From where she clung to the rail Zaryas could see the Sun, modest behind a lemon-tinted haze, hanging straight before the high carven prow. Six leagues to the east the bay opened out, and . there, with due care to miss the shoals and treacherous currents, the Gull could turn south and run down the coastline to Mishbil. A leisurely day and night asea should see her home again.

  So long as they did not interfere with the sailors’ work the passengers could go anywhere and, leaving his subordinates to unpack, the Master Magus made haste to indulge the usual magian curiosity. Zaryas went with him. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “How shall the magi force the land around Mishbil to sink again?”

  “We can’t,” the Magus said absently. Sailors were aloft adjusting the smaller sails, while their captain bawled instructions from below. The Magus tested the wind’s speed by holding out his long trailing red sleeve. “If the shore is really rising it is inexorable, the earth itself moving in her sleep—no more reversible than the winds.”

  “You herognomers can command the airs,” Zaryas pointed out.

  “Then I should say, no more reversible than the turning Sun above us,” the Magus’ said. “The best we may hope for is swift accommodation to new conditions.” Stepping carefully over a coil of rope the Magus fingered the intricate carving of the ladder-rail before ascending to the steering deck. “Most folk think magi coerce nature,” he continued. “But the truth of it is we serve her, cajoling her along the path we want—as the captain steers his ship. Or rather, as the helmsman does,” he added, since the captain was plainly busy interfering with someone else’s work. “There are immutable rules that no persuasion will swerve, and the first and greatest of these is that all things, men and canals both, have an allotted time of usefulness. No physic will avail after that point.”

  Zaryas shivered. “That is my fear,” she admitted. “That we attempt the impossible. Perhaps I ought to send my people elsewhere—select another townsite upstream.”

  This weakening of will was so unusual the Magus hastened to say, “Of course we haven’t examined the parameters of the problem yet. There may be some quite simple solution that will rejuvenate the Dragon for eons to come.”

  “Mishbil seethes with hydromants,” Zaryas said. “Unless they’re all fools every simple solution has already been tried.”

  Of course the Magus could not admit this possibility. “I have absolute faith in the competence of our southern brethren,” he said. “But new. eyes may see new points.”

  The Silver Gull hugged the northern shore of the bay, for the southern is shallow and stony. The sheer gray crags to their left seemed almost close enough to touch, and Zaryas hoped the captain would not meddle with his helmsman. The lonely cry of cliff-nesting terns drifted to her ears mingled with the murmur of sea against stone. Close to the waterline the tide had worn an endless uncharted honeycomb of low caverns and fissures, perennial refuges for smugglers, murderers, and pirates. The Sun, having burnt off the morning mists, slanted past these hidey-holes and lent them an air of gloomy mystery. Zaryas could hear the hollow echo of waves lapping the secret parts of the rock.

  Food, as Xantallon had complained, is a favorite interest in Averidan, where an ideal life is expressed as five meals a day. So when the Gull was well under way the captain ordered a small repast served under the deck awning. Strong yellow wine in globular glass bottles, elegant rolls of barley bread, sliced fruits soaked in brandy, tiny fish fried to a delicate brown—the captain had made an effort to impress and delight his high-ranked guests. “He’s wasted asea,” the Magus whispered to Zaryas. “He ought to keep a tavern.”

  When the platters were cleared away the magi dispersed to explore the ship. “Would my lady care for a round of Thumbprint?” the captain offered.

  “Certainly.” Zaryas smiled. “The millennium-old game is a favorite all Averidan over. The 144 ceramic tiles made a cheerful clatter when Zaryas shook them in their bag. Soon bets were laid and the trestle table webbed with interlocking rows of six-sided tiles.

  When Zaryas jumped three Green birds and so reversed them into two Pears and a Cat’s-Eye she won. The captain counted out his losses and pouted, “You’re a cunning hand at it, my lady.”

  Though it was no pleasure to gamble with a bad loser, Zaryas offered, saying, “Let me give you an opportunity to win these back.”

