Turn 117
    At last crew, gear, and supplies are stowed, and the TTS _Distraction_ is ready to lift off--sans Inez, who remains behind in Narain. She wants no part of this adventure, and Emmett has been able to convince her that she can make a valuable contribution to the ship's mission by examining the local markets in more detail. The crew has acquired a set of navigation charts, which contain little detail about the continental interiors but from which Alais' knowledge of cartography allows him to extrapolate a heading.
    The lands of Lord Gustave Durrell lie almost the radius of the planet away, in the high mountain range that forms the spine of Rigol's other inhabited continent. His domain is a wide valley in their midst, his seat a fortress guarding the sole roadworthy pass into the lowlands.
    Consulting (in his official capacity as acting captain) with Alais (now recovered from the spider attack) on their course, Yestin lets out an appreciative whistle as he peers at the navigation charts. "Given the limitations on travel and communication on Rigol, limitations common to many primitive groundling cultures, I had not imagined that the High King's influence would extend to vassals a half a world away. Impressive."
    Realizing that he had expressed his admiration allowed and having some vague notion that a captain (even an acting one) was supposed to remain aloof from such displays of emotion, Yestin colored darkly. Hoping that his embarrassment was lost on Alais, he drew himself erect in an attempt to salvage what dignity he could and said, "Keep me informed of our progress at regular intervals, Master Alais." Resisting the urge to salute, he stalked from the cabin, leaving the navigator to his tasks.
    Emmett looks down at the strange structure of the world before whistling and turning back to Alais. "Sure is flat." With that comment the half-man goes back to his duties.
    The hours of the journey pass slowly. First land, then the water of the channel pass below, and then land again, dotted by distant villages and wreathed by frozen rivers. In the afternoon a storm comes up with strong winds, forcing the ship down until it abates in the wee hours of the morning. Nyala paces the decks and polishes her bow. Brother Pham spends most of the time deep in prayer. Even Cog seems a bit worried.
    Lynden sits alone deep in mediation hoping to better understand Gerik's wishes. He feels that he is doing the right thing, but as usual the purposes of the gods remain opaque to mortal thought.
    In his off-duty hours, it occurs to Yestin to examine the gift he received from Tesfaye. It is an oddly delicate item to give one such as himself, the ivory bird in its ivory box, so perfectly carved that it seems it should breathe. Turning the figure over gingerly, he realizes for the first time that something is carved on the bottom of the box's interior. Having grown familiar over the past weeks with the local dialect and writing, he sounds out the syllables slowly, then together, and then jumps at least a foot as the bird on his palm suddenly grows. He's seen a couple of real ravens in his brief visits to planets; it certainly seems to be life-sized now. It sits quietly, gripping gently with its feet.
    Yestin stares at the bird in his hand for several long minutes, studying it with wonder writ openly upon his broad features. Slowly he extends his other arm, holding it aloft with elbow bent and perpendicular to his shoulder, forming a perch upon which the bird may alight. After a moment it steps to the proffered perch.
    The giff stares into the stony eyes of the snow-colored bird for more long moments, imagining he perceives a glint of intelligence within. Remembering sundry tales of wizards and their familiars, he wonders how much more there is to this intriguing creature than meets the eye. "Do you have a name, I wonder?" he muses aloud. He hopes but does not look for an answer...
    And he doesn't get one, though it cocks its head in a critical fashion.
    "I shall call you Salt, then," Yestin says with a smile and a nod, "in recognition of your coloring and remembrance that salt, the stuff of life, is a thing of precious value on many worlds."
    Wondering if the stone bird is merely a wondrous ornament or might have more utilitarian functions, he asks, "Salt, if it is your pleasure, will you fly to yonder mast and then return to my arm? I would see you in flight."
    The newly christened Salt does as he suggests; in motion it certainly looks like a real bird.
    [break, unless we're done there, Christian - if so, eventually the bird returns to its normal shape]
    The second day of the journey is uneventful under clear, cold skies. They have grown used to being chilled, the memory of a sun that warms as well as lights a distant thing. By the end of that day they have come upon the mountains, and decide to halt for the night rather than continue when they are not fully certain of their bearings.
    Midway through the morning of the third day, the sharp peaks below suddenly open out into two wide arms enclosing a gentler ground, though one broken by still deeper valleys and at times by chasms into which rivers fall thunderously, going away to gods know where. They see vast herds of animals moving, and smoke drifts up, marking settlements in the sheltered valleys. Birds of prey drift on currents, seemingly unmoving compared to the ship's greater speed.
