“I thought you might need some help,” he said simply. “You want this man to board your horses, I take it? Very well.”

The captain turned and spoke to the man quickly. “Done,” said the captain. “How long?”

“I don’t know!” Quentin hadn’t considered that.

The broad faced seaman dug into his pocket and handed the man a piece of money. The smith bobbed his head and thanked the seaman. “There, that should take care of them for a while. You can redeem them when you come back.”

“Thank you, Captain Wiggam. I shall repay you someday, if I can.”

“Think no more on it. If I was-the gods forbid-on Karsh and in trouble, I would want someone like you trying to rescue me. You are brave, lad. That you are.”

Quentin reddened slightly. He did not feel brave.

“Have you thought about how you are going to reach Karsh?” The captain was already walking into the street.

“Yes, we have.” He explained his plan to the captain, who listened nodding.

“Stowaway, eh?” He nodded again, considering. “It could work. Once you are aboard there would be hiding places aplenty for smart seamen like yourselves. But how do you plan to get aboard unseen?”

“We thought to wait until dark and climb aboard over the side.”

“There may be a better way,” winked the captain. “But… Ho!” he said, looking at the noonday sun. “I say we should discuss it over a fisherman’s pie. What say you to that? Ever had a fisherman’s pie? No? Well, come along. The captain’ll show you a wonder!”

Captain Wiggam trudged off along the narrow, cobbled street onto which opened every kind of shop imaginable. Quentin and Toli struggled in his wake. The streets were jammed elbow to elbow with sailors and merchants and townspeople shouting, jostling, and generally making it difficult for Quentin to keep an eye on the captain, who moved ahead like a ship under full sail.

At last he drew up before an inn so crowded with patrons that several sat out in the street with their ale jars. Quentin and Toli came tumbling up behind him. “Ah! Smell that, my mates. Did you ever nose anything so tasty in all your days?” With that he elbowed his way in the door and began calling to the innkeeper with whom he seemed on intimate terms.

The next thing Quentin knew they were all seated at a table together with three other seafarers-all captains, pointed out Captain Wiggam. And in moments they were eating a rich stew of fish and vegetables baked in a deep dish with a thick, brown crust over all. Jars of light ale stood on the board and Quentin drank his fill of the heady brew.

“One more stop,” promised Captain Wiggam. He had promised that three stops ago. Quentin cast a doubtful eye to the sky where the sun was already well down, causing shadows to lengthen toward evening.

They had been running all afternoon, here and there, talking to this merchant and that. Wiggam, he gathered, was looking for a specific piece of information, and it appeared at last as if he had found it.

“Here’s what we’ve found out,” said the captain as they turned up a steep side street, off the main course. “The ship, as I guessed by its size, is only an island runner. A supply ship good for short trips; Karsh lies only a day and a night out, in good weather. They come often enough to replenish provisions, which is what they be doing now.”

“Ah, here we are.” They had stopped before an open courtyard, which, from the wood shavings on the worn stone flagging, Quentin took to be the carpenter’s shop. Captain Wiggam proceeded into the courtyard calling, “Alstrop! Where are you, old friend. Come a’runnin’, Alstrop. You’ve a customer!”

“I hear you well! No need to shout!” came the reply from behind an uncertain tower of barrels.

A curly head of white hair poked round the side of the tower to look over the newcomers. “Wiggam! Old sea dog!” cried the carpenter when he saw his guest. He came from behind the stack of barrels and Quentin saw a man, though white-headed and round of shoulder, strong and full of life, with large hands and well-muscled arms.

“Not injured that broken-down ship of yours again… that would be your luck.” He stamped over to shake the other man’s hand.

“No. Though I will admit to you I could have used your help a few days ago-rudder hinge pin.”

“Aye. I told you. I told you. Give me a week with the Afarribo and I’ll put her to rights. But you? No. Too busy. By the gods!”

“She is a stout ship. Stout enough, I’ll warrant, even to stand up to your moiling about.”

“Bah!” The carpenter rolled his eyes, then smiled. “What brings you here, then?”

“I have friends here that require your assistance. Two of those firkins would do nicely.”

The captain outlined his scheme for Alstrop while the carpenter nodded gravely and scratched his chin. His bright blue eyes regarded everything in turn: the sky above, the wood shavings below, Quentin, the captain, Toli, the barrels. They took in everything, and after Captain Wiggam finished speaking they seemed to turn inward and examine the carpenter himself.

“Yes, it is a plan,” he uttered vaguely. “I am certain that is your plan, for who else could think up such as this? Laughable! That is what it is. Not a plan but a joke!”

The carpenter turned and rumbled back to his worktable and came back with a short length of whittled wood; his thinking stick, he called it. He slapped the smooth stick into his beefy palm.

“Now! The barrels might work. Yes, they’ll do. But there must be some changes made. And you must let me take them down. No? All right, we go together. I have a hand cart. The rest later. We must go to work. Quickly! There is little time.”

The last of the afternoon light had faded and the first evening star had risen before the two men standing next to a cart with two large barrels nodded to one another. “Here we go,” whispered one of the men to one of the barrels. “May the gods smile upon you.” Then they wheeled the cart around the corner and down the bumpy street to the wharf where the ship with black sails was making ready to get underway.

“You, there!” the carpenter called to a sailor aboard Nimrood’s ship. The sailor glared down sullenly, but did not offer a reply. “Tell your captain that we have some cargo to come aboard.”

After a long, hard stare the sailor disappeared and came back with another, a man who carried a braided, leather lash.

“Are you the captain?” asked Alstrop.

“The captain is busy,” called the man gruffly. “We’re putting off to sea. Be off with you!”

“We have barrels here to come aboard.”

“We have taken our provisions.” The man jerked the lash through his fist.

“That may be,” replied the carpenter calmly. “But these barrels are to come aboard. If you think better, go get your captain and let him deal with this.”

“I can deal with this, swine! Get away from here!” He turned to leave, indicating to the sailors who had gathered around to continue their preparations for casting off.

The captain winked at the carpenter. “Very well, we will take them back,” Wiggam called in a loud voice. “But I would not want to be the man who told my master he had forgotten two barrels, and those barrels left right here on the dock!” He nodded to the carpenter who turned and began pushing the hand cart and the barrels back up the hill.

The sailor with the lash came back to stand glowering over the rail. He whipped the lash several times against the rail. “Wait!” he bellowed. “What is in those barrels?”

Wiggam shrugged. “Nothing much. It probably is of no consequence…” He turned to follow Alstrop away.

“Stop!” cried the sailor. He jerked his head toward several of his crew and the gangplank suddenly thrust out from the side of the ship. Two sailors disembarked and ran up the street to the barrels. They turned the cart and in a moment had the two large kegs aboard.

“Now, be away with you,” the sailor in charge snarled.