Farewell, dear Kit, was all they heard, and the tickling touch of the dragon's telepathic voice was gone. Sighter climbed up on the rail and scanned the moon with his spy glass. He could see nothing. "Good-bye, dragon!" he said.
Sighter snapped his telescope shut and slipped back to the deck. The little men quietly dispersed.
Kitiara sobbed against Sturm's chest "I'm sorry," he said.
Her tears unsettled him more than Cupelix's tragic failure.
She pushed him away suddenly and snapped, "Stupid beast! He and I had a deal! Our plans, our great plans!" Sud denly ashamed, Kitiara scrubbed the tears from her cheeks and sniffed loudly. "Everyone leaves me. There's no one I can rely on."
Sturm felt his sympathy for Kit drain away. "No one you can rely on?" he said coldly. "No one at all?" When she didn't answer, Sturm turned his back and left Kitiara alone.
Cupelix, defeated by the heights he had hoped to con quer, glided down in a wide spiral to the moon that had been, and always would be, his home. His flying muscles burned with fatigue, and the invidious cold of the upper air numbed his heart and soul. He skimmed over familiar land scapes, now cloaked in night, until the cliffs of his valley dropped away beneath his hanging feet. Striking heavily,
Cupelix's horned head plowed into the red dust.
He raised his head and sneezed. A voice said, "Bless you!"
"Thank you," replied the dragon weakly. "Wait — who said that?"
A diminutive figure appeared from behind a pile of goods left behind by the gnomes. It resembled a gnome itself, except that it was as hairless as an egg and colored red — skin, eyes, clothes, everything.
"I said it," said the little red creature. "It's a common wish to express when someone sneezes."
"I know that," said the dragon peevishly. He was far too tired to play gnomish games. "Who are you?"
"I was hoping you might know," said the little red fellow.
"I woke up a day ago, and I've been wandering since."
Cupelix raised himself on his hind legs and carefully furled his wings. The bending of his joints caused him con siderable pain, and he hissed louder than a hundred snakes.
"Does it hurt?" asked the red man.
"Very much!"
"I saw a bottle of liniment over there. Perhaps that would help." A small red hand went to the dark red lips. "Though
I'm not sure what liniment is."
"Never mind, Little Red Man," said Cupelix. "Fetch it, if you would."
"Is that my name?"
"If you like it, it is."
"Seems to fit, doesn't it?" The Little Red Man trotted off to find the bottle of Dr. Finger's Efficacious Ointment. He stopped and called back, "What's your name?"
"Cupelix," said the dragon. He was here to stay, all right, but at least he had someone to talk to. All things considered, it wasn't too bad a state of affairs.
"Little Red Man," Cupelix called across the valley, "would you like something to eat?"
Chapter 31
Highgold
The second voyage of the Cloudmaster was very different from the first. The engine's incessant turning, and the great wings' wafting had given those on board a sense of passage, of activity. The silent drift of the ship, now sup ported only by the ethereal air, was not like that. A perva sive lethargy invaded everyone on board. There was little to do in the way of managing the ship, and the less there was to do, the less anyone cared to do.
The gnomes quarreled, too. In the past, they had traded scoffing remarks and mild blows with equanimity; ten sec onds afterward, no one remembered or cared. But now, cooped up in the bare hull of the Cloudmaster, the gnomes lost their generous natures. Roperig and Fitter squabbled over the correct way to store the small supply of rope they had left. Cutwood grew deafer and deafer as he adjusted to his normal level of hearing. Flash yelled at him all the time, and Sighter yelled at Flash for yelling. Wingover had a slap ping match with Birdcall that left red welts on both their faces for hours. And Rainspot, poor gentle Rainspot, sat in the 'tween decks and wept.
Stutts sought out Sturm. "Things are s-seriously wrong," he said. "My c-colleagues are behaving like a band of gully dwarves. They are b-bored. Now there's no great task to bc accomplished, l-like toppling the obelisk."
"What can I do about it?" asked Sturm.
"We m-must give them a task, something that will t-take their minds off the slowness of our p-passage."
"What sort of task?"
Stutts said, "P-Perhaps Sighter could enlist their help in n-naming all the stars?"
