AS SMALL AND MEAN and dirty as it was, Crowfoot was profoundly glad to see Pylos on the horizon. The voyage from Dorian had been speedy but less than smooth, the Ocean of Aptikos in its usual bad temper. When at last they made fast to the dock, Crowfoot had Blanca and Pedro first up out of the hold and down the gangway to a terra that was blessedly firma beneath her feet. The Sword was strapped to her back and the saddle on Blanca’s before Sharryn had finished taking leave of the Barka’s captain. Avel was his name, he of the laughing hazel eyes and the tight brown curls and the quick, charming tongue. He had been the only bright spot in Sharryn’s voyage from Epaphus. Sailors.
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