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No. It is not a thing that is done. I dont expect to ride for free, said Adahm. Words and coins; they matter more than most anything when the time is right. The braided mans glare was unflinching. This is not one of those times. Adahm had been doing this all day. His feet were sore, his neck felt burned, and hed be damned if he was going to spend another night sleeping on a bed made out of moldy straw. Fine, words and coins are no good. If its not a terrible burden, would you mind telling me what is? The mans mustache, Adahm had decided, was his most expressive feature. A heavy breath puffed through it. For you? Nothing. No good. No way. I can work. You can tell Im not weak by looking at me. Im stubborn, too, in the good way. Give me a job and Ill do it. These are only words. Theyre not even pretty words. Damn it, Adahm said, heat in his voice despite himself. Ive travelled across half the stupid continent to get here. From Durmos. Just tell me what it will take to get on your Godsdamned ship. A pause, stony consideration. Gulls keeled and cawed, and the gangplank swayed under Adahms feet. Youre of the Grey Land, said the mustached Islander, finally. He patted an intricate design tattooed across one slab-thick arm. Our world, it is different from yours. You do not belong. Find a different boat, Greylander. Yours is the last one! Adahm made a point of always keeping an even temper, but

sometimes things couldnt be helped. Do you know how long Ive been in Traeport, looking for a boat to take me on? Waiting for the right one? Three weeks. Can you imagine living in this shithole for three weeks? Even out on the gangplank, he could still smell it: rotting wood, rotting fish, rotting ambitions; just rot. You seem powerfully eager to be rid of your Grey Land. Are you perhaps a criminal, fleeing justice? No. It was only the smallest part of a lie. Just desperate, tired, and ready to leave everything behind. The man crossed his slab arms above a slightly swollen stomach and considered Adahm. Youve never been on a ship before. Well, Adahm hedged, I learn fast. Look, Ive been going east for months now, and this is the only way I can keep going. So it is a journey you seek. A rekindling of the spirit. You do not want escape, or have a destination; you seek the passion of the high seas and hope it will be enough. Wonderful; he was getting poetic. If thats what it takes to get me on board, then yes. Exactly. It was late evening, and the pale light of the sun glowed amber off the ocean. If you pinched your nose and didnt think too hard, you might even be able to trick yourself into thinking it was beautiful. Youre an odd one, Greylander, said the Islander. Perhaps I will allow you on board just to hear more of your story. Adahms hopes soared before he managed to yank them back to earth a moment later. Hope was never a good idea. Every word Ive said is true, he said. Ill work twice as hard

as any of your real sailors. For the first time, the barrel-chested Islander smiled; a toothy sort of grin wide enough to make Adahm feel more cynical than ever. I say perhaps, but unfortunately for you, it is not my choice. I will extend you this courtesy, howeverI will take you to the First, you would call him Captain; we will see what he has to say. Then by all means, said Adahm, lets not waste any more time. Off to see the First. The islander considered Adahm for a final probing moment, then nodded. Come then. He should be in his cabin. # That the aged scrub brush had not fallen apart years ago was a testament to the craftsmanship of Islander artisans. Adahm swore as the damn thingchipped wooden handle, bent-up metal bristles and allslicked out of his hands yet again and skittered across the deck. So far, Adahm had been cursed with a dull peeling knife, a leaky bucket, and a malevolently ineffective mop. The brush was the worst of the lot. It was starting to feel like he was assigned chores with no real intent besides making Adahms days as miserable as possible. Half the morning was gone. All Adahm had to show for it was soapy hands, a halfscoured maindeck that was not any noticeably cleaner, and probably close to a mile traveled on his hands and knees fetching the ever-escaping scrub brush. The day was hot and arid. On the ship, every day was hot and arid. The sun seemed to

be able to burn Adahm even through his shirt, so hed given up wearing one days ago. Theyd ring the dinner bell in an hour or two. Adahm supposed he had that much to look forward to. Even if hed already accepted, with glum stoicism, that it was just going to be salted meat and brackish beer again. Adahm shook his head, sending beads of sweat flying. He was leaving his past behind. He went hours at a time without thinking about his old life. The sting of guilt was starting to fade to a throb. If he kept this up long enough he might even forgive himself. In that light, none of this was so bad. For that hed do just about anything. A calloused brown foot came down on the top of the brush. Adahm followed it up a white pant leg, over a swelling stomach a muscular chest past a tattooed shoulder, all the way up to the round-cheeked face of Tarmithe sailor whod let him on the ship, latently introduced on their way to meet the Captain. Adahm lifted his head to face him. It is not looking like you are doing much scrubbing, for one who was instructed to scrub Hard to do without a brush. A fair point. Tarmi toed the scrub brush in small circles, then kicked it lazily toward Adahm. It probably does not help that the First has given you a brush. And a miserable one at that. You scrub decks, his lips twitched, with a stone. Not a brush old enough to have known my grandfathers father. The First, he is playing games with you. Adahm had suspected that was the case. But do not worry, Adahm of the Brown Land. I will talk to the First, get you a scrubstone by the time they ring the lunch bell. Id prefer it earlier, maybe, Adahm said, as in now. But thanks.

