He drank the last of the beer in his mug, then rubbed at his eyes. He must have been wearier than he thought he was, to feel so suddenly sleepy. Cindin usually enlivened him. It was the hallmark of the drug, the benign sense of well-being coupled with the energy to have fun. Instead he felt as if the most wonderful thing that could happen to him now would be a warm, soft bed. A dry one, that didn't smell of sweat and mildew and oil and oakum. With no bugs.

He had been so busy building this image of paradise in his mind that he startled to find the tavern maid before him. She smiled up at him mischievously when he jumped and then gestured at his mug. She was right, it was empty again. He covered it with his hand and shook his head regretfully. “I'm out of coin, I'm afraid. It's all to the good. I'll want a clear head when we leave port tomorrow anyway.”

“Tomorrow? In this blow?” she asked sympathetically.

He shook his head, confirming his own reluctance. “Storm or no storm, we have to face it. Time and tide wait on no man, or so they tell us. And the sooner we leave, the sooner we're home.”

“Home,” she said, and smiled again. “Then this one is on me. To a swift trip home, for you and all your crew.”

Slowly he removed his hand from the top of his mug and watched her pour. Truly, his luck was changing. “You're from the same ship as those men, aren't you? The Reaper?”

“That's us,” he confirmed. He shifted the cindin in his mouth again.

“And you're the mate of the Reaper, then.”

“Just barely. I'm the third.”

“Ah. You're Brashen, then?”

He nodded and could not keep from grinning. There was something flattering about a woman knowing his name before he knew hers.

“They're saying the Reaper has filled her hold and is headed back. Must have been a good crew?” She raised one eyebrow whenever she asked a question.

“Good enough.” He was starting to enjoy this conversation. Then, in her next breath, she betrayed the true reason for her generosity.

“That's your ship's boy on the end, there? He's not much of a drinker.”

“No, he's not. Doesn't talk much either.”

“I noticed,” she said ruefully. She took a breath, then suddenly asked, “Is it true what they say about him? That he can skin sea bears near as fast as they shoot them?”

She did think Althea, or Athel was comely, then. Brashen grinned to himself. “No, it's not true at all,” he said solemnly. “Athel is much faster than the hunters. That's the problem we've had with the lad, he was down there skinning them out before they were shot. Our hunters had to spend all their time chasing down the naked bears he'd already skinned.”

He took a swallow of the beer. For an instant she just stared at him, eyes wide. Then, “Oh, you,” she rebuked him with a giggle and gave him a playful push. Relaxed as he was, he had to catch at the bar to keep from falling. “Oh, sorry!” she cried and caught at his sleeve to help him right himself.

“It's all right. I'm just more tired than I thought I was.”

“Are you?” she asked more softly. She waited until his eyes met hers. Her eyes were blue and deeper than the sea. “There's a room in back with a bed. My room. You could rest there for a while. If you wanted to lie down.”

Just before he was certain of her meaning, she cast her eyes aside and down. She turned and walked away from him. He picked up his mug again and just as he sipped from it, she said over her shoulder, “Just let me know. If you want to.” She paused as she was, looking back at him, one eyebrow raised quizzically. Or was it invitingly?

A man's luck turning is like a favorable tide. One has to make the most of it while it's there. Brashen drained off the last of his mug and stood up. “I'd like that,” he said quietly. It was true. Whether the offer of a bed included the girl or not, it sounded very good. What was there to lose? He shifted the cindin in his mouth again. It was very, very good.

“One more round,” Reller announced. “Then we'd better get back to the ship.”

“Don't wait on us,” one of the hands giggled. “Head back, Reller. We'll be along soon enough.” He started to sag his head down onto his arms.

Reller reached across the table and gave him a shake. “None of that, Jord. No passing out here. Once we get to the ship you can drop to the deck and snore like a pig for all I care. But not here.”

Something in his tone got Jord's attention. He lifted his head blearily. “Why's that?”