"They would only argue," Sturm replied.
"Hmm, we c-could make a batch of m-muffins."
"No flour," Sturm reminded him. "Try again."
"Well, you c-could get seriously ill."
"Oh, no, your good colleagues would want to cut me open and find out what was wrong. Try again."
The gnome's shoulders sagged in defeat. "That was m-my last idea."
This is serious, Sturm thought. Who ever heard of a gnome out of ideas? "You know," he said, smoothing out his mustache, "perhaps there is some way to make this ship move faster."
"Without an en-engine?"
"Ships girdle the world without engines," Sturm observed. "How do they do it?"
"Let's s-see." Stutts twined his fingers together and thought hard. "Oars, s-sails, draft animals on shore, magic — " Here he traded a disapproving look with Sturm.
"— muscle-turned p-paddle wheels, towing by whales or sea s-serpents — " A light kindled in his pale blue eyes. "Excuse me. I m-must confer with my colleagues."
"Good man," said Sturm. He watched the gnome hurry away, almost skipping with delight.
A cheer penetrated the deck from below as Stutts explained his notion to the other gnomes. Thumps and squeaks told only too well that the gnomes' idleness had vanished. Sturm smiled.
He went looking for Kitiara. She was not in the dining room, so he went below. The gnomes were gathered in the berth deck's aft cabin. He peeked in the doorless doorway, to see Flash and Wingover sketching madly on the deck planks with lumps of charcoal.
'No, no," Sighter was saying, "you must increase the degree of camber, relative to the angle of incidence."
"What a lot of goat cheese! Any fool knows you have to decrease the planar surface," argued as, rapping his fist on the deck.
"Yes, any fool!"
Sturm withdrew. The gnomes were happy again.
He descended the short ladder to the hold. It was bitterly cold down there, since the flimsy patch in the hull scarcely kept out the wind, much less the cold. It was there that
Sturm found Kitiara, perched on one of the stout hull ribs, sipping from her water bottle.
"You look comfortable," he said.
"Oh, I am. Care for some?" said Kitiara. She handed
Sturm the bottle. He raised it to his lips, but before taking a swallow smelled the sweet tang of wine.
He lowered the bottle. "Where did you get this?"
"Cupelix made it for me. Wine of Ergoth."
Sturm took the smallest sip. It was extremely sweet, and as the few drops flowed down his throat, they burned strongly. His face must have reddened, for Kitiara chuckled at him.
"Deceptive, isn't it? Tastes like syrup at first, then it kicks like a bee-stung mule."
He gave the bottle back to her. "I thought you preferred ale," he said.
Kitiara drank. "Ale is for good times, good meals, and good company. Sweet wine of Ergoth is for melancholy hours, loneliness, and funerals."
Sturm knelt beside her. "You shouldn't be melancholy," he said. "We're on our way home, at last."
Kitiara leaned back against the curving rib. "Sometimes I envy you your patience. Other times, it sets my teeth on edge." She closed her eyes. "Do you ever wonder what the rest of your life will be like?" she asked.
"Only in a very basic way," Sturm replied. "Part of knighthood is acceptance of the fate the gods mete out."
"I could never think that way. I
want to make it happen.
That's what hurts so much about lost opportunities. I had strength, and now it's fading; I had a dragon for an ally, and now he's gone, too."
"And Tanis?"
Kitiara shot him a cold look. "Yes, damn your honesty. Tanis is gone, too. And my father." She swirled the bottle around. It was almost empty. "I'm tired," Kitiara said. "I'll make a resolu tion, Sturm, and you can be my witness From now on, I shall contemplate, plan, reason, and calculate; whatever serves my purpose will be good and whatever impedes me will be evil. I'll not rely on anyone but myself; not share with anyone except my most loyal comrades in arms. I'll be queen of my own realm, this," she patted herself on the leg, "and not fear any thing but failure." She turned her rather bleary eyes to him.
"What do you think of my resolution?"
"I think you've had too much wine." He rose to go, but she called for him to stop.
"It's cold down here," she complained.
"So come up to the berth deck."
