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Gethet Issich, steamship captain, seeks one last mission before retirement. A group of pilgrims, fleeing persecution in the Iron Kingdom, look to settle in the islands over the water -- all he needs to do is get them there.

Apparently it's possible for me to write something not set in space? This is a fantasy universe of mixed magic and technology (the tech because, hey, steampunk). I intend for this to become a series, so here's the first chapter. Let me know what you think! As always, share and enjoy, and please chime in with criticism and feedback! If you like the story, that makes me happy. If you don't like it, the only way I can get better is if you tell me.

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

"Storm warnings" by Rob Baird

---

Red blood dripped onto the immaculate finish of the brass bowl, spreading slowly like melted wax. The scryer's voice was a low warbling tone, perfectly matched to reverberate through the cabin and settle deep in the watchers' bones. Gethet Issich looked away.

Something about the scryer made him uncomfortable. Maybe, he thought, it was the way the young badger's keening ululation had abruptly halted when the knife bit into his palm, or the absolute stillness with which he held his paw as he let the blood drip into the bowl. Whatever it was, the big tiger didn't like it. Consulting the scryer had not been his idea.

When he glanced back, the flat bowl was now covered with a thin layer of blood, a mirrored surface that reflected the ornate walls of the ship's cabin, and the figures waiting inside, and the incensed smoke that curled from the scryer's pipe.

The mystic was starting to quiver from the hallucinogens he had consumed and the pain from his sliced paw. He stared fiercely at the bowl -- then, as Gethet watched, the blood began to clarify, and shimmer. Patterns of light and color danced in it.

Gethet could not read them. That took one trained in the thaumaturgical arts, as the badger was. The scryer began to sway -- then froze, his teeth bared. His voice was hissed, rapid and without pause:

"Water rushing over the falls runs clear and cold in the wrong season the wrong desires and the clamor of broken bridges yearning to be free of the crashing torrent deafens, deafens, deafens..."

He looked to his first mate; the old fox shook his head.

"Falling the rainbow halts and bends and the colors claim their own in a noose to snare the unwary in the glittering prism of dew on a spider's web in the barn where the newborn foal stands to see the treachery of her dark-willed mother and Captain Issich! Captain Issich! Captain Issich!"

Gethet stepped forward. "Saman Kurma?'

The badger gripped him sharply; Gethet felt the wet blood smearing into his right paw. Their eyes met -- the badger's eyes were wide, and the pupils were contracted, but in the black depths Gethet could see things that man had long ago been meant never to see. "Captain Issich, your journey will end on foreign shores but the sea exacts a toll on those who challenge him. Some of you will die. You, Gethet Issich, will not return. Tomorrow you see your homeland for the last time. Where the water runs backwards you will breathe your last."

Issich felt a chill take him; he jerked from the badger's paws. "What do you mean?" The scryer was silent. "What do you mean, gods damn you?"

Cedda Fletchersson, his first mate, touched Issich gently on the shoulder. "Calm. He may remember more clearly when he wakes from his trance..."

Gethet saw that the light had gone from the badger's eyes. He seemed shrunken, and frail despite the bulk of his body. The tiger shuddered, and turned to leave the room. As soon as his foot hit the deck fresh sea air hit him. He inhaled as deeply as he could to clear the scent of incense from his nostrils.

"You don't have to believe everything the mystics say," Cedda told him.

The tiger gripped at the iron railing. The decks below bustled with activity: they were loading the last of the grain, and the pack animals -- pulled against stubborn resistance up a heavy gangplank. The Clarion Adamant was heavily laden, low in the water. "It's just... I don't know his stock, but not everyone earns the rank of Saman, and I was brought up trusting the omens..."

"And I was brought up trusting Gethet Issich," Cedda grinned. "You know it's mostly metaphor, anyway. The journey's not far -- we'll be fine. Hell, we'll be back in Harradon before the ethaball season ends."

Gethet grunted. "We might not want to. Harradon's playing terribly this year."

It was levity, but Gethet indulged some lingering concerns. He was traveling into waters that, whilst not uncharted, were also not familiar to him -- the fishing grounds off Meteor Bank, seven hundred miles to the northwest of Inverbar.

Like the scryer, this was not his idea. He was getting old, though, and it was time to consider his retirement. What the pilgrims offered was a tidy sum; he could repay the last of the loans on the Clarion Adamant and still have enough to live out his days in comfort.

