| The docks are wreathed in a tropical haze, ceaseless humidity more oppressing than the stomach-turning smell of the fish market nearby. No breeze disturbs the clinging damp, nor stirs the briny spray to rear its white-crested heads. Five ships are at port, three ketches bobbing forlornly on the mill-pond tide, a long fishing sloop, and the awkward, angular sea-and-river frigate /Squareline/. Bells tinkle off-key and glass beads rattle, their tawdry din audible long before the confident figure of Captain Killaria paces into view. With a bound across the gangplank, she boards her ship, the flat-keeled /Squareline/. Greenish glow-light gleams dimly from the oarports, and Killaria smiles thinly. She continues her light-footed pace until she reaches the door of her cabin, beside which the verdigried ship’s bell hangs. Copper bracelets slide back toward her elbow with a sharp sound before she knolls the bell. Loud enough to wake the dead, its tones carry over the water and to the bunks below. A dour-faced sailor sidles over to her, saluting wearily. His crumpled hat fails to hide his silver-shot auburn mane. “Good morning, Miss Killaria, Captain, ma’am,” he husks in a cracked bass, and sets his lined face into what he fondly considers a smile. Thumps below-deck reverberate up through the wood of the deck. “Good morning, Baledro,” Killaria greets, scrubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. “If you can call this hour good _or_ morning.” Baledro frowns at his captain. “It’s nearly bedtime for the nightwatch, Miss Killaria, if that’s what you mean. The Wher is belowdecks, lecturin’ at Isienne. She missed half her watch, ma’am. Doubtless getting’ sick so’s we’ll be short-handed come time to sail to the next port of call.” Killaria shakes her head. “Isienne doesn’t miss watch for _sick_, ‘Ledro. She’s been out dancing, likely as not.” As he turns away, she touches his shoulder. “And ‘Ledro, be careful what you call the second mate. Garez may not be the most cheerful man aboard, but he _is_ the second mate. Show him some respect.” “Aye, Miss Killaria,” mumbles the man, beet-red. “Stick around,” she suggests. “I’ve something to tell the crew.” A distraught, brown-eyed woman bursts up from below decks, tripping on her way up the ladder. Her eyes and nose are red, and she cradles a white cheek with one hand as she stumbles to a halt. “Captain,” she acknowledges, gulping back sobs. “Sailor Isienne.” Killaria’s tone invites an explanation, but Isienne shakes her head frantically as the short, muscular form of the second mate clomps up through the hatch. “And Garez! Are the rest coming? Report to me later,” she adds hastily as the second mate’s scarred, weathered, and above all _homely_ features crumple into a fearsome scowl. “Yes, Captain, the sluggards awaken. They think they’ve no right to be awake afore the Dawn Sisters disappear. You spoil the daywatch, Captain, beggin’ your pardon.” His harsh staccato of a baritone makes Isienne wince. “Come now, Garez, I haven’t seen you up past dawn too many times either. Be charitable,” the captain coaxes. Garez, The Wher, snorts. “Only to them that’ve earned it, Captain. Here comes the best of the daywatch, though.” He watches the limping progress of the dark-haired, dark-eyed, wiry young woman with something between reverence and pride. “Your Jandeci, yes. Good morning, Sailor.” Jandeci nods solemnly back at the Captain, saying briefly, “’Mornin’, ma’am.” Close behind comes a tall and stately man, followed by a sullen, pimple-faced boy whose eyes follow Killaria mournfully. “Captain!” exclaims the former. “Nice to see your face this fine morning, and the dulcet tones of the bell.” He wrinkles his nose at Killaria, and she shakes an admonitory finger at him. “Calm yourself, Canharian. It’s not good news. Let’s see, it’s you and Trannon here now, so we’ve who left?” “Ondros and Lanroel, Cap’n Killaria, dear. And Kalt, of course,” Canharian says promptly. Killaria puts a hand to her forehead. “Yes, that’s right. There’s the boy now—stand there, Kalt, that’s a good lad.” The quiet clerk bobs his head and shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot. With a sigh, Killaria rings the bell again, and, in her finest Captain’s bellow, shouts, “SAILOR LANROEL! HARPER ONDROS! FRONT AND CENTER!” “Coming, Captain,” Ondros’ rich tenor sounds pained, and slightly breathless. “Lan and I are on our way. No need to be so noisy.” They stump up the steep, ladderlike stairs together, the very _large_ Harper and the dandified, goldenly handsome sailor. Two pairs of blue eyes, one dark, one light, squint in protest at the diffused predawn glow. The elegant Lanroel groans pitifully, and the lovely Isienne flits, cat-footed, to his side. Killaria grins evilly at them. “And were you, perchance, imbibing a bit too much last night?” she inquires, raising one brow ever-so-carefully. Lanroel rolls his eyes sideways. “’Twas all Ondros’ idea, Captain, I swear.” The Harper snorts derisively, but does not comment. “Very well. Now that you’re all here, I’ve some less-than-wonderful news. Dockmaster Theane is holding ship inspections today in little less than an hour. It’s all routine, but I’d like this vessel shipshape if I can help it. Hop to it! And no complaining, O Drunken Duo. I never said I’d be easy on hungover men.” * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * As Theane stalks aboard with what Killaria would call his ‘bullyboys’, the exhausted crew leans back against the bulkhead. Killaria follows the man as his keen eyes peer into corners and his long, delicate fingers pry at her beloved ship. His hulking pair of Weyrhold Guards are in too many places for her to watch them both. The neat, unremarkable Theane gives her a sharp nod and a guarded smile, and is about to step off the ship, when the tall woman guard’s voice rises incredulously from the bowels of the ship. “Sir? Sir, you’ve got to see this…” Theane gives the captain a piercing look, and disappears down the hatch. After a moment, the male guard pokes his head up. “Your presence is requested at once, Captain Killaria.” With a feeling of dread, Killaria descends into the aromatic hold. Glows are dully luminescent in lid-latching baskets along the bulkheads. She follows the guard, Medaln, down to the seawatery bilges, where an cold-faced Theane awaits. The woman, Tasli, glowers as she inspects a trapdoor formerly concealed in the ceiling. “It’s the same stuff, sir. All stolen.” In shock, Killaria meekly lets Tasli bind her hands behind her back and propel her up the stairs. Theane goes before them as full-fledged daylight bursts over. The lazing crew looks as alarmed as Killaria as their captain is hustled up the stairs. Theane barks, “We are taking your captain to the Weyrhold for judgement. The rest of you are to stay on this ship. Guardsman Medaln and Guardswoman Tasli will assure this. And I warn you, both can swim.” Still frost-calm, he marches Killaria down the gangplank, and a harried stableboy trots up with a weedy chestnut gelding who is already saddled and bridled. The Dockmaster purses his lips, but mounts, hoisting Killaria up before him like a sack of meal. He chirrups to the gelding, and the /Squareline’s/ crew watches silently as their captain disappears over the horizon. |