Kitiara held out her arms and tried to stand. She didn't get very far before sagging back to the hull rib. "I'm better off not trying," she said. "Come here."
Sturm stood over her. She grabbed hold of his sleeve. Still quite strong, Kitiara easily pulled Sturm down to her level.
He tried to protest, but she pushed him back against the curving planks and nestled in close. "Just stay here a while," she said, eyes closed, "to keep me warm."
So Sturm found himself lying very still in the coldest part of the ship, Kitiara nestled under his left arm. Her breathing grew soft and regular. He studied the face showing under her fur-trimmed hood. Kitiara's tan had lightened over the past weeks, but her dark lashes and curls seemed out of place on so rugged a warrior. Her dark lips were parted slightly and her breath smelled of sweet wine.
The gnomes presented their grand design for improving the drifting Cloudmaster's speed a few hours later in the former dining room. Birdcall had drawn the whole plan on the wall in chalk and charcoal. Sturm sat on the floor, listen ing attentively. Kitiara leaned on the wall several feet away, tight-lipped. She was experiencing ill effects from the wine.
"As you can see," Wingover began, our plan calls for rig ging the Cloudmaster with sails on each side of the ethereal air bag. That, and trimming the hull with the excess of weight well in the bow, should increase our speed by, ah — how much did you estimate, Sighter?"
The astronomer gnome studied the scribbles on his shirt cuff. "Sixty percent, or to about twelve knots."
"What will you make the sails out of?" asked Sturm.
"What clothing we can spare. You and Mistress Kitiara will have to contribute what you have as well."
"Ahem, well, if there are no more questions — "
"What about spars and masts and rigging?" Sturm said.
Cutwood waved his hand to be recognized. Wingover relinquished the floor. "I thought of an answer to that," the gnome said importantly. "With chisels and planes, we'll be able to slice off long pieces from the beams and rails of the ships. These lashed together will serve as spars."
"Let me tell about the rigging," said Roperig.
"I know about it, too," Cutwood complained.
"Let Roperig tell it!" ordered Fitter. Cutwood flopped down in a snit.
"We have some store of rope already," Roperig said. "And some cord, twine, string, thread — "
"Get on with it," said Wingover.
"Silly know-it-all," muttered Cutwood.
"These can be braided into whatever thickness of rope we need." Roperig snapped his fingers and sat down. Only Fit ter applauded his report.
"Shall we get to it?" Sturm asked, bracing himself to rise.
They formed the Cloudmaster sewing circle on the dining room floor. A fair-sized heap of clothes grew up in the cen ter, around which everyone sat. It was not an easy process.
Sturm could not sew and Kitiara steadfastly refused to even attempt it, confining her contribution to slitting the seams of the sacrificed clothes with her bent-bladed dagger. Of the gnomes, only Roperig and Fitter, not too surprisingly, proved to be adept sewers. They were so adept, in fact, that they sewed the clothes they were wearing into the sail, which then had to be cut apart again.
After a break for food and rest, the work resumed. Some hours later (it was hard to judge time in the constant night) the ragged, flimsy sails were done. Cutwood and Flash had by this time chiseled out spars from the largest beams in the ship. It was time then to rig the Cloudmaster for sail.
They tied the ends of the spars to the air bag's rigging and the sails stretched between them. The sails were simple rec tangles that overlapped the deck rail by several feet. Once they were set, the flying ship did come slowly about in a new direction.
"How do we steer this thing?" Kitiara asked. Ordinary ships had rudders. The Cloudmaster had none.
"We'll have to manage by trimming the sails," Sturm said.
He was cheered by the sight of wind filling the funny patch work sails.
They shifted all their loose baggage forward and the fly ing ship surged ahead with noticeable vigor. It was possible to feel the wind now out on deck, and the ship rolled fore and aft like a rocking horse. Kitiara was a bit green from the motion. The rigging creaked and stretched. The stars and moons coursed by at an increasing rate.
Clouds loomed ahead, and the ship quickly overtook them. Streams of warm mist flowed over the ship, thawing the frost that coated the windows and ports and made the upper deck treacherous. They sailed through the clouds for only a short time. When they burst through the wall of white, a glorious sight greeted them.
