Gershon was cursing under his breath as Blade came up to him. «We should never ha' come with such a small crew, Cap'n. Now we're all in trouble.»

«Perhaps,» said Blade. «It depends on how many of them there are.» And also on who they are, he added silently.

Howls of fear rose from Fox's deck a moment later, as the head of the yulon rose from the water again almost alongside. But another head rose beside it, high-cheeked, elfin, green-haired, with a broad smile on the full lips, and red jewels glittering in the green hair. Blade waved a hand in greeting-then struck Gershon's crossbow to the deck as the mate raised it to fire at Alanyra.

Gershon let out an oath and drew his dagger. Blade stepped back until he had the railing and the sea behind him, then dropped into fighting stance. «Hold, Gershon! If you have any faith in me, let me speak. And make the rest of the crew let me speak too. Otherwise we shall all die, and so will many others-all for nothing.»

Gershon's eyes narrowed sullenly, but he growled agreement. One of the other sailors sprang forward, knife raised. As he did, Gershon spun around and drove an enormous, sun-browned fist into the man's stomach, then chopped down with the other hand on his right wrist. The man folded in the middle, sat down on the deck, and tried to ease his tingling wrist and throw up his breakfast at the same time.

Blade was relieved. For the moment at least Gershon's loyalty held. He began to speak, in a low, firm, urgent voice. He left out nothing except his relations with Alanyra, nothing at all that was needed to explain the situation to the crew.

He could not be sure for a long time that they were listening to him, still less believing him. To have the idea of friendship with the Fishmen sprung on them this way would have stunned better minds than those of the sailors'.

But eventually Gershon sheathed his dagger. His brown face split in a rueful grin. He shook his lead, so that his pigtail swung from side to side. «Well, may the Goddess strike me dead if I foreswear my friendship with ye, Cap'n Blade. I make no promises to like this new friendship, mind ye. But the Fishmen'll have naught to fear from me or any man aboard Fox, long as we've naught to fear from them.»

Blade nodded and smiled. «Fair enough.» It was as much as he could hope for at the moment. But it was also enough.

The towers of Mestron, the capital and chief port of the Empire of Nurn, rose black against the sunset. Blade and Alanyra leaned against the railing of Fox's crow's nest. They watched the setting sun trail orange across the waters of the bay and gild the sails of the coastal shipping sliding in and out of the harbor. The wind had dropped, and Fox once again rocked gently on the waves.

From below, the voices of both Talgarans and Sea Masters rose into the evening air. The Sea Masters were almost submerged, hanging onto lines trailing over Fox's side. They seldom came aboard, but that was more to keep their presence a secret than out of fear of Blade's crew.

The week's voyage from Talgar had done one thing at least. It had taught each people that the other was not necessarily a monster lusting for blood and destruction. Hearing each other call many sea creatures by the same names and swear by the same Goddess had been a new, almost frightening experience for both sides. But slowly they had recovered. Now they still could not exactly be called friends. But they could be called a crew that Blade would trust to do anything he asked of them. That was a good enough start for the mission.

Alanyra turned to Blade. The red sunset light gave her skin a weird pinkish tinge. «Are you waiting for a pilot to take you in?»

«No. We're not going into Mestron, at least not aboard Fox. There's a smaller port to the north of Mestron that Gershon knows like he knows this ship's deck. That's where Fox and the yulon will be staying. There'd be too many prying eyes and wagging tongues around us in Mestron. In Clintrod there won't be so many questions asked, or so many soldiers around to fight if we can't give the right answer.»

«I see. But you will be in Mestron, Blade. You will be in danger all the time, and the rest of us only part of the time. Is that fair?»

Blade shrugged. There was really no better answer to that question.

A big pleasure galley raced past, oars scarring the darkening water with silver foam. On her single, green, triangular sail was a black bull's head.

«Some nobleman's private yacht,» said Blade. Then he leaned over the railing and shouted down to the deck. «Ahoy, Gershon! Set a course for Clintrod.»

«Aye, aye, sir.»

Blade's plan was simple, like any good espionage operation. Complicated schemes in that business had a way of going wrong in the worst way at the worst possible moment. The only thing complicated about Blade's plan was its use of eight Sea Masters and their trained yulon. But that was also something nobody in Nurn would believe even if they saw it. So nobody would be looking for it. Blade hoped things would stay that way until he had finished his work.

That work went slowly at first, slowly enough to have given Blade a few sleepless nights if he had been the type to lie awake worrying. He wasn't. He was painfully aware that the more time passed, the greater his chances of returning to Talgar and finding Svera's head nailed on the Traitors' Beam by the dockyard entrance.

Fox dropped anchor at Clintrod, and Blade and four sailors donned heavy disguises and went ashore. In their chests and bags rode armor and weapons, a good sum in gold, and enough other disguises to make the five men look like forty other ones. The chest also contained two sealed envelopes. One held credentials showing Blade to be an authorized arms purchaser for the Autocracy of Finance of the Sea Cities of Talgar. The other showed Blade to be an equally authorized arms buyer for the Clan Gnyr of the Sea Masters. The arms dealer would not ask any questions once they saw those letters. The arms trade was far too profitable for any dealer to wish to doubt a buyer's word and risk driving him into the arms (or warehouse) of a competitor.

They nearly came to grief even before they entered Mestron. A mile from the North Gate they heard the thunder of fast-moving hooves and the blare of trumpets behind them. Then came shouts of «Way, way for the Duke Tymgur and his household! Way all!» Blade pulled the two pack mules to one side of the road and turned.

A long, cavalcade of men in black and green livery on sleek black horses was coming up behind them. In the center rode a tall, thin man with a close-cropped black beard fringing his pale, bony face. He was flanked by two banner bearers. The banners they carried were green, with a black bull's head on them.

The cavalcade pounded on toward the gates of the City. Blade led his little caravan back onto the road. As he did, he overheard a brief grumbling exchange between two porters staggering along under massive loads of pots.

«Hunh-Tymgur be gettin' much abo' hisself, nae?»

«Yar. No t'Emperor hisself do ride like thot on common roads.»

«Maybe Tymgur ha' dreams o'-«

«Hssssh!»

Blade kept that exchange and the Duke's face very much in his mind as they rode on into Mestron. A small bribe to the sentries got them the names of several reliable inns that catered to arms buyers and other merchants. Blade chose one called the Inn of the Seven Cats.

There were a good many more than seven cats underfoot as he entered, but the place was tolerably clean, and the landlord asked no more than the usual number of questions. Blade settled his party in two adjoining rooms and gave them a quick lecture on disguises and a longer lecture on keeping their mouths shut. «Never mind what good wine or willing girls you find. If you can't handle them and keep your tongue from flapping too, then leave them alone! Flapping tongues have been known to slit their owners' throats or stretch their owners' necks.»