    They make their approach to Highfort by night. Under the moon, it can be seen that the land has become hilly again, and the mountains leap up once more as the arms complete their circle. There is a gap in their ring, and in that gap squats a mightier fortress than any of them have ever seen, entirely blocking the pass. It takes some time for the scale to become apparent.
    The placement of the fortress puts its base a good fifty feet above the level of the ground behind the pass. The walls are one hundred feet high and fifty feet thick. The layout is square, with a massive tower at each corner and another on each side, above the road that runs into and out of the place, and a protected parapet runs along each wall, probably concealing any number of siege engines.
    Below the fortress is a town which they know to be Toll. It is larger than Myrr and most unusually for a Rigolian settlement, it has no walls of its own. What it does have, somewhat to the visitors' surprise, is a spaceport; an area of ground between the town and the fort has clearly been artificially leveled under all the snow, with some sort of marker at each corner, sufficient to accommodate a much larger ship than their damselfly. Sturdy buildings nearby suggest storage. What there is not, is an encamped army, but then there is still quite a bit of winter to go. 
    Yestin surveys the landscape critically, but with no clear idea of what to make of anything they have seen or what to do next. "The Victor has been busy, if that be his handiwork," he says to his crewmates, indicating that distant spelljammer port.
    Rather than risk being seen, they approach no closer for the moment but draw the ship off some distance away, still under cover of darkness, to make their plans.
    "What next, do you advise?" their (acting) captain asks.
    "We may be able to approach openly," Pham says. "After all, they have seen ships such as ours before. I had thought to concentrate my efforts on attempting to determine if there is another of those hell-born idols to be found here, though with such a large area to search it may take some time."
    "We may have to approach openly, if we hope to learn anything more detailed than the little we can see from the air." Yestin sighs, clearly not pleased by what he is saying. "It occurs to me that a stealthier approach may be useless, as there are few among us who could easily pass unnoticed among the native Rigolians." The Giff feels no need to remind anyone of the commotion their appearance made when they first appeared in Myrr. He shifts his eyes uneasily around the room, clearly uneasy with burden of command and hoping someone else will alleviate him of the need to make the immediate decision on what to do next.
    "We do have two natives with us now," Nyala points out. "And at least we are no longer dressed as strangers. Some of us could likely move about in the town without attracting attention. However, if it is access to yonder fortress we require...." It's clear even through her usual reserve that she's impressed by the place.
    "I _have_ been charged with locating my brethren and I too would like to disable any mechanisms created by the offworld followers," Lynden finally contributes to the discussion having sat and listened thus far, "but I am at a loss as to how to gain entry to the fortress."
    He takes a deep breath before continuing, "Though I am fearful of the consequences I will volunteer for this task. It is required of me."
    "Bravely spoken," ibn Fadil says seriously. "But I think our Captain" (he ignores Yestin's unspoken protest at that term) "is right that stealth is unwise here. I'm thinking more of a series of bald-faced lies, a quick reconnaissance, and a quicker exit. If Brother Pham is willing to pretend he belongs to the other side -- and if you, Captain, are willing to let me pretend to be the captain. I won't apologize for thinking you're a very poor liar, sir, nor for claiming that I'm good at it. Myself, Pham, and Emmett should be able to bamboozle them long enough to discern their plans, and hopefully escape afterwards." It is still a little strange for the others to see their previously self-effacing shipmate speak out with such boldness.
    "_Acting_ Captain," Yestin corrects ibn Fadil absentmindedly, while considering the man's words. "Yes, I think stealth is right out. A few of us could pass as Rigolians, true, but too few for my liking. We seem to fare none too well when we split up into too small groups; we have already misplaced our Captain and finest bladesman, and I should hate to lose anyone else. Plus, any such disguises would be effective only so long as we didn't speak, as our off-world accents would give us away instantly. Only Lynden and Mihal could affect to be locals, and even that assumes that there would be no significant differences in dialect in rural nations located half a world away from each other."
    Yestin blinks suddenly and turns his gaze from one to another of his companions, as though he had been voicing some inner argument with himself and only just now realized that he had spoken along. Feeling his face flush and suppressing a scowl, the Giff nods to ibn Fadil. "If you have something in mind, we should be glad to hear it."
    

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