He did not entirely understand the plight of the Dioscurians, except that he knew the Iron Kingdom did not accept their faith as legitimate, and they felt that they needed to settle elsewhere. There were no permanent settlements in the Meteor Islands, but while the winters were cold there the fishermen reported the existence of abundant land, and apparently that was enough. The pilgrims were desperate.

Gethet did not worship any pantheon, but the leader of the Dioscurian pilgrims had reassured him nonetheless that they were not really heretics. They worshipped the same gods, he had explained... but then there was something about a war in heaven, and picking sides, and he had let it all wash over him.

"Captain?" Gethet turned to find a stout wolf had joined them. Jenssa came from Issenrik, far to the south, and was by nature as skeptical of the pilgrims as the tiger was. "Are you well?"

"Well enough, bosun," Gethet nodded. "The loading?"

Jenssa shook his broad head, and Gethet was reminded as always of the scars that lined his muzzle -- Jenssa had never met a bar he didn't like, nor a barfight. "Almost finished. Enough coal for a thousand leagues. Enough cattle for twice that. The berths are ready -- hell, some of 'em are already occupied." They planned to get underway in two days.

"Where did you settle on powder and cannon?" Cedda asked. It was not that the fishing grounds were dangerous, exactly... but there were always pirates, after all, and perhaps not everyone would take kindly to establishing a settlement on the islands. Cedda and Gethet had asked the wolf to see what it was possible to take with them.

"Sixteen guns." Jenssa scoffed, and shook his head again. "Enough to warn off a fishing boat, but not enough to deter a serious raid. The leader of them settlers said he's got two score rifle in the hold. Just let's not get boarded..."

In her time the Clarion Adamant had earned a reputation for being fast, quick enough to outrun any pursuer. On a broad reach, with her paddles turning at full speed, she could best twenty-four knots.

This time, Gethet thought, would probably be different. They were sailing against the prevailing wind, and the ship was so laden that the paddles would not be at their most efficient. This had other consequences: "In anything other than a calm sea, we can't fire back anyway. The gunports are only four feet above the waterline as it is. Well, perhaps nobody will notice."

"At least the auspices are good, I take it?"

Cedda and Gethet looked at one another; the fox nodded. "Good enough for you, Jenssa. Let us know if there are any other problems on the loading."

Gethet knew that he did not have to put faith in the shaman's babbling -- but sailors are a superstitious sort, and superstitions have a way of becoming self-fulfilling. Leaving Cedda to watch over the final preparations, he made his way from the ship and out into the bustle of Harradon's busy harbor.

In the Blind Porpoise, he ordered a beer and let the conversations flow through him -- boasts of buried treasure, and of the challenges the ocean presented, slimly overcome. From his seat, through yellowed glass, he could see the dying light catch the Clarion Adamant -- and for a moment, it could almost have been thirty years before...

She was new to Harradon then, not five years old. A long, copper-bottomed barque with a raked bow that spoke of speed and the restrained power lurking in her brand new steam engines. He'd watched her pull into the harbor, her side-paddles churning up the water, and had known in an instant that she was the most beautiful thing in all of creation.

Well, the most beautiful thing afloat, at least.

Gethet had been second mate on the tramp collier Rook, running from Stanlira to Tabisthalia and then to Harradon at the mercy of the wind and the sea. Young, full of eager fire, he'd cornered the Clarion Adamant's captain in that very bar, and demanded he be allowed to sign on.

Third mate suited him fine, with the sails out and their wake spread like an arrow's fletching behind them on a southern run to Issenrik they finished in days instead of weeks. When they gained the harbor, and the tiger's nose caught the scent of exotic spice, he vowed that he would never give her up.

And he had not. When the captain retired, a decade and a half later, Gethet Issich was the Clarion's first mate, and the ship had a reputation as the fastest on the western coast. It had been easy to raise the money to buy her. With his expertise, and his brash confidence, the first bank he went to had offered a loan on very generous terms.

Their first journey together ended in the quickest run yet from Issenrik to Kiathen Down and then back to Harradon. They loped into the harbor beneath a low, stormy sky -- black smoke chasing their funnels like wild wolves on a fleeing deer. Issich watched the docks for a familiar face, that chill afternoon, scanning with a mariner's practiced eye. He found them waiting at the pier. In full dress uniform, he had bowed, and asked the lovely young tigress for her hand in marriage.

When she nodded, the roar of the crew crowding the railings had deafened them both.

