Night falls fast on the open seas. The sun has set, the moon is a pale
ghost in the darkening sky, and the stars are just now flickering into
life. Martin stands at the bow of the frigate HMS Retaliation, staring
ahead into the blackness for no better reason than that it beats staring
at the walls belowdeck.

There's that tickling, tingling sensation inside the back of his skull,
and he finds himself growing tense as he straightens, one hand loosely
bracing him against the rail, the other loosening the saber from its
scabbard.

Prepared, he opens himself to the Trump call, and hears