After Gord's sudden departure, the storm had veered enough to enable them to survive the tempest. After repairs and more Jury-rigging, they had headed for Telmstrand on the east portion of Ulek's coast for proper refitting. Before sailing on, the two had held a moot with the rest of the crew to decide what course they should chart. When Dohojar had suggested that the best place to find Gord was the city of Greyhawk, the issue was settled. Now, after sailing around the Pomarj peninsula and along the Wild Coast up Woolly Bay, they were almost there.

Next evening, Barrel discovered that having the names of navigators was one thing and finding the men attached to them was quite another. He had all but run out of possibilities when he found someone who said he could help. "This here's the busy time, matey," a squint-eyed barkeep explained. "Most o' the men ye're lookin' fer've hauled anchor already, but fer the right fee I can find ye a likely pilot." With that, he held out his hand and waited.

Barrel made a ferocious face — an easy enough thing to do with a visage as homely and scarred as his — but the barkeep did not flinch. So the captain reached into his purse and began counting out the thick copper discs that the fellow was waiting for. At ten the squint-eyed man leered and closed his hand. "That'll do — I ain't no greedy-gut!" he said. Til have one o' me boys fetch 'im, an' he'll be here inside an hour. Have a drink on th' house whilst ver awaitln'." Dohojar looked uncertain, but his comrade shrugged and ordered each of them small beer.

Just about an hour later, though, true to his word, the squint-eyed proprietor nodded toward the door. "There, sirs! Didn't I tell ye? There's yer navigatin' man now!"

The man he indicated was a very tall, skinny one standing straight as a mast just inside the door. Barrel's first impression was not a good one — the man simply didn't look like a sailor. "You better have steered me true, gleed-eye, else I'll be fixin' it so's you sing soprano hereafter." the captain growled as he eyed the supposed pilot.

"Arrr." the barkeep rumbled with a smirking grin. "Yer mos' welcome ta try anything ye like, cap'n. I be no easy mark. Yet that 'un is what I tol' ye he was, by Skunarl Ifn he ain't. I'll do the cuttin' o' me barnacles m'self!"

Mollified. Barrel motioned to Dohojar, and the two elbowed their way over to where the tall man stood waiting. The burly seaman stood back as Dohojar stepped up and asked. "Are you the pilot-man I have asked for?"

The fellow looked down at the little Changa without moving his head. Then he looked up and straight at Barrel. "I don't know your game," he said, addressing the burly sailor, "but I don't think I like it."

As the thin man started to leave. Barrel caught htm politely by his coat sleeve. "Avast, navigator! A man can't be too careful now, can he? Especially in these waters!"

That's right." the tall fellow said in clipped fash-Ion. "Take me, for instance. I'm having nothing to do with you."

"Would a golden orb change your mind?"

The tall, thin body suddenly froze in its progress out of the tavern. Then the man turned, expressionless, looking hard at Barrel. "No," he said finally, his face immobile and his lips barely moving. "My life is worth more than that."

Dohojar nudged his comrade, and the burly sailor grudgingly said. "All right then, mate, make it a pair of orbs... if you can navigate my ship up the Sellntan safely to Greyhawk."

The tall pilot didn't reply. Instead he went over to an empty table nearby, sat down, and looked at Dohojar and Barrel. The two Joined him. Dohojar signaling to the barkeep for service. "I may take that offer, captain," he said as a bumper of wine was placed on the stained board before him.

"Barrel. Cap'n Barrel."

"But I'll see the color of your coins first."

The Changa held the purse, and at his friends nod slipped two gold coins out and displayed them so that only the three of them sitting at the table could see their gleaming yellow. "A fortune for such work, I think." Dohojar commented.

"Shows how little you know about navigation upriver," the tall, hard-faced pilot said as he reached over casually and took the coins. He hefted them, tested one with his teeth, and then smiled a smile as thin as himself. "Call me Graves. Riot Graves. Your ship is the Silver Seeker?"

"Aye," Barrel admitted with surprise. He didn't remember saying his ship's name to the barkeep, so how could this man have known? Well, he supposed, word about such things does have a way of getting around the docks.... "And I'll take back those orbs 'til you be coming aboard her!" he added.

Stone-faced, the thin man placed the pair of gold coins back into the Changa's hand. "Naturally. One I'll take upon boarding, one when I've seen you safely docked along Greyhawk's quay. We sail with the morning tide, Captain Barrel. The Selintan is low this time of year, and likely to get lower before the autumn rains start. Your ship has a deep keel, and I don't guarantee anything if you want to tarry here."

"That you needn't fear, pilot," the burly seaman growled. "Be aboard afore sunup, and we'll set sail with the morning wind." Graves stood up and stalked off, still stiff and straight as a spar, not saying another word. "He's an odd sodder," Barrel remarked to the Changa as the lanky form disappeared into the darkness outside.

"Very much so. I am thinking," Dohojar concurred without his usual toothy smile. "Perhaps we should be seeking another one to navigate, Barrel Captain."

"Bloody small chance of that." Barrel said, although he more or less agreed with Dohojar. The man made him uneasy, too, but there was nothing to be done for it. "A month earlier and we'd have had our pick o' pilots for such work," he explained, "and if we could stay in port here for another month until rainy season, we'd have a shot at another school of the blasters looking for a berth. But right now, mate, we've no choice. It's the tall beggar or no pilot at all."

* * *

There was little wind, so the journey to the mouth of the Selintan took a full two days and nights to accomplish. The sea's color changed where the rush of fresh water spilled from the broad mouth of the river. When the sun rose on the third day, the tall pilot called Graves took command of Silver Seeker, for the next two hundred fifty miles of the journey would be along the turns and twists of the river. Sweeps more than sails would be required to get the vessel upstream. The crewmen grumbled about this but were ready enough for the work, because they were anxious to drop anchor at Greyhawk and regain their leader, Gord. Their enthusiasm was dampened by the pilot's presence; none of the men liked the stiff navigator. At the same time, this lent a measure of additional effort to their task; these seamen also wanted to finish the long, cramped trek up the Selintan in order to get the pilot off their ship.

If Graves was aware of the dislike he engendered in the ship's master, officers, and crew, he ignored it. The tall, narrow form was seemingly fixed to the poopdeck of Silver Seeker as permanently as her mizzenmast. The helmsman at the tiller had to look smart and obey instantly whenever the pilot spoke. Graves was an unrelenting taskmaster and would brook not the slightest infraction, while slowness or sloth was punished by a sharp word and his unwavering stare. Oddly, the sailors feared his gaze, so Graves got his obedience.

Sand bars and snags were thus avoided, for the navigator seemed to know the Selintan as if it had been personally dug by him. Both moons were near full, so after the first night the ship sailed on after sunset instead of anchoring. The seamen manning the sweeps were allowed to sleep in shifts, but the pilot seemed to need only a few hours rest. When Luna set. Graves retired to his tiny cabin for the short time left before dawn. Even as the sky turned red heralding the approaching sun, the gaunt navigator would appear again on deck, ready for another stint.