gloomily. The Waif was stationary now, the shrouds sagging from their poles. A tiny current rotated the bow around, then died away.

"There's a bit of a breeze over near the cliff," called Rustible from the mast. "Though it'd be a hell of a pull."

A good few hundred spans away the water was feathered with little ripples where the wind was funneled along the cliff line.

"Quick!" Pender cried. "Get the dinghy over the side, and a stout line onto it. Osseion, into the dinghy. You too, Argis," he shouted to the meatiest of the sailors.

In a minute the dinghy was in the water, the two big men at the oars. "Pull for all you're worth!" Pender roared, "or we're dead!"

They pulled, and slowly the cable tightened, spraying water out of the braids. The Waif began to creep toward the rippled sea. And as it did so Poniard appeared at the eastern end of the channel, moving swiftly with the wind.

"Farsh!" Pender swore, then fell silent. The situation was too dire for cursing.

BRAGGARD'S ROCK

I don't suppose you could manage another of your illusions?" Pender said hopefully to Tallia. "Or even better, a breeze?"

"Weatherworking is one of the most difficult of the Secret Arts," she replied. "And the least predictable-like the weather itself. I never had any skill at it. But not even Faelamor could hide The Waif on a bright day like today. They can already see us."

Poniard was losing speed rapidly in the lee of the islands, though it looked as if she still had enough wind to catch them. And she would do so before the two in the dinghy, now pulling like galley slaves, towed them to that little breezeway over by the cliffs. They watched the enemy's progress in silence. An hour passed, the slowest that Tallia had ever experienced.

The pirate craft was now so close that they could see the dark visage of bel Gorst, and hear the roars and jeers of the crew.

"I can't bear this," said Pender, punching his fist against the tiller.

"Have you any pitch on board?" Tallia asked casually.

"A barrel or two, unless you threw it over as well, eh?"

"We didn't."

He stared at her, then suddenly grinned. "Rustible, a barrel of pitch up here, on the double."

Shortly Rustible came running up the steps with the barrel on his shoulder, banged it down and expertly knocked the top out.

"Pitch up a couple of arrows for me, would you," Tallia said, concentrating with her eyes closed. "And fetch a bucket of coals from the galley."

Tallia sat, cross-legged, lost in her mind as she constructed the separate parts of her illusion and fitted them together in her head. No one said anything, though Pender gripped the rail as if trying to mold the brass to the shape of his fingers. The crew stared at the approaching boat. It was very close.

Suddenly Tallia's eyes flew open. "The bow!" she snapped. A longbow was put in her hand. She drew the string back once or twice, then nodded. "The arrow!" A pitched arrow was handed to her. She tested its weight and balance, then smeared the pitch down with one finger.

Springing up, she touched the arrowhead to the fire bucket and drew it out flaming. She stepped to the rail, drew back the bowstring until the flaming head almost touched the wood, and let it fly. It arced high, descended toward the other boat and slammed into the sail just above the boom. A little patch of flame grew there. Tallia threw the bow to Rustible, crying "Shoot again!" then she swayed on her feet, chanting.

The tiny flame licked at the sail. Another joined it, higher up, from Rustible's arrow, then with a violent roar flames sprang right to the top of the sail, and leapt to the other sails too. The sailors raced to the sides of the boat. Tallia moved her hands in the air and the flame appeared to jump to the ropes, the wheel-house, even the planks of the deck. Half the sailors promptly leapt over the side, while the others crowded at the bow. Bel Gorst ran back and forth, screaming at them and heaving buckets of water at the fire.

Tallia suddenly fell down on the deck and the illusion vanished. One sail was on fire, and its ropes, but that was all. Pender whooped. Everyone stared at the flames. No one moved.

"Hoy!" boomed Osseion's deep voice from the dinghy. "What are you doing? Let's get going!"

Unnoticed, the rowers had pulled The Waif into the patch of light air. The sails rippled and began to bell out. Before Pender could give an order the sailors were at their posts. Osseion and Argis clambered up the side, as drenched with sweat as if they had fallen in the water. The dinghy was hauled over the side.

"I've never worked so hard in all my life," Osseion gasped, slurping down a dipper of water.

On Poniard the fire had been put out. A hole was burned in the mainsail, and the ropes and spars were charred, but the other sheets, though scorched, were intact. Most of the conflagration had been illusion.

Bel Gorst was working with a cold fury, recovering the sailors who had leapt overboard, whipping them indiscriminately as they began the task of replacing the ropes and sails. But now Poniard was herself becalmed, as tantalizingly close to that cliff-line breeze as The Waif had been before her, and he was forced to watch helplessly as she set her sails and began to drift away and, once out of the wind shadow of the islands, to gather speed and head downwind in the direction of Roros.

Only then was there time to pick up Tallia, who still lay in a daze, and carry her to a hammock in the shade. They reached Roros not long before dawn, tied up at a wharf, put out guards and slept the day away. That evening they gathered for dinner and a council of war.

"I'm ruined," Pender said, looking haggard as death. The euphoria of their escape had worn off long ago. "I invested all my profits in the quicksilver venture; every grint!" Slumping down in his seat, he thrust the plate away, too miserable to eat.