Sixteen years had passed, and still Kirrel met him at the gangplank, every time; still her golden hair twirled and her eyes danced when he lifted her from her feet and into his arms. Even after the giddy early days had yielded into comfort, even after their occasional fights, and the stress of his absence took its toll. Even after... even after...

Gethet shook his head. Why was he dwelling on such things? Mithrian, their second son, was strong, and healthy. He had even begun to take an interest in the ocean -- as most youth in Harradon did. Kirrel indulged him, as she indulged Gethet -- but she smiled wistfully when the father spun his yarns to an enraptured child, and gently reminded him of all that dry land had to offer.

He did not yet know what path his son would follow. Perhaps it would be to the sea -- perhaps Issich would live to see him take command of his own ship. To see his head lift proudly into a biting wind, and the light glinting from the polished brass of his buttons.

Or perhaps he would remain ashore. Gethet Issich came from townsperson stock; his father was a lawyer, and his father's father had been a clerk. The gods alone knew what had first called the tiger to the surf.

Of course, there were still things to call him back. He finished the beer and padded with a heavy stride through crowded streets to a stout wooden door, nondescript to all but him. Inside, it was quiet, and the lights had been extinguished.

He made his way up the hall, and slipped into a quiet room. Issich knew it by feel; he made no error as he disrobed, folding each garment neatly and setting it by memory in its place.

The bed felt warm, and it was warmer still beneath the sheets. Kirrel turned as he settled in next to her -- her voice soft, and a little tired. "Welcome home... you must be almost ready to leave..."

"Almost. The cargo's loaded." He kissed the side of her neck, and felt her lips turn up in a smile. She shifted, and he wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his muzzle on her shoulder. "How was your day?"

"Good. Mithrian has earned a commendation from his teacher of mathematics -- she says he's far outpaced his class."

Gethet felt a swell of pride in his chest. "He takes after his grandfather. He could be the world's greatest navigator."

"Or a master clockmaker," Kirrel suggested. He grunted -- not disapproval, exactly, but what use was a maker of trinkets and clockwork when there was a world to explore?

In the moment, though, he was content to explore closer things. His broad, heavy paws felt through his wife's fur -- thick and soft between sharp claws. It was no less magnificent than it had been on the day they had first met.

To be sure, they had changed -- both of them. Issich was greyer, and his stride more halting. Kirrel's body was no longer the lithe, lean form he had danced with in their courtship. Now the curves yielded to his paws, and she filled his arms pleasantly as he hugged her.

So far as he was concerned the tigress was still, far and away, the loveliest woman he had ever laid eyes on. He nuzzled the side of her neck, and worked in a series of warm kisses up her cheek to her ear. I'm so lucky to have you...

Kirrel didn't answer the thought -- but she seemed aware of it; her breath caught, and when it left her again she was purring. He nibbled her ear, drawing a gasp from the tigress, and he felt her tail jerk against his leg. His right paw felt for her breast, palming it, fingers kneading the abundant flesh as his wife's purr deepened into something throaty and beckoning.

He held her still, and his leg pressed hers wider apart. His shaft was hard already, throbbing with need, and when Gethet guided it to her she hooked her leg back around him to hold him close. He pushed inside her smoothly, feeling wet heat surrounding him inch by aching inch, and he ground against her rump with a pleased snarl.

"Quiet," she whispered. "Be quiet, love..."

So his teeth found her shoulder, biting down to stifle his gasps and growls as he began to thrust slowly, working the full length of his thick member through her folds. She was not the snug fit she'd been once, gripping his manhood like a vise as they rutted like animals against the wall of their first cheap apartment -- but he could not have cared less. They belonged to each other: it was fated.

As he slipped inside, and her moist walls surrounded him, he panted to her in muffled groans and she whispered soft encouragement to him in a rising voice. His claws came out. He held tightly to her waist, hips bucking faster -- hearing her cries, and the creaking of the wooden bedframe.

He hadn't felt this way for years. Now he craved her, ached for her. He needed to take her, all of her, to drive himself to release in her warm, enveloping folds. His thrusts were desperate, powerful; grabbing at her side, he rolled her to her belly, so that the bed supported her as his urgent movements pushed her down and into the mattress.

Then -- tearing fabric; his wife's claws raked at the sheets. Her gasps of passion were reaching a crescendo. Gethet too felt the insistent pressure in his loins building -- growing beyond his control -- the last of his resolve worn raw and broken.

