"No," said Argoth. "No, I'm telling the truth. Why else would we risk something so stupid and foolhardy as attacking a Divine himself? Please, believe me."

The Skir Master gazed at him a few moments more, then he shook his head in frustration, laid the splints on Argoth's chest, and walked out.

He returned some time later with Leaf and two dreadmen.

"How long would it take to mount a fire lance on this ship?" asked the Skir Master.

Argoth thought. "A day, Great One, with a good carpenter."

"And the seafire below, how many lances will it support?"

"That depends on the length of the battle and how hard the pump gang works. The distance too, for you have to force a large quantity to build the pressure that will send the fire even sixty yards."

"How many?" the Skir Master snapped.

"Three," said Argoth. "Three if they're careful and do not waste."

"Three?" said the Skir Master in amazement. "I saw lances on six galleys. Are you telling me that you left the seafire for those galleys behind?"

"No. We only supply the galleys on patrol. I dared not make great quantities. The Bone Faces sent many spies seeking to steal the seafire so that they might unlock its secrets."

The Skir Master's face turned to thunder. "So you had them load the few barrels of finished product and left the component materials on the land?"

"No," said Argoth. "No, we have them aboard."

Argoth could not read the Skir Master's face. Could the man already know his thoughts? It was impossible.

"Splint his arm," said the Skir Master to Leaf. "Then bring him below."

Leaf took Argoth's arm matter-of-factly as if Argoth's arm were nothing more than a spade that had come loose from its handle. Then he splinted Argoth's arm using strips of the surgeon's cloths. Argoth studied the flaring eye tattoos as he worked. Each eye's tattoo was different, one sharp-edged and jagged, the other smooth, but Argoth could not read their meaning. Leaf finished, then led Argoth out to the area of the lower deck where the barrels were stored.

The Skir Master stood, holding a covered lamp. "You're going to teach me how to make this seafire. And then you're going to teach my men how to use it."

"Yes, Great One," said Argoth. "Thank you."

The Skir Master wanted four lances: two just off the prow on both sides, and two at either side of the ship's waist.

Three triangular sails, jibs, were rigged to lines running from the foremast to the bowsprit that stuck out over the prow. Those jibs might prove troublesome if a crew on one of the fore lances were spewing fire and the wind changed. So Argoth convinced the Skir Master to move the lances back.

Argoth directed the carpenter and his boy for most of the day as they installed the fittings for the four lances. Three times during the day he felt an intrusion upon his mind, a constricting. He dismissed the first two as the effects of fatigue. But when the third came, he realized what it was: the thrall had begun working into him.

When they finished the last fitting and mounted the lance, it was early evening. The sun was an hour or so from setting. Argoth leaned against the railing and stared at the sails in the orange and yellow light. The ship had two masts that were three sails high, and, with the studding sail booms rigged on both ends of each yard, three sails wide-it was such an amazing press of sail.

He couldn't see her, but somewhere above the sails in the clear evening sky, Shegom moved, the wake of her passing creating the wind that filled the canvas.

They moved south, at an angle to the normal winds. Argoth knew this because at the edges of Shegom's wind, in an oval perhaps a league across, the winds clashed, kicking up a scud that blew westward.

He imagined the clan galleys in a battle against this ship now fitted with fire lances. With Shegom above, moving hither and thither to the Skir Master's commands, the sails of the clan galleys would be of no use. They would have to furl them and move under the power of the oarsmen. And all the while the Ardent Ardent would race about them, blown by Shegom, throwing her deadly fire at will. She'd be a wolf roving among lambs. would race about them, blown by Shegom, throwing her deadly fire at will. She'd be a wolf roving among lambs.

Argoth knew if he followed Shim's advice and ursurped power in the New Lands, he'd face the Ardent Ardent at sea, and she would sink anything he sent against her. She'd shut down all trade. She'd land cohorts of men on any beach she liked. And she wouldn't be the only one. Others would be built like her. He suspected the only way to fight her would be to harness a skir and blow the fire back in her face. at sea, and she would sink anything he sent against her. She'd shut down all trade. She'd land cohorts of men on any beach she liked. And she wouldn't be the only one. Others would be built like her. He suspected the only way to fight her would be to harness a skir and blow the fire back in her face.