  Before noon the Gull came to open sea. The turn south was accomplished without incident. As the afternoon wore away the wind began to drop, blowing in fitful and contrary gusts that forced the unfortunate sailors to scramble up and down the rigging. Off the starboard rail Zaryas could look west to the shore. For lack of water that part of Averidan is nearly unpeopled. The only mark of man was a fisherman’s lonely shanty in a narrow cove. Beyond rolled desolate ocher ridges of sandy rock and sterile thorn-thickets. Heat lay almost visibly over all, shimmering in the distance, thickening the air until it looked like water. On the hazy horizon far to the north a smear of thin yellow cloud menaced the desert.

  “Sandstorm,” said the captain, pointing it out to Zaryas. “But it won’t blow our way.” He shook the bag and held it out for her to choose tiles for another round. But Zaryas shook her head. It would be unmannerly to beggar her host.

  Unfortunately the cloud roiled closer as the Silver Gull dawdled. “Come on, you lazy thing,” Zaryas urged the ship. “Move!” The Gull tacked back and forth before the wayward breeze, unhearing. It was as if the sea water had transmogrified into glue, dragging at the ship until its doom could catch up. Neither Zaryas’ impatience, nor the captain’s frenzied orders, nor even the Master Magus’ herognomical breezes would master the Gull. With the suddenness of nightfall the airborne sand loomed mountain-high over the shore, blotting out the afternoon sunshine. The now-chilly breeze plucked at Zaryas’ tunic, and she realized their peril. Such storms kill not only with battering wind but with blinding sands. She mentioned her fears to the captain.

  “It’s nothing, it’ll pass over,” he assured her. Even as he spoke sail and wave hung slack for a moment, cowering against the anger to come. Then with a howl of fury the tempest swept in.

  Fine choking grit raged round them. Like a scalded cat the Gull leaped forward, propelled up and down invisible swells at terrifying speed. Yet to her blinded passengers she seemed to also spin sickeningly in one place, determined to dive for cover under the waves. Within the space of a breath Zaryas could not see an arm’s length before her. The stinging sand tore at her face. Her straw traveling hat was whipped away, and her loosened black braids seemed to be plucking themselves right off her head. Shielding eyes and mouth in her sleeve Zaryas stumbled along the deck, groping at each step lest she fall overboard. The roar of furious wind and tormented sea confused her, and with a dazing crack of bone she bumped her head against someone. It was the captain, who bellowed, “All we can do is run before it, princess! This can’t last long!”

  “Idiot!” Zaryas exclaimed, but the wind tore her words away. Demonic voices shrieked in her ears, malicious phantom hands dragged the Gull along. There was no opportunity to cut the sails loose, and the storm wrenched them and their masts every which way. Deep in the hold of the Gull the timbers moaned as the masts twisted in their sockets. The keel was being levered apart.

  But as the Magus said, all things have their allotted span. Though the wind did not drop the blinding sands whirled themselves farther out to sea. Everyone gasped in the suddenly clear air, spat out grit, and rubbed their eyes. The mutter of hungry water as it seeped into the innards of the ship was the only sound for a moment. Then the sailors howled for Ennelith’s mercy, the captain burst into tears, and Zaryas’ maids screamed to Viris and their mistress. The Master Magus quickly dominated the uproar. “None shall drown!” he announced. “To the buckets! We must bail for it!”

  The passengers shrank back out of the way. The sailors raced to rip out the deck planks while others tumbled down the ladders into the hold with buckets. On both sides bucketsful of water flew up and out. But with dismay Zaryas saw the bilge slowly rising past the bundles of cargo, despite their efforts.

  “We can help too.” The Magus nodded to his hydromants. Three thick-glass wands drew out lumps of water from the hold—beads, fruits, globes of clear, jelly-quivering water. Magically they were coaxed up and over the rail into the sea. The Magus caught Zaryas’ eye. “Just in case—”

  She nodded. “We’ll hedge our bets.” Quietly she drew her three aides aft. There was room in the cabin for them if the door stood ajar. She began unhooking sausages from their ceiling hooks. “We must be cast up ashore without provisions,” she said, to them. She could feel the shift and sag of the deck under her feet as she hurried to the Gull’s dinghy. It was lashed upside-down to the deck near the portside rail. Xerlanthor helped her to cut the lilies and turn the boat over. When she looked over the rail she was shocked to see how far away the shore was. The storm had pushed the Gull far out- to sea.

