oding 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.
 Inside were gold  coins and  scattered jewels.  Kitiara whistled
 and fished out an especially fine emerald.
   "Now I understand,"  she said.  "This must  be a  pirate ship."
   "Are you so certain?" said Sighter.
   "You  don't  lay  in  swag  like  this  trading  fish  and dry
 goods!" She  threw open  a second  chest. It  was filled  to the
 brim with  small wooden  boxes. She  pried the  lid off  one and
 leaned in  to see  what treasure  it contained.  Kitiara screwed

 up her face and gave a mighty sneeze.
   "M-mercy!" said Stutts. "What is it?"
   "Spice -  pepper!" she  wheezed, snapping  the lid  back on.
 Sturm peered over her shoulder.
   "Spices are rarer than gold," he said. "This chest is proba-
 bly more valuable than the other."
   "Just the same, when we divvy it up, I'll  take my  share in
 gold and jewels," Kitiara said.
   "Divvy?  I  thought  you  were  concerned about  the curse."
   "With enough  gold in  my pocket,  I'll face  up to  all the
 curses in the world." Suiting action to  her words,  she began
 to fill her pockets with gems and gold.
   The cabin door flew open and they all jumped. It was
 only ъainspot.
   "I thought  I ought  to come  down and  warn you,"  he said.
 "There's a storm brewing. It feels like a strong cyclone."
   "Just enough time for a little  salvage," said  Kitiara. She
 leaned against the treasure chest and tried to shift it toward
 the door. It squeaked a scant inch out  of place.  "Don't just
 stand there, help me!"
   'We don't have time  for treasure,"  Sturm said.  "We've got
 to get back to the Cloudmaster."
   She stopped shoving and stood up. "Do we?" she said.
   "Do we what?"
   "Have to go back to the flying  ship. Why  can't we  stay on
 board this one?"
   "We  don't know  anything about  it," Sturm  protested. "For
 all we know, it could founder in the first squall we hit."
   "So could the Cloudmaster."
   Stutts  fidgeted  as the  two humans  argued. "P-please!  I am
 returning n-now." He hurried out the door.
   Sighter  shrugged.  "I'd  like to  explore this  vessel some
 more,  but  my  place  is  with my  colleagues." He  bowed and
 pushed ъainspot out the door ahead of him.
   Alone with Kitiara, Sturm said with annoyance, "Are
 you going or staying?"
   She crossed her arms stubbornly. "Staying."
   "Then you're staying by yourself." Sturm went out on
 deck.  A  cool wind  was blowing  in from  the south,  and the
 caravel  was  heeled  under  sail  to the  north. Purple-black

 clouds  closed  to  sea level  and charged  with the  wind. In
 minutes, both ships would be engulfed.
   Sighter and Stutts shinnied up the rope with little trouble.
 By  the  time  Sturm  had  reached  the  top of  the mainmast,
 they were  climbing over  the flying  ship's rail.  The Cloud-
 master was whipping about  like a  fish on  a hook,  and Sturm
 watched the bouncing rope with trepidation. He took hold.
   ъain,  light  and  warm,  puffed ahead  of the  storm. Sturm
 shook it out of his face. The  gnomes had  sheeted in  all the
 Cloudmaster's sails, but the air bag  itself caught  the wind,
 dragging  the  flying  ship  behind  it. Sturm  hauled himself
 hand  over  hand  toward  the  bobbing  craft,  trying  not to
 think about the tossing waves eighty feet below.
   The first blow of rain hit like a wall, soaking Sturm to the
 skin  in  a  second.  He  continued  to  inch higher,  but the
 Cloudmaster scarcely grew closer the longer he climbed.
   "Halloo, Sturm! Halloo!"
   "Wingover, is that you?" he shouted in reply.
   "Sturm,  can you  hear me?  The rope  is wet  and stretching
 under  your  weight!  The  strain  is  too  much!"  cried  the
 unseen gnome.
   "I'll go back!"
   Sturm  could  barely  see  the  Cloudmaster's  gray outline.
 "We'll try to  come back  for you!"  Then faintly,  "May ъeorx
 guard you well!" Wingover cried.
   Sturm  all  but  slid down  the hawser  to the  waving mast.
 The stout oak yard  swung into  him, hitting  him hard  in the
 ribs. His breath rushed out, and he lost his grip on the rope.
 Sturm landed against the  sail and  clamped on  as hard  as he
 could.  The  powdery  soft  canvas  gave  way under  his grip,
 and  tore  slowly  down  to  the  deck.  Sturm  landed, blind,
 wet, and breathless, in the caravel's waist.
   The  gnomes  cut  the  rope  at  their end.  The Cloudmaster
 soared into the driving clouds and was lost from sight.
    Kitiara  rolled  Sturm  over.  "Can  you  stand?   Can  you
 walk?"   she  cried   above  the   howling  wind.   He  nodded
 dumbly. She dragged him to his feet,  and together  they stag-
 gered aft to the sterncastle. Sturm collapsed  on the  deck by
 the captain's table to collect his breath. Kitiara circled the
 room, closing the shutters and cranking the louvers tight.