There were no Skir Masters in the Order. And he saw that the Skir Master was right: such ignorance posed an immense danger to them all.

Are you finished?

Argoth turned, expecting to see the Skir Master standing right behind him. But the Skir Master stood almost a ship's length away at the rear of the after-castle. It had not been a shout, but a voice right behind him.

Clansman?

It was the Skir Master, a whisper almost. He could have counted it as a trick of the wind, but the Skir Master's lips had not moved. He stood gazing at Argoth across the length of the ship.

"We are finished," whispered Argoth.

Meet me in the officer's mess, said the Skir Master in his mind.

Argoth stood with the Skir Master at the table. Leaf sat with quill and vellum. Bowls of firewater, sulfur, and pitch lay between them.

"You will teach me how to make the seafire," said the Skir Master. "I must be able to replicate it before morning."

Argoth felt a light wave of desire wash over him. "Of course, Great One," he said. And for the first time he meant it. The Skir Master was was great. A fine man. No, not just a man. A master. great. A fine man. No, not just a man. A master.

Moments later the desire ebbed and left him standing in shock. He'd always imagined it would be more like a battle, a contest of wills. But this thrall did not batter him down; it simply turned his will traitor.

"Well?" said the Skir Master.

Argoth brought himself back to the task at hand. "Let us begin with the firewater, but may we open the windows first? The vapors are not good to breathe."

The Skir Master opened the windows, letting in a small but ineffective breeze. Then Argoth began. He told them how one gathered the firewater from black springs and distilled it. When Leaf had captured every detail on the vellum, Argoth poured a small measure into an empty bowl and lit it on fire.

"Such is good for firepots, but you want something that will burn on water and cleave together like tar. For that we must add pitch from pines and terebinth trees and a fine sulfur powder. Such a mixture can be extinguished only with great quantities of vinegar, urine, or earth."

He told them how to make the pitch, how to find sulfur of the right color and grind it to powder. Leaf wrote everything up, and was as graceful with the pen as he was fighting or walking. But he did not write quickly and made Argoth repeat his instructions numerous times.

An hour passed, maybe more. They moved to the process of mixing. He showed the Skir Master how he had to mix the firewater and sulfur first and wait. He showed him how he could tell this preliminary mixture was correct by the color of the flame, and the quantity of smoke. Then the Skir Master demanded to do it himself.

Argoth walked the Skir Master through each step and admired his quick mind, the way he said aloud what he was doing as he did it.

At one point, the Skir Master stretched as if to relieve his back, and Argoth found himself standing next to him holding a chair.

"Perhaps you'd like to sit, Great One."

"No," the Skir Master said and waved him off.

Argoth was crestfallen. "Forgive me," he said and replaced the chair. How could he have been so stupid as to offer a chair? Who needed chairs? Certainly not someone as strong and capable as the Skir Master.

Argoth resolved to be silent until spoken to. He stood aside, watching the Skir Master continue with the preparations.

A thought came to him: how many had the opportunity to stand in the presence of such a man? How many people had the opportunity to share their talent with him?

Argoth was among a fortunate few, and he beamed at his fortune.

In the back of his mind a resentment, an anger, twisted upon itself. How dare this man take on such honors with lies? But Argoth began to admire the fine lines of the Skir Master's hands and the thought passed.

The Skir Master arrived at the step where he needed to measure in the pitch. He had too much. Suddenly the Skir Master stopped.

"No, I don't," said the Skir Master. "One measure. That is what you said."

Argoth was disoriented for a moment, had he actually spoken those words unbidden? But Leaf looked as confused as he. Then he realized the Skir Master had heard his thoughts.

And in that moment he knew he did not have two days. He didn't have one. The thrall was changing him, bending his desires and forming a link between their minds. It might take two days for his admiration to bloom into full worship, for his thoughts to roll open like a scroll before his master. But long before that the Skir Master- He cut himself off. He needed to move them down to the lower deck next; he needed to get to the barrels of seafire.

The Skir Master looked up. "What did you say?"

"A semiliquid is what we want," Argoth said. "Too thick and you'll plug the pumps and lances."