Though she had asked him for restraint he couldn't help the roar that tore itself from his bared teeth as the last convulsion gripped him and he froze above her, hips pinning the tigress firmly as though he was locked to her. Pleasure surged through him, and he felt the rushing warmth of his climax spurting into her.

Kirrel wailed as he staked his claim to her body in the sticky spurts of that final, blissful release, and then he felt her kick, and buck, and the grip of her walls tightening. The waves of her own peak jolted through her, and the shuddering tigress milked his shaft for everything he had to give.

She mewled weakly as he collapsed on her back, paws encircling her with clinging tightness. "Oh, Gethet," she sighed. "What came over you?"

"It had... it had been too long," he panted. A week? Not much longer. But he didn't know what had come over him, and had he known -- had he known that it was the scryer's strained voice, telling him you, Gethet Issich, will not return... had he known, the tiger would not have admitted it anyway.

Instead he stroked at her belly, rolling his hips up to shift his still-hard length. He could feel the copious release he had pumped into her, squelching softly -- drowsily he hoped that it might take. She had wanted another cub... He hadn't given her half of what she deserved, and by the gods, he loved her so...

A heavy pounding on the door woke him, and he felt Kirrel stirring too, mumbling wordlessly into the covers. He stilled her with a broad paw on her shoulders, and slipped from the bed, pulling on a pair of pants. More pounding.

The wooden grip of his pistol felt living-warm in his grasp. He carefully drew the hammer back, and then unlatched the door, pulling it open. "What the hell do you -- Pærtha?" His hold on the gun faltered as he blinked in surprise.

Pærtha Kittaling was the leader of the Dioscurian group that had first engaged him. A few other men were with him -- edgy, glancing around to make sure they had not been discovered. The dark-furred fox looked worried, and his breath wavered as though he had been running. "There's no time. We have to leave now."

"Now?" Captain Issich shook his head. "It must be three in the morning."

"Half two, actually. Please -- may we?" Pærtha gestured past him, and with a displeased grunt Gethet stepped back and let the pilgrims inside, closing the door behind them. "You're in grave danger, Captain -- as are we all. We can't leave tomorrow. It must be today, before the dawn."

"Our plans are filed with the office already. We sail tomorrow afternoon." Issich was growing cross: the day ahead of them would be long, and he had badly needed the sleep. The bizarre demands of the pilgrims were not his highest priority. "I can't just change everything for you like that..."

"They're going to impound your ship."

This caught his attention. The tiger jerked his head in alarm. "What?"

"The city council has decided that we're not to be allowed to leave. If we depart their... their comforting bosom, we might decide to return later, and foment some terrible revolution against their false gods and their idol worship. They believe their heresy will --"

"Spare me," Gethet growled. "I don't have time for theology. What's this about impounding my ship?"

"They're preparing a raid, in collusion with the King's men. We'll all be imprisoned -- you as well, and most of your crew. If you have a sponsor, maybe you can post bail -- or put the ship up, but they'll have that secured, too. Maybe they'll say you don't even own it, since you're conspiring with us..."

"How do you know all this?"

"We have a spy in the council. They took a secret vote two hours ago -- all agreed that we're a grave threat to the city, and to the Iron Kingdom. The King won't protest. We opposed the railroad's expansion into the eastern desert, and you know as well as I that the railroad's president has the King's ear -- and more of him, besides."

Issich furrowed his brow. The owners of the Carregan Transcontinental Railroad were fantastically powerful, he knew; if he had been made an enemy by proxy there would be consequences. "So tell me why I shouldn't just turn you in right now?"

"Which answer would you like?" Pærtha asked. "We have many. You're a great ship's captain, Mr. Issich, but no great threat to either Tokeli Carregan or the king. You're merely a loose end, to be tied up and discarded -- which they would most assuredly do. It's also your holy duty to assist us in our mission, and shrinking from it now would be most dishonorable."

"I already said I don't have time for theology."

"There's also the matter of doubling your payment, then. In gold, of course..." Pærtha turned to one of his companions, who produced a heavy sac that landed with a metallic thud on the solid oak of his kitchen table. "You are, after all, a great man -- you should be compensated as one..."

Issich eyed the deerskin bag, and turned over his options. Then he noticed something -- a rusty stain on the arm of the man who had carried the gold. In the light of his kitchen's gaslamp, it glistened softly. "You've had trouble," he said, darkly.

