"Four, eight, or twelve hundred?" Sturm said.

"Lacking a compass, it's very hard to be precise." Sighter flicked off a drop of sweat that had stubbornly clung to his nose. I'm certain it's one of those multiples of four hundred."

Kitiara threw up her hands. "Wonderful! We may cruise into Thalan Bay in four days, or we may starve to death try ing to reach an island a thousand miles away."

"I don't think we'll starve," said Wingover.

"Oh? What makes you so certain?"

"There's a ship," he said quietly, pointing out to sea.

Sighter's precious figures were trampled in the rush to the rail. Off the port they saw bow masts and snowy sails pok ing above the horizon. Out came the telescope. Kitiara plucked it from Sighter's grasp.

"What!" he said, but she already had the glass to her eye.

The ship was a two-masted caravel of uncertain origin.

There was no figurehead or name scribed on the forecastle.

The mastheads were bare of pennants or flags, though the deck was clean and the brightwork shined.

Can you make out where she's from?" asked Sturm.

"No," Kitiara said. "Can't see any crew."

"Try in the rigging. They're running with the wind, so there's bound to be somebody aloft."

"I looked. There's nobody to be seen."

The Cloudmaster slowed as it entered a lower stratum of air. The direction changed, and the patchwork sails luffed and flapped impotently. While Sturm and four gnomes saw to resetting them, Kitiara studied the unidentified ship.

"Pirate, maybe? Or smuggler?" she mused. There were plenty of reasons to hide a ship's name, few legitimate.

"Sturm? Sturm?" she called.

"What is it?"

"Could we catch that ship and board it?"

He came to the edge of the deckhouse and shaded his eyes to look down at her. "Why?"

"They might have food and fresh water."

It was a powerful argument. Sturm was as sick of beans and Lunitarian fungi as the rest of them. "I suppose we could," he said. "The grappling hook is still out. We'll have to be careful not to snarl their rigging or rip their sails."

The unknown ship drove on with all sails set. There was no one on deck, and as the Cloudmaster flew around to the ship's port beam, Kitiara could see that the caravel's wheel was lashed. The sterncastle lights were shuttered, and all the hull ports were closed. On a hot, still day like this, the

'tween decks must be stifling, she thought.

"Let them out now," Sturm said. Birdcall and Roperig let the sails unfurl, and the flying ship spurted ahead. The swinging grapnel snagged the chain stays of the mainmast, and the Cloudmaster jerked to a stop. They pivoted with the drag and found themselves flying tail-first into the wind, towed by the far heavier caravel.

"Now what?" said Wingover, leaning over the side.

"Someone has to go down and tie us off," suggested

Sturm. "I would go, but the grapnel rope is too thin for me."

"Don't look my way," Kitiara said. "I've had all the rope climbing I care for on this trip."

Fitter agreed to go, since he was small and nimble. He shinnied down the rope to the masthead. Standing on the crosstree, he waved up to his friends.

"Find a heavier line and tie us off!" Sturm bawled. Fitter nodded and slipped down the rigging to the ship's deck. A fat hawser line lay coiled behind the foremast. Fitter shoul dered this burden and climbed back to the Cloudmaster.

"That's my apprentice," said Roperig proudly.

"Did you see any signs of life down there?" asked Kitiara.

Fitter dumped the hawser off his shoulder. "No, ma'am.

Everything's neat as can be, but there isn't a soul around."

Sturm went down into the deckhouse and returned with his sword. He draped the belt over his shoulder and threw one leg over the rail. "I'd better be first to look around."

"I'll come behind you," said Kitiara.

"Me, too," volunteered Fitter. The other gnomes chimed in in quick succession.

"Someone has to stay on board," Sturm said. "You gnomes work it out, but don't all of you come."

A hundred feet is a long way to climb down a rope. The heat was so bad that Sturm got dizzy halfway along and had to stop to mop the sweat from his eyes. How will I ever climb back up?he wondered. It was a relief when the dark, varnished oak of the yardarm touched his feet. Kitiara wrapped her bare legs around the hawser and started down.

Deck level was just as Fitter had described: tidy and ship shape. Sturm had a bad feeling about it. Sailors did not abandon a well-founded vessel without good reason.

Kitiara dropped down to the deck. Sturm whirled, sword coming out with a whisk of steel.

"Easy!" she said. "I'm on your side, remember?

"Sorry. This ship has me spooked. Go up the starboard side to the bow. 111 take port."

They met at the bow, finding nothing amiss except the complete lack of visible crew. There was a hatch behind the bowsprit. Kitiara suggested they go below deck.

"Not yet," said Sturm. "Let's chec aft."

Sighter and Stutts arrived on deck. Sighter carried a car penter's square and Stutts a hammer. These were the only

'weapons' they could find. More than ever they resembled diminutive pirates, boarding an unlucky ship from above.

"F-find anything?" said Stutts.

"Nothing."

The ship's wheel was firmly tied. It creaked an inch or two left and right as the wind and waves fought against the rud der. Sturm was trying to tell how long the wheel had been fixed when Kitiara drew in her breath sharply.

"Look here," she said.

Nailed to the wall of the sterncastle was a crow. A stuffed, dead crow with its tail and wings spread.

"I've seen these before. Someone has cast a spell over this ship, and to ward off the evil magic someone put this crow here," said Kitiara. "We've got to get out of here."

"Take it easy," Sturm said quietly. "We've seen no signs of magic at work. Let's go inside and see if we can at least iden tify this vessel."

The louvered door creaked back on bright brass hinges.

Within the sterncastle it was hot and dim. Slivers of light cast weird shadows across the room.

"Stutts, open the shutters, will you?" The gnome made for the row of shades on his right. There was a rustle as he wrestled with the latch. The shutters fell open, flooding the cabin with light.

"So, here's the captain," said Kitiara grimly.

The master of the caravel still sat at his table, gazing sight lessly through ivory eye sockets. His skull was clean and dry, and the skeletal fingers lying on the tabletop were still joined together. The captain wore a richly made coat of blue brocade, embellished with gold tassels and braid. A final macabre touch was the skeleton of his last meal still on the plate before him. Stutts poked through the tiny bones.

"Chicken," he announced. "A h-hen, I should say."

Sturm sniffed the pewter goblet by the dead man's right hand. There was no obvious trace of poison in the empty cup. He put it down and noticed a slim silver ring around one of the bony fingers. Gently he lifted the skeleton's hand.

Despite his care, the bones fell apart at his touch. Sturm held the ring up to the light, trying to find an inscription or maker's mark. It was a simple, beaded silver band, slightly grimy. It could have been made anywhere by anyone.

Kitiara looked under the table. "Ho!" she said. "What's this?" She stood up with a second skull in her hands. "This was between Captain Bones's feet." She flipped the skull around. "Someone chopped this fellow's head off. You can see the axe mark, there." She set the gruesome relic on the table and bent over again. "Nice boots," she reported. "Sil ver buckles, deerskin tops. He was a dandy."

"I wonder who he was," Sturm said.

"M-my!" Stutts was over near the stern lights. He'd found a large leather-bound chest and sprung the simple lock.