So Sturm found himself lying very still in the coldest part of the ship, Kitiara nestled under his left arm. Her breathing grew soft and regular. He studied the face showing under her fur-trimmed hood. Kitiara's tan had lightened over the past weeks, but her dark lashes and curls seemed out of place on so rugged a warrior. Her dark lips were parted slightly and her breath smelled of sweet wine.

The gnomes presented their grand design for improving the drifting Cloudmaster's speed a few hours later in the former dining room. Birdcall had drawn the whole plan on the wall in chalk and charcoal. Sturm sat on the floor, listen- ing attentively. Kitiara leaned on the wall several feet away, tight-lipped. She was experiencing ill effects from the wine.

"As you can see," Wingover began, our plan calls for rig- ging the Cloudmaster with sails on each side of the ethereal air bag. That, and trimming the hull with the excess of weight well in the bow, should increase our speed by, ah - how much did you estimate, Sighter?"

The astronomer gnome studied the scribbles on his shirt cuff. "Sixty percent, or to about twelve knots."

"What will you make the sails out of?" asked Sturm.

"What clothing we can spare. You and Mistress Kitiara will have to contribute what you have as well."

"Ahem, well, if there are no more questions -"

"What about spars and masts and rigging?" Sturm said.

Cutwood waved his hand to be recognized. Wingover relinquished the floor. "I thought of an answer to that," the gnome said importantly. "With chisels and planes, we'll be able to slice off long pieces from the beams and rails of the ships. These lashed together will serve as spars."

"Let me tell about the rigging," said Roperig.

"I know about it, too," Cutwood complained.

"Let Roperig tell it!" ordered Fitter. Cutwood flopped down in a snit.

"We have some store of rope already," Roperig said. "And some cord, twine, string, thread -"

"Get on with it," said Wingover.

"Silly know-it-all," muttered Cutwood.

"These can be braided into whatever thickness of rope we need." Roperig snapped his fingers and sat down. Only Fit- ter applauded his report.

"Shall we get to it?" Sturm asked, bracing himself to rise.

They formed the Cloudmaster sewing circle on the dining room floor. A fair-sized heap of clothes grew up in the cen- ter, around which everyone sat. It was not an easy process.

Sturm could not sew and Kitiara steadfastly refused to even attempt it, confining her contribution to slitting the seams of the sacrificed clothes with her bent-bladed dagger. Of the gnomes, only Roperig and Fitter, not too surprisingly, proved to be adept sewers. They were so adept, in fact, that they sewed the clothes they were wearing into the sail, which then had to be cut apart again.

After a break for food and rest, the work resumed. Some hours later (it was hard to judge time in the constant night) the ragged, flimsy sails were done. Cutwood and Flash had by this time chiseled out spars from the largest beams in the ship. It was time then to rig the Cloudmaster for sail.

They tied the ends of the spars to the air bag's rigging and the sails stretched between them. The sails were simple rec- tangles that overlapped the deck rail by several feet. Once they were set, the flying ship did come slowly about in a new direction.

"How do we steer this thing?" Kitiara asked. Ordinary ships had rudders. The Cloudmaster had none.

"We'll have to manage by trimming the sails," Sturm said.

He was cheered by the sight of wind filling the funny patch- work sails.

They shifted all their loose baggage forward and the fly- ing ship surged ahead with noticeable vigor. It was possible to feel the wind now out on deck, and the ship rolled fore and aft like a rocking horse. Kitiara was a bit green from the motion. The rigging creaked and stretched. The stars and moons coursed by at an increasing rate.

Clouds loomed ahead, and the ship quickly overtook them. Streams of warm mist flowed over the ship, thawing the frost that coated the windows and ports and made the upper deck treacherous. They sailed through the clouds for only a short time. When they burst through the wall of white, a glorious sight greeted them.

The brilliant blue globe of Krynn hung before them, a bau- ble of silver and glass. It looked so small and fragile this far away, a marble in a child's hand. Other cloud banks towered around them, but by luffing the sails, the Cloudmaster's crew weaved the ship through them. Some of the banks flickered with lightning. Rainspot eyed these with longing. He hadn't experienced any real weather in months. Unlike Kitiara, he was genuinely pleased to have lost his gift. No one should always walk about in a rainstorm, he had decided.

