reak.

                       Chapter 30

                     Little ъed Man

       On high the air was as clean and sharp as an elvem
 sword.  Without  the  constant  beating  of  wings,  there  was no
 sensation   of   movement   aboard   the  Cloudmaster.   Quite  to
 the contrary, it seemed as if the sun, stars, and  Lunitari itself
 were  moving,  while  the  ship  stood  anchored  in the  sky. The
 effect of this  mode of  flight was  curiously timeless.  Only the
 wind-up   clock   in   the   wheelhouse   showed  that   time  was
 passing at all.
       After they had been airborne almost five hours, Lunitari
 was far enough below them to resemble a sphere again. Of
 Krynn there was no sign, and that worried the travelers.
 Sighter assured them that their home world would appear
 as Lunitari turned on its course through the heavens. "We
 have  a  better  than  even  chance  of  reaching Krynn,"  he said

  severely.  "As  the  largest  body  in  the heavens,  it naturally
  has the greatest attraction for us, just as it attracts  a greater
  amount  of  sunlight  than  Lunitari.  Still,  we  must   be  wary
  and  release  the  proper  amount  of ethereal  air when  the pro-
  pitious moment comes, so that we can descend homeward."
    The  strange,  motionless  flight  bothered  Sturm,  so  he kept
  below  deck.  There  the  hull  and  deck  creaked  as   a  proper
  ship  should,  and  it  comforted  him.  He'd  always   been  fond
  of sailing ships.
    The patch over the hole  in the  hull was  finished, but  it was
  not  the  finest  example  of  the  shipwright's  art.  Planks and
  laths  and  blocks  of  wood  were  nailed  and mortised  over the
  gap  wherever  they  could  fit.  The  gnomes strolled  across the
  patch  without  a  care,  but Sturm  did not  trust it  to support
  his  weight.  He  prowled  on past  the patch  to the  forward end
  of  the  ship,  which  at  sea  would  have  been  the forecastle.
  The hull there was  barren of  gear, and  all the  interior parti-
  tions  had  long  since  been  ripped  away.  There   was  nothing
  forward  at  all  but  beams  and  planking.  It  was  like  being
  inside  the  skeleton  of  some  great  beast,  all  bones  and no
  flesh.
    Sturm   ascended   the   fore   ladder   into   the  wheelhouse.
  There  was  no wheel,  for there  was no  tail to  be turned  by a
  wheel.  All  the  finely  wrought brass  fixtures had  been ripped
  out  for  scrap  or  merely  to  lighten  the ship.  Only Stutts's
  chair   remained,   though   its   plump   velvet   cushions  were
  gone.
       Kitiara was there, sitting on the deck, gazing out the win-
  dows at nothing.
    "Are you ill, Kit?"
    "Do I look ill?"
    "No." Sturm sat down on the deck opposite her.
    Kitiara looked away, toying with the drawstring of her

  leggings. "Sturm, are you still having visions?"
    "No, not for some time."
    "Do you remember them?" she asked.
    "Of course I do."
    "What was the first one?"
    "Why, it was the - when I saw -" A perplexed look came
  over Sturm's face. "Something about my father?" His high