   "You all right?" she asked out of the darkness.
   "Yes."
   "Are the gnomes gone?"
   "They  -  had  to  cut loose  to save  the ship."  He coughed
 painfully.
 Kitiara struck sparks from the  sea captain's  flint and  lit a
 fat  candle  on  the  table.  The  wavering  flame  threw weird
 highlights on  the dead  captain's skull.  Sturm wrung  out his
 kerchief and draped it over the skull.
  "He does tend  to stare  at you,  doesn't he?"  said Kitiara.
 She  put  out a  hand to  steady herself.  The deck  was rising
 and falling with the regularity of a water wheel.
  "We'll have to trim the sails," Sturm said. "If the  right gust
 hits us, we'll capsize."
   "I'm not going up any rigging in that blow," she replied.
 Out  came  his  sword.  "You won't  have to.  I'll cut  all the
 stays on the lowest sails. They'll blow  away, and  that should
 do it." He went to the cabin door.
 "Wait," she said. She found  a painter  line in  the captain's
 locker  and  brought  it  over.  "Hold your  arms up."  He did,
 and  Kitiara  reached  around  his  chest  and  tied  the line.
 "Don't do any swimming while you're gone," she said.
   He lowered his arms. "I'll try not to."
   Sturm  threw  open  the  door and  received the  storm's full
 blast. He staggered to the  mainmast and  slashed the  lines to
 the  mainsail.  The  torn  canvas  flopped  like  a  live thing,
 crackling  out  from  the  main  yard. He  ducked under  it and
 pushed  on  to the  foremast, likewise  hacking away  the stays
 there. With only topsails and spritsail set, the going was eas-
 ier. Sturm made it back to the sterncastle.
  "It is steadier," Kitiara said.
  "What do we do now'!" asked Sturm as water dripped
 from his clothes and hair.
  "Let's explore below," Kit suggested.
  "Have you forgotten the curse?"
 Her  amusement  evaporated.  "I   haven't  forgotten.   But  if
 this is a sample  of what's  on board,  I'm not  much worried."
 She  patted  the  captain's  kerchief-covered  skull.  The head
 toppled off the neck bones and hit the table  with a  thump. It
 lay, eyes up, staring at the mortal intruders on its ship.

                       Chapter 33

                   The Wizard's Seal

       A narrow hatch covered a ladder that led down
 into the caravel's dark bowels. Kitiara lay flat on her belly
 and poked the candle into the hole.  Warm stagnant  air waft-
 ed  out,  but  no  obvious  danger  loomed. She  climbed down
 and Sturm followed, hand on the pommel of his sword.
 They'd  entered  nothing  more  interesting  than  the ship's
 rope locker. It  contained only  rope, sailcloth,  and chain.
 Kitiara  poked  around,  looking for  more treasure.  All she
 found were dead rats. Like everything else dead on  the ship,
 the rats were a mere jumble of bones.
 "Isn't it strange," Sturm whispered, "that  all we  ever find
 are bones?"
 They passed  through a  light wooden  partition into  a larg-
 er space, a cargo area. Here Kitiara's candle shone  on some-