Tarmi laughed. More of a bleat than a laugh, really. Gods knew he did it enough for Adahm to draw the distinction. I will try. But, my blue-eyed foreign friend, I came here with a question. Now that you are on a ship out at sea how are you liking it? Not all that much, Adahm had to admit, at least as far as the ocean was concerned,. Theyd seen the last brown smudge of land shimmer off the horizon days ago. Being surrounded by nothing but blue, blue, and more blue had proved even more distressing than Adahm had anticipated. The price you paid for spending your whole life in Durmos, he supposed. One more debt to chalk up to that damn city. Tarmi was still looking down at him expectantly. I do not think you misheard me, but its possible. How is your journey so far.? Its wonderful, Adahm lied. Makes me wonder why the hell Ive spent my whole life ashore until now. Ha. The bleat again. You may not look the partnot even a littlebut we will make a sailor out of you yet, Adahm. Dont expect any miracles. I do not, the Islander said, uncharacteristically solemn. Only time. An uncomfortable silence settled between the two, punctuated by the shouts and cries of the crew tightening ropes, raising sails, hauling up fishing nets. Well, Adahm dropped down to one knee. Ive got a good bit of scrubbing to do, and Im sure theres somewhere youre needed as well. Best to get to it. True and true and true, Greylander. I hope your remaining time with the brush does not cause you too much misery. Tarmi nodded his head and then walked away, whistling

tunelessly. Tarmi had kicked the brush alarmingly close to the railing. Adahm risked a glance over the edge. Ocean dark enough to look fathomless winked sunlight back up at him. Adahm shivered. What it would be like, to sink down, down, down, under all that water? The deck under his feet suddenly seemed remarkably flimsy. Best not to think about such things. Taking fastidious care to place his grip, Adahm picked the brush back up, sloshed it in the nearby bucket, and resumed scrubbing. # It never ceased to amaze Adahm how quickly the unfamiliar became routine. Within a week, life at sea started to take on a decidedly monotonous feel; another after that and he could go almost a full day without worrying about getting pitched overboard. Hed rise with the sun, stumble blearily to the mess hall, then get down to whatever chore the First had schemed for him. Twelve hours of slaving under the pounding red sun and two meals later and it was back below decks, down to his hammock in the low corner where the holds roof sloped down to meet the floor. And then the long hours spent struggling to fall asleep over the swell of the waves, hoping that he wouldnt remember his dreams in the morning. It got so oppressively hot during the day that he shaved his head after two weeks Adahm was damned if he was going to wait for it to grow long enough braid in the Islander fashion. A few days after that and he completely gave up on wearing a shirt. Tarmi chuckled to see him like that. You abandon your shirt even as you get painted dark by the sun, he shouted over the side of the ship at Adahm, who was suspended in a harness and scraping barnacles loose with a rusty scalpel. I say again what I have said before: you will make a sailor yet.

Adahm wasnt able to manage much more than a queasy nod in reply. It was windy and the lurching motion of the ship was making barnacle scraping a powerfully nauseating chore. Besides Tarmi, and sometimes the First or Second, Adahm hardly spoke to any of the crew. There were muttered apologies as they stepped around him, scrubbing a doorway or wiping down a deck, briefly exchanged pleasantries, but nothing resembling actual conversation. This was, Tarmi eventually explained, mostly thanks to the fact that almost none of the crew spoke common Pard. One and all they hailed from Bera, so far to the south of the Crying Isles that taking the time to learn it was a waste of effort. Tarmi, who, apparently, had spent some time inland years before, more than made up for this general silence. If not outright intrigued he was at least genuinely bemused by Adahm, and would regularly take time out of his day to visit him, offering up idle banter, lengthy soliloquies about the ways of the Islanders, and, most frequently, probing questions and barking laughs. Weeks turned into months. They made port several times, emptying their hold and refilling it with new goods; salt for spices, spices for sugar, sugar for silks. Adahm saw the legendary silver reef of Skeer, the cloud-stabbing peak of Ornos Islands black mountain, the ancient Crumbling Isle of Esl. His skin darkened to a rich nut-brown, his forearms grew corded and weathered. At the end of two months Adahm hardly recognized himself. He wasnt the only one. More than a few Islanders approached him in ports jabbering in unfamiliar tongues, clearly mistaking him for one of their own folk.

