Wandervere, too, was a stranger to the area. In fact, he reported, he’d never been more than a league inland in his life.

They dined on the quarterdeck under a canopy of stars. Quarrel maintained a steady pace of twenty beats, even during the changeover when the first rowers were relieved by a second set. At this rate, they would reach the fork in the river around daybreak. The eastern branch was navigable only to the foothills of the Aegis Mountains, the narrow range of peaks that shielded Daltigoth on the west. Ordinarily, Tol would have disembarked there and ridden the rest of the way to the capital, but a canal had been cut through the mountains. It connected the upper Thorn to the Dalti River. If the maps from Lord Tremond’s library were accurate, Quarrel should be able to drop anchor in the heart of Daltigoth’s canal district.

Before turning in, Tol warned Wandervere of the possibility of attack from his nameless enemy. He explained briefly the unnatural perils his party had faced on the journey from Tarsis.

To his credit, Wandervere remained unmoved, merely remarking, “I thought that squall before the river mouth was strange.”

“This enemy of mine may strike again at any time. We must be on constant watch.”

Wandervere showed his neat white teeth. “Vigilance will be maintained, my lord. We’re pirates, after all. Our lives and livelihood have long depended on sharp eyes and keen senses.”

Reassured, Tol went below to the small stern cabin and slept better than he had in days. The only thing that disturbed his rest was an odd dream; he thought he heard Miya’s voice, bargaining hard for a jug of cider. It seemed so real he got up and checked the passage outside the cabin. All he saw were the rowers, bending their backs to the oars.

He went back into the cabin and lay down again. He obviously missed his Dom-shu companions even more than he’d realized.

Barely a hint of dawn was showing in the eastern sky when Tol woke. He dressed and went up on deck. Wandervere was there, one arm draped over the tiller, a floppy hat on his head. The galleot plowed along, still at a steady twenty beats per measure.

The half-elf pushed his hat back and hailed his august passenger. Tol asked if he’d been on duty all night.

“Many sailors boast they can guide a ship in their sleep,” Wandervere replied. “I actually can.”

Tol couldn’t decide whether he was joking or not; the half-elf’s expression seemed serious enough.

They had left the swampy delta country behind. On both sides of the smooth, silver river was a great forest, the trees beginning at the very shoreline. This was the wilderness of Hardtree, in ancient times a haven for dragons, centaurs, and other non-humans. The wars of Ackal Ergot and his successors had purged the forest of most of these inhabitants, but rumor had it some still lingered. Peering into the dark ranks of trees, Tol found it easy to imagine all sorts of creatures lurking within those shadows.

The river was broad and slow here. The galleot had the water to itself. River boatmen habitually tied up for the night, and none were stirring yet. Aside from a few sailors dozing, Quarrel’s deck was as quiet as a farmyard in the gray predawn light.

Tol had been surveying the eastern shore, off their starboard rail. When he turned toward the bow, he saw something that brought his hand to the hilt of his sword.

“Who is that?” he hissed. “There, on the bowsprit!”

Wandervere straightened and looked where he pointed. Sure enough, a gray-wrapped figure stood far out on the bowsprit, although the spar was a simple pole no thicker than the calf of a man’s leg.

The half-elf whispered, “No hand of mine could stand on the ’sprit like that!”

Drawing his saber, Tol rushed to the bow. Quarrel was flush-decked, so there were no steps to climb. A few paces from the bowsprit he halted.

“Come down from there!”

The apparition did not respond. Tol had an impression of two shining eyes staring out at him from under a loose -fitting gray cowl. He repeated his demand, but still the stranger did not comply.

Gould this be yet another attempt on his life by his unknown foe? The thought filled Tol with fury and he rushed at the phantom.

“My lord, take care!” Wandervere called.

At the foot of the bowsprit Tol sheathed his sword. Turning, he made his way out along the narrow spar, sliding his hare feet sideways. The closer he got, the stronger grew the sensation the apparition was watching him, waiting for him.

The river was calm enough, but the forward motion of the galleot caused the bow to dip and rise in time with each stroke of the oars. It took a great deal of concentration for Tol to keep his balance. The stranger seemed to hold his place effortlessly.

A pace away from the figure, Tol halted. “Who are you? Why do you plague me?” Silence was his only answer. The slight breeze that dried the sweat on his neck did not ruffle the watcher’s dark cloak.

Tol’s temper snapped. “Very well! I have an answer for you!”

He drew his saber, managing to maintain his wobbly equilibrium. The flash of naked metal stirred the apparition at last. It raised its hands in a very ordinary way, as if to ward off the blade. The growing light of dawn showed Tol a strange detail: the phantom’s hands were different colors. One was pale, the other dark.

“Trouble me no more!” Tol cried and thrust Number Six at the stranger.

When the tip of his saber touched the apparition, the gray-cloaked figure vanished, completely and instantly. Off balance now, Tol lost his footing and pitched forward.

The bowsprit hit him in the chest and he rolled off one side. Clutching his sword in his right hand and the spar with his left arm and leg, Tol dangled above the galleot’s streaming bow wave. If he fell, the ship would plow him under, its ram cleaving him like a soft clod of earth.

He was wondering whether he’d have to drop Number Six when a voice called out, “Hold on! I’m coming!”

Someone shinnied out onto the bowsprit. Strong hands grasped his left thigh, then his sword belt, and Tol was dragged along the spar toward the ship.

“Give me the sword!”

He held his arm back, and the dwarf-forged blade was taken from him. Several pairs of hands grasped his jerkin and hauled him roughly to safety. Sprawled on his back on the damp deck, Tol finally saw the faces of his rescuers.

Miya was breathing hard from her exertions. Standing beside her, still holding Miya’s belt, was Kiya.

“How did you get here?” Tol demanded.

“There’s gratitude for you,” said Miya, giving her sister a disgusted look.

“We’ve been aboard the whole time,” Kiya told him. “We signed on as rowers.”

Wandervere joined them, and Tol got to his feet. Ignoring the captain, Tol glared at the Dom-shu. “You disobeyed me!”

“Aren’t you glad we did?” Miya grinned and slapped him on the back, staggering him.

There was no denying it, and trying to maintain his outrage was pointless. He hooked a hand behind each sister’s neck (having to reach up to do so) and gave them a hearty shake.

“Next time you disobey me, I’ll have you bound in irons,” he growled.

Miya laughed. Kiya did not. She knew he meant it.

“My lord,” Wandervere said. “The apparition-did you see its face?”

Tol hadn’t. He did not mention the mismatched hands. An odd detail like that might prove important, if the phantom crossed his path again.

Quarrel reached the Dalti Canal as the sun cleared the horizon. A hodgepodge of small craft was queued up to enter the waterway from the river. The canal was closed at night by a massive boom of timbers anchored on either shore. A stone roundhouse, manned by a contingent of territorial soldiers, guarded the boom. Tol was surprised to see the boom still blocking the way. The canal usually was opened promptly at dawn.