 forehead became a mass of wrinkles as he tried to recall
 what he'd seen.
    "What about the last one?" Kitiara asked.
    He shook his head. "There was a sorcerer - I think."
    "We've lost it," Kitiara said softly. "The effect the natural
 magic  of  Lunitari  had  on  each of  us. You've  forgotten the
 substance of your visions. I'm losing my strength. Here
 -  look."  She took  out her  dagger and  planted her  thumbs on
 the back  of  the  blade. Fingers  knotting, Kitiara  slowly bent
 the slim steel blade to a blunt angle.
    "You seem very strong to me," said Sturm.
    "Yesterday  I  could've folded  this blade  in half  with two
 fingers." She tossed the bent dagger aside.
    "We're better off without the powers," Sturm said.
    "That's easy for you to say! I like being strong -
 powerful!"
    "Mighty fighters live and die in  every generation,  the past
 ones forgotten by the  present, the  present destined  to vanish
 in  the memories  of the  future. Virtue,  not ferocity  or cun-
 ning, are what make a fighter a hero, Kit."
    Kitiara  straightened  her stooped  shoulders and  said reso-
 lutely,  "You're  wrong,  Sturm.  Only  success  is  remembered.
 Nothing else matters but success."
    He  opened  his  mouth  to  reply,  but  the  wheelhouse door
 flew  open  and  a  blast  of  icy   air  rushed   in.  Cutwood,
 swathed to the top of  his pink  bald head  in flannel  rags and
 quilting,  posed  dramatically  in   the  doorway,   one  stubby
 arm flung out, pointing astern.
   "The dragon!" he said. "Cupelix is faltering!"
   The whole crew was assembled aft. When Sturm and Kiti-
 ara  joined  them,  the  concentration of  weight made  the ship
 tip steeply back. Stutts said, "Spread out!  We can't  all stand
 in the same p-p-place!"
   Wingover shook his head. "You stuttered," he said.
   "Never mind that now," said Kitiara.
   Cupelix was far back and  nearly fifty  feet below  the rising
 Cloudmaster.  He  was  holding  his  wings  out  in  glide posi-
 tion,  flapping  only  once  every  few  seconds. His  long neck
 was  arched  down,  his  head  low.  The  dragon's   large  hind
 legs, normally held tightly  against his  belly when  in flight,

 likewise dangled limply.
   "Cupelix! Cupelix, can you hear me?" Kitiara called
 through cupped hands.
   Yes, my dear.
   "You can make it, beast. Do you hear me? You can make
 it!"
   No. Done in... too weak. The dragon's tail dropped,
 making him waver.
   "Flap,  damn  you!  Don't  give  up.  ъemember,   you're  a
 brass  dragon!"  she  cried. "This  is your  chance, Cupelix!
 Your chance to come to Krynn."
   Can't fly... not meant to be, dear Kit.
   Sturm  called,  "Is  there   anything  we   can  do?"
   Tell others, I live. Tell  others to  visit Lunitari.
   "We will," shouted ъainspot.
   Bring books. Bring philosophers. Bring - His thought
 trailed off. Cupelix was flapping weakly now.
   Kitiara  grabbed  Wingover  by  his  collar. "Why  can't he
 fly? Why does he keep going down?" she demanded.
   "The  air  is  too  thin. His  wings aren't  big enough  to sup-
 port  him  this  high,"  said  the  wide-eyed  gnome.  Sturm broke
 her  grip  and  put  Wingover   back  on   his  feet.   The  gnome
 exhaled  gustily.  "Cloudmaster  was  able  to stay  aloft because
 we had  two sets  of wings  and the  ethereal air  bag to  hold us
 up. The dragon has neither."
   Farewell.
   Kitiara  flung herself  at the  rail. The  crimson orb  of Luni-
 tari  looked no  bigger than  a dinner  plate. Against  the light-
 colored  moon,   the  dark   figure  of   the  dragon   moved,  an
 agonized   silhouette.   Cupelix,   the  ill-named   Pteriol,  was
 going  down.  Wingover   gave  his   colleagues  a   running  com-
 mentary  on  the  dragon's  failing  flight.  The  massive muscles
 in  the  dragon's  back  writhed  in  ferocious cramps.  His wings
 spasmed,  sending   him  into   a  heart-stopping   plummet.  With
 great  effort  and  much  obvious  pain,  he regained  his balance
 and  slowed  his  descent.  Trailing  behind him  in the  wind was
 a steady  swirl of  brass scales,  torn off  by his  terrible exer-
 tions.
   "Cupelix!  Don't  leave  me!  Our  bargain!"  Kitiara cried
 desperately.  "My  strength is  fading, do  you hear?  I need