The brilliant blue globe of Krynn hung before them, a bau ble of silver and glass. It looked so small and fragile this far away, a marble in a child's hand. Other cloud banks towered around them, but by luffing the sails, the Cloudmaster's crew weaved the ship through them. Some of the banks flickered with lightning. Rainspot eyed these with longing. He hadn't experienced any real weather in months. Unlike Kitiara, he was genuinely pleased to have lost his gift. No one should always walk about in a rainstorm, he had decided.
An odd thing happened as they steered cautiously through the maze of storm and cloud. Faint echoes of thun der rolled by, and in the dying claps Sturm heard another sound, a distant bleat, like the call of a trumpet.
"Did you hear that?" he said to Flash, who was by his elbow.
"No," said the gnome. "What was it?"
The noise sounded again, louder and nearer. "That's it!" said Sturm.
"Funny, it sounds like a — " Before Flash could finish, a green and gold mallard hurtled into the sail above their heads. "A duck!" Flash said hastily.
The mallard was a good-sized bird, and it half-tore the flimsy sail from the twig spars. Duck and spar tangled, and fell to the deck at Flash's feet. "Halloo! We've caught a duck!" he shouted.
"What did he say?" Roperig asked.
"He said to duck," Fitter replied, face down on the deck.
"No, by Reorx, he's snared a duck!" cried Wingover.
Flash folded the sail back and the mallard poked its head out. Its beady black eyes regarded the Cloudmaster's crew with pure hostility.
"Wonder where it came from," said Rainspot.
"An egg, dumbhead," said Cutwood.
"Hold on to it," said Kitiara. "Ducks are good eating." Just as her strength had faded as they left the influence of Luni tari, so too had the spear plants lost their magical variety of flavors. They had become rubbery, tasteless. Kitiara smacked her lips at the thought of crisply browned duck meat.
"Not much meat for eleven," Sturm said. "If only there were more."
"Ducks ahoy!" Roperig sang out. Over the starboard rail, black against the gray clouds, came a great flock of ducks.
"Bring us about!" Sturm shouted. "They'll wreck us if they hit usl"
Gnomes scampered into the jury-rigging, collapsing the sails on the port side. The ship heeled away from the flock, swinging under the air bag like a pendulum. Some o
f the mallards hit the hull and bounced off. A few swept across the deck, squawking loudly. They veered and banked in panic, thudding on the sides of the deckhouse. Fortunately, none hit the air bag or the sails.
"This is crazy," Kitiara declared. "What are ducks doing so far from home?"
Flash stood up from behind the railing. The first duck was still firmly under his arm. "Maybe this is where ducks go when they migrate," he posited.
"Interesting theory," Sighter said. "Do they just fly around for three months, or do they have a destination?"
Kitiara hobbled the duck with a loop of twine around its feet and pinioned its wings with a length of cord. Fitter watched her every move.
Unnerved, she said, "Would you rather do this?"
"No, I just don't want you to hurt it."
"Hurt it! I plan to eat it."
"Oh, no! It's so pretty. Those green and gold feathers — "
"Yes, and it'll look even better roasting on a spit," she said.
The ducks who'd been lying senseless on deck chose that moment to rouse and take wing, quacking loudly. In sec onds, they were all gone, save for the mallard that Kitiara had trussed up. It honked forlornly at its departing com rades.
Fitter stared at the mallard in his hands. With two large tears rolling down his face, he held the duck out ro Kitiara.
Kitiara's hands closed on the duck and a loud sob came from Fitter. "Suffering gods!" she exclaimed. "Keep it, Fitter.
Enjoy it yourself."
"Oh! I will!" Fitter dashed to the deckhouse door. "I've already named him Highgold, because he flew so high and has gold feathers." The door banged shut behind him.
"So, instead of a duck dinner, we have another mouth to feed," said Kitiara.
"Don't worry," Sturm said. "The duck is one of us, flying too high and too far from home."
Chapter 32
The Lost Caravel
It was hard to say just when the change occurred. It came on slowly, with no dramatic oscillations or warnings.
Somewhere in the billowing white clouds, the Cloudmaster stopped rising toward Krynn and began falling toward it.
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