“The Kairos is sometimes female, except then he is our goddess,” Mousden said, confusing poor Hrugen further who shook his head in bewilderment.

Gregor asked a serious question.  “I thought, didn’t you say there was only one God, or three?  Unless you count that devil, too.”

“The jury is still out, as Festuscato would say, on who in fact Lord Agitus serves.” Seamus looked serious.

“The almighty, surely.”  Bran needed no convincing.

“Judging from these little ones, I would guess mostly himself.”  Gregor stirred the pot.

“Well, where is he?  I must apologize.  It would have been a black mark on my family for generations to drown my own god.” Vingevourt ignored the Saxon and sneered at Luckless.

Hrugen mumbled. “How can you drown a god?  It doesn’t make sense.”

“He’s not here.” Mousden said, right before Luckless shouted.

“My tools!” Luckless danced.  “Blessings, Master Sprite.  Please let me beg your pardon for misjudging your character and motives.  If there is anything you want, do tell.  I would gladly make goblets of gold for your banquet table, if I had any gold.”

“No need.” Vingevourt became gracious in return. “The only thing metal is good for in the sea is rust.  So which one is he?  What do you mean, not here?”

“I fear he may yet be dead,” Bran said.  “And I will have failed in my mission.”

“Not dead, master swordsman.  Do not be dismayed,” Mirowen told him.

“Not dead, I know it,” Mousden said, as he flew around in several circles and tasted the air. Everyone looked at Luckless as he contained his joy for a moment.  Dwarfs have an unerring sense of direction from living most of their lives in an underground warren of caves and mines more complicated than any labyrinth ever conceived by men.  They can also find any other given dwarf in that place with a sniff of the air and a sense that humans don’t have.  Luckless sniffed, closed his eyes, turned three times in a broad circle and finally pointed up the coast and slightly inland.

“And that’s not easy out in the open air,” he said in search of a bit of praise, if not sympathy.

“Easy or not, we should move,” Bran said.  “If the Lord has moved off the coast, he may be a prisoner in this strange land, or in other danger and in need of our help.”  Bran immediately rose and began to remove the ropes from his improvised raft. He would need them to tie their things to the backs of their horses and pony.  Gregor and Hrugen helped by saddling the beasts.

They were off soon enough, Luckless on the pony, leading the way.  Mirowen rode behind Seamus the Cleric while Gregor, Bran and Hrugen rode the other three horses.  Mousden flew most of the way, but landed occasionally on one horse or another.  Gregor, good heartedly invited the water sprite to ride in front of him.  His horse bucked once when Gregor mounted.

“Settle down, supper,” he said to the horse.  He called all horses supper.  “You stood around half the morning getting fat on scrub grass.  Now it’s time to work.”

The water sprite seemed reluctant to ride at that point, but Gregor stared him down with his one eye.  “It will be fine,” he said.  “It’s a horse, not a plow mule.”  When Vingevourt got up, Gregor added, “Won’t likely buck more than a dozen more times.” He laughed, and then regretted his invitation.  “Master Sprite, you’re leaking.”

“It’s perpetual,” Vingevourt said, having turned his words to the British spoken by the rest of the party.  He was a well-traveled sprite.

Gregor thought about that, but he did not really understand the word.  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll leak out eventually and disappear?”

“No.  It’s perpetual.”  The water sprite repeated with some annoyance.

“Magic.” Mirowen turned her head back to explain in terms Gregor could understand.  “No matter how much water appears, Vingevourt will not get any smaller.”

“Oh,” Gregor said, and he asked the sprite to please perpetual on the horse as much as possible.

“Easy for you. You’re nothing but mud.  A little water might clean you up if it doesn’t melt you,” Vingevourt said.  “More than likely I’ll be the one who will get filthy.”

“Huh!” Gregor huffed, but he said no more.

The trail seemed easy enough as they came quickly out of the rocks and to a sandy shore. There were three ships there, well up on the beach, all in various stages of building.  One appeared just a skeleton.  One looked nearly finished.  The third, somewhere in between.  There were two other ships as well, like ships in dry dock, being in various stages of repair.

“Easy,” Bran whispered loud enough for them all to hear.  He nudged a quick finger toward one ship in dock.  There were a dozen men, some standing around, but most examining the ships in the morning light for signs of damage from the storm.  The men watched the strange procession, but they neither said a word nor did anything to stop their progress.  The danger soon passed, and Hrugen spoke as soon as they were clear

“Ingut, the shipwright,” he said.  “I would bet this is his place, unless he died in the last twelve years, then it would be his descendant’s place, or another like him.”

“Ingut,” Vingevourt nodded.  “I know him well and his silly splinters of wood he floats across the surface of my realm.”

“This tells us nothing,” Gregor said.

“He is a Jute, but he owes allegiance to no one in particular,” Hrugen explained.  “He will build for any king or lord who will meet his price.  Jute, Thane, Dane, Swede, Norwegian, Geat, Frisian.  It doesn’t matter.”

“So, Lord Cato might be safe, or in trouble?” Bran asked for clarification.

“Safe, I would imagine,” Hrugen said.  “His clothes speak of money, and his shipwrecked condition speaks of needing a ship.”

“Sharp thinking.” Gregor complimented Hrugen.

“Let’s hope Ingut thought of it.”  Luckless shouted back from the front.  Dwarves had good ears as well as noses.