  Following her example her staff ran back and forth, packing provisions and supplies with feverish haste into the boat. “Food and water-jugs first,” she directed. “And don’t forget to leave room for someone to row the boat.” A thought came to her, and she went back to the cabin. From her luggage she took out her only weapon, a short bronze sword, and tied it to her back. She thanked Viris the Foremother she wore sensible traveling clothes, red leather buskins and loose linen trousers under a short robe, for there was no time to change. She rolled a blanket around the bag of Thumbprint tiles; they were enameled and too expensive to lose. “Magister,” she called, “is there anything in your bundles irreplaceable?”

  But when the storm struck the magi had instinctively hugged their mirrors, the badge and chief tool (with their staffs) of the Order. Each round covered glass was already safe, hooked to belts or tucked into pouches. “Good,” the Magus approved. He turned courteously to the captain. “Shall we launch the boat now?”

  “The boat, yes!” The distracted captain started at the idea. “Ladies, to the boat! Oh, Ennelith Sea-Queen, what shall I do without my beautiful Silver Gull?”

  “Cease your moaning, man!” Zaryas snapped. “You, sailor, go lower the boat—”

  But it was too late. With a sickening wallow the ship sank lower yet, listing more and more to the starboard. The shock made everyone stagger. The hold filled quickly now. The sailors had to stop bailing and scramble up to the deck. Without any sense of having lost a battle or turned a corner, Zaryas realized they were all clinging to a wreck. The Gull would not actually sink out of sight. Her wide wooden hull had some innate buoyancy, and by great good fortune the cargo was linens and spice—bulky yet light—rather than ingots or pottery which would drag her down. But the passengers might not live to enjoy the Gull’s final equilibrium.

  The deck slanted so that it was impossible to stand anymore. Passengers and crew alike clung, to the rails, masts or ropes. The dinghy, still hitched to the port rail, hung now high out of reach. “And it’s too far to swim,” the captain moaned. “We’re all going to drown.”

  - Only the magi were calm. “If only the wind would drop,” the Magus told them cheerfully, “we could lift you all to shore.”

  “Try anyway, wind or no,” Zaryas urged. “The Gull was settling so quickly the water crept over the starboard rails. She tried to dig her fingernails into the oak boards and lever herself a little higher.

  The Magus frowned as the wavelets wet his shoes, and he shook his feet like a cat. Precariously, he levered himself upright on the slippery deck and tested the wind. “Let us try,” he told his subordinates. “Xerlanthor?”

  The young magus unwound himself from his perch on a spar. Without ceremony he grasped a sailor by one arm and rose slowly straight up. Those watching held their breath as feet parted company with deck and the two hung unsupported in mid-air. The gusts freshened around and beneath them. All magi study herognomy enough to. walk the winds, just as they all dabble enough in hydromancy to scry. But to lift the weight of another person is just barely within their power. The hems and wide sleeves of Xerlanthor’s red robe snapped in the brisk wind, absurdly resembling butterfly wings. He rose higher, narrowly missed tangling his burden in some ropes, and deposited the sailor in the dinghy. “Not too bad,” he reported. “But we can’t get everyone into this boat.”

  “We’ll have to risk lifting farther, then,” the Magus said. At his nod Xantallon hoisted an ashen-faced aide up. The two soared high above the masts before drifting shoreward. Everyone watched anxiously until like a buzzard in borrowed plumes the red-clad figure dropped. Zaryas saw the distant splash as the aide tumbled off into the surf. Freed from the weight Xantallon rebounded upward and began floating back.

  “We’ll do it yet,” Zaryas said. “The magi will lift your men up to the boat,” she told the captain. “You can lower it and row to shore while the magi ferry everyone else there directly.” Nervously she wondered which w as safer, flying with magi or boating wdth a jinxed captain. But she kept a calm countenance so that no one should lose heart.

  “Your turn now, my lady.” Xerlanthor bowed smiling before her. Before Zaryas could argue he caught her up lightly in his arms. Her stomach seemed to plummet as the ship dropped away and back. The wind no longer tugged at her, for now she rode in it as fish ride the w-aves in their element. Hastily she turned her attention from the churning sea below.

  “Is my sword in your way?”

  “No.” His brow was furrowed with concentration as they rose, but when they leveled off and began to soar toward land he relaxed a bit. “Isn’t it a little melodramatic?”