He remained an entity unto himself on the ship. For all that it was driven by a language barrier, it didnt make his isolation from the rest of the crew any more ignorable. It had been the same in Durmos, when hed been younger. Hed always been the boy with Desertfolk blood, the one whose skin was too dark, clothes too ragged. At least there hed had the Undercity to sink into, lose himself in the undiscriminating world of crime and vice. As bad as an end as that had led to, there were long moments Adahm spent missing those days, hating himself for it, hating the ship for not taking him far enough away to forget it all forever. # Adahm leaned over the starboard railing and breathed in sharp brine. After days of cloud-laden skies, the sun had risen to clear, brilliant skies.. Some merciful god had even seen fit to bless the crew with a weak breeze. Adahm reveled in it, let it rake airy fingers over his stubbled scalp. It was, simply put, a beautiful day, and if Adahm earned an angry shout for taking a few minutes to simply admire it, then so be it. They were just south of Jeheri, a few days north of Bera, right in the middle of the vacuous expanse of water in the middle of the Crying Isles. Some cartographer of yore had, in an uninspired stab at being poetic, dubbed it the Emerald Sea, a name that Adahm found alternately forgettable and hopelessly overwrought every time his eyes chanced across it on a map. It was a name fit for childrens tales and insipid poetry, not the central sea of the Continents most massive archipelago. Emerald, Adahm was forced to admit, did not begin to do it justice. There was not a word to describe the ocean he was gazing out at. It was brilliantly, savagely green, almost

luminous under the midday sun. Streaks of golden light striped the surface, rippled and teased by the wind. It was enough to make him feel, for a moment, content. At peace. He doubted it would last long, but Adahm had to admit that it made a nice change. Adahm made a point of never singing, but for a moment he strongly considered it. If it was your job to stare at the sea like a man with only half his wits, than you would be doing it very well indeed. Tarmi leaned against the railing beside Adahm, tattoos gleaming under a thin sheen of sweat. But I do not think that it is. An exotic fish surged out of the water, rainbow spray exploding behind it. Sorry. Its just soso Adahm groped for a less trite way to put it, then gave up. so damn beautiful. Tarmis grin threatened to reach his ears. So you are starting to see the world the way a born-and-bred islander would. I start to wonder how much of the Greylander I first met in Treport is still left. Greylander. That again. If its not foreigner, its Greylander. Adahm tore his gaze from the sea to glare at Tarmi. Makes me kind of curious why the hell I get called it so much. But you do not know? Tarmis moustaches twitched in, no doubt, amusement. It is simple. Your landit is not alive. Dirt and stone. Grey and brown. You are from the Grey Land. Dead and unchanging. Damn all those pesky trees and plants, being alive and green and all. Ah. But those are of the land. They are not the land itself. And so you are a

Greylander. Adahm was already fairly certain of the answer, but another history lesson on the Islanders seemed a fair exchange for more idle time hanging off the railing. And what about you? The Crying Islands arent any more alive than any other land. That is where we were born. Where we live, where we will return when we die, Tarmis voice swelled with emotion, it is this land. The Blue Land. The ocean. Did you know, foreigner, that there is no word for ocean in my language? It is just as I say it: there is the Blue Land, and the Grey Land. One is dead, unmoving, leaden. The other? And he smiled so unabashedly that Adahm thought perhaps hed been faking it up until now. It is alive. Always moving, changing, shifting, never content to stay still. Just watch. Adahm did. Perhaps inspired by Tarmis rousing speech, he was left almost breathless by the majesty of it all. Gentles swells of waves rolling and collapsing back in on themselves, small disturbances teased into prominence by the rising wind, endless and uninterrupted as far as he could see. The sheer scale of it. Could anything home match the sheer majesty of it all? Not, of course, that he was going to readily admit that to Tarmi. Hardly the Blue Land, Adahm said, instead, when its all about as green as a spring morning. Tarmi slapped a calloused hand against his stomach mirthfully. If you had not found the light in even so serious a situation, would you still be Adahm? Friend, you speak the truth. We have a special name for this part of the ocean. Let me guess. The Green Blue Land. It is exactly this. Tarmi paused to nod to a short-braided man upending a bucket over the side, his revolted expression leaving no doubt as to its contents. This, Adahm, is

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the Green Blue Land. It is part of my world. Can you say that it is not glorious? Adahm found that he couldnt. But I do not mean to make her seem all beauty and wonder. Tarmis face grew uncharacteristically sober. She is like a woman, Adahm, the ocean. For all her beauty and grace, she is only all the more wrathful and terrible when roused to anger. He pointed into the distance. Adahm squinted, was just able to make out what might have been a smudge of gray on the horizon. Our blue lady, she is a fickle one. Slight her in any way and she will become angry. Will become dangerous. Adahm looked back out at the ocean, its idyll marred by the now impossible-to-ignore clouds brewing far away. You think that storm will reach us? Tarmi shrugged. Who can say? But if it does, and his voice hardened, it will be a very different face that the Blue Land will show you. Best to enjoy this calm while it lasts. He walked off, hips swinging. Adahm stared back out across the water. Yes, it was an awe-inspiring sight. And yes, it was alive in a way that earth and stone never would be. Even its green hues were vividly dynamic in a way that plants and trees never approached. But now that he had a moment alone, he thought back to the towering crystal-capped heights of the Tyrcrags, the endless miles of swaying milk-pale prairie grass south of Durmos, even the sweltering yellow expanses of the desert where his mother had been born. Tarmi may be right about his land being blue and aliveor green, such as it wasbut he was wrong if he truly thought that the Continent was nothing but brown and grey. Unchanging. Dead.

