Quentin stirred himself from his contemplation of the dusty tracks they walked upon. He turned with a question on his lips and drew a breath to speak. The question died at once and the air spilled out between his teeth when he beheld Toli’s face.

That distant light once again burned in the Jher’s dark eyes and lit his features in a queer way. It was like he stared into the future, thought Quentin, beyond this time and place, or perhaps very far into the unknown distance.

“What is it? What do you see, Toli?”

“A ship comes.” He replied matter-of-factly.

“A ship?” Quentin swung his eyes to the harbor. He saw nothing. He looked beyond the harbor to the sea-nothing there. No object shown on the horizon at all that he could see. He looked long to the north and south as far as he could until the hills on either side restricted the view. “I do not see a ship,” he admitted at last.

Toli said nothing more and so they continued down the hill once more in silence.

They reached the houses, then the cobbled streets where the merchants had their stalls, and then the harbor wall itself where they had sat that very morning. Quentin searched the horizon again, as he had all the way, to see what Toli apparently saw quite plainly.

The streets were brisk with activity. The fishermen in their long, low-hulled boats had returned from a day’s work. Women with cane baskets hurried along to gather in groups around the fishermen spreading out their catch on the stone streets. Gulls nattered sharply overhead, hoping for a morsel.

Quentin took in this activity with mild interest-he was still discovering in little ways life in the world outside the temple. It all seemed so new; he felt himself drawn like a wild creature to a domestic abode to wonder at another kind of life. Commonplace, yet foreign. Strange and ordinary at the same time.

Toli stood as a tree trunk rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed upon some spot in the distance.

There was no point in arguing with a Jher about anything, so Quentin tied the horses to a big iron ring set in the seawall which served at other times as a mooring for ships. He hunched down to wait, and allowed himself to drink in all the various industry around him.

The sun shone low behind them and the shadow of the seawall flung itself out into the gray-green water of the harbor. Quentin swung himself up and turned toward Toli. He had been watching a man with a barrow full of shellfish sort through his wares, separating the living from the dead.

“How much longer will we wait?” asked Quentin. His tone spoke of a mild concern.

“Not long,” replied Toli with a short inclination of his head.

Quentin followed the unspoken direction and turned toward the harbor. There in the pinched mouth of the harbor, sailing slowly ahead, streamed a ship, a large ship with sails stained orange by the late afternoon light. Quentin’s jaw dropped open as he gaped in amazement at his friend and at the ship.

Toli at last relaxed and smiled. “The ship is here,” he announced. His voice carried a triumphant ring, as if he had conjured the ship by willpower alone. Quentin believed that in some mysterious way the Jher had made the ship appear and would not have been more surprised if he had. Toli after all had many unusual abilities which Quentin was still discovering.

The ship drew closer and soon Quentin could make out the masts, the rigging, and individual sailors moving about the deck. He could also see, from the way the ship seemed to limp from side to side, that there was something wrong. The ship, now very close, moved through the water stiffly, with an awkward list-first to one side then to the other. But, instead of anchoring in the center of the lonely harbor, the ship proceeded to come up close to wharf.

Quentin and Toli watched until the ship docked full length against the wharf, then untied the horses and walked along the seawall till they stood right alongside her.

“The Marribo,” read Quentin.

“A good name,” replied Toli, looking pleased with himself.

“It looks a good ship.” Quentin knew nothing of ships, but he liked the straight lines of the rigging and the coiled ropes on the deck, the way the sails had been furled expertly along their spars. Everything seemed right and in order to him; therefore: a good ship.

The gangplank had been let down and sailors were busily engaged in various tasks, working efficiently. The captain, or so Quentin took him to be, stood at the bow and bellowed orders to the men below. There seemed to be some haste involved, which Quentin considered strange for a ship just reaching its destination.

“Captain, sir,” Quentin called out. It had taken him a full ten heartbeats to pluck up his courage to speak. “May I ask…” he began.

“I am not the captain,” the man hollered back carelessly. He jerked his thumb toward a man in a short blue jerkin descending the gangplank in close conversation with a man in a leather apron who looked to be a shipwright.

The two stood head to head for some time before the shipwright hurried off. The captain sat down upon the ledge of the seawall and lit a long clay pipe as he watched his crew working.

“Are you the captain, sir?” Quentin asked again, this time in better control of his courage.

“Aye, lad. That’s me and here’s my ship. At your service.”

“And we at yours,” replied Quentin with a bow that included both he and Toli. “It is a fine ship, too.”

“You know ships?” The captain squinted up at him, blowing smoke.

“No… I mean… I have never been on a ship before.”

“That is your misfortune, sir. Ah, the sea… I could tell you stories…” He lost himself in a cloud of smoke. “I am Captain Wiggam. Who might you be?”

“I am Quentin. And this is my… my friend, Toli.” He still felt awkward saying servant.

“What can a seafaring man do for you, young gentlemen?” The captain stuck out a wide, dry paw which Quentin shook with vigor.

“Could you tell us, sir, would you be going-”

Captain Wiggam cut him off. “We will not be going anywhere without our rudder. What cursed luck. Three days out she shears her hinge pins. Blast the luck! Took us two days to haul her about, and four days to limp back to port.” He paused and drew another long pull on the pipe. “You looking for to go somewhere?”

“Yes, sir. We would go to Karsh.” Quentin spoke in a self-assured tone despite what the innkeeper had said about the place.

The captain’s eyebrows shot up. “Karsh!” He squinted up again and asked suspiciously, “What would you be going there for?”

“I… that is, we have friends in trouble. We are going to help them.” Quentin did not know for certain they were in any specific sort of trouble at the moment, but he could not have been closer to the truth.

“If they be anywhere near Karsh, they be in trouble.”

“Could you take us there?”

“Me? This ship? Never!” Captain Wiggam turned a hard face away.

Quentin stood speechless; he had no other course of action planned. But the captain, puffing furiously on his pipe now, seemed to soften somewhat. “We be bound for Andraj in Elsendor. I will take you there if you think that would serve you.”

“I do not know exactly where that is, sir.”

“Don’t you now?”

“No… I lived in the temple. That is, until a short while ago. I was an acolyte.”

“Which temple? What god did you serve?”

“Ariel-in the high temple at Narramoor. I was going to be a priest.” Quentin thought he saw a glimmer of interest in the seaman’s clear, gray eyes. There was a moment of silence as the captain considered this. There came the sound of hammering accompanied by the soft slap of waves against the hull of the ship.

“Ariel is the god of fortune and fate, the seaman’s benefactor. It would not do to disappoint him by turning aside one of his servants.” He tapped the pipe out against the stonework of the ledge and rose to his feet. “I will tell you this-I will take you to Valdai, around the peninsula from Andraj. I dare not do more. At Valdai there are those who do go to Karsh on occasion. You may find someone there to take you further than I dare to.”