“I demand that you let me go!” wailed the petite Holder’s daughter, one hand clutching at her single escort, the other doing likewise to her head, as if it would fly away. 
Hardly likely, with the incredible mass of golden ringlet that spiraled up from the cream-white scalp, Smeakacia thought wryly, tilting her head expertly so the brisk wind did not make her lose her dignity to clutching at the broad black tricorn she wore.  She examined the prisoners again, curiously. 
The girl was preternaturally lovely, all flawless cream complexion, corn-yellow hair, and enormous blue eyes, capped off by heavily mascara’ed lashes.  She wore a fabulous and utterly impractical gown of pink satin, liberally threaded with gold, and slippers made of some diaphonous fabric, completely covered with clear glass beads.  Her girdle-tied sash bore no mark-pouch; no, instead it bore a delicate little crystal vase, a vast knot of cream-pink-and-peach ribbons, and an ivory-handled comb. 
Her escort, who had been squinting painedly at the overcast light ever since the cook had confiscated the tinted glass spectacles, was dressed fashionably.  In black.  Black brocade jacket, well-tailored, black linen shirt with a flowing ruffle down the front, a black scarf wound haughtily around his throat, black cotton pants, black stockings, and black ankle boots.  A black crystal hung from a black satin cord around his neck.  His ice-white skin was already crisping up nicely in the reflected glare from the bay, and he wore his shoulder-length black hair—the dye was starting to come off in rivulets down his forehead as he sweated—in a low ponytail, tied with a narrow piece of black leather.  He was fashionable slender, 5’9, and trying to look Gothic while he stealthily massaged a temple.  There was a silver earring in his left ear.
The man in black turned mournfully toward the Holder’s daughter, the movement cleverly taking his chest out of clinging range.  “It’s hopeless, Rilly.  We might as well accept our fate.”
“But Rikh,” she sobbed, without reddening her eyes or her nose, “I can’t bear to think that my true love will be murdered by pirates.”
The melancholy tenor flattened perceptibly.  “It’s not /Rikh/, Sasporilla.  It isn’t Rikh, or Rikhy, or even Rikhard, anymore.  /Mortimis/.  And I’m not your true love.  Love is pointless.  Life,” he sighs, recovering his cool, “is /so/ hollow.”
Smeakacia decided to interrupt, as fascinating as the dialog was.  Her forceful throat-clearing made both odd landsfolk stare at her.  “Your pardon, gentleman and lady, but I think you’ve got the wrong idea.”  Huge blue eyes and squinted, tragic brown ones blinked at her.  “The point of piracy,” she said, balancing her beltknife on her thumb, “is not to kill people.” The knife flashed down in a graceful arch, and spun glittering in the air.  They winced, and she grinned, keeping it going.  “The point of piracy, my dears, is to make money.  /You/,” and she snatched the knife out of the air to gesture at them, “represent quite a lot of money.  Lord Taestlys will pay quite a lot for you, Timmie-my-lad,—“ Rikhard/Mortimis gasped in outrage at this callous abbreviation of his name, “and Lord Letistakare will doubtless pony up for his darling Sasporilla.  Anyway, I do have other things to do, so pray excuse me.  Rajer, put them in the cargo hold, and don’t let Holder Miserable over here get a hold on any more paper, all right?”  Smeakacia smiled broadly at the couple, and was quite astonished (although, on reflection, she determined she shouldn’t have been) when Sasporilla keeled over gently on Rikhard’s shoulder.  He didn’t catch her. 
“Right-o, Captain Sme!” yelled the nearly emaciated Rajer happily, and Smeakacia winced. 
“Captain, please, Raj.”
“Sure thing, Captain Captain Sme!”
“This,” she told the self-named Mortimis, whose eyes were rimmed all ‘round with white, and who was trying to back through the rail, “is Cheery Rajer.  He’s our ship optimist.  Perhaps you two can exchange life views.”  She whisked away to her cabin.

“Sme…”
“As I was out walking the jungles of Southern…Oh.  Are you sure you don’t like these lyrics dear?”
“Smeakacia…”
“Or the tune either?  I’m so sorry, Rikh.  You know I try to please you—“
“CAPTAIN!”
Smeakacia pried open an eyelid.  “Yes, Rajer?” she inquired, sleepily.
“You know that thing that keeps time when we’re rowing?  Smithmade thingy?”