There was, Adahm reflected, beauty to be found everywhere. You just had to look hard enough. And once again, he was struck by a pang of homesickness. The Grey Land might have driven him to abandon it for now, but that didnt make the Blue Land his home. He wasnt sure if anywhere was. If there was one constant in his life, one unchanging thread needling through everything hed ever done, Adahm supposed it had been trying to find a place that was his own. Where he wasnt an outcast, or a foreigner. Where he wasnt different. Thoughts that grim didnt last long in the light of a day this glorious, and a few minutes later Adahm managed to shake them off, back to mindlessly whistling as he polished the hatch to belowdecks. Maybe his melancholy had been able to follow him even here, half a world of water away from the Continent, but that didnt mean he had to play the same willing host to it that he always had. He was as close to being content with life as hed ever been, and it didnt look like things were going to get anything but better from here on out. It was a full three days later that the storm reached them. # The clouds swept into the sky like ink across a page. Rolling veins of black and grey branched and thickened. Nebulous fists clenched tight about the sun, and by late afternoon it was as dark as any midnight. The sea mirrored the sky, brilliance dulled to jade to purple to black. More ominous yet was the howling wind that screamed in ahead of the storm and only grew fiercer the nearer it drew. It snapped at the sails and wailed in Adahms ears. This blue lady of yours, he shouted over the roar of the wind, looks like youve done something to get her pretty damn angry.

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Tarmi pulled the knot hed been tying tight. What, this? This is nothing. Weve stumbled home a few hours late. Maybe tracked mud in. He laughed, unheard over a rumbling growl of thunder, cheeks shaking silently. The sea is not angry at us today, Adahm. A storm like this, it is nothing to worry about. Limited experience aside, Adahm had to disagree. Thunder had been booming louder and more frequently over the past few hours, until now it seemed it hardly ever stopped, crackling roars drowning out every other sound in the world. And the lightningshredding the sky into a hundred grey fragments, white-yellow lines there one second, gone the next. The rain topped it all off. Who knew that water could feel like a hammer, or fall so thick and fast? Adahm felt as battered and bruised as if hed just been beaten half to death. But all of this Adahm had seen before back in Durmos, if from a far safer vantage point than the deck of a ship. All of this worried him, tensed his muscles, set him on edge, but it didnt actually make him afraid. It was the waves that scared him shitless. Adahm was fairly certain hed seen smaller mountains. Black seawater snarled out of the ocean, reared half a hundred feet into the air, and crashed back down a sharp breath later. In the dark they looked more like sea monsters than simple water. Bunched up like muscles, writhing like snakes, punching through the ocean like gigantic fists. Twice now two especially nasty waves had smashed into the deck; both times Adahm found himself nearly completely submerged for a brief second, his hands gripped tight to the rail to fight the greedy suck of water slurping back into the sea. For the first time, Adahm felt like he fully grasped what Tarmi meant when hed

called the sea alive. He couldnt remember what land looked like. He couldnt even remember what it felt like to be dry. Adahm slid across the lurching deck behind Tarmi, the Firsts hoarse shouts just audible above the din, the rest of the crew murky shadows hurrying back and forth. Everybody was lashing riggings, lowering sails, tying down cargo. Adahm, who only understood one nautical term out of ten, followed Tarmi, helping with whatever he could. The larger man passed Adahm the end of a thick rope and grunted. Hold this. The wind took his braid, flapped it into the air like flag. Now, pull. Thunder shook the sky. For a terrified half-second Adahm saw the wave, black and roiling, towering what seemed like a thousand feet above him. And then before he could blink, shout, think, it smashed into the ship. The rope was torn out of his hands. His feet swept out from under him. He slid across the deck, tried to grab the slick railing, then flipped over it and dropped into the ocean. Water rushed in around him. It choked and clutched at him, running up his nose and down his ears. Silence. Blackness. Nothing but muddied swirling murk when he opened his eyes. His breath was gone, his lungs bursting. Panic seized hold of his brain. Up, some primal part of Adahm screamed, up up up! Up he went. The weight of the ocean strained to drag him back down, but Adahm fought it. His muscles burned, black crept around the edges of his vision, but Adahm kept on pulling and kicking. Up. Up up up. Everything seemed to slow down. Up! The surface seemed miles away. UP! And suddenly he was. Adahm burst head and shoulders above the water. He had a moment to feel the sting of rain against his cheeks and have the vacuum of underwater