 you  -  our  plans  -" Sturm  took hold  of her  shoulders and
 pulled her firmly away from the rail. Her fingers  clutched at
 the smooth wood.
   Farewell, dear  Kit, was  all they  heard, and  the tickling
 touch  of  the  dragon's  telepathic  voice was  gone. Sighter
 climbed up  on the  rail and  scanned the  moon with  his spy-
 glass.  He  could  see nothing.  "Good-bye, dragon!"  he said.
 Sighter snapped  his telescope  shut and  slipped back  to the
 deck. The little men quietly dispersed.
   Kitiara sobbed against Sturm's chest  "I'm sorry,"  he said.
 Her tears unsettled him more than Cupelix's tragic failure.
   She   pushed   him  away   suddenly  and   snapped,  "Stupid
 beast! He and I had a deal! Our plans, our great  plans!" Sud-
 denly  ashamed,  Kitiara  scrubbed the  tears from  her cheeks
 and  sniffed  loudly. "Everyone  leaves me.  There's no  one I
 can rely on."
   Sturm felt his sympathy for Kit drain away. "No one you
 can rely on?" he said coldly. "No one at all?" When she
 didn't answer, Sturm turned his back  and left  Kitiara alone.

 * * * * *

   Cupelix,  defeated  by  the  heights  he  had hoped  to con-
 quer,  glided  down  in  a wide  spiral to  the moon  that had
 been,  and  always  would  be,  his  home. His  flying muscles
 burned with fatigue, and the invidious cold  of the  upper air
 numbed  his  heart and  soul. He  skimmed over  familiar land-
 scapes, now cloaked in night, until the  cliffs of  his valley
 dropped  away  beneath  his  hanging  feet.  Striking heavily,
 Cupelix's horned head plowed into the red dust.
   He raised his  head and  sneezed. A  voice said,  "Bless you!"
   "Thank  you,"  replied  the  dragon   weakly.  "Wait   -  who
 said that?"
   A diminutive  figure appeared  from behind  a pile  of goods
 left  behind  by  the  gnomes.  It  resembled a  gnome itself,
 except that it was as  hairless as  an egg  and colored  red -
 skin, eyes, clothes, everything.
 "I said it," said the little red creature. "It's a common wish
 to express when someone sneezes."
   "I know that,"  said the  dragon peevishly.  He was  far too

 tired to play gnomish games. "Who are you?"
   "I was hoping you might know," said  the little  red fellow.
 "I woke up a day ago, and I've been wandering since."
   Cupelix  raised  himself  on  his  hind  legs  and carefully
 furled his wings. The bending  of his  joints caused  him con-
 siderable pain, and he hissed louder than a hundred snakes.
   "Does it hurt?" asked the red man.
   "Very much!"
   "I saw a  bottle of  liniment over  there. Perhaps  that would
 help." A small red  hand went  to the  dark red  lips. "Though
 I'm not sure what liniment is."
   "Never mind, Little ъed  Man," said  Cupelix. "Fetch  it, if
 you would."
   "Is that my name?"
   "If you like it, it is."
   "Seems to fit, doesn't it?" The Little ъed Man trotted off
 to find the bottle  of Dr.  Finger's Efficacious  Ointment. He
 stopped and called back, "What's your name?"
   "Cupelix," said the dragon. He was here to stay,  all right,
 but at least he had someone to talk to. All things considered,
 it wasn't too bad a state of affairs.
   "Little ъed Man," Cupelix called  across the  valley, "would
 you like something to eat?"

                  Chapter 31

                    Highgold

        The second voyage of the Cloudmaster was very
 different from the first. The  engine's incessant  turning, and
 the great wings' wafting had given those on  board a  sense of
 passage, of activity. The silent drift of  the ship,  now sup-
 ported only by the ethereal air, was not  like that.  A perva-
 sive lethargy invaded everyone on board.  There was  little to
 do in the way of managing the ship, and the less there  was to
 do, the less anyone cared to do.
 The  gnomes  quarreled,  too.  In  the  past, they  had traded
 scoffing  remarks  and  mild blows  with equanimity;  ten sec-
 onds  afterward,  no  one  remembered   or  cared.   But  now,
 cooped  up in  the bare  hull of  the Cloudmaster,  the gnomes
 lost  their  generous  natures.  ъoperig and  Fitter squabbled
 over the correct way to store  the small  supply of  rope they