An odd thing happened as they steered cautiously through the maze of storm and cloud. Faint echoes of thun- der rolled by, and in the dying claps Sturm heard another sound, a distant bleat, like the call of a trumpet.

"Did you hear that?" he said to Flash, who was by his elbow.

"No," said the gnome. "What was it?"

The noise sounded again, louder and nearer. "That's it!"

said Sturm.

"Funny, it sounds like a -" Before Flash could finish, a green and gold mallard hurtled into the sail above their heads. "A duck!" Flash said hastily.

The mallard was a good-sized bird, and it half-tore the flimsy sail from the twig spars. Duck and spar tangled, and fell to the deck at Flash's feet. "Halloo! We've caught a duck!" he shouted.

"What did he say?" Roperig asked.

"He said to duck," Fitter replied, face down on the deck.

"No, by Reorx, he's snared a duck!" cried Wingover.

Flash folded the sail back and the mallard poked its head out. Its beady black eyes regarded the Cloudmaster's crew with pure hostility.

"Wonder where it came from," said Rainspot.

"An egg, dumbhead," said Cutwood.

"Hold on to it," said Kitiara. "Ducks are good eating." Just as her strength had faded as they left the influence of Luni- tari, so too had the spear plants lost their magical variety of flavors. They had become rubbery, tasteless. Kitiara smacked her lips at the thought of crisply browned duck meat.

"Not much meat for eleven," Sturm said. "If only there were more."

"Ducks ahoy!" Roperig sang out. Over the starboard rail, black against the gray clouds, came a great flock of ducks.

"Bring us about!" Sturm shouted. "They'll wreck us if they hit usl"

Gnomes scampered into the jury-rigging, collapsing the sails on the port side. The ship heeled away from the flock, swinging under the air bag like a pendulum. Some of the mallards hit the hull and bounced off. A few swept across the deck, squawking loudly. They veered and banked in panic, thudding on the sides of the deckhouse. Fortunately, none hit the air bag or the sails.

"This is crazy," Kitiara declared. "What are ducks doing so far from home?" Flash stood up from behind the railing. The first duck was still firmly under his arm. "Maybe this is where ducks go when they migrate," he posited.

"Interesting theory," Sighter said. "Do they just fly around for three months, or do they have a destination?"

Kitiara hobbled the duck with a loop of twine around its feet and pinioned its wings with a length of cord. Fitter watched her every move.

Unnerved, she said, "Would you rather do this?"

"No, I just don't want you to hurt it."

"Hurt it! I plan to eat it."

"Oh, no! It's so pretty. Those green and gold feathers -"

"Yes, and it'll look even better roasting on a spit," she said.

The ducks who'd been lying senseless on deck chose that moment to rouse and take wing, quacking loudly. In sec- onds, they were all gone, save for the mallard that Kitiara had trussed up. It honked forlornly at its departing com- rades.

Fitter stared at the mallard in his hands. With two large tears rolling down his face, he held the duck out ro Kitiara.

Kitiara's hands closed on the duck and a loud sob came from Fitter. "Suffering gods!" she exclaimed. "Keep it, Fitter.

Enjoy it yourself."

"Oh! I will!" Fitter dashed to the deckhouse door. "I've already named him Highgold, because he flew so high and has gold feathers." The door banged shut behind him.

"So, instead of a duck dinner, we have another mouth to feed," said Kitiara.

"Don't worry," Sturm said. "The duck is one of us, flying too high and too far from home."

Chapter 32.

The Lost Caravel.

It was hard to say just when the change occurred. It came on slowly, with no dramatic oscillations or warnings.

Somewhere in the billowing white clouds, the Cloudmaster stopped rising toward Krynn and began falling toward it.

Sturm asked Sighter just how this worked, but the astrono- mer mumbled something about "density of matter in rela- tion to air" and left it at that. Sighter plainly didn't understand the effect himself.

Nevertheless, the blue face of Krynn moved from over their heads to under their feet. The closer they got to their home world, the livelier the winds grew, and the faster they flew.

"We can't land too soon for me," Kitiara commented. "If I have to eat pink spears and drink water much longer, toad- stools will sprout from my ears!"

---Some txt missing --- The air grew warmer and wetter. While the warmth was appreciated, the denser, moister air proved a hardship for them all after being used to Lunitari's thin air. The weighti- ness oppressed them. For a time, it was hard to do anything strenuous.

