Sturm knelt beside her. "You shouldn't be melancholy," he said. "We're on our way home, at last."

Kitiara leaned back against the curving rib. "Sometimes I envy you your patience. Other times, it sets my teeth on edge." She closed her eyes. "Do you ever wonder what the rest of your life will be like?" she asked.

"Only in a very basic way," Sturm replied. "Part of knighthood is acceptance of the fate the gods mete out."

"I could never think that way. I want to make it happen.

That's what hurts so much about lost opportunities. I had strength, and now it's fading; I had a dragon for an ally, and now he's gone, too."

"And Tanis?"

Kitiara shot him a cold look. "Yes, damn your honesty. Tanis is gone, too. And my father." She swirled the bottle around. It was almost empty. "I'm tired," Kitiara said. "I'll make a resolu tion, Sturm, and you can be my witness From now on, I shall contemplate, plan, reason, and calculate; whatever serves my purpose will be good and whatever impedes me will be evil. I'll not rely on anyone but myself; not share with anyone except my most loyal comrades in arms. I'll be queen of my own realm, this," she patted herself on the leg, "and not fear any thing but failure." She turned her rather bleary eyes to him.

"What do you think of my resolution?"

"I think you've had too much wine." He rose to go, but she called for him to stop.

"It's cold down here," she complained.

"So come up to the berth deck."

Kitiara held out her arms and tried to stand. She didn't get very far before sagging back to the hull rib. "I'm better off not trying," she said. "Come here."

Sturm stood over her. She grabbed hold of his sleeve. Still quite strong, Kitiara easily pulled Sturm down to her level.

He tried to protest, but she pushed him back against the curving planks and nestled in close. "Just stay here a while," she said, eyes closed, "to keep me warm."

So Sturm found himself lying very still in the coldest part of the ship, Kitiara nestled under his left arm. Her breathing grew soft and regular. He studied the face showing under her fur-trimmed hood. Kitiara's tan had lightened over the past weeks, but her dark lashes and curls seemed out of place on so rugged a warrior. Her dark lips were parted slightly and her breath smelled of sweet wine.

The gnomes presented their grand design for improving the drifting Cloudmaster's speed a few hours later in the former dining room. Birdcall had drawn the whole plan on the wall in chalk and charcoal. Sturm sat on the floor, listen ing attentively. Kitiara leaned on the wall several feet away, tight-lipped. She was experiencing ill effects from the wine.

"As you can see," Wingover began, our plan calls for rig ging the Cloudmaster with sails on each side of the ethereal air bag. That, and trimming the hull with the excess of weight well in the bow, should increase our speed by, ah – how much did you estimate, Sighter?"

The astronomer gnome studied the scribbles on his shirt cuff. "Sixty percent, or to about twelve knots."

"What will you make the sails out of?" asked Sturm.

"What clothing we can spare. You and Mistress Kitiara will have to contribute what you have as well."

"Ahem, well, if there are no more questions -"

"What about spars and masts and rigging?" Sturm said.

Cutwood waved his hand to be recognized. Wingover relinquished the floor. "I thought of an answer to that," the gnome said importantly. "With chisels and planes, we'll be able to slice off long pieces from the beams and rails of the ships. These lashed together will serve as spars."

"Let me tell about the rigging," said Roperig.

"I know about it, too," Cutwood complained.

"Let Roperig tell it!" ordered Fitter. Cutwood flopped down in a snit.

"We have some store of rope already," Roperig said. "And some cord, twine, string, thread -"

"Get on with it," said Wingover.

"Silly know-it-all," muttered Cutwood.

"These can be braided into whatever thickness of rope we need." Roperig snapped his fingers and sat down. Only Fit ter applauded his report.

"Shall we get to it?" Sturm asked, bracing himself to rise.

They formed the Cloudmaster sewing circle on the dining room floor. A fair-sized heap of clothes grew up in the cen ter, around which everyone sat. It was not an easy process.

Sturm could not sew and Kitiara steadfastly refused to even attempt it, confining her contribution to slitting the seams of the sacrificed clothes with her bent-bladed dagger. Of the gnomes, only Roperig and Fitter, not too surprisingly, proved to be adept sewers. They were so adept, in fact, that they sewed the clothes they were wearing into the sail, which then had to be cut apart again.

After a break for food and rest, the work resumed. Some hours later (it was hard to judge time in the constant night) the ragged, flimsy sails were done. Cutwood and Flash had by this time chiseled out spars from the largest beams in the ship. It was time then to rig the Cloudmaster for sail.

They tied the ends of the spars to the air bag's rigging and the sails stretched between them. The sails were simple rec tangles that overlapped the deck rail by several feet. Once they were set, the flying ship did come slowly about in a new direction.

"How do we steer this thing?" Kitiara asked. Ordinary ships had rudders. The Cloudmaster had none.

"We'll have to manage by trimming the sails," Sturm said.

He was cheered by the sight of wind filling the funny patch work sails.

They shifted all their loose baggage forward and the fly ing ship surged ahead with noticeable vigor. It was possible to feel the wind now out on deck, and the ship rolled fore and aft like a rocking horse. Kitiara was a bit green from the motion. The rigging creaked and stretched. The stars and moons coursed by at an increasing rate.

Clouds loomed ahead, and the ship quickly overtook them. Streams of warm mist flowed over the ship, thawing the frost that coated the windows and ports and made the upper deck treacherous. They sailed through the clouds for only a short time. When they burst through the wall of white, a glorious sight greeted them.

The brilliant blue globe of Krynn hung before them, a bau ble of silver and glass. It looked so small and fragile this far away, a marble in a child's hand. Other cloud banks towered around them, but by luffing the sails, the Cloudmaster's crew weaved the ship through them. Some of the banks flickered with lightning. Rainspot eyed these with longing. He hadn't experienced any real weather in months. Unlike Kitiara, he was genuinely pleased to have lost his gift. No one should always walk about in a rainstorm, he had decided.

An odd thing happened as they steered cautiously through the maze of storm and cloud. Faint echoes of thun der rolled by, and in the dying claps Sturm heard another sound, a distant bleat, like the call of a trumpet.

"Did you hear that?" he said to Flash, who was by his elbow.

"No," said the gnome. "What was it?"

The noise sounded again, louder and nearer. "That's it!" said Sturm.

"Funny, it sounds like a -" Before Flash could finish, a green and gold mallard hurtled into the sail above their heads. "A duck!" Flash said hastily.

The mallard was a good-sized bird, and it half-tore the flimsy sail from the twig spars. Duck and spar tangled, and fell to the deck at Flash's feet. "Halloo! We've caught a duck!" he shouted.

"What did he say?" Roperig asked.

"He said to duck," Fitter replied, face down on the deck.

"No, by Reorx, he's snared a duck!" cried Wingover.

Flash folded the sail back and the mallard poked its head out. Its beady black eyes regarded the Cloudmaster's crew with pure hostility.

"Wonder where it came from," said Rainspot.

"An egg, dumbhead," said Cutwood.