"Blood has been spilt on our account tonight, yes," Pærtha admitted. "Theanur Hrutsen is a man of peace, Captain Issich -- but even men of peace may be pushed beyond their limits..."

Theanur, a stocky feline with tufted ears, held his arm up; the robe fell away, revealing the dagger concealed against the thick grey fur of his arm. It was not meant as a threatening gesture, and that in and of itself unnerved the captain.

"Alright." He surrendered quietly, his voice low. "The coins cannot be traced?"

"The gold is unmarked, and their thaumaturgic signature has been scrubbed. So far as any King's investigator is concerned, they were mined yesterday."

Issich took the heavy bundle, glancing inside only briefly -- they were men of the cloth, Pærtha and his ilk, and trustworthy. There was space beneath his heavy iron stove -- dusty and forgotten. He stuffed the bag there, and left the pilgrims in his kitchen while he went upstairs to pack.

Kirrel was awake, sitting up in the bed. He didn't know how much she'd heard, only that she smiled wanly at his entry. "You're leaving."

"They say they want to sail a day early." The thin imitation of honesty was very nearly worse than a lie might've been. "My return schedule shouldn't change, dearest." He was buttoning up his coat; his seafaring bag had been packed long ago.

She hugged him tightly when he slipped his arms around her -- tighter than she had in years, a crushing, clinging, protective embrace. They kissed like young lovers, and when he pulled away he caught the wet glint in her eyes. It was getting harder, every time. "Goodbye," she whispered.

It was not the word she had used before, not on any voyage. He swallowed thickly. "Until I return," he told her sternly, and he did not know what it was that bid him to add: "If I am... delayed... check the space below the stove. But only then, my love."

Kirrel nodded, and when she tried to speak again she could not. The tigress shook her head, trying to smile for him; he kissed her once again, and slipped away. In the next room, Mithrian slumbered. Issich kissed the boy, too, and then set his jaw as best he could.

"I'm ready," he told Pærtha. The pilgrim nodded. What made it bearable, Captain Issich thought, was that he could see in the fox's eyes a keen understanding of the sacrifice that he had asked, and which neither money nor appeals to religious fervor could right.

They stole down quiet streets to the muted clamor of the docks; even early in the morning there were still men about, working the pulleys and loading the railcars that clattered on overburdened tracks. A few lights glimmered to mark the outline of the Clarion Adamant.

Sheshki Anariska, a lithe jackal from the Dominion of Tiurisk, had taken the midwatch. She tilted her tan-furred head at the approaching group. "Captain? Is that you?"

"There's been a change of plans. We're leaving now." He left no room for questioning in his voice. "Find a runner, and have them round up the rest of the crew. Some of them may still be awake, in the taverns -- if they're too drunk, bundle them into a wagon and drag them down here anyway."

"Yes, sir," the jackal nodded.

"And get the ship ready to travel. I'll be back aboard in an hour."

Already hooded figures were slipping aboard the Clarion Adamant, singly or in pairs -- shadows among shadows in the gloom of a moonless night. The tiger made his way first to his cabin, and then to the harbormaster's office. When he opened the door, the mangy old wolf there was sleeping in his chair, his muzzle tilted back. Gethet knocked on the inside wall, and the wolf woke slowly. "Eh? Is that you, Issich?"

"Hello, old friend," the tiger smiled. "A long day?"

"They all are. Fortunately, I don't have so many left..." When they had first met, three decades before, the wolf's muzzle had still been black. Now, the thinning fur was pure white, and his gnarled fingers were slow to fetch his spectacles. "What can I do for you?"

"The Clarion Adamant is scheduled to leave tomorrow afternoon."

The wolf blinked rheumy eyes. "Yes?"

"Well... I need to leave now, instead. I spoke to a scryer, and the auspices were... not favorable. He said that unless I leave immediately, the journey will end in disaster."

"A registered scryer?"

At this, Gethet shrugged. He had no idea if the scryer was registered with the local magician's guild -- probably if Pærtha trusted him he was, but the captain had not bothered to check. "Would you take the risk?"

"No... no, I wouldn't..." The harbormaster dragged his logbook closer, opening it and scanning with one shaky finger down the page. Finally he found the line he was looking for, and struck it out. "Alright. Safe travels, Issich."

He said it fondly, and he smiled when Gethet handed him a bottle of unopened Maddarai rum -- the spoils of the Clarion Adamant's last trip to the south.

All the same, Issich felt sick to his stomach, and he pulled his jacket tighter. Was this what it had all come to? Lying? Slinking from his home of fifty years like a rat?