She sighed and sat up, pulling her hat off the bedpost and off of her head in one fluid movement.  “The metronome? What about it?”
Rajer gulped.  “The cabin boy said he saw something underwater, heading for the boat, and he threw it at it.  You can still hear it working.”
Sme raised an eyebrow.  “The metronome, which I paid, PAID an exorbitant amount for, got thrown in the ocean?”  Her voice was carefully deadpan.
“Yes, ma’am.  At a sea-dragon, ma’am.”
“Sea dragons?” Smeakacia shrilled, her flush barely noticeable on her dark skin.  “There’s no such thing as a sea dragon!”
Rajer shrugged.  “There’s been rumors that there’s someplace—not called a weyr, but a Healing Den, or something of the sort—that’s been breedin’ for ‘em.  Anyway, I think you’re needed abovedecks.”
In the cabin beside her, the saccharine-sweetness of Rilly’s voice rose in a dirgelike hymn to the anguish and emptiness of living, accompanied by moody thrummings of Rikhard’s gitar.
*****
The captain of the Sea Hold’s biggest sloop stared determinedly at a point six inches above and to the left of the grey-haired head of Lord Saltidoc. “Word’s come in that the entire crew of the Fingerling was found on one of the desert isles, m’lord, but there were a pair of Holder’s offspring on board that are missing.”
“Oh, really?” inquired Saltidoc delicately.
The captain’s jaw dropped.  “How did you know, m’lord?”
Eyebrows so knitted that they could have been used for scarves came down even lower.  “Know what?” he rumbled dangerously.
“One of the pair is your old fiancée, the lady Sasporilla.  Rilly.”
A shudder ran through the Lord’s element-battered frame.  “Don’t let her in the Hold, Jaemserl.  Carry out your duty and bring the pirate captain to me, but do not, under any circumstances, let Sasporilla within ten feet of your lord.  Under pain of exile, you understand?”
*****
Smeakacia blinked at the ex-Harper in astonishment, rubbing regretfully at her eyepatch.  “Repeat that.”
The scrawny man gritted his teeth, and reiterated, “The message from the Lords Taestlys and Letistakare was: We will pay you nothing.  You may pay us to take them back.  That’s all it said, Captain.”
“Ra-JER!” she bellowed, and the lanky form of the second mate hove into view, whistling merrily.  “Rajer, you have got to help me get them off this ship!  I’ll go crazy!”  She stopped and listened a moment, while Rajer gently pried her fingers—five on the left hand, three on the right—away from his jacket-lapels.  “And that blasted ticking creature is back again!  I can't live like this, Rajer!”
“Relax, Captain.  Just make a deal with the Lords.  Find out how much they want to take their wretched children home.”  Rilly’s constant singing, hair-brushing, and shrill squeaking of horror was starting to get on even Rajer’s nerves.  As for Rikhard… “I bet the whole crew’d give you part of their share, if you need it to get them ashore.”
“Really?”
*****
The message was sent, and an agreement was reached: Smeakacia would give back fifty-five marks in material per Holder’s child, and the Lords would keep their vow that no man of Taestlys’ or Letistakare’s would so much as delay the ship a second longer than needed.
Nothing was said about Saltidoc’s men.  The seahold’s ships surrounded the negotiating ring, and as soon as Sasparilla and Rikhard were on the Lords’ flag vessel, they closed in on the Avenger. 
Smeakacia did not have the heart to fight back.  But as she was dragged ashore, her glum reverie was broken.  A very small, very quick green-and-yellow dragon winged rapidly out of the sky, the rider aboard a rare blond, and barely more than a child.  “Teancarbelth!” he said, grinning, as sand sprayed the unamused pirate’s feet, and Sasporilla fainted.  Rikhard again failed to catch her, and mumbled something about life being a series of hopelessly hard knocks.
“Hi,” he greeted wit h a grin, looking his apparent age.  “I’m P’terpan.  Wendia, and Teancarbelth’s aquatic brother Laustboith, have been saying there’s Search fodder afloat, so I came out to have a look.  Sure enough, there’s a nice lot of you.  You,” he pointed to Smeakacia, “you,” to Rikhard, “and you,” to Sasporilla, “are all coming to Baeris Kshau’s Healing Den.  You’ve been Searched; congratulations!”
And although nobody was there to catch her, Smeakacia fainted.