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replaced by the leonine roaring of thunder. Just enough to time to spew out seawater, suck in a deep lungful of air and then he was back under, everything silent and blind and wet all over again. This might have happened only twice. It might have happened a hundred times. Adahm lost all sense of self of time, all sense of place. Everything in the world was reduced to the perpetual struggle back up. To suck in one more greedy lungful of air, to steal a few more minutes of life from the greedy ocean. Maybe he was dying. Maybe he was supposed to die here; that was his fate. But that didnt seem right, somehow, even as he realized he was too tired to swim back up this time. It was what he deserved. Why would this happen to him? Even in death, Adahm couldnt agree with himself. Thick arms wrapped around his waist. Adahm distantly felt something being wound around him, then cinched tight. He took in a breath. He took in a second, and felt a surge of shock. He was above water, he was staying above water. He blinked through a saltwater haze, eyes stinging. It was Tarmi, as hed somehow known it was, face taut and drawn, balsa-wood float strapped to his chest. He saw Adahm looking at him and roared something that was inaudible. A wave reared up, came hurtling down on them, and for a second Adahm was yanked back into dark, silent depths. And then back to the surface. Tarmi was still there, somehow, hands limply clutching the rope that hed tied around Adahms waist. His face was slack, eyes closed. Tarmi! Adahm screamed so loud he felt his throat tearing. He forced one arm out of

the water, reached out and grabbed hold of Tarmis shoulder, shook. No response. Tarmi! Wake up! Lightning flashed, and Adahm traced the line of the rope back to the split-second silhouette of the ship. He had to make it back. But how? He was barely strong enough to pull himself up, and he certainly couldnt carry himself and Tarmi. A wave swelled and tumbled. He kept hold of Tarmi, only just. Adahm didnt want to die. At all. It felt like a revelation. A sense of quiet settled over everything, so startlingly powerful that it almost enveloped the storm, rendered its wrath impotent. Everything had gone distant. Adahm fumbled at his waist. It took a moment to undo the knot and slip the rope off. He wove it through the float strapped to Tarmis chest. Saving one life wouldnt make up for what hed done, but maybe the gods would judge him more kindly in the next life. The next wave smashed the air out of his lungs. Adahm was sent spinning, hurtling, plummeting down, down, down beneath the water. # Adahm woke up in a hammock. The air smelled like old fish. A bit disappointing, really. You always heard tales about people waking up and thinking theyd died and gone to the next world. As far as delusions went, he wouldnt have minded suffering that one for a few minutes. It also raised an interesting point. How the hell wasnt he dead? Adahm started to sit up, but immediately regretted it as a wave of dizziness punched him back down. He opened his mouth to groan and only got a raspy croak. He realized how dry his throat was.

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Maybe he wasnt dead, but he wasnt much alive, either. It seemed like the more awake he came, all that happened was the more he realized how broken up he was. A pounding headache suddenly manifested, aches and sores and bruises throbbed to life all over his body, and his stomach began to clench and clutch in hunger. Hed broken a rib about three times in the past, and it felt like that might now be four. To hell with this. Adahm took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let the rocking of the boat lull him back to sleep. The next time he came awake it was to Tarmis concerned gaze. The Islanders wide face immediately brightened. Adahm. You are awake. That is good. When one sleeps as long as you have, you start to worry that perhaps they will never wake. How long? Adahm managed. Gods, and hed thought his throat was dry before. Two weeks. Tarmis grin wasnt half as broad as Adahm remembered it, and it was only a second before it wavered and slipped away. I owe you thanks, Adahm. I jump into the waves to save you, but it is you who saved me. Why? Why did I save you? Adahm nodded. Tarmis face clouded over. Does a man need a reason to save a friend? Rescued by a Greylander, he added, sly, my shame knows no bounds. Its a hard thing, Adahm said slowly, to watch a friend die. But friend is an interesting word to call a foreigner. But it is the right word. Tarmi moved his gaze around the room. Would you rather

that I have a clever tale to tell you? That you look like a son, maybe, that I lost to the waves. Or that I mistook you for another through the shroud of the storm. I cannot say these things, for they are not so. I jumped in after you because I feared for your life, and yours is one I would prefer to not see lost. That is all there is to tell. Placid waves slapped the ship. Muffled snores sounded from somewhere farther down the hold. Its not an easy thing, Adahm said, to try to thank somebody for your life with plain simple words. It is as I told you. Words and coins; they matter more than most anything when the time is right, but when the time is wrong they are next to nothing. But no matter; youve paid me in kind. You saved my life as I saved yours. Tarmi Adahm looked at the older man, felt a genuine surge of affection. His first true friend sincesince hed left Durmos. Tarmi, thank you. For everything. He reached out a shaking arm, clasped Tarmis. Friend. Adahm made a point of always acting lighthearted, but some things you had to make exceptions for. Tarmi stared into the distance for another long moment. Friend indeed, he said, at last. He turned his head back to Adahm. His broad grin of old was back, and when he spoke he sounded jovial as always, not a trace of the raw sentiment that had been there only moments ago. But come. There is plenty of time to tell more tales after you have eaten. Youve had nothing but soup poured down your throat for two weeks now. I do not think I can imagine how hungry you are. Can you walk? Adahm suddenly realized just how starving he was. It felt as if some nasty creature