"By the gods," Sturm remarked, panting as he helped Cut- wood and Flash trim the port sails, "I haven't been this winded since Flint and I had to flee the forest dwarves, after Tasslehoff 'borrowed' some of their silver."

Day and night fell into a more even rhythm again, and Sturm found himself sleeping longer and more soundly as the days slipped by. Sighter recorded that the Cloudmaster had been airborne for nineteen days and estimated that it would make landfall in two more days.

The sky changed from black to blue, and the horizon filled with clouds. Through puffy gaps they could see for- ests, fields, mountains, and seas below. They were still high, but at least they had a sense of solid ground beneath them again.

The morning of what was to be their last day aloft dawned sultry and wet. The sails hung from their spars, and dew stood in puddles on deck. A clinging mist held to the flying ship, and nothing was visible ten feet beyond the rail.

"Halloo!" Wingover shouted. "Halloo!"

"Can't see a thing," Kitiara reported, squinting hard.

"I can't even tell how high we are," Sturm said. The Cloudmaster seemed to be adrift in a box of wet fleece.

Stutts appeared with the rope and grapnel.

"We should d-drop this over the side," he advised. "It m- may hook a tree and d-drag us to a stop."

He lowered the grapnel from the bowsprit and tied it off.

When he returned amidships Kitiara asked him when they ought to open the bag and release the ethereal air.

"Only when w-we're certain we're about, to l-land."

She stared at the wallowing bag overhead. The dirty can- vas sack had shrunk steadily as it got warmer. Now it hung against the rope netting, rolling about furtively like a caged beast trying to escape. Kitiara fingered the hilt of her bent dagger, No more nonsense, she thought. When conditions look good, I'll open the bag myself!

Wingover, still entwined in the rigging, pointed off the starboard bow. "Fire!" he cried.

Sighter clicked open his telescope and swung it toward the orange glow far off in the mist. His mouth dropped open for a second, then he lowered his glass and shut it.

"You dolt!" he said to Wingover. "Haven't you ever seen a sunrise before?"

"What?"

"Sunrise?" said Kitiara, A sunrise could only mean they were low enough to the ground for the sun to appear as the ball of fire they remembered, and not as the yellow disk it looked like from between the red moon and Krynn.

The sun waxed hotter and brighter, and the fog dispersed.

A thousand feet below lay only ocean - as far as every eye could see, nothing but oily green sea. The salty smell rose to greet them as the sun heated up the water.

A north wind pushed them along at an idle six knots. As the day wore on, the humidity rose and all the furs and cold weather gear came off. The gnomes stripped down to sus- penders and trousers. The deck thumped with nine pairs of bare pink feet. As protection from sunburn, Fitter made them all bandannas from their shirts and soon the gnomes looked like a band of pirates shrunk to half size.

Kitiara joyously discarded her heavy clothes, keeping only her riding breeches and a leather vest. Sturm alone refused to shed his long-sleeved tunic and boots. Kitiara noted the dark sweat stains on his chest and arms. Dignity, she decided, could be an uncomfortable burden.

By angling the sails, they were able to drive the ship down closer to the sea. The grapnel dipped and leaped from wave crest to wave crest, slinging back from the impacts.

Sighter worked hard with his astrolabe to determine their location. Without a compass and accurate charts, he could make only a rough estimate, but he tried. The deck, from the door of the wheelhouse aft to the stern post, was cov- ered with his figures. Sweat collected in his bushy brows and dripped annoyingly from the tip of his nose.

Kitiara and Sturm surveyed the vast calculations, and finally Kit asked, "Well?"

"We're on Krynn," said Sighter. Kitiara counted to twen- ty, silently. "My best guess is, we're somewhere in the Sir- rion Sea, either four hundred, eight hundred, or twelve hundred miles from Sancrist."

"Four, eight, or twelve hundred?" Sturm said.

"Lacking a compass, it's very hard to be precise." Sighter flicked off a drop of sweat that had stubbornly clung to his nose. I'm certain it's one of those multiples of four hundred."

Kitiara threw up her hands. "Wonderful! We may cruise into Thalan Bay in four days, or we may starve to death try- ing to reach an island a thousand miles away."