"Or maybe even if I don't, right?"

"Now you're getting the idea. I think you'll do just fine, but you'll have to push my sister back into a corner as well, and that might take a few days."

"ltd better not, Veltan," Padan said. "Captain Hook-Beak has to persuade your sister to let him do things his way, but he can't drag it out for too long. They'll have to reach an agreement before he unloads his men and frees up all the ships here in the harbor. Those ships are vital to Narasan, because half of his army is still sitting on that beach up in Lord Dahlaine's territory."

"He does have a point there, Veltan," Sorgan said. "I promised Narasan that I'd release his ships as soon as possible, and I don't lie to my friends."

"I can manipulate a few things," Veltan said, frowning slightly. "A good following wind would recover a day or two. We can give you that much time to manipulate my sister if you need to. After that, you might have to be sort of arbitrary in your dealings with Aracia."

"I don't see much of a problem there, Veltan," Sorgan declared. "I am a Maag, after all, and we invented arbitrary."

The obviously unstable log-boat pulled alongside the Ascension, and the grossly fat priest rose to his feet to stand in the bow—which struck Sorgan as an act of sheer stupidity. "We have beheld your approach to the temple of Holy Aracia," he declared in a rolling sort of voice, "and we must know of your purpose here."

Veltan stepped forward. "I am Veltan," he said, "the younger brother of she who guides you."

"I have not heard of you," Bersla declared in a haughty tone of voice. "Surely Holy Aracia would have advised me that she has a brother besides Mighty Dahlaine."

"I wouldn't depend on Aracia very much if I were you, fat man. Her mind isn't all that stable anymore."

"Blasphemy!" Bersla exclaimed in a shocked tone.

"Not if it's true, it isn't," Veltan disagreed. "I see that you're going to need some convincing. Watch closely, fat man, and pay close attention. This is your only chance to avoid my resentment." Then Veltan slowly rose up into the empty air above the Ascension to stand on nothing but air.

Fat Bersla went pale, and his eyes bulged almost out of their sockets.

"I can go higher, if you'd like," Veltan said. "I could even take you up into the air with me, if that would convince you. I am unlimited, Takal Bersla. If need be, I can carry you all the way up to the moon—but I don't think you'd like that very much. There's nothing to eat on the moon, and no air to breathe, so you'd probably die almost immediately."

"I believe you!" Bersla declared in a shrill voice. "I believe you!"

"Isn't he just the nicest fellow?" Veltan mildly asked the others.

It took the trembling Bersla a while to recover. "I pray you, Lord Veltan," he said, "why have you come here?"

"It should be obvious, priest of my sister," Veltan replied. "The Creatures of the Wasteland will soon invade my dear sister's Domain, and I have brought fearless warriors to drive them away."

"Eternally grateful shall we be if you succeed, Lord Veltan."

"Were you planning to live eternally, High Priest Bersla?" Veltan asked with feigned astonishment.

"Ah—we will pass this on to generations as yet unborn, timeless Veltan," Bersla amended. "May I speak now with the chieftain of these mighty warriors who have come from afar to defend our Holy Aracia?"

"I don't waste my time speaking with servants," Sorgan declared as roughly as he could. "Let's go talk with your sister, Veltan."

"That cannot be!" Bersla protested. "Holy Aracia's time is all filled for this day. As you may know, however, I speak for Divine Aracia when it seems necessary."

"Not to me, you don't," Sorgan declared. "I only talk with those who have gold."

Sorgan and Veltan conferred briefly, and then a sailor with nothing else to do untied a rope that held a well-built skiff in place, and then he lowered it over the side.

"That is not permitted!" Bersla declared. "No alien ships or boats may go ashore in Holy Aracia's Domain."

"You don't think for one minute that I'm going to ride to the beach in that unstable canoe of yours, do you?"

"It is perfectly sound," Bersla declared.

"Of course it is," Sorgan replied sarcastically. "At least it might be as long as you leave it on the beach. It's when you push it out into the bay that it tends to roll over without much warning. How many times has that happened so far this month?"

Bersla began to splutter a denial, but there was a muscular oarsman sitting just behind the fat priest, and he held one hand up with the fingers stretched wide and two fingers of his other hand clearly visible. Then he winked at Sorgan.

"Let me guess," Sorgan said to Bersla then. "I've got a strong hunch that your tree-stump tub has rolled out from under you seven times already this month."

Bersla's eyes went wide. "How did you—?" Then he broke off.

"Instinct, fat man," Sorgan replied. "I've spent most of my life at sea, so I know a lot about things that happen out on the water. Logs always roll over in the water when you don't want them to, and seven's a lucky—or unlucky—number, be it logs or dice." He made a slight gesture to the muscular oarsman, and the fellow nodded. "Let's go hit the beach, Veltan," Sorgan said then. "I want to meet your sister, and then I'll look around. If I'm going to defend her territory, there are a lot of things I'll need to know."

"How in the world did you know that Bersla's log-canoe had rolled over seven times already this month?" Veltan asked as Sorgan rowed the skiff toward the beach.

"You weren't watching very closely if you missed it," Sorgan replied with a broad grin. "When I asked the fat priest how many times his log-boat had rolled over, one of the oarsmen held up seven fingers."

"Why would he do that?"

"I haven't got any idea. I'm going to talk with him later and find out, though. It's entirely possible that he might turn out to be very useful later on."

"Does he know that you want to talk with him?"

"Of course he does. I don't want to hurt your feelings, Veltan, but you don't pay very close attention to what's going on around you. That oarsman gave me a wink when he held up his fingers, and I pointed at my mouth after I threw 'seven' into the fat priest's face. Pointing your finger at your mouth can mean two things—'let's eat' or 'let's talk.' Everybody knows that."