"I think there might be one flask left," said Tallia.

"Not enough to replace all the other cargo, much less our supplies and anchors." He wrung his fat hands together.

"Well, let's sell it and take on some new cargoes before your debts fall due."

"No one will give me a cargo now. Bel Gorst has marked me-no one will dare! Ruined, ruined!" He staggered across the gangplank, a fat, sad, down-at-heel barrel of a man.

"Pender, I'm sure we-"

"Don't talk to me-I can't think! Leave me alone!" He wobbled up the street.

Tallia watched him go, then turned back to Osseion and Rustible. "Well, what are we going to do about bel Gorst?"

"Do?" said Rustible, licking his thick lips. "We're not fighters. At least, I'm not. Take it to the constables."

"I'll bet they're already in his pocket!" snapped Tallia. "We humiliated him yesterday and he'll want revenge. As soon as we leave port, he'll be after us."

They talked for half the night but did not come up with any plan, and drifted back to the boat to take their turns at the watch and to sleep. However, when Tallia rose at dawn Pen-der had still not returned.

"Probably got drunk and spent the night at the inn," said Osseion, rolling out of his hammock.

"Probably! He was well on the way when he left us." Nonetheless, Tallia was worried, and after lunchtime came and went and still no Pender, she went out to look for him.

She discovered what had happened at the first inn she came to. "Your friend was so drunk that he couldn't stand up," said the innkeeper, a bright little gnome of a man. He giggled. "Poor miserable sod, he'd just lost his whole life's hope. Lucky his friends came for him."

"Friends?" said Tallia, fighting to keep the alarm out of her voice. "Who were they?"

"The best friends anyone could have," giggled the gnome. "Powerful friends-led by none other than Arinda bel Gorst himself!"

"And Pender went with them?" she asked more calmly than she felt.

"Last night he would have gone with the devil himself, if he'd offered a shoulder to lean on."

"Where can I find bel Gorst?" Tallia asked.

"You're from out of town, eh?" said the innkeeper with a knowing wink.

"I was born in Roros, but I've not been here for many years."

"I thought so. No one from Roros would need to ask!"

"I'm asking," said Tallia, fighting her irritation.

"He has his own island. Braggard's Rock, it's called, up the harbor across from the slaughterers."

Very appropriate, Tallia thought, turning away.

Pender woke in a cramped cell that had a nauseating dead stench about it. Despite the wine he could remember the night clearly-the flask after flask of cheap wine, the agony of his loss, and at the end of the night the friendly sailors who had helped him outside. He could remember bel Gorst's dark face smiling with menace, though the drunken haze had filtered that out at the time. Now it was all too real.

Bel Gorst had said nothing to him, nor harmed him in any way, in the short march down to the wharves and the brief trip up the harbor. Pender was not fooled. The pirate would appear before too long, to torture and kill him in the most agonizing and drawn-out way possible. For revenge, or maybe for the sheer pleasure of it.

After he had been awake for an hour or so the door bolts scraped and the door was opened a crack. A head peered in, then a slight figure slipped inside. A slave child, by the look of her, a dark-skinned girl clad in ragged shorts and tunic. Her black hair was plaited into a series of handles.

"Garish ha! Ploggit!" she said in a voice not at all cowed by her surroundings, nor by him.

"I don't speak your language," Pender said, sitting up carefully. His head ached abominably.

The girl switched to the common tongue of the west. "Bright morning to you, I said." She held out a wooden bowl, darkly crusted around the rim; within was a gray speckled mess like thrice-cooked gruel. It had the dense, cloying stench of fish preserved by rotting, and it smelled repulsive, even for a man as habitually hungry as Pender was.

"What is it?"

"Boiled slubber, of course!" she replied, amazed at his ignorance.

"You can have it. I'm not hungry."

They regarded each other. "What are you doing here?" Pender wondered. "Are you a slave child?"

The girl scooped slubber out of the bowl with her fingers, eating it with, if not exactly relish, exceedingly good cheer. "Of course not!" she said with scorn. "My father and I are water carriers."

She said it with as much pride as if they had been master chroniclers, though it was a low, poorly paid job, in most places little better than slavery.

"Aren't you afraid, living on this island of wicked pirates?"

"There is no one in the whole of Crandor would do harm to a child," she said with utter confidence.

"What about me?" Pender said fiercely. "I am not from Crandor but from evil Thurkad, on the other side of the world." He stood up in a rush and a rattle of chains, trying to ignore the pain in his temples and the nausea in his belly.

She placidly ate her slubber. The stench in the hot little room was overpowering. "I can tell that you are a kind man. Besides, there is a guard outside the door."

Pender slumped back down. "So what are you here for, child? What is your name?"

"My name is Twillim and I am sent here to befriend you and find out who you are," she said candidly, staring at him with wide brown eyes.

"I make no secret of it," he replied. "My name is Pender. I am a sea captain from Thurkad, trading where I can."

"Why were you asking questions at the Customs House?"

"I am looking for a sailor called Jevander, who was lost from Thurkad about seven years ago."

"Why," she asked, licking smears off her fingers.

"Because his daughter, who would be about your age, Twillim, asked me to find him."