34 Olabar Harbor

Word of the Al-Orizin's quest spread across the five soldanates. Would-be crewmen, curiosity seekers, and fortune hunters streamed to the capital city and volunteered their services. Taking his captain's duties seriously, Saan insisted on vetting all the candidates himself.

So far, though, he'd found only a few men that he considered acceptable.

After interviewing dozens of sailors, he could easily spot the dreamers, those wide-eyed men more enamored with the idea of such a voyage than with the reality (and with little, if any, experience). He knew full well that such volunteers would sail away with great enthusiasm and sparkling eyes, blowing kisses to their loved ones, eager for a great adventure… but after a few days of hard work and bad weather, they would be worthless. “Ballast with mouths to feed,” Saan called them.

On a dangerous voyage like this, some captains would accept any crewmen, even prisoners. While Yal Dolicar was technically a prisoner, Saan felt he had a spark of persistence, determination, and perhaps creativity that most other men lacked.

So he kept looking, but he wasn't desperate yet. The Al-Orizin wasn't ready to sail, and he had found twelve men already. He needed a crew of forty-five, but could make do with forty, if he had to. Saan had decided he'd rather have fewer good men than a full complement of mediocre ones. They would depend on one another for their lives, so he refused to relax his standards.

His mother had told him, “A wise man does not trust his weight to a rope that is already frayed.” When he asked if that was a quote from Urec's Log, she had looked away, mumbling that it was just an old saying. Saan supposed that the line came from the Book of Aiden, but he didn't press his mother. Istar—Adrea—had been raised on the deceptions of Aidenist presters and still hadn't forgotten all of their teachings.

He set up a recruitment pavilion out on the sunny docks, surrounded by the bustle of ships and cargo haulers, the creak of oars and rigging, the chatter of sailors and merchants. Hour after hour, men came in full of bluster and departed looking dejected.

A large shadow appeared on the flapping silk walls as a burly man stepped through the pavilion entrance. “You are Captain Saan? My name is Grigovar, and I deserve to be part of your crew.” His voice had the rich musical accent of far-off lands.

“I'll be the one to decide that.” Saan sized up the man, liked what he saw. Grigovar had dark skin and thick black hair, enormous muscles, and a leather vest that seemed too small for his broad chest. A round gold earring dangled from one ear.

The man crossed his arms. “It's your choice, sir, but if you turn down my service, then you aren't a wise enough captain to be in charge of this voyage.”

Saan wasn't sure whether to laugh or be offended. “Well, I am looking for confident sailors, but I need more than brave talk. I need experience, strength, and common sense.”

Grigovar flexed his muscles. “Do I look like a poet?”

“I don't need a poet. What is your accent? Is that Lahjar I hear?”

“I am one of the famed reef divers.” He slapped his chest. “My lungs can hold a breath for six minutes. By diving deeper than my fellows, I made myself wealthy from the bushels of milk pearls I harvested off the coast of Lahjar.”

Though he was already more impressed by this man than by any candidate so far that morning, Saan pretended to be dubious. “If you possess such riches, why would you want to sign aboard the Al-Orizin?”

“I want to see the world.”

“Why?”

The reef diver scratched his thick hair. “You've heard the saying, ‘From Lahjar to Kiesh'? From one side of the world to the other. I started at Lahjar. I had already made up my mind to see all the soldanates, to make my way to Kiesh at the far end of Abilan, but then I learned of your voyage. Now, I enjoy your city of Olabar. Your women are beautiful and, better still, they find me exotic and attractive. But I've had enough women and enough wealth. It's time for something more. The Al-Orizin can take me to Kiesh… and beyond.”

“Why not settle down, take a wife, have children?”

Grigovar rocked back on his heels. “I'd rather have good drink and listen to an amusing joke.”

“You'll not be drunk aboard my ship.”

“I drink. I'm not a drunk. Diving deep for pearls puts enough pressure on my skull. No need to add a hangover on top of it.”

Saan stood up from behind his small table. “One more question—did you bring along any companions from Lahjar? I could use more crewmen like you.”

“One of me is worth ten of your other crewmen,” Grigovar said.

“Then welcome aboard.”

* * *

It took the better part of a week, but Saan did gather forty-two crewmen—enough for him to announce that he was ready to sail. Then he received an unexpected and unwelcome visitor.

In a swirl of red robes, Sikara Fyiri appeared at the boarding ramp with her dark cinnamon-brown hair blowing loose in the breeze. Standing atop a crate as he supervised the loading of supplies, Saan looked at the haughty woman and greeted her with exaggerated cheer. “Good morning, Sikara! Have you come to bless the Al-Orizin before our departure?”

Fyiri regarded him coldly. “I have come to join your crew. The ur-sikara chose me to serve on your voyage.”

“Really?” It took all of his effort to mask his automatic scowl. “I don't recall asking for a sikara aboard.” Though he considered himself a devout believer in Urec's Log, Saan had nothing but disdain for the women who had so often targeted him and his mother with their scorn.

“And we did not ask your opinion. This is a voyage to seek the Key to Creation, perhaps even to find the original home of holy Urec. You must allow a high-ranking priestess aboard. The church's mandate is clear.”

Saan considered challenging her, or asking the soldan-shah to intervene, but that might cause more problems than it solved. Once the Al-Orizin sailed, Fyiri would be greatly outnumbered and her influence would be marginal. “If you come along, don't expect any special treatment.”

“I expect what is my due—a private cabin and the respect of your men.”

Saan mentally rearranged sleeping quarters. Briefly, he considered having Fyiri share a cabin with Sen Sherufa, but dismissed the idea. He was too fond of Sen Sherufa to do that to her. The two women would be as compatible as oil and vinegar—with Fyiri definitely more vinegar. “I can find you a room, but you'll have to earn the respect of my men for yourself.”

As the remaining crates of supplies came aboard, Kel Rovic and two guards led a prisoner to the docks. Though Yal Dolicar's legs were in chains, he walked with as much of a jaunty step as he could manage. The stump of his right arm was bound up in white gauze, ending abruptly where his hand had been.

Rovic warned, “Keep him locked in the brig until you're well out of the harbor, Captain.” Saan found it amusing to hear his old friend refer to him as “Captain.”

“I won't give you any trouble,” Dolicar said. “Trust me. Truly, Captain, I am grateful for this exciting opportunity.”

Saan showed the prisoner aboard. “You're in good spirits, considering your circumstances.”

“I try to make the best of a situation. Could have been much worse.” Dolicar held up the stump of his right arm. “Your minister of punishment was adept at his work, his blade was sharp, and your Olabar physicians know how to tend an amputation.” Standing there in his chains and tattered clothes, with his wrapped wrist, the charlatan actually smiled. “I would have preferred not to lose my hand, but I'm lucky to be alive. I owe my life to you, Captain.”

He frowned at the stump, where blood seeped through the bandages. “Losing my hand limits my ability to be a good sailor and fighter, but all is not lost. I sent word out—your guards were very accommodating.” He nodded at Kel Rovic. “I commissioned an assortment of tools. I'll have a hook like many sailors wear, and a carved wooden hand for situations that require a bit more decorum, and even an attachment with a built-in dagger, in case you need me to fight.”

Saan was impressed at how thoroughly the man had thought his situation through. “I appreciate your good humor. You will have to practice doing things with your left hand now.” He motioned for Rovic to take the prisoner belowdecks, where he would be held until after they sailed away.

Before he ducked into the hatch, Dolicar called in a conspiratorial whisper, “It's not so bad.” He raised his stump. “After all, I was never right-handed.”