Argoth felt light-headed. He needed to think and not think. He walked to the window to breathe in fresh air. The sun had sunk low in the west. Over the horizon lay the New Lands and his wife. Nettle. Shim. Thinking of them brought clarity. "Great One," he said. "We've been using bowls. If we want to produce a great quantity, I fear we must move to a larger, more ventilated place."

"There are too many eyes and ears on the main deck," said Leaf.

"Then, Great One, let us work on the lower deck, where the materials are."

The Skir Master looked at the bowls and nodded. He turned to Leaf. "Have this moved to the lower deck. And I want something to eat."

Half an hour later Argoth stood on the lower deck, the barrels of seafire half a dozen paces aft of where they were set to work. The cook's boy brought three bowls of food to them. Both the Skir Master and Leaf were given beef, pickled radishes, and rice. Argoth was given a foul-looking stew full of knuckles, the hard cartilage between bones. He dipped his spoon in and saw a white hair poking out. He plucked it up. It wasn't a hair, but a whisker still attached to the severed muzzle of a rat. Argoth dropped it back. He turned the stew with his spoon. There was an ear and a foot, and who knew what else.

He set the stew aside.

"Eat," said Leaf with a grin.

"I'm fasting," said Argoth.

"Eat," said the Skir Master. "We have a long night ahead of us."

The Master was right. Of course, he should eat. The food may be filthy, but he needed his strength to teach. Argoth dipped his spoon into the stew, filled it with a hearty helping, and brought it to his mouth. It stank, and when he put it in his mouth, he convulsed, but the Master needed him, so he crunched the knuckles and other bits and swallowed the mess down.

The Skir Master scooped the last clumps of rice from his bowl and set it aside. "It is too quiet. We need more privacy. Order pipes and dancing."

Leaf nodded. He took the stairs above. Soon the sound of pipes and pounding feet came from above. Leaf rejoined them, this time with grog. Argoth was sure someone had pissed in his cup, but the Master had said he'd need his strength.

He brought it to his lips and thought of Nettle. The boy had pissed in his cup once as a child when they'd weaned him from diapers. He'd cleverly, if mistakenly, used it as a chamber pot.

Argoth put the mug down.

Upon the table two open-flame lamps burned. They were there for light, but also to test the mixtures. They were too large to fit through a bunghole.

The Skir Master looked at Argoth with puzzlement on his face.

Argoth cursed himself and quickly shifted his focus. It was good the bungholes were so small, he thought. Very safe. Very much like keeping the lamps away from the bed when he and Serah made love. However, the crew should be banned from this area. No telling what careless men might do. "Let us compare your mixture, Great One, with the finished product."

"Leaf," said the Skir Master and gestured at the barrels with his chin.

Leaf walked over to one of the barrels, easily worked its lid off and set it aside. Then he dipped a cup and brought it back to the table.

The open flame of the lamps on the table, the bowl of dark seafire, the barrels just paces behind-this was his opportunity.

"Now the consistency," said Argoth.

The Skir Master reached out and grasped both lamps and pulled them back slightly.

Argoth dipped the thumb and two fingers of his good arm into the bowl of seafire and rubbed them against each other. He held them out for the Skir Master to see. "That is what you want, Great One. Mark it."

"What are you hiding?" asked the Skir Master.

He should not hide things from the Master. He should tell him all.

"This," said Argoth. Then he stuck his fingers in the flame of one of the lamps. They flashed blue, then spat into flame. Argoth brought them up.

The Skir Master raised an eyebrow in alarm.

Then Argoth mustered all his will, turned, and dashed for the open barrel.

"Stop him!" shouted the Skir Master.

Argoth raced to the barrel, his fingers aflame.

One pace from the open barrel, Leaf grabbed his splinted arm and jerked back.

The pain screamed up his arm. But he'd fought through worse. He turned and shoved his flaming fingers into Leaf's eye, wiping seafire along the socket and nose and up the tattoo.

Leaf cried out, raising one hand to his face. But he did not fully release Argoth.

Argoth twisted and chopped down with his good hand. Then he was free. He turned, lunged for the barrel.

"Stop!" the Skir Master commanded.

Argoth froze, the sea fire inches away, his fingers blackening and blistering in the flame. The pain was immense.