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and whom she would never see again.

XIV
    By the time Yavobo reached the surface the sky had turned aqua, bleaching into orange and yellow clouds where the sunset line Med over the horizon. In the east and overhead a high purple-gray overcast shut out sight of the stars. Dark waters rocked the drylander in a rhythmic chop, an icing of phosphorescence from the plankton-rich sea shining atop each wave crest.
    He tore the breather from his face, gasped in clean ocean air with a near-claustrophobic joy, then sculled in circles and tried to get his bearings. The closest shore was at least 100 klicks to the northeast. The only habitations nearby were either too deep to dive to or so far away that Yavobo could not see their dome lights during his ascent. There was no safe haven for him to go to.
    Aztrakhani are not noted swimmers. Alone on the darkening sea, only the warrior's iron will kept panic in check. After another few minutes of treading water, he loosened his flotation belt, recinching it around his chest and under his arms. In that position he could breathe without treading water, an action that would drain his reserves of energy in very little time. Able to think beyond the moment, then, Yavobo drifted with the waves.
    The water did not seem too chill, and his leathery skin that protected him from loss of moisture in the desert in some ways now served like the insulating bodysuits the thin-skinned humans wore on this waterworld. The wind was hardly blowing and no storm was brewing, so he was not in outright danger from the elements. He looked to the northeast, where Amasl and safety awaited, somewhere over the curve of the horizon.
    His chances of getting there were slim. But better to be striving than to surrender to a fate handed out by nature or an ocean predator. As long as the glow of sunset remained in the west, he could mark his direction. He faced where the distant port must lie, and began to swim with measured, powerful strokes in that direction.
    As long as he could swim, he had a fighting chance. But when the sky fell black and overcast hid the few remaining stars from sight, Yavobo had to stop lest he waste his strength moving in circles. Frustration set in, and panic, quickly subdued, and a growing anger. Anger at himself, that he had overlooked whatever ploy had struck down Albek Murs, whom he had vowed to protect. Anger at whatever person had thrust him into this precarious situation, where even a mighty warrior was helpless against the elemental force of the sea, and only chance and the smiling gods could help him.

    Most of all, anger that he was forced to terminate a contract he could no longer honor—no, had failed to fulfill—and thus was bound to repay blood-debt to some thin-skin with no understanding of integrity and principle.

    If he knew who had carried out this attack, Yavobo would declare clan-feud, and hunt him down like the skigrat he was. At first it seemed futile rage, but as the hours wore on, the notion became more and more appealing. Why not? he asked himself. I am a hunter of sentients, after all. I have had no personal enemy in a long time. Perhaps it is time to renew the power of shkei-ko, of blood oath and feudhunt fulfilled.

    Razor-keen incisors showed in a vicious grin. He vowed his revenge to his personal gods and family totem. He forbore to slice the feud-mark on his forearm, not while he was in strange waters where unknown predators might smell his blood, but the Aztrakhani warrior swore he would take that final step as soon as he knew he would live, and be able to fulfill his oath.

    For a day and a half the Aztrakhani drifted with the currents, swimming when he could, resting when the unfamiliar exertion cramped even his hardened muscles. On the second night, a strong briny smell hung heavy in the air. A large body bumped against his legs and he started out of a tired haze, pulling knees up to his chest. But no fangs sank into him, no tentacles dragged him down: he extended