  thing  more sinister  than rope  and cloth.  They had  found an
  armory, replete  with swords,  spears, shields,  bronze breast-
  plates, shirts of mail, lances, bows, blocks of lead  for sling
  pellets - enough to equip a small army.
    "These  are  dwarf-forged  shields,"  Sturm  said,  pushing a
  round  buckler aside  with his  toe. "See,  they have  the mark
  of  the  Thorbardin  Armorers'  Guild.  That  breastplate bears
  the  mark  of  the  Thanes  of  Zhaman."   He  picked   up  the
  breastplate. The cold iron was polished to  a finish  like mir-
  rored silver, and though fully a third of an inch thick, it was
  remarkably light.
    "These  are  first-quality  arms. Why  would pirates  need so
  many weapons?" he said.
    "Maybe they are captured stocks."
    "Maybe,  but  space  is  precious aboard  a ship.  They might
  keep good items for their own use, but not this many."
    "What's through there?" Kitiara hissed, pointing forward.
    "Forecastle. Where the crew sleeps."
   They stepped over the door sill and beheld a terrible sight.
  The forecastle was full of skeletons.
    ъow  upon  row  of clean  white bones  lay huddled  on either
  side  of  the  ship.  Some were  stretched out,  others knotted
  with the agony they had borne  until death.  Not all  the bones
  were  human.  Some,  by  their  shape  and  size,  belonged  to
  dwarves.  Others,  smaller  bones,  may  have  been  kender  or
  gnomes.  There  was  one  thing  the  skeletons had  in common:
  They were all chained together at the ankles.
    "I don't like this. There  has been  great evil  here," Sturm
  hissed. "Come." He backed out.
    "What's up front of that room?" Kitiara wondered.
    "The  bury  of  the  bowsprit. Where  the anchors  are kept."
    In  the  center  of  the  armory  was  a large  square hatch,
  which  Sturm  said  led  to  the hold.  ъemoving the  hatch was
  not  easy.  Someone had  secured it  to the  deck with  a dozen
  large iron bolts. Sturm  tried to  figure out  the best  way to
  remove  them, but  Kitiara simply  took a  battle axe  from the
  cache of weapons and bashed the heads off several bolts.
    "Stop!" he demanded. "Did you ever think that hatch
  might be fastened down to keep something in?"
    She  paused  in  midswing.  "No,"  she  said and  brought the

 axe down on the next bolt. --- Some txt ---     , those poor dev-
 ils died of plague or something. You and I  are the  first living
 souls  on  board  in  months,  maybe,  so  what  we find  is ours
 by  right of  salvage." She  decapitated the  last bolt.  "If you
 want a share, you'd better help me."
  ъeluctantly,   Sturm   got   his   fingers  under   the  hatch's
 flange, and together they  lifted it  off. The  stout lid  of oak
 and copper fell aside, landing on  a pile  of armor.  The ringing
 boom echoed through the caravel.
       Kitiara thrust her candle into the opening. A cold draft
 flowed  out,  so  she  shielded  the  flame  with  her  hand. The
 weak amber globe of light fell over the open hold.
  It was empty.
  A  wide  set of  plank steps  led down.  Kitiara lowered  a foot
 to the first step.
  "Don't," warned Sturm.
  "What's the matter with you? A few skulls and bones, and
 suddenly you're afraid of your own shadow. Where's your
 curiosity? Where's your knightly valor?"
  "Alive and well, thank you."
  She   dropped   down   a   few   more  steps.   "Coming,  then?"
 Sturm held up  one finger  and went  to the  pile of  shields. He
 found  a  buckler  of  good  dwarven  make  and  slipped  it over
 his arm. Thus reinforced, he followed Kitiara into the hold.
  "It's very black in here," she said. A post at  the foot  of the
 steps  proved  to  be   coated  with   a  greasy   black  powder.
 "Soot?" she said.
  "Hmm,   yes."   Sturm   went   down  on   one  knee.   The  deck
 was  charred.  "There  was  a  fire  down  here." He  brushed off
 his fingertips. "This ship's lucky to be afloat." Fire at sea was
 one of the worst fates a ship could face.
  "Is there anything below this floor?" Kitiara asked.
  "Just  the  bilge."  Something  caught  the  candlelight. Sturm
 waved her to him. "Bring the light here," he whispered.
  "What  is  it?" On  the deck  a few  feet to  the right  of the
 steps  were  four  long  scratches,  so  deep  that  they  scored
 through  the  charred  wood's  surface  to the  lighter, unburned
 wood  beneath.  The  scratches  were   three  inches   apart  and
 almost a foot long.
  "What do you make of that?" Sturm asked.



