Several members of the crew left the ship for the dock-side taverns, but the captain, first mate, and a sizeable contingent of the crew-hard looking seamen, all-remained aboard and armed at all times. Crewmen eyed passersby with suspicion. A simple system of whistles and hand signs alerted the captain or first mate any time the harbormaster, his undermasters, or any of the Scepters approached. Azriim took that behavior as confirmation that the ship had slaves in its hold.

After a time, the slaadi called upon their new abilities granted by their partial transformation into gray slaadi, and willed themselves invisible and airborne. Each could see the other, of course, since slaadi innately saw invisible objects, but they were completely invisible to all others. Azriim enjoyed the sensation of flying. He found that flight was effortless, and speed and direction answered to his mental urgings. He could even hover.

Unseen, they flew over the ship, watching, listening, telepathically exchanging the names of crewmen and the layout of the ship. Captain Kauzin ruled Demon Binder, and his first mate was called Greel, though the crew often called him by a nickname, Hack, no doubt earned in combat. Azriim studied the captain's appearance and mannerisms with care. The human tended to bark orders, laughed rarely but sharply, and walked with a stiff, gingerly step that bespoke an old back injury. Dolgan studied the first mate with the same intensity. They did not set foot on the deck, in the forecastle, or below decks, for fear of being noticed or triggering a magical alarm.

The slaadi patiently watched until the sky darkened and the stars shone down on the bay. Both Azriim and Dolgan could see well in the dark and continued to watch for a while longer. By the time a distant bell tower sounded the eighth hour, the slaadi knew Demon Binder and its crew well enough to maintain their planned charade.

I believe I have him now, projected Azriim. They should be returning to their quarters soon.

I am ready also, answered Dolgan, hovering in the air beside him.

They watched until the captain and mate disappeared into the forecastle, which held their quarters.

Azriim said, Bring the bodies to the alley when it's done.

Dolgan's unhappiness carried through the mental connection. The alley? Why? Can I at least eat his head?

Azriim smiled. We will see.

With that, Azriim drew his blade and his teleportation rod. Dolgan did the same and both of them turned the dials on the rods.

Do try not to get stuck in the floor this time, Azriim said.

Dolgan smiled in answer.

Azriim was jesting only by half. There was always a risk in teleporting to a location they had never visited, or at least seen. Still, he was nothing if not a risk taker. He called upon the magic of the rod to teleport him into the forecastle, to the captain's quarters. The magic would need to fill in the gaps.

He gave the rod a final twist, felt the familiar tingle in his flesh as his body moved instantaneously from the air above the ship to the captain's cabin.

He appeared in one corner of a small room. A neatly made bed hugged the far wall, with a sea chest at its foot. A small writing desk stood near the bed with a logbook, quill, and inkwell atop it. A covered clay lamp and some papers sat on a night table near the bed.

Disappointed to find the cabin unoccupied, Azriim sat at the captain's desk to wait. He leafed through the log, noting the repeated references to "sacks of cured meat," no doubt a euphemism for slaves. He looked over the papers on the night table: charcoal sketches, and well done-a pod of leaping porpoises, a three-masted schooner on the horizon, an island in the distance. The captain was an artist, a slaver with a sensitive spirit. Azriim liked him immediately. Too bad he had to kill him.

He did not have to wait long. Shortly, the door to the cabin opened and the captain strode in, huffing and mumbling under his breath. Azriim pulled one of his wands, pointed it at the captain, and said, "Stay."

The moment he said the word, he became visible.

The captain went wide-eyed. His hand went for his blade. He shouted aloud, an inarticulate cry of alarm.

Azriim cursed. The human had resisted the magic. He tried again. "Stay, you stubborn arse!"

That time the captain froze, his mouth open in a shout that would never escape his lips. Azriim grinned, but his smile vanished when a loud rapping sounded on the door.

"Captain?" a voice called. "Captain Kauzin?"

Azriim quickly changed his form to that of the captain-thick limbed, full belly, sallow skin, bad teeth, beard, and short, black hair-and walked to the door. He had the wrong clothes and had kept his natural mismatched eye color, but he figured the seaman would not notice.

He crossed the room and opened the door part way, using his body and the door to block visibility into the room.

"What is it?" he growled, and was pleased to hear the captain's voice exit his throat.

A thin crewman with a pointed chin and a thin moustache and beard stared at him in surprise.

"Er, sorry, Captain. I thought I heard something amiss."

Azriim smiled. He knew the real captain could hear the exchange and he could imagine the human's frustration at not being able to move or say anything.

"You did hear something," Azriim said. "I tripped on my chest and gave my back another twinge."

The sailor nodded knowingly. No doubt all the crewmen knew of their captain's troublesome back.

"Ah. Sorry for the interruption."

Azriim grunted acknowledgement and shut the door. He waited a moment with his ear to the door to ensure that the crewman was gone.

He circled around to the still-paralyzed captain and stared into his face. The man was sweating profusely, even through the spell. He knew what was coming.

"I will make it painless," Azriim said, "But only because I do not want to ruin your clothes with blood." He smiled into the human's face. "And because you are an artist, which I respect." He tapped a finger on his chin. "But after you are dead and I've taken your corpse from the ship, I may eat your brain. Done?"

The captain only sweated.

"Done, then," Azriim said. He smiled, took the captain's head in his hands, stared into his fearful eyes, and snapped his neck.

Afterward, he stripped the captain of his clothes, donned them, and used his rod to teleport himself and the corpse back to the alley. He found Dolgan already there, in the form of the first mate, waiting with the body of the real mate. Dolgan had not been as elegant in disposing of his target. The mate's throat was torn out and his shirt stained crimson. His hair was slicked too, not with blood, but saliva. Dolgan must have been gumming his skull.

"I have been waiting a quarter hour," hissed Dolgan, his voice that of the human.

"I ran into a complication," Azriim said. "But all is well. Is there blood in the mate's quarters?"

Dolgan grinned and licked his lips. "Not anymore."

Azriim could only shake his head and wonder how he and Dolgan had been born to the same brood.

"May I feed?" Dolgan asked, holding the slack body of the mate by his head.

Azriim nodded indulgently. "Take him farther into the alley. And be quick."

Dolgan grinned, retreated into the alley with his meal, and changed to his natural form. A crack announced the opening of the mate's skull and slobbering sounds bespoke the emptying of the brainpan. Dolgan returned to human form and dragged the corpse along, wiping his mouth. Atypically, Azriim felt no desire to feed when he glanced at the human's hollowed-out skull. The partial transformation to gray had perhaps changed his tastes.

Clucking his tongue, Azriim piled the corpses together, looked out on the waters, and picked a suitable point off the coast. He touched his teleportation rod to the bodies and sent them out into the waters of the bay, near a pier. They would be found and identified soon enough. No doubt the opened brainpan of the first mate would set tongues wagging.