  had left. Cutwood  grew deafer  and deafer  as he  adjusted to
  his normal level of hearing. Flash yelled at him all the time,
  and Sighter yelled at Flash for yelling. Wingover had  a slap-
  ping match with  Birdcall that  left red  welts on  both their
  faces for hours. And  ъainspot, poor  gentle ъainspot,  sat in
  the 'tween decks and wept.
     Stutts sought  out Sturm.  "Things are  s-seriously wrong,"
  he said. "My c-colleagues are  behaving like  a band  of gully
  dwarves. They are  b-bored. Now  there's no  great task  to bc
  accomplished, l-like toppling the obelisk."
    "What can I do about it?" asked Sturm.
    "We  m-must  give them  a task,  something that  will t-take
  their minds off the slowness of our p-passage."
    "What sort of task?"
    Stutts said, "P-Perhaps Sighter could enlist their help in
  n-naming all the stars?"
    "They would only argue," Sturm replied.
    "Hmm, we c-could make a batch of m-muffins."
    "No flour," Sturm reminded him. "Try again."
    "Well, you c-could get seriously ill."
    "Oh, no, your good colleagues would want to cut me
  open and find out what was wrong. Try again."
    The  gnome's  shoulders  sagged  in  defeat. "That  was m-my
  last idea."
    This  is  serious,  Sturm  thought.  Who  ever  heard  of  a
  gnome out of  ideas? "You  know," he  said, smoothing  out his
  mustache,  "perhaps  there  is  some  way  to  make  this ship
  move faster."
    "Without an en-engine?"
    "Ships girdle the world without engines," Sturm
  observed. "How do they do it?"
    "Let's  s-see."  Stutts  twined  his  fingers  together  and
  thought  hard.  "Oars,  s-sails,   draft  animals   on  shore,
  magic  -"  Here  he  traded  a  disapproving look  with Sturm.
  "-  muscle-turned  p-paddle  wheels, towing  by whales  or sea
  s-serpents -" A light kindled in his  pale blue  eyes. "Excuse
  me. I m-must confer with my colleagues."
            "Good man," said Sturm. He watched the gnome hurry
  away, almost skipping with delight.
    A cheer penetrated the deck from below as Stutts

 explained  his  notion  to  the   other  gnomes.   Thumps  and
 squeaks  told  only  too  well that  the gnomes'  idleness had
 vanished. Sturm smiled.
    He  went  looking  for  Kitiara.  She  was  not in  the dining
 room,  so  he  went  below.  The  gnomes  were  gathered  in  the
 berth  deck's  aft  cabin.  He  peeked  in the  doorless doorway,
 to  see  Flash  and   Wingover  sketching   madly  on   the  deck
 planks with lumps of charcoal.
    'No,  no,"  Sighter  was  saying,  "you  must  increase the
 degree of camber, relative to the angle of incidence."
    "What  a  lot of  goat cheese!  Any fool  knows you  have to
 decrease  the  planar  surface," argued  as, rapping  his fist
 on the deck.
   "Yes, any fool!"
   Sturm withdrew. The gnomes were happy again.
   He  descended the  short ladder  to the  hold. It  was bitterly
 cold  down there,  since the  flimsy patch  in the  hull scarcely
 kept  out  the  wind,  much  less  the  cold.  It was  there that
 Sturm  found  Kitiara,  perched on  one of  the stout  hull ribs,
 sipping from her water bottle.
   "You look comfortable," he said.
   "Oh, I am. Care for some?" said Kitiara. She handed
 Sturm the bottle. He raised it to his lips,  but before  taking a
 swallow smelled the sweet tang of wine.
   He lowered the bottle. "Where did you get this?"
   "Cupelix made it for me. Wine of Ergoth."
   Sturm  took  the  smallest  sip.  It  was extremely  sweet, and
 as  the   few  drops   flowed  down   his  throat,   they  burned
 strongly.  His  face  must  have  reddened, for  Kitiara chuckled
 at him.
   "Deceptive, isn't it? Tastes like syrup at first, then it kicks
 like a bee-stung mule."
   He  gave  the  bottle  back  to her.  "I thought  you preferred
 ale," he said.
   Kitiara  drank.  "Ale  is  for good  times, good  meals, and
 good  company.  Sweet  wine  of   Ergoth  is   for  melancholy
 hours, loneliness, and funerals."
    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 ъoperig.