The Ormo Strait joined the landlocked Shallow Sea with the Andorayan Sea, to the west. The Shallow Sea was so called because at dead low tide a tenth of its bottom lay exposed and a third of the remainder did not rise above a tall man's head. Ships on the Shallow Sea were broad of beam and drew very little water. And had to be guided by very knowledgeable pilots. There were just two small areas in all of the Shallow Sea where, at high tide, the water was over a hundred feet deep.

Navigation in the Ormo Strait was particularly harrowing. Immense volumes of water raced back and form as the tides turned.

People like the smugglers and fishermen of Ara knew their waters better than they knew their wives. They started learning the waters when they were toddlers.

Svavar sighed. "Yeah. We'll be lucky to get out of here today."

Sigurdur said, "The moon is almost full. We could manage a night crossing."

Finnboga mused, "We should liberate some horses after we get to the mainland. Then we could catch up fast"

Except, Shagot thought, that would make it impossible for them to come north again – assuming they stayed ahead of the pursuit after they stole the horses.

Svavar said, "It looks like the fog is thinning out"

But visibility remained less than a bowshot.

Shagot said, "You guys that went sneaking around, poking into stuff. Did you find anything that explains why nobody is home? Or where they went?" The absence of Ara's villagers bothered him. That likely meant an intercession by the Instrumentalities of the Night.

Those nights on the road, coming down from Skogafjordur, had produced only the feeblest of troubles. Even considering the charms the band carried, the supernatural weather had been unnaturally mild.

Shagot shuddered. He did not like thinking too much. But he was captain of the band. And it never hurt to be paranoid about the dark.

The Huldre Folk had followed them. The hidden people were of more than passing interest to them. Maybe they were responsible for all those little delays that kept the band from catching the foreigners before they escaped from Andoray. Why? If the foreigners' god became established here he would chase the hidden folk away.

"Hey!" Finnboga shouted. "There's a boat out there. It's coming in."

Shagot saw it, too. It was not the boat that had taken the missionaries away. This was a regular fishing boat, the kind that spent every clement hour at sea, fishing. It was shorter and wider than the war craft Shagot and his companions knew. But it seemed too well kempt to be your usual fisherman.

Shagot pulled his band together. "As far as these people are concerned, we don't know starboard from larboard. We're landlubbers. Understand? And let me do the talking." The fisher looked like it would require a minimum crew of three, though he could see only one man on deck. And there was a deck. So the boat had a hold. Which made sense for a fisherman – or smuggler – who wanted to keep his cargo from washing overboard in heavy seas.

The closer the fisherman approached, the more perfect she seemed. They could pile aboard her and run all the way down the western coast of Orfland, to put themselves into position to ambush the missionaries after they completed their grueling passage through the island's bogs. They would not have to slay the crew of the boat, even. If the fishermen were cooperative.

"NAME'S RED HAMMER," THE BOAT'S MASTER SAID. "AND YOU men look like you need to get somewhere in a hurry, without being noticed." Before Shagot could respond, he added, "And this's my cousin, Smith."

"Smith?"

Red shrugged. "He just wants to be known by his nickname."

Shagot grunted, confused. He could not get his thoughts to follow. "What about the old man?"

"That's Walker. My father. He's getting old and slowing down. He isn't much use anymore. But he don't want to quit the game. So we take him along when we go out."

Shagot said, "We do need to get across the strait. And down the west coast of Orfland, to Tyrvo, or even to Grodnir's Point on the Friesland shore. That would be particularly useful."

Red Hammer nodded. "We can do that. So we just need to agree on a price. And to unload our catch." The stench of fish filled the air.

"We'll help you unload," Shagot promised. "So let's talk cost."

Initially, Red Hammer asked if what they wanted was worth thirty-five gold pieces.

Shagot laughed. "No. How stupid do we look? We don't have that kind of money, anyway. We look like kings? You won't find one piece of gold between us. You lunatic. Be happy that we'll give you five Santerin silver pennies."

The bargaining did not last long. Shagot was in a hurry. The fishermen were impatient to unload their cargo.

The tide was turning.

Svavar worried aloud as he stumbled along under a heavy sack of fish, some of which still wiggled. "We're getting too good a deal, Grim. They'll try to rob us."

"There's six of us. They may be big and dumb but they aren't that dumb. What do you want to bet they've got some illegal cargo that we'll help protect in order to get where we're going?"

Shagot understood such thinking. He had done things like that himself when he was not off with Erief.

“They have them a devilish look in their eyes, Grim."

"And I don't blame them. This is as lucky a day as poor people ever get."

Svavar went right on worrying about treachery and betrayal. Red Hammer might sell them to Gludnir.

Whenever Shagot met the eye of Red or Smith they seemed amused. As though they knew his worries and found them entertaining.

Shagot was sure he had the angles covered. These men were just fishermen and smugglers with no reason to turn treacherous.

It had been a hard go for Shagot, lately. Weariness hung on his bones like tattered cloth. He told the Thorkalssons, "Don't wake me up unless the ship is going under and the water is up to my nuts."

He found a place out of the way, on deck. He wanted nothing to do with the hold. The stink of fish was bad enough where he was.

The fog was closing in again.

He thought he dreamed.

He was sound asleep but saw his surroundings as though he was wide awake. The fog grew weaker. The sea became calmer. The people of the sea came up to frolic round the boat Beautiful maidens from the deep, indistinguishable from human girls except for their beauty, sang to the fishermen. Walker seemed to bless them. He seemed to get younger as the boat moved out to sea, too.

The sea itself changed. The water darkened. A growing chop came running in on the bow. The people of the sea stopped following.

Soon the fisherman was battering its way into the teeth of a rising storm. Its crew remained unperturbed, even after waves started leaping over the bow, hurling white spume. Then it was green water, pounding the foredeck with the fists of giants.

Indifferent, the crew forged on.

The three were no longer amiable or chatty. They worked ship – when they did anything at all – with very little talk. Shagot could not understand how they managed to cope.

Fierce lightning began dueling inside the storm. Several bolts stabbed the sea near the fishing craft. A bolt hit Red Hammer.

Shagot understood, then, that these mad fishermen had sailed them all to their deaths.

His eyes recovered from the glare. He saw the lunatic redhead standing with his arms upraised, his roaring laughter competing with the thunder. He welcomed the caress of the storm.

Shagot finally realized that he was not at the mercy of insane fishermen at all. He became more frightened than ever he had been, even in the deeps of the night, far from any friendly shore.

Walker sensed his shift of being the instant the fear took hold. He turned away from the storm and looked Shagot directly in the eye.