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had gnawed a gaping hole where his stomach had once been. And then set up nest. I dont think I can walk. But I can stagger. Adahm forced himself up on one elbow. And as long as it gets me food, Ill stagger anywhere. Tarmi stuck out his arm, pulled Adahm unsteadily to his feet. It is a good thing I have such thick shoulders, hmmm? So you can lean on them and stagger to your food all the faster. Good thing indeed. Come then. Off to the kitchens. And then, a note of seriousness crept back into Tarmis voice, there is somebody on the ship I need you to meet. So long as he did it on a full stomach, Adahm would have willingly shaken hands with the king of Rygaurd. Fine. But food first. Tarmi took one step forward, dragging Adahm more than helping him walk. Food first, he agreed. He felt more like a sack of potatoes than a self-respecting human being, but oh well. Adahm allowed himself to be hauled down the length of the hold, thinking of nothing so much as how delicious even salted meat and brackish beer would taste. # He was one of the shortest Islanders Adahm had ever seen, and by far the most scholarly. The man peered at Adahm, birdlike over the top of silver-rimmed optics. He frowned, shook his head, and muttered something rapid and unintelligible to Tarmi. Tarmi swung his fist into his palm dramatically, scowled back at the man, and uttered a few heavy words in the same tongue.

Adahm sat on the lone crooked stool in the cramped room and watched the two throw back and forth. It was already clear who was going to win the argument, whatever it was about. After a loud, heated few minutes, Tarmi nodded triumphantly and turned back to Adahm. This is Neeri, Adahm. He is the ships ink-artist, drawer of skin-pictures. Tattoos, Adahm offered. Tattoos. He has agreed, most politely, Tarmi flashed the taciturn smaller islander a tooth-filled grin, to give you a tattoo. Adahm eyed the swirling, radial patterns coursing up Tarmis arms, over his bare shoulders. Like yours? What you see on me are dozens of years worth of tattoos. You will get only one today. For all the recently-discovered kinship he felt for the big man, Adahm wasnt about to get something inked onto his body on a whim. Care to tell me why? Tarmi gave him a level look. Have you ever wondered why all the Islanders you see have tattoos? It is the mark of our people. It means that you are one of us. Oh. Adahm felt stupid, which didnt make much sense. But, you know, Im not one of you. He was a foreigner. A Greylander. Maybe to him. Tarmi glared at the hawk-faced tattooist. Maybe even to most of us. But not to me. You saved my life, I saved yours. He placed a meaty palm on Adahms shoulder. Do this for me, Adahm. We do not give this mark to outsiders lightly. I have explained the situation to Neeri. However much he gripes, he would not give you the tattoo unless, deep down, he agreed with me. You have earned this. A place among us.

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Adahm made a point of never being emotional, but for a moment something stung in the back of his eyes and demanded that he run his fist across them to wipe them dry. Always doomed to be the outsider. Always the foreigner. Always the one who was different. But not this time. Needling in the ink was less painful then hed imagined, more irritating than anything else. He sat, first poised, then slumped, for one, two, three hours while Neeri squinted in concentration and etched intricate loops and swirls across Adahms upper arm. All the while Tarmi leaned against the wall of the small room and watched, sometimes solemn and silent, sometimes smiling and chattering about life on the Islands. At last Neeri gave a satisfied nod, clucked out a few syllables, and set down the pen. He pulled a mirror from a drawer and held it up for Adahm. His arm was raw and bloody as hell. Adahm winced and gingerly prodded the tattoo. Sensitive as hell too. Not that it made much of a difference considering all the aches and pains he was already enduring. But for all that, it was a true work of art. So, Tarmi said with feigned disinterest. What do you think? Its incredible. Adahm dipped his head. An honor. Tarmi grunted. So you like it? Adahm nodded. Tarmi ran a hand down his left bicep, tracing one of his many tattoos. It is the same as this one you see on me. It was, indeed, its twin. Would you like to know exactly what it means, Adahm?

Id love to. Tarmi clapped Adahm on the back. It means brother. Always the outsider. But not this time. Thank you. It came out more of a whisper than Adahm had imagined, much less manful, but what could you do? Tarmi raised Adahm to his feet and started to hobble with him toward the door. What did I tell you, eh? You would make a sailor yet. The Blue Land will always have a place for you, Adahm, so long as you see fit to call it home. Adahm had a strong feeling that that might be for some time to come. # How does it feel, roared Tarmi over the keening of gulls, to stand high above the whole world? Pretty damn good, Adahm had to admit. Like youre getting fat, he said instead. Out of breath from a short climb like that. "What kind of friend would I be if I left you to suffer the shame of exhaustion alone?" "A less fat one." "Enough. I brought you up here to see. Now look." The sun was a stained orange; the horizon maroon, the ocean pinkening to red. If you didnt look down, you could pretend you were floating above it all: maybe one of the gulls keeling in delirious circles around the ship. So is this the best thing this tattoo gets me? A sore shoulder and permission to climb up to the mastnest? Tarmi turned away from the sunset to settle a wry pair of eyes on Adahm. I could die

