He shouted some orders in a strange tongue, and the lively sailors rushed to the rail overlooking the lighter. They looked at Tallfox and Pira with unconcealed admiration. The chatter ceased. "Sling a boom!" called the boatman in the lighter. "I'll fasten the harness and you can hoist them up!" The High Crest crew did so and they all were quickly aboard the ship. Beneath the rapidly setting sun, the sailors fell to quickly and soon had the High Crest ready for sea. The sail was raised, a fat triangle of brilliant green fabric. The High Crest stirred and stood out from the Abanasinian headland. Tirolan took the wheel and buried the ship's bow in the tossing waves of the Straits of Schallsea. Kitiara discarded her black leather jerkin. The breeze stirred her light linen blouse. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers through her short black curls. When she opened her eyes, she spied Sturm brooding by the bowsprit. "Cheer up!" she said, whacking him on the back. "The wind is fair and Tirolan seems to know his trade. We'll be in Caergoth in no time."
"I suppose," Sturm answered. "But I can't help being worried. The last time I made a sea voyage in these waters was as a boy. There was magic on that ship, and things went badly for my mother and me for a time."
"But you came through, didn't you?"
"We did."
"Then be calm! You're a knight in all but the ceremonial sense, going to reclaim your rightful heritage. Maybe you don't realize it, but I've got family in Solamnia, too."
"The Uth Matars?"
She nodded.
"I've not had contact with them since my father left us. In all my travels, I've never penetrated the Solamnic Plain. When you declared your intention to go north, it seemed as good a time as any to do some exploring up there."
She raised an eyebrow. "The Uth Matars are a knightly line, too, you know."
"No, I didn't." He realized he knew so little about her, really.
She left him by the bowsprit and went below. Sturm slipped the strap off his chin and removed his helmet. The twin brass horns were smudged; he'd have to polish them tonight. For now, he cradled the helmet against his chest, and let the sea wind wash through his long, tangled hair.
Chapter 3
"Hail, Captain Tinolan," said Sturm, blinking in fhe bright morning light.
"Hail, hail, Sturm Brightblade! We've reached the cape of Caer in splendid time. Did you rest well?"
"Well enough. Why have we anchored so far from the harbor?" Sturm asked.
Kade handed his captain a loose, hooded coat, which Tirolan slipped on.
"The city folk here are even less fond of elves than those at Zaradene. Here comes one of me boys now with a lighter for you," he said.
"I'll tell Kit we're going." He lifted the latch on the cabin door and bulled right in — to find that Kitiara was up and dressing. A linen blouse, beautifully embroidered with red and blue, slid up over her bare shoulders. She'd already exchanged her heavy corduroy riding pants for baggy Ergothic-style trousers. He could not help but stare.
"I'm just about ready," she said. "How does the city look?"
He swallowed and said, "We're a mile or two out. Tirolan fears the anti-elf sentiment in Caergoth. He's rowing ashore to scout things, and I'm going with him."
"Good." She picked up her sword belt and buckled it around her hips. "I'm ready, too."
The four of them lowered the horses with a block and tackle. Kade held the painter line, while Tirolan, Sturm, and Kitiara climbed down into the boat. The first mate cast them off, and Tirolan dug in with the oars. It was a sultry morning, hotter than any they'd had yet, and a steamy calm hung over the water. No one spoke as Tirolan rowed toward the hazy line of the coast. Caergoth was a major port, and the watercraft thickened as they drew nearer. Skiffs and dories, ketches and pinnaces plied to and fro, laden with fish, crab, and clams; larger boats shuttled goods from the big merchant ships at rest in the main harbor. Tirolan swung his arms untiringly back and forth, maneuvering the yawl between the bigger vessels skillfully. Kitiara craned her neck to see up the steep side of an Ergothic argosy. A quartet of sailors in woolly caps leaned over the rail and hooted at her.
She waved gaily and said to Sturm, "I'd like to see how bold they'd be if we faced each other with swords in our hands." Once clear of the heavier ships, the trio noticed a very strange vessel drawn up to the deep-water docks. It was high and square, with a pair of what looked like wagon wheels attached to each side. The short mast was very thick and a signal fire seemed to be burning from its top. A patch of grimy smoke drifted away from the ugly ship. "What in the world is that?" asked Tirolan.
Creeping nearer, they saw that a heavy boom had been rigged to the craft's starboard side. A barge lay alongside it, and two enormous wooden crates were already on it. A third crate, fully as large as Tirolan's yawl, was slowly being hoisted off the deck of the queer, smoking ship.
"It's going to fall," said Tirolan. "Watch."
The boom swung out, revealing that the crate was wrapped up in a cargo net. Clusters of small figures heaved against the weight of the crate — in train. The net sagged, a corner poked through, and the crate ripped free and crashed into the water, just missing the loaded barge. A string of little people, shrieking in high-pitched voices, tumbled over the side. Tirolan chuckled loudly.
"I should've known," he said. "Gnomes."
Sturm knew the little people only by reputation. They were incessant tinkerers, makers of weird machinery, and purveyors of endless theories. Disdaining magic, gnomes were the most fervent technologists on Krynn. For centuries, the gnomes and the Knights of Solamnia had maintained a pact of mutual aid, since both groups distrusted the workings of magic. Tirolan rowed around the stern of the gnome ship.
Kitiara pointed to an endless string of letters painted across the stern, along the side, under the bow — it was the name of the ship. The portion on the stern read, Principle of Hydrodynamic Compression and Etheric Volatility, Controlled by the Most Ingenious System of Gears Invented by the Illustrious Inventor, He-Who-Utters-Polynomial-Fractions-WhileSleeping and on and on.
"Should we lend a hand?" Sturm asked.
"Not unless you want to get wet," said Kitiara.
Sure enough, the gnomes on the barge who tried to rig up a life line succeeded only in falling overboard themselves. Tirolan rowed on.
"I wonder what the crates contain," Sturm said as the gnomish pandemonium passed astern.
"Who knows? A new machine to peel and core apples, perhaps," said Tirolan. "Here's the dock."
The elf captain shipped his oars, and the yawl coasted in to the dock. Sturm slipped the bowline over a cleat, and the three of them climbed the short ladder to the platform. With a large block and tackle, anchored to the dock for loading and unloading cargo, they easily transported their horses to the dock and shore.
"Where to now?" asked Sturm.
A row of grog shops and taverns lined the wharf, and beyond them were great warehouses.
"I don't know about you fellows," Kitiara said, gazing at the line of public houses, "but I'm starved."
"Can't you wait'?" objected Sturm.
"Why should I?" She hitched her sword belt into its proper angle and set off, trailing her horse behind her. Tirolan and Sturm reluctantly followed. She chose, for no obvious reason, a tavern called The Severed Head. Kitiara tied her horse outside, kicked the door open, and stood there, surveying the room. Figures stirred in the dim recesses. An odd, fetid odor wafted out the door.
"Faw!" said Tirolan. "That smell is not human."
"Come, Kit, this is no place for us." Sturm tried to take her by the elbow and steer her away. But Kitiara would have none of it. She jerked her arm free and stepped in.