The elders of Sanction went back to worrying about the volcanic dome, and Lord Bight supervised the strengthening of the lava dikes. The Whydah unloaded its cargo of sheep and cows, took on a load of ballast, and made preparations to leave Sanction as soon as the crew had finished a few days of shore leave.

Three nights after the runaway vanished below the water, Rolfe, the Whydah’s first mate, woke to a terrible thirst. He stumbled to the barrel nearby and ladled out a cup of water, then another and another. He drank until he felt bloated, and still the thirst raged in his mouth and throat. It was then the cramps struck-terrible, piercing, racking cramps that drove him doubled over to the head. By the time Rolfe was drained, he was so weak he could barely stagger back to his hammock.

A sailor found him a few hours later, raving and burning with a high fever. Vivid red blotches covered his weathered face. Appalled, the sailor ran to find the captain. The captain worriedly ordered a search of the ship and discovered three more men in the crew’s quarters who were ill, all of them feverish and complaining of a raging thirst and all of them men who worked the same watches with Rolfe and had boarded the death ship with him.

The Whydah’s captain was stunned. He took a mental head count. Most of his crew was on shore leave, and of those, at least six had also gone on board the galley. The remaining crewmen gathered around him, looking grim and scared.

“Send word to the harbormaster and the healer,” he ordered. “I want the rest of you to find the others on shore leave. Look everywhere you can think of. Find them and bring them back here. But be quiet about it! We don’t want to start a panic!”

The sailors hurried to obey. By morning’s light, two sailors had been found in nearby taverns by the Whydah’s crew and two appeared on their own, helping each other along the dock and singing bawdy songs. Those four seemed well enough, but to be safe, the captain quarantined them on the ship until the healer arrived.

The healer came soon after, and everyone realized with a pang of dread that this healer wasn’t the same one who had examined the dead days before. This one was a woman, lean and sinewy and kindly. She introduced herself as Kelian and confirmed their worst fears.

“The healer, Manegol, is suffering from intestinal cramps, high fever, and dehydration,” she told the captain, her concern obvious on her thin face. “The harbormaster is also ill. Whatever this illness is, it is starting to spread.”

Swiftly she examined Rolfe, the most ill of the sick sailors, then checked the others. Her expression grew pale. “Keep them comfortable as best you can,” she ordered. “Give them water for now. I will bring something to help ease the pain and fever.” She shook her head. “I must get help from the healers at the temple. Meanwhile, keep the others on the ship.”

The captain groaned. “We still have five men on leave. Part of my crew is looking for them.”

The healer’s eyes automatically turned to scan the busy piers, and her thoughts filled with dread. “Get them back here and keep them here, Captain. I will send word to Lord Bight.” She nodded her thanks for his cooperation and hurried down the plank to the pier.

The captain watched her stride away through the piles of crates and bags, the crowds of busy sailors, dockhands, and merchants, and the general throng and clutter of a prosperous harbor. He would not blame her at all if she did not come back.

Linsha had already been relieved of duty and was about to walk to the stable to check on Windcatcher when Sergeant Amwold caught up with her. His grizzled face looked more strained than usual and he barely acknowledged her salute.

“We’ve been recalled. Form up by the gateway,” he ordered and hurried away to find the others before she could ask questions.

Linsha grumbled under her breath at this change of plan. She was tired from her long night, and she was looking forward to a morning of rest. Rest was the last thing she got.

As soon as Sergeant Amwold rounded up his puzzled patrol, he told them about their new orders.

“The Whydah’s captain is missing five members of his crew. We have been ordered to search the taverns, pleasure houses, and gaming halls to find them. They are to be returned to their ship immediately. I have a list of their names. We will begin at the Street of the Courtesans and work our way south to Snapfinger’s Alley.”

While the others grumbled, Linsha felt her instincts come alert. This was unusual. The City Guard did not normally go on searches for lost crew members unless there was a crime involved or some type of emergency. She glanced around the gateway and noticed that all of the night and day patrols were forming up and marching down into the harbor district. Her eyes narrowed as she put two and two together.

“Does this have anything to do with the illness on board the runaway?” she asked.

The sergeant rolled his eyes. He plainly wished no one had asked him that question. “We have only been told that the men could be sick and that they need to be returned to their ship. That is all.”

Without another word, he led the five guards back to their patrol route among the back street taverns and alehouses along the southern rim of the harbor district. They searched for hours without success until noon, when Sergeant Amwold found a young man matching the name of a Whydah sailor happily drunk in the gutter behind an alehouse. The sailor seemed healthy to the patrol, but Amwold took no chances. He ordered a litter brought and had the giggling man tightly bound in a blanket and pushed onto the Utter with a pole. Then he sent two guardsmen to carry the sailor to the Whydah, with the added injunction not to touch him and to return immediately. With luck, the other sailors had been located and the patrol could knock off for the day.

The guardsmen came back shortly with an empty Utter and frightening news. The harbormaster had died, the first mate of the ship was near death, and seven of the Whydah’s sailors were HI. Only three of the five missing crewmen had been found.

The guards exchanged uneasy glances and went back to their search. Through the long, hot, miserable day, they went from alley to tavern to inn to house, searching every room, kitchen, shop, common house, and privy for the last two sailors. News of the search and of the harbormaster’s death spread like locust on the wind, so by midafternoon, half the population of the harbor district was out looking for the two men. The other half offered advice and criticism but preferred to stay indoors, away from possible contagion.

Sergeant Amwold would have preferred the criticism to the help. More often than not, the citizen volunteers attacked their self-appointed task with too much enthusiasm and ended up antagonizing the owner of a house or tavern. The patrol spent as much time soothing angry feelings and settling arguments as conducting a search. By late afternoon, they were exhausted, hot, and thirsty, and their patience was wearing thin.

Twice Sergeant Amwold sent messengers to the West Gate to check on the progress of the search, and both times they returned with bad news and orders to keep looking.

It was four in the afternoon, by the mercantile clock, when a runner caught up with the patrol and told Sergeant Amwold to stand down. The harbor-wide search had produced all but one sailor, and the night patrols were being recalled to get what rest they could before dark. Drooping with exhaustion, the five men and Linsha trudged back to the West Gate to report in to the day commander. The patrol waited in the shade of the city wall while their sergeant made his report. He came back shortly, carrying a large pitcher brimming with beer. They hastily dug out their horn cups.