"Most of them," Sheshki snorted, when he asked if the crew was aboard. "Hastal and Alurian are in the city jail. They said a crabbing crew insulted their honor."

Gethet rolled his eyes. "I presume they insulted them right back."

"Naturally," the jackal said, grinning. "They insulted the captain so vehemently his arm wound up broken. So did a table -- the tavern owner wants to press charges."

She didn't seem nearly as irritated as Gethet -- Hastal and Alurian were brothers, and the crew was familiar with their antics. But they were sailing into new waters, under trying circumstances, and now he was two men short. "Gods damn them," he growled. "Pærtha. Are your people embarked?"

"All who will be able to," Pærtha answered. "The others are six hours away, at least. But if we wait for the dawn, we'll be discovered, and then all will be lost..."

He was holding a leather-bound notebook, and the lettering inside it glowed with soft energy. Names, Gethet saw. It was full of names.

Pærtha closed the book and looked away; he could not bring himself to continue reading. Issich was willing to accommodate the fox because he saw in him a kindred spirit: he was wedded to his flock; cared for them as deeply as the captain cared for his crew. "Can we depart now? Before it's too late?"

Gethet was becoming antsy himself. The wind in the port was not especially strong, and it did not blow favorably. But they could not light the boilers for the steam engines, either -- the sound would rouse half the harbor, and he did not wish to raise any alarms.

Instead, he told Sheshki to get a crew into the launch, and while they rowed out with two hundred yards of cable, he started the donkey engines -- the two auxiliary steam motors the Clarion Adamant carried. Their tractive power was thaumaturgically enhanced, and they could be connected directly to the capstan.

With the kedging anchor buried in the silt of the harbor, he started the winch turning -- dragging the ship out and into deeper water as the deck crew cast off the remaining lines. It was slow going, and Clarion Adamant moved her 3400 tons like a slumbering giant, struggling to wake.

When they were far enough from the pier Issich ordered the staysails hoisted, and kept a watchful eye on the flying jib until it was sheeted in. The wind tugged and then filled it, dragging the ship by the bow and slowly hauling it 'round.

Issich was not a pilot, but he had been sailing from Harradon for more than thirty years -- he knew every inch of the harbor like the back of his paw. The orders came easily, one by one. Clarion Adamant turned slowly, they recovered the launch, and he set his sights on the harbor mouth.

Issich had remarked to Pærtha that the pilgrims had acted boldly in infiltrating the city council so deeply. The fox had shaken his head: his discovery was imminent, and when they found him he would be drawn and quartered as a traitor. A necessary sacrifice, Pærtha said, with flattened ears -- but neither bold nor admirable.

The gallows or worse would be Issich's fate, too, and that of his crew, if the Royal Navy chose to pursue them. In the harbor it would be easy enough: a flashing signal lamp, bidding them to halt. A shot fired across the bow; a boarding party, and everyone being led away in irons.

A frigate of the Navy was anchored in the middle of the channel -- they were supposedly on his side, he tried to remind himself. Weren't they? He had nothing to fear; he had done nothing wrong. Yet his legs went tense with nervous anticipation as they glided past the dark hulk of the iron boat.

Nobody stopped them.

Now, though, he faced a choice. The Meteor Islands lay to the northwest -- but this was in the direct path of the westerlies, and the Clarion Adamant would be slow beating into the wind.

The south was easier and more efficient, but the route was less direct -- and if they strayed too far, they ran the risk of encountering the storms that accompanied the tradewinds. They were low in the water, and Issich had become cautious in his age.

But then, there were dangers to the north, as well. The uncomfortable possibility existed that the Royal Navy might give chase, depending on how badly the pilgrims had spooked them. The King had pickets all along the northern islands, he knew, and his ship would be easy prey for a frigate sweeping in with the wind at their back.

Issich folded his paws together, and stared at a map that offered no clear answers. And where was the scryer now? What use was he? "Starboard helm," the tiger finally commanded. The ship swung slowly to the left, her bowsprit tracing an ever more southerly arc...

They lit half the boilers, and he ordered the sails hoisted before a building breeze. By the time the job was done, an hour later, their hull was slashing a burning white line through the dark waters.

A cold, grey dawn found the Clarion Adamant fleeing southward -- and the captain at her stem, paws tight on the iron rail, his stare fixed leagues beyond their wake, and the muted sweep of a distant horizon.