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tomorrow and you would make a joke of it. You didnt tell me I had to give up being funny when I signed on to be an Islander. Not Islander. Tarmis broad face was serious. Brother. It is better. All it takes to be an Islander is to be born. Ah. So Im better than an Islander. Rather than answer, Tarmi considered the white-winged birds all around. "Not long until we're back to the freedom of the Blue World," he said. "Soon they'll leave us, and that's when we'll know for sure." They were fresh departed from Saii, crown jewel of the Crying Islands, and the ship's hulls were laden. It felt, strangely and almost suddenly, natural. The sort of thing Adahm could imagine doing for quite a long time. Not just a way to pass the months, or flee from his problems until they grew small enough to stop bothering him. The boat had become home, and sailing had become a life. "I've been thinking about this Blue World business." More than he cared admit, actually: it felt strangely distant now, but Adahm had been quite the philosophical thinker when he was younger. Aging and the accompanying cynicism had soured his taste for it, but lately he'd found himself revisiting old, exploratory modes of thought. Adahm wasn't usually one to welcome a return to forsaken habits, but sometimes you had to take things in stride. "Ah. Imagine my delight in hearing that I have encouraged a wasting mind to make an attempt at thought." Perhaps because they hewed so close to truth, Tarmi's words actually carried a bit of a

sting. Adahm flattened his expression. "Anyway. The ocean. Its the Blue Land. And the Emerald Sea The Green Blue Land, yes. Right, I know. My point is, well, then, what the hell do you call this? He swept an arm wide. Like sunlight shattered through a spectrum, the world had exploded into color around them. Pink and red water had become fuchsia and coral and lavender and rust. Purple-blue skies were dappled with maroon and burgundy and plum. Shot through it all were traces of the pure, the true, the base: clear blues and bright yellows and deep reds. Adahm had never seen anything like it anywhere. This? Tarmi grunted. You expect us to have a word for everything. What would you call it, eh, in your clumsy Greyland tongue? Adahm intended to quip something caustic, but realized there really was nothing to say. The sun set, the world went dark, and they climbed back down. # The second storm came out of nowhere. There were no warning clouds on the horizon. The crew didnt have any time to prepare. Clear skies and gentle breezes, then an hour later black clouds, screaming wind, and white lightning all over again. Familiarity didnt lessen the terror. What do you think? Adahm shouted to Tarmi. His tattoo was unwrapped for the first time in weeks. It still felt a bit tender. She actually mad at us this time? Tarmis mouth was a grim line beneath his moustaches. This is the blue lady at her

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most furious, Adahm. Weve slept with another woman. Fathered a bastard child. The words were light, but his tone was heavy. Storms like this, they come once every two, three years. Before, the waves had been huge. This time they were goliath. The air smelled like rain and salt and trembled with thunder. The lightning looked brighter. The wind shrieked louder. Adahm followed Tarmi, lost him, found him and then lost him again. Somebody tugged Adahm by the shoulder, and then he was helping haul in the sail. Him and a few others got it about halfway down before the storm tore it away, ripped rope trailing in the air behind as it was whipped away. They started to haul in the jib before a wave snatched up out of the sea and snapped it in half. When the sky was as black as the water, your sense of the world started to slip away. Tarmi found him under the main mast in a burst of lightning. We need to tie ourselves to the ship. Another lightning flash revealed other sailors fastening thick ropes around their waists. Else well get pulled overboard again. I think we have both had enough of that. Adahm couldnt agree more. He started to say something to that effect, but was interrupted by lighting bright enough to blind. An explosive shower of sparks. A gut-twist splintering. Somehow, clarity: Adahm simply knew. The main mast struck head on, and the ship splitting in half. There was no time to panic. No time to ask Tarmi whether he should panic. No time to do anything. In what seemed less than a second the ocean poured up and onto the ship. It

looked like oil where it was bright enough to see, dark and gleaming. Tarmi roared something, or perhaps he simply roared. A chewed up piece of mast was shoved into Adahms arms, and then he was gone. The ship was gone. The sky was gone. Everything was gone but a familiar wet darkness pressing tight around him. Adahm wasnt sure how he kept hold of the piece of wood. He couldnt count the number of times he slipped into unconsciousness. He only knew that each time he came back to himself, some instinct had kept his arm wrapped tight around it. The storm never seemed to end. Noise, lights, and water; after a while, Adahm started to think that was all that thered ever been. He never knew what hit him on the head. There was only the sharp crack of something colliding with his skull, and then darkness deepened, thickened, and sucked the world away. # This time Adahm woke to blue skies and blue sea. There wasnt a cloud in the sky. Who knew when the storm had ended. He was still, miraculously, clutching the jagged sliver of mast. Soaked, sick, floating, and barely conscious. He was alone in the middle of the ocean. Adahm paddled in weak circles. He searched for Tarmi as well as he could. Then he searched for any of the crew. Finally he searched for the remains of the ship, any trace at all. He shouted until his voice was hoarse. Nothing. Truly alone. Two days passed. Adahm hugged his float to his chest and drifted in and out of consciousness. On the morning of the third day he woke to a burning fever. By sunset he was

