"Hoy! You up there!" a man shouted below.
The minotaur glanced thoughtfully over the rail. "Someone wants to talk to us."
"Hoy! Who are you, and what in the name of the Nine Spheres are you doing crashing into my farm?"
Gerrard took a deep breath and shrugged to the minotaur. "Now for a bit of diplomacy." He secured a coil of rope to a bulkhead and dropped one end over the side of the ship. With practiced ease, he slid down the line and stood facing the fanner. Gerrard extended a hand in greeting. "My name's Gerrard Capashen. This is my ship, Weatherlight."
The farmer, whose smock and bare feet indicated that the crash had awakened him, looked at Gerrard stolidly. His arms dangled at his sides. Beyond him, huddled in the doorway of the house, Gerrard could see a woman and the head and shoulders of a small boy.
"Weatherlight?" the farmer repeated at last.
Gerrard slowly lowered his proffered hand. "Yes."
"What… what is it? What are you doing here?"
Gerrard smiled humorlessly. "We crashed. That was what all that noise was."
"How in hell does a ship fly? I once heard of a Rishadan dirigible but this ain't got an air sack…" the farmer continued, staring incredulously at Weatherlight. He looked at Gerrard, fear flaring behind his coal-black eyes. "Where in all the worlds did you come from?" he whispered. Although the air around them was cool, the farmer was perspiring nervously. "Are… you gods?"
Gerrard's voice rose. "We're not any sort of gods. But you wouldn't understand where we came from if I told you.
Suffice it to say, we want to get our ship out of your field as much as you do. That means repairs-"
There was a loud thump as another figure, sliding down the line, landed on the ground beside him. Sisay's ebony skin gleamed in the bright light of early morning. She turned a winsome smile on the farmer. "I'm Sisay, captain of his shipand from now on the one at her helm." Gerrard nodded a little sheepishly at that. "We apologize for any damage we've done. May I know your name, good sir?"
The farmer looked at her a moment more, then cleared his throat. "I am Tavoot."
Sisay repeated the name several times, as if digesting a fact of great importance. "Tavoot. Tavoot. And do I see behind you your wife and son?"
Tavoot gave a grunt. "Sesharral-my wife-and my son Atalla." His eyes remained on Sisay's face.
For her part, Sisay continued to beam cheerfully at the woman and boy. "I hope we didn't frighten you too much. I'm sure-"
Tavoot interrupted. "Who sent you? Are you Mercadians? You don't look Mercadian."
"No one sent us. We were fleeing from a being called Volrath," Sisay replied. "His ship was chasing ours, and we went through a portal to elude him." She looked around, taking in the cottage, the orderly garden, and the neat rows of crops surrounded by dust-covered flats, which stretched in every direction. "We need to repair our ship. Can you advise us as to where we might get some mechanical assistance?"
Tavoot turned to look east. Against the lemon-colored sky, beyond the graceful lines of the cottage, loomed a great, gray shape. Its contours were softened by the dust that blew like a fine sand through the morning air. It was a dark triangle, its tip embedded in the ground and its long, flat edge hovering above the horizon. "Maybe you ain't from Mercadia, but that's where you'll end up. Everybody in trouble ends up in Mercadia."
Staring at the strange sight, Sisay said, "The Mercadians could help us?"
"They could." A rueful smile crossed Tavoot's face. "But Mercadians only ever help themselves."
Atalla was a bright lad-bright and a little enterprising. He and Gerrard stood in an empty pen in the Jhovall stables. The space had been shoveled and swept, and new grasses lay in a bed across the floor.
"I imagine Father would rent this space to you as cheaply as he would rent our Jhovalls," the boy said, eyes ingenuous beneath his tousled black hair. "Even with the hole in the roof."
Gerrard set hands on his hips and stared up at the rafters where a large section of thatch had been torn loose. The lemon-colored sky showed beyond-dust kept this world's sky from ever looking blue. Sunlight streamed down through the hole in the roof to splash against one wall of the stables. "It won't keep out the rain."
"Oh, there won't be rain for another few moonturnings. It will keep out most of the sun. Besides, you were the ones who ripped that hole in the roof."
"Just so," Gerrard admitted. "And we do need the space to get the more severely wounded out of the sun. But as I told you-we have no Mercadian currency and little in the way of precious metals or gems to pay."
"The issue of payment needn't come up," Atalla assured him. "There is always a trade to be made."
Blinking, Gerrard said, "What do we have that you could possibly want?"
"Take me with you to Mercadia."
"Out of the question."
"I've always wanted to see the city."
"Your father wouldn't allow it."
"He needn't know. I'll leave him a note. It would only be a few days."
Gerrard turned and set a hand on the shoulder of the boy. Atalla was in fact on the verge of being a young man, he thought. He was a bright lad and knew the languages and customs of the people. A local guide and interpreter could be helpful, but there was one flaw in him. Atalla craved adventure, and young men craving adventure tend to find it. He was, all in all, a little too much like a young Gerrard. "I'm sorry, Atalla. I wouldn't want to risk it. Where I go, trouble follows. We'll find something from the ship- an old sextant or something-that you'd like in exchange for the stall-"
Atalla's young eyes grew very hard in the dim space. "Don't bother," he said, stomping out the stable door.
Just as he left, another figure entered-two figures, in fact: Takara and her blinded father, Starke. The woman's red hair was flame bright in the sun, and her muscular figure was bent to aid the shuffling man beside her. Starke was not an old man, but he seemed one now. Blinded in Rath, he wore a white bandage about his eyes. He had not shaved since the incident and had eaten little. Starke was withering daily-the wages of guilt-and now, atop his craggy head, there was a bright sheen of sunburn.
"It's in here, Father," Takara said gently. "Gerrard has found a place out of the sun, in here."
"Gerrard!" Starke growled. "He wants me dead. They all want me dead, after what I did to Sisay."
"You cannot blame them. Treachery on any ship is a capital crime," Takara replied quietly.
"I did it only to save you, my dear," Starke pleaded, miserable.
"Yes, Father, I know," Takara replied. "But the rest of the crew does not know me. They would never have sold out Sisay to rescue a complete stranger."
Starke let out an exhausted hiss. "Then get them to know you, Takara. They hate me, and if they start to hate you, they'll kill us both."
As he shuffled along, a Jhovall stretched in a catnap within one stall. It rolled massively to one side, released a rumbling purr, and licked its dagger teeth.
"What is that sound!" Starke gasped. "What sort of animals are in this stable?"
"You'll be perfectly safe," Takara said.
"I'm surrounded by monsters, vicious monsters. You say I'll be safe, but every last one is after me. If you don't protect me, Takara, you're as much a monster as the rest."
Gerrard at last stepped from the empty stall, motioning Takara toward it. "You are safe, Starke. No one is out to harm you. The wrongs you committed toward Sisay have been undone, and I think even she would agree that your blinding is punishment enough for everything."
Starke visibly trembled. He seemed more terrified of Gerrard than he had been of the Jhovall. Sullenly, he said, "Yes, Commander."