  “In the desert no one meets a friend,” she quoted the old proverb.

  “I don’t wager, but you tempt me,” he smiled.

  “You don’t?” Most Veridese will happily bet on either side of any question whatever. “Why not?”

  “I always win,” he said blandly. “And haven’t we had our allotment of incident this trip?”

  It was a challenge. Zarays’ pointed face, burnished by Sun and wind, further sharpened with glee until she seemed to scintillate like a cut topaz. “What will you stake?”

  He glanced away from her. “The traditional stake in bets between young folk is a seashell.”

  He was so near she could smell the faint harshness of new red dye in his magus robe. Seashells are exchangeable for one kiss all Averidan over. Zaryas could not define her feelings, supported as she was between earth and sky by his power alone, and so. said nothing. Yet she felt impelled to reply. When they sailed low over the tidal flats she exclaimed, “It’s a bet, then!” and wriggled free. Xerlanthor yelped in dismay as she fell a little more than her own height to the damp sands, landing on her feet agile as a cat. Her maids ran to her aid, while magi swooped in to investigate, the sound of their scolding swept toward them by the wind.

  The laden dinghy was lowered and slowly pulled away from the hapless Gull. Sailors clung to its sides or paddled behind. Even over the roar of the surf the wail of the captain’s voice could be heard, mourning his loss. Zaryas quickly organized the castaways lest the mismanaged boat founder. But though no oar dipped into the sea in time with another the landfall was at last achieved without mishap.

  “We must make camp,” Zairyas commanded. “Mishbil isn’t far. We can walk there tomorrow—cut inland to the main south road. I suppose,” she asked the Magus, “there’s no spring hereabouts?”’

  The Magus passed the question to Xantalion and the other two hydromants. After lengthy consultation, pointing in every direction with their thick glass wands, they confirmed Zaryas’ pessimism. “Any source would have someone living near it.” Xantallon said. “Water is the blood of the desert.”

  “A very Mishbil-like saying,” Zaryas agreed. “We’ll just have to be sparing of our flasks.” Xerlanthor and the geomants selected a camp site, not searching for geomantic currents of luck or stability but merely choosing a cozy nook between two sand dunes sheltered from the prevailing wind. As the Sun, now low in the west, dyed the dunes a glorious sanguine hue, a campfire of driftwood was lit. The sullen pounding surf did not quite disguise the silence pressing down around them, a silence of empty yet secretive desert, ever more watchful as night crept in from the sea. Everyone was glad to gather together, relax, and talk over the day’s terrors. A flask of the expensive golden wine was opened—though there were not enough cups—and a frugal meal of ship-bread and sausage prepared.

  Xerlanthor bent near Zaryas’ ear as he refilled her mug. “You could have hurt yourself, jumping down like that,” he said in a low voice. “Do I have so untrustworthy a manner?”

  “Not at all,” she replied, smiling up at him. But there was no opportunity to say more. She was secretly glad of it. Zaryas had left the selection of a mate to time and chance, being too busy governing Mishbil to sort the genuine suitors from the merely ambitious. Instinctively now she felt that time was her ally. There was as yet no hurry, no heat of blood pulsing to fruition.

  Chapter 3: 3 Arbas

  They slept round the embers of the fire, snuggled together like tired puppies. Though the day’s scorching heat lingered in the sands for a long time, by dawn the desert’s cold had roused everyone. Zaryas tucked her chilly hands into her armpits and shivered under the thin quilt. A watery yellow streak where the sea met the sky heralded the new day. As the fire was poked back to life the sailors came up to her and nudged a spokesman forward.

  “We’d rather not walk to Mishbil, my lady,” the man told her. “Sailors are happiest asea. Rowing the boat down the coast we could get home near as soon as you.”

  “What does your captain say to this?” she asked.

  “You can have him,” the seaman returned sourly. “He’s bad luck, a born landlubber.”

  So with their share of the provisions the crew of the lost Silver Gull pushed off. Their miserable captain, head in hands, still bemoaned his loss and would not look up to see the departure, f “We also must go, and soon,” Zaryas said. “Let’s get as far as we can before the heat of the day descends. It’ll be warmer walking anyway.”