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delirious. People long dead whispered in the back of his mind. He thought he saw ships on the horizon. He thought he saw things that didnt exist beneath the water. He imagined that maybe he had died, that if you died at sea this was what the afterlife was like. When the fishing boat found him, he thought it was a particularly cruel hallucination. Adahm remembered raving and thrashing as the dark-skinned fishermen pulled him out of the water, lifted him aboard, and dragged him to a pallet in a cabin. The days blurred after that. There were fragmented memories, made even more confusing by the disjointed fever dreams that flowed seamlessly in and out of reality. Adahm remembered eating a cold, salty fish soup. Ghosts spoke to him. He remembered being forced to drink lots of water. A woman said something about forgetting. He was sprayed with seawater. There was a coarse, bearded man with kind eyes; a soft, beardless man with angry eyes. And then one day he woke up and the fever was simply gone. He couldnt move for weakness, couldnt even bring himself to talk, but at least he could think. Not that he wanted to. Memory came crashing down on him, heavy and devastating as any wave. The storm. The ship. Tarmi. They were all dead. Adahm could lie to himself and imagine that maybe, somehow, theyd been saved. That Tarmi at least had washed ashore onto one of the hundreds of tiny uncharted islands. But Adahm had never been one to turn his eyes from the truth, no matter how painful it might be. He mourned in silence, never speaking to the fishermen that nursed him back to health. Out of a full crew of Islanders, only the man whod grown up in the Grey Land had

survived. The irony didnt strike him as particularly amusing. Occasionally the fishermen tried to talk to Adahm, but he couldnt fathom whatever tongue they spoke, and so his stoic vigil endured. The monotony was only broken by his thrice-daily dosing of fish broth and water. On rare days he felt strong enough to walk out of the cramped room to the deck, but he never stayed out long. The water only leered at him like an unflattering mirror. They stopped at several tiny islands, but the older fisherman made clear with gestures that Adahm was not to go ashore. Presumably his route would take him to a larger city sooner or later, and he wanted to leave Adahm there. Somewhere he could find somebody who spoke his language and find passage to wherever he wanted to go. It was only on the day they sailed into the harbor that Adahm realized where theyd taken him. The hundreds of berthed ships, the squalid city rising up on the hill beyond. Traeport. And so, half a year after hed left, Adahm sailed back into the largest port city on the Continent. A quick, vehemently pantomimed thanks to the fishermen, and he was put ashore. Everything looked just the way it had the day hed left it. An hour could have passed since he was last there for all that had changed. The same dockhands trundled from ship to shore or shore to ship hauling cargo. Swarthy sailors from every nationality imaginable staggered from tavern to brothel. The air still smelled like rot, only now it was stronger. Adahm walked past three inns. He didnt want to stay at an inn. He didnt have the coin even if he did. After so long at sea, the ground felt unnatural beneath his feet. It was too sturdy. Too unchanging. Too dead.

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A ship, was all he could think. He had to find a ship. He was a Blue Lander now. A sailor. Hed found somewhere where he felt alive again, and he wasnt going to give that up again just because of one tragedy. The first sailor he approached was an Islander through and through: shirtless, braided, tattooed, scowling. Can you take me aboard? Adahm rasped. His voice felt strange in his throat. Rusted from disuse. Im a sailor. The man gave Adahm a long appraising look. You? He snorted. Pasty skinned. Weak-armed. Clear youve never sailed a day in your life. Adahm blinked. No place for your type. Not on a ship. Some advice, Greylander. Stay ashore where you belong. It is best for everybody involved. Adahm realized his mouth was open. He snapped it shut and felt himself energized for the first time in a month by a hot wave of indignation. What about this? Snappishly, he pulled up his sleeve and bared his tattoo. The heavy-browed sailor eyed it. You think paying somebody to tattoo you with something sacred to my people makes you one of us? Would get you free passage somewhere? The man hawked and spat. Disgusting. Shameful. Get away from this ship. Stay away. Foreigner scum. Adahm made a point of never crying, but for a momentfor a moment there was nothing he could do. He turned away, tears stinging his eyes. Always the different one. Outsider. Foreigner.

The steeples and rooftops and towers of Traeport rose away in front of Adahm, a jumbled patchwork of colors, reds and browns and golds. Beyond that the long slope the city was built on leveled out and gave way to brilliant green trees, countless flowers freshly bloomed into a hundred myriad hues, the milk-pale beginnings of the grass-covered prairie. All he saw was grey. ###