“Quite well spoken," Teldin complimented, somewhat embarrassed himself. “Gomja and I will be pleased to come.” The farmer made an equally unpolished bow, the type he once used to woo the girls at the social dances back home. “It is an honor for Gomja and I–I, uh…" His own lack of polish suddenly showed through.
Cwelanas gave him a smile, barely more than a curve to her lips. “I will tell Father that you accept," she interjected, saving him from further mortification. A little of her old fire reasserted itself, the firm and knowing glint in her eyes silencing any more Teldin had to say. With that, the elf maiden turned and left, almost but not quite rushing away.
Teldin slowly straightened back up as he watched her go. “Well, not quite at ease, I’d say,” the farmer remarked to no one as he scratched at his beard. With a shake of his head, he ambled toward the bow and found the giff collapsed blissfully on the deck. “Rise, Gomja,” Teldin hailed, prodding the drowsy lump with his toe, “we’ve got to wash and get into our best!”
After moving the giff and overriding his protests, Teldin spent the afternoon diligently grooming himself while the helmsman and officer on deck, a tall elf with muscles to match, watched in amusement from the afterdeck. With a knife, soap, and bucket of water for a mirror, the human painfully scraped his ragged beard away, determined to make a good impression at the meal. Meanwhile, the giff, who grew neither beard nor hair-at least not more than a few bristly strands-raided the sail locker for needle, thread and sailcloth. Gomja sat on the anchor winch, cut patches from the coarse fabric, and sewed up the holes in his uniform. They both scrubbed and groomed until they were as respectable as two ex-stowaways could ever hope to be.
The sun, gold-orange and sweltering, touched just at the top of the western waves, marking the hour of evening tide. Running before an easy northeasterly wind, the Silver Spray charged through the waves in rhythmic beats. With the weather calm, most of the crew had been given orders to stand down, leaving only a few hands to stand watch during the night. On such a small ship, it was already known to all that the outsiders had been asked to dine with the captain, and the crewmen watched with interest as the pair made their way aft. Teldin was an almost beggarly sight. His trousers, ragged and worn, were trimmed back to just below the knee and he likewise had been forced to cut off the sleeves of his shirt, leaving his muscular, tanned arms exposed to the evening’s heat. Nonetheless, the farmer wore the alien cloak long so that it flowed majestically behind him, sparing him the image of utter poverty.
Gomja, having assiduously worked all day to restore his tattered uniform, lumbered aft in a pair of deep blue trousers fixed with patches scrounged from the crew. Closer inspection showed the thick stitches of sail-cord that held each square in place. The giff's orange sash was carefully pleated to hide the smudges he could not wash out. Peeking through the folds of his brilliant cummerbund were the butts of his two pistols and five knives that somehow just seemed to end up in Gomja’s possession. A cutlass was tucked completely through the sash, and a rapier swung in the hanger at his side. To add the final touch, the giff's smooth, blue-gray skin was lightly oiled, so that it glistened in the evening light.
The captain’s cabin was at the bottom of the narrow stair to the aft companionway and, for a moment, Teldin was not sure the broad-shouldered giff would fit into the tight passage. Finally, stooped and hunched, Gomja squeezed down the little staircase, though the risers creaked ominously with every shift of his substantial weight.
Thus, with their arrival well-announced ahead of them, Cwelanas was on hand to open the door to her father’s cabin before Teldin had any chance to knock. The farmer barely remembered his manners upon seeing her, stopping a surprised gasp half-completed and hoping his eyes were not too wide. The elf maiden once again had forgone her manly attire and wore a gown made of material like none Teldin had ever seen, an ice-blue gauze that floated on the slightest breeze. It swirled over her arms in the delicate breeze of the opening door. The cloth was sheer, no heavier than the dust-coated cobwebs Teldin used to find in his chicken coop. Cwelanas’s gown was fashioned from layers of the material, cunningly laid on to look like haphazard piecework or the trembling leaves of a frost-kissed tree. The pale skin of her legs, arms, and bosom were barely covered by the thinnest layers. Ends and edges trailed and flowed off her shoulders and hips. Her silvery hair was tied up in careful braids and from somewhere the elf maid had gotten a circlet of small daisies for her brow. Cwelanas’s eyes sparkled and glowed, filled with a mischievous light.
Standing by the door, the maiden said nothing, but waited for Teldin to speak. Finally a wry smile crept onto her narrow lips. “Will you come in?” she asked pointedly. Cwelanas could not disguise the relish she felt at Teldin’s stupefaction, and Teldin, for his part, could not tell if it was due to feminity or her elven nature.
“We would be delighted, wouldn’t we, sir?” Gomja swiftly intervened. The giff was apparently immune to Cwelanas’s significant charms.
Teldin clapped his mouth shut, realizing he was gawking like a fool. “Yes, of course,” the human mumbled. This time, Teldin could feel his face flush, which only made him more self-conscious.
At the back of the cabin, Luciar rose from his stool like a fragile bird rising from its perch. “Do come in, my friends.” The invitation bore no trace of Luciar’s customary formality. Teldin stepped inside, trying desperately not to trip over his own feet. “I fear my ceilings are too low for one as tall as you,” the captain remarked as Gomja ducked through the doorway. The captain wore robes of slippery, red silk, girdled with a belt of intricately tooled leather dyed subtle shades of green.
The cabin was a spartan affair, which surprised Teldin somewhat. During the afternoon Teldin had tried to guess its appearance, imagining an exotic lair of carved beams cleverly done to look like a forest grove or a dark den filled with the arcane hardware that must be a wizard’s stock in trade. In truth, the room held little more than a few stools, three tables, and a pair of chests. The silver-wood ceiling gleamed brightly in the fading sunlight reflected from the waves, dispelling all gloomy shadows from the chamber. A pile of neatly folded blankets, the captain’s bedding, was stacked in one corner, ready for the night. All in all, Teldin found himself just a little bit disappointed at the severity of the surroundings.
“A seat at my table is what I extend,” Luciar said graciously. The words were apparently a ritualistic greeting, for neither the old captain nor his daughter made a move to sit, but waited for their guests to act.
Gomja dubiously eyed the slender stools placed around the table. “I don’t mind sitting on the floor, sir’ the giff offered. “I fear my weight may be too much for your furniture, and I wouldn’t want to break anything.” The alien eased himself gently to the deck.
“Indeed, we are a small people compared to one as large as you,” Cwelanas apologetically offered as she floated to her father’s side. Her bare feet padded lightly over the wood. Seeing that the human was still standing, she assumed the tone of a woman tending to her family. “Everyone to your seats, before our dinner grows cold.”
“Cwelanas has prepared this meal for us, so we would all be wise to heed her.” Captain Luciar smiled mockingly at his daughter, the first smile Teldin had seen the captain make during the entire voyage. Luciar offered a stool to Teldin, waiting for the human to sit before taking his own place, which was framed by the sterncastle windows. Teldin sat opposite the captain and could look past the old elf to the sea beyond. Gomja sat crosslegged on the floor, and the table still came only partway up his chest.