"Not the first time."

"Over the side or chill the bitch? You're giving me two bits of advice, Johnny. Which would you take, if you were me?"

"Can't swim, matey. Hardly a man on the Salvation has that skill."

Despite the peril of his situation, Ryan was intrigued at this piece of news. "Sailors and you can't swim! How can?.."

The voice was slurred, indistinct. "Thou goest over into the Lantic... 'less thou dost get a rope thrown to thee as she goes on by, then by the time the ship's turned around thou hast been in the water for an hour. Likely more. Chance of finding a fingernail in a ton of manure's better than getting thyself picked up. So the cold or the sharks get thee. And it's better that thou dost go down fast and stay down. Less pain, outlander. I can't take that much more of the paining."

"So you'd chill Pyra Quadde?"

"No."

"Why not? You told me that I should..."

"Thou still knowest her not. She's faster and stronger than nearly any man on board. Harder. More cruel. Ruthless and all. She'd kill me."

Ryan grinned into the mist. "Likely she'll kill me, Johnny."

The answer was a long while coming. "Yeah. Likely she will, outlander. But if thou dost want a chance, thou must to strike quick and straight. Like a snake. Or else."

"Or else?"

"Or she'll draw the blaster. Cuff thee in chains to her bed. Frame's cold iron, bolted to the bulkheads and deck. Once that's happened, thou art deader than salt pig."

"I get it. Hadn't figured she'd... I'll think on it, Johnny Flynn. Sharks or the bitch? Fine choice."

But there was no answer. And when he turned on his heel and walked aft along the deck, the space behind the windlass was filled only with the suffocating wall of fog.

"Too thick."

"Too thick," J.B. repeated.

"Aye. I can no longer hazard my vessel and my men."

"You know we aren't in danger from the shore. You told us. There's no more land out there for a thousand miles."

"There's Pyra Quadde," the captain said stubbornly.

"Captain," Jak interrupted, coming into the cabin to join the others. "We come out sea to catch her. No other reason. Must be close. No?"

"Yeah, sure. But all thou hast said is that we get to her and tie alongside. Ye will take those cannons ye got and blast the living savior out of anything and anybody that gets in your way. Simple as that? Have I got it right?"

The Armorer nodded. "Sure did, Captain. All you got to do is put a man way out on the pointed thing at the front. Bowsprit, would it be called?" Deacon sucked at his teeth and said nothing. J.B. continued. "Out there. Sharpest man you... wait. Krysty, think you can do it?"

She shook her head. "Don't know. This fog distorts so much. But if we keep death-quiet, we gotta hear them before they hear us. Can have a half dozen men relaying the bearing and distance back to Captain Deacon here at the stern. How's that sound?"

Deacon's expression didn't change. Finally he held out his hand to the girl, who shook it with a smile that brightened the poorly lit cabin. "I'll do it, little lady. Truth is, when thou shanghaied the Phoenixand held a blaster to my head... well, damnation! I could have seen thee all over the side and I'd have been smiling as I sailed on. Now?.. Now's different. I'll help thee. We'll do as thou sayest. Thou hast mutie hearing, lady?"

"Sort of. And I can 'see,' you know. Like a doomie but not as clear."

The skipper looked at the flame-haired young woman. "What dost thou seeof thy friends on the Salvation!"

Krysty closed her eyes. "Nothing plain. I think the fog's clouding everything down. And it feels like Ryan's in danger, but he's got choices that confuse things."

"So. All of ye wish us to go on in now? Not wait?"

Dix looked the silver-haired man in the eyes. "We go in. Soon as we get to her, we go alongside and hit her hard. Maybe try and hole her with the blasters. They won't fight so hard if their ship's going down under 'em."

Deacon laughed. "I thank the Lord that I am on your side. Who has need of any enemies when friends include ye five?"

They came for Ryan.

Four members of the crew escorted Donfil away, keeping him under guard. "Captain wouldn't want thee harmed, Outlander Ten-from-Ten," Cyrus Ogg told him, hefting a well-preserved Webley revolver.

Ryan's foursome were Second Mate Walsh, Jehu, a pockmarked seaman named Brandt and Johnny Flynn.

Walsh was armed with a rusting Glock 9 mm pistol, while Brandt held a sawed-off scattergun, bracing himself against it as though he were terrified the weapon would go off without warning. The other two men wielded belaying pins. Johnny Flynn caught Ryan's eye and shrugged his shoulders helplessly, struggling to convey the message through body language that this was none of his choosing.

Ryan hadn't expected such a heavily armed escort to Pyra Quadde's bed of sexual delights.

The fog seemed even thicker, the vessel blanketed in a damp silence. There wasn't a breath of wind to tug at the bellying canvas, not a ripple on the gray glass of the Lantic.

Brandt led the way along the deck, shuffling sideways, stumbling over ringbolts and coiled rope. Walsh snarled at him. "Keep thy finger off that nuke-withered trigger, thou triple-fish-gutter! One fall and thou would blast us all to red spray and bone."

The mate was behind Ryan, with Jehu and Flynn bringing up the rear. The crazie was smiling, his grin filling his tiny face, and as they walked aft he kept up a ceaseless chatter of nonsense.

"Cheese and water and bread and wine and chalk. Sacrament for us all. Drink at the fount of youth and life and death. Bury thy hands in blood to the wrists. Enter the temple of the ear of corn and allow that dominion of death shall be short, short, short."

Ryan said nothing, concentrating on readying himself for what was to come. The shotgun had been an unpleasant surprise. If he made a move to go over the side now, the nervous seaman would probably blow him in two.

"Here," Walsh said, knocking on the door of the cabin. The five men were crowded together in the narrow corridor at the bottom of the short flight of steps down from the quarterdeck.

"Bring him in," the woman barked, and the second mate turned the brass handle and opened the heavy door.

Pyra Quadde was lying on her double-size bunk. She'd washed and curled her hair, which was coiled tight around her angular skull. Her face was heavily made up, with eyes ringed in mascara and lips slashed scarlet.

Her dress was amazing.

Occasionally, in parts of the Deathlands, you might find an old magazine from before the bright heat. Ryan had seen dozens in his time, and some of them had carried features on what the well-dressed lady of the town should wear for an evening's entertainment.

Captain Quadde's dress seemed to date from that era. It was strapless, cut low at the front, allowing most of her breasts to surge upward. Then it tapered to the waist and flounced out again until it reached her feet in a tumble of material. It was covered in glittery, shimmery patches of sequin and diamante. There were layers of different colors, one over the other, giving an impression of a great richness of texture. Green predominated, with fiery orange and red, covering deeper tones of blue and purple. Lace and chiffon puffed its way to the surface of the dress in several places.

Yet, despite the ornate finery and elegance of the dress, Ryan's overwhelming impression was of decay. He could almost taste the dry flavor of the tomb and the winding-cloth about the rotting splendor of Pyra Quadde's gown. It was as though she'd risen from some underground catafalque, burst open the bronze doors of an ancient sarcophagus.