 Kitiara drew her sword. "Claw marks," she said grimly.
 Toward  the  bow,  a  massive  half cylinder  descending from
 the  ceiling divided  the bulkhead  in two.  This was  the lower
 end  of  the  mainmast.  On each  side of  the mast  were doors.
 Both  had  been  hastily  but solidly  blocked with  boards. The
 barricade on the right of the mast  was intact;  the one  on the
 left was burst asunder - from the other side.
   "Whatever it was, it came through here," said Kitiara.
   "It?"
   She  didn't  answer,  but stepped carefully through  the shat-
 tered  barrier  into  the  forward  hold.  Sturm   couldn't  fit
 through  the  hole,  so  he  broke  out a  few more  boards. The
 charred planks split loudly.
   The forward hold  was  even colder  than the  aft one.  It was
 not  sooted  by  fire.  They  found  more  bones,  broken swords
 and  cutlasses,  and  smashed  helmets  -  the  remnants   of  a
 fierce  fight. Kitiara  almost tripped  over another  form, this
 one still clad in  a moldering  brown robe.  Where she  had dis-
 turbed the robe there was a glint of gold.
 "This  was  a  cleric,"  Sturm  said.  "The  robe,  the amulets,
 are the kind  a holy  man would  wear." He  groped in  the folds
 of the  robe and  pulled out  a necklace  wrought in  copper. He
 held  it  to  the  candle.  "A  rose. The  symbol of  Majere. At
 least he  served a  good god."  He laid  the necklace  down rev-
 erently on the dusky cloth.
 Kitiara  moved  on  to  the  facing  wall. A  ladder was  set in
 the  wall,  going  up  to  the  forecastle. Halfway  up, someone
 had  sawed  the  rungs  off.  The  stout  base  of  the foremast
 intruded  into the  hold here,  too, and  beside it  was another
 boarded-up door. This one was intact.
 "Sturm,  come  here!"  He  stepped  over the  cleric's skeleton.
 Kitiara  thrust  her  candle  to  the  battened   door.  Scarlet
 threads  were  woven  back  and forth  across the  rough barrier
 and gathered in a  knot in  the center  of the  door. A  blob of
 sealing  wax  held  the  threads  together, and  in the  wax was
 the impression of a ring seal.
 "Can you read it?" she asked.
 Sturm squinted at the image. "'Majere protect us' and
 'Obey  the will  of Novantumus'."  He looked  back at  the cler-
 ic's remains. "He must have been Novantumus."

   Kitiara put the point  of her  sword to  the wax  seal. "What
 do you think you're doing?" he said.
   "There's  something  valuable  on  the  other side  of this
 door," she said. "I want to see what it is."
   "It could be what killed all these men!"
   She rapped  on the  door. "Hello,  any monsters  in there?"
   The  only  sounds  were  the  steady,  muffled  roar  of  the
 storm outside  and the  creaking of  the ship's  timbers. "See,
 no danger."
   Sturm  pulled  her roughly  away. "I  won't let  you tamper
 with it!"
   "You  won't  - !"  She snatched  her arm  free of  his grasp.
 "Since when do you give me orders, Sturm Brightblade?"
   "I won't let you break that  seal. It  could mean  our deaths."
   Kitiara  cut  at  the  door.  Sturm  flung  the shield  out and
 deflected the  blow. Kitiara  uttered an  angry snort.  She set
 the  candle  down  and  assumed  fighting  stance.  "Out  of my
 way!" she declared.
   "Will  you think  what you're  doing? Do  you want  to fight,
 just  to  open  that  door?  Look  around,  Kit.  Do  you think
 plague smashed up these armed men?"
   "So they killed each  other fighting  over the  treasure. Out
 of the way!"
   Sturm  started  to  reply,  but  Kitiara  lunged  at  him. He
 backed  away,  unwilling  to  use  his  own  sword.  Sturm kept
 the shield up, fending off her cuts. This went on until Kitiara
 grew  frustrated.  She  aimed  a  wild  overhand  slash  at his
 head.  Her blade  hit the  shield a  glancing blow  and skidded
 off. The arc of her cut  ended against  the door  and shattered
 the brittle wax seal.
   "Now you've done it," he said, panting.
   Kitiara flung herself, sword  and all,  at the  door. Sturm
 stared  in  amazement  as  she  pressed  herself  against the
 wood. "At last," she said. "At last!"
   There  was  a  split  second  of  silence, then  a tremendous
 crash.  Kitiara's  sword  was  knocked  from  her  hand  as she
 flew  backward  and  landed  with  a  clatter among  the bones.
 The  center  board  was  bowed   outward  and   cracked.  Sturm
 tossed the shield aside and  went to  help Kitiara  stand. From
 inside  there  came  another  crash,  and  the board  above the

 first one flexed out.
   "What is it?" Kitiara cried.
   "I don't know, but it's coming out of there. Let's go!"
   They  fled  in  such  haste  that  they forgot  the candle.
 Through  the  sooty  midnight of  the aft  hold they  ran and
 stumbled up the stairs to  the armory.  Kitiara made  for the
 rope  locker.  Sturm  called  her  back.  "Help  me  with the
 hatch," he said.
   They wrestled the heavy  hatch into  place and  dropped it.
 Then it was through the rope locker and up the ladder  to the
 captain's cabin. Kitiara  dragged some  heavy chests  over to
 block  the  ladder  well.  ъain  drummed  on  the  poop  deck
 above  them,  and  wind  whistled  around the  louvered shut-
 ters. They stood close together in  the dark,  breathing hard
 and listening.
   The  deck  trembled  beneath  their  feet  and  they  heard
 wood  breaking.  The  thing,  whatever  it was,  was smashing
 its way out.
   "I lost my sword," she  said, deeply  ashamed. She,  a sea-
 soned  warrior,  had  lost  her  only  weapon  when  she fel