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"Boy," Graff whispered.
Sturm knelt. He swallowed hard and said, "Yes, sir?"
"Take . . ." Graff's leathery fingers were twined in the
wind cord. "Take . . ." he gasped again. "Ver' strong ..." Dry
rasping filled the old man's throat, and the captain breathed
his last.
Sturm stared at the dead man until a voice broke his
trance.
"What have you got there?" said Radiz. Sturm showed
him, his heart pounding for fear he might be punished.
Radiz looked uncomprehendingly at the strip of rawhide.
He rolled it between his fingers and gave it back to Sturm.
"Come along," he said.
From the forecastle of the SEA RAVEN, SKELTER
seemed small and forlorn. The impact of the ram had been a
glancing one, and the hull was crushed rather than torn
open. The surviving Thelite sailors lined the rail as the
galley backed away.
"What will happen to them?" asked Sturm.
"With luck, they can bring her in," said Radiz. "If they
sink, it will be the sea god's fault, not ours."
Even at his young age, Sturm found that hard to
believe.
The stern of the SEA RAVEN was covered by a luxurious
pavilion. Walls of rosewood and cedar rose from the oak
deck. Overhead was a cloth of gold canopy, and tinkling
brass chimes hung from ivory ridge posts inside
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