she said, naming each constellation in turn. "Do you know the sky?" "My boyhood tutor, Vedro, was an astrologer," Sturm said, not really answering. He lifted his eyes. "It is said that the will of the gods can be divined by the movement of the stars and planets." "What gods?" Kitiara replied lazily. "You don't believe in the gods7" "Why should I? What have they done for the world lately? Or for me ever?" Sturm could tell she was baiting him, so he decided to drop the subject. "What is that group there?" he asked. "Opposite Paladine?" "Takhisis. The Queen of Darkness." "Oh, yes. The Dragonqueen." He tried to see the authoress of evil, but to him it was only a spatter of stars. The white orb of Solinari climbed above the horizon. In its glow, the sandy hillocks and solitary pines were pale ghosts of their daytime selves. Not long after, in the middle quadrant of the sky, a red glow of equal size appeared. "Now that I know," said Sturm. "Lunitari, the red moon." "Luin to the Ergothites, Red-Eye in Goodlund. A strange color for a moon, don't you think?" said Kitiara. He tossed the naked mutton bone aside. "I didn't know there were proper colors for moons." "White or black are proper. Red means nothing." She propped her head up so that Lunitari was directly in her line of sight. "I wonder why it's red?" Sturm reclined on his bedroll'. "The gods ordained it so. Lunitari is the abode of neutrality, of neutral magic and illusion. Vedro theorized that the color came from the blood sacrificed to the gods." He offered this cautiously. "Other philosophers claim the red color represents the heart of Huma, the first knight of the Dragonlance." There was only silence from his companion. "Kit?" he said quietly. A rasp from the shadows revealed the result of his lecture. Kitiara was asleep. The village of Zaradene was a low, brown smudge on the gray-white shore. There were perhaps fifty weatherworn houses of varying size, none with more than two stories. Sturm and Kitiara rode down the face of a steeply sloping dune toward the village. On the way, they had to thread through lines of sharpened stakes, buried in the sand with the points slanting out. Here and there the stakes were scorched by fire. "A hedgehog," Kitiara remarked. "A defense against cavalry. The villagers must have been raided not long ago." Behind the stakes was a shallow trench, which was spotted with black clots of blood, soaked into the sand. The faces of the people of Zaradene were not friendly as Sturm and Kitiara rode up the single sandy track that was the main street. Sullen eyes and work-gnarled hands clenched into fists seemed to be everywhere. Kitiara reined up and dismounted in front of a sagging gray tavern that bore the name Three Fishes. Odd white posts and rafter ends showed between the weatherworn clapboards. Sturm tied Tallfox to one of the posts. It was bone, from some enormous, long-dead sea creature. "What do you suppose it was?" he asked Kit curiously. Kitiara glanced at the bone and said, "Sea serpent, maybe. Come. There'll be shipmasters in here." The Three Fishes tavern was well filled with patrons for so early an hour. The first master that Kitiara approached growled "Mercenaries!" and spat at her feet. She almost drew her blade on him, but Sturm caught her wrist. "Cut one, and we'll have to fight them all," he muttered. "Be patient. We must have a boat to cross the straits." They tried half a dozen sea captains and were rebuffed each time. Kitiara was fuming. Sturm was puzzled. He'd voyaged before, and knew that mariners usually liked to take on a few passengers. They paid better than fishing or cargo did, took care of themselves, and didn't take up much deck space. So why are the masters of Zaradene so hostile? he wondered. They drifted to the bar. Kitiara called for ale, but all the barkeep had was black wine of Nostar. After a sip of the bitter vintage, Sturm shoved his cup aside. Better to be thirsty, he thought. Kitiara plunked one of her Silvanesti coins on the dirty bar. Even in the dim tavern, the glow of gold caught the barkeep's eye. He came to the end of the bar, where Sturm and Kitiara leaned. "You want something?" said the man. A sheen of sweat coated his shaved head. "Words," said Kitiara. "Merely a few words." "For that amount of gold, you can have all the words you want." The barkeeper tucked his greasy rag under his arm. Sturm wondered idly which was dirtier, the rag or the barkeep's canvas shirt. "What happened here?" asked Kitiara. "They don't like mercenaries here. Ten nights ago, horsemen attacked the village. Carried off everything they could grab, including some women and children." "Who were they?" Sturm asked. "Did they wear insignia?" "Some say they wasn't true men at all," said the barkeeper. "Some say they had hard, dark skin and -" He looked from side to side to see if anyone else was listening. "- and some say they had tails!" Sturm started to ask another question, but Kitiara stopped him with a glance. "We need to buy passage to Caergoth," she said. "Will anybody in Zaradene take us?" "Dunno. Some of them lost heavy in the raid. They'd as like to slit your throats as take you to sea." The barkeep went back to dispensing his awful wares, Sturm surveyed the room. "I don't like this," he said. "Raiders with tails? What sort of monsters could they have been?" "Don't take that one's mutterings too seriously," Kitiara said. "The farther you get from safe havens like Solace, the wilder and weirder the tales you'll hear." She tossed back the Nostarian wine without a shudder. "Skinhead is right about one thing; we have no friends in this room." From behind their backs, a voice said, "Be not certain of that, me hearties." Sturm and Kitiara faced the speaker. He was a full head shorter than Kitiara, with sharply pointed features and a clean, boyish face – signs of elven blood. Kitiara saw a flash of Tanis as she had last seen him, blood on his lips, his cheek red from her slap, staring at her in shock. "Tirolan Ambrodel, at your service." He bowed from the waist. "Mariner, map maker, gem cutter, and piper." Tirolan reached for Kitiara's hand and raised it to his lips. He didn't kiss it, but touched it to his forehead. She smiled. Sturm introduced them both and asked, "Can you provide us with transport to Caergoth, Master Ambrodel?" "Easily, sir. Me craft, High Crest, is laden with dunnage for that very port. Will it be just the two of you?" "And two horses. We're traveling light," Kitiara said. "For two passengers and two horses, I shall require five gold pieces – each." Sturm gaped at the high price, but Kitiara laughed scornfully. "We'll give you four gold pieces for the both of us," she said. "Eight for both," countered Tirolan. "Five," she said. "And we'll pay in Silvanesti gold." Tirolan Ambrodel's arched brows bunched over his thin nose. "True gold of Eli?" Kitiara picked up the coin from the bar and flashed it in the mariner's face. Carefully, almost tenderly, Tirolan reached for the elven gold. He held the coin, caressed it, and ran his fingertips over the worn inscription. "Very fine," he said. "Do you know that this coin is more than five hundred years old? Minted just before the Lords of the East withdrew into the forest, severing all ties with the human world. How many of these relics have you tossed away for meat and wine?" "I had a dozen," said Kitiara. "Now I have five. They are yours if you ferry us to Caergoth." "Done!" "When do we sail?" asked Sturm. "The tide ebbs with the first moon's rise. When the silver moon clears the grip of the sea, we up anchor! And away." Tirolan slipped the coin into a suede pouch on his belt. "Now, follow me, and I'll take you to the High Crest." Sturm dropped some coins on the bar, and they exited the tavern. They led Tallfox and Pira through the streets of Zaradene, following as Tirolan Ambrodel led. People turned from them everywhere they went. One old crone uttered a charm against bad luck as Tirolan passed. "The natives are very superstitious," he said. "Anything or anyone foreign is believed dangerous these days." Sturm looked back at the circle of stakes in the dunes above the town. "They have reason to be afraid," he said. Zaradene had a single decrepit wharf. Sturm was uncertain the warped planks would hold Tallfox's weight, but Tirolan assured him that it was safe. Cargo far heavier than horses passed over the wharf every day, he said. "Where's your boat?" asked Kitiara. "Me ship is beyond the headland, yonder." "Why anchor so far out?" Sturm asked. "Me vessel and crew are not well liked in Zaradene. When we must call here, we moor in deep water so as to avoid trouble with the natives." A wide, shell-like lighter was tied to the pier. A man lay asleep in the stern, a ragged cap over his face. Tirolan jumped into the lighter, startling the man into wakefulness. "This your boat?" said Tirolan in a loud, cheerful voice. "Uh, yeah." "Well then, hop to it, man. You can earn your grog money for the week." The horses were led to a gangplank. Kitiara spoke soothingly to Pira, and the mare entered the rocking lighter without too much trouble. Tallfox, on the other hand, balked completely. Sturm wrapped the reins around his fists and tried to drag the terrified animal into the boat. "No, no, that's not the way," said Tirolan. He hopped to the narrow gunwale and walked agilely to the foot of the gangplank. "May I, Master Brightblade?" Sturm reluctantly gave over the reins. Tallfox began to calm the moment Tirolan's slim hands stroked his neck. Tirolan spoke soothingly to the horse. "Strong as you are, and you're afraid of a little boat ride? I'm not afraid. Am I better than you? Am I braver?" To Sturm and Kitiara's astonishment, Tallfox shook his head energetically and snorted. "Then," continued Tirolan in quiet, golden tones, "step down and take your place with your friends." The chestnut gelding stepped daintily into the lighter and stood quietly next to Pira. Their tails switched gently in time with the rocking of the boat. "How did you do that?" asked Kitiara. Tirolan shrugged. "I have a way with animals." After sculling away from the pier, the boatman raised a tattered lateen sail. The lighter skimmed between bobbing fishing craft and past the few major merchant ships in the harbor. The laden boat ran uneventfully all the way to the southern headland. Then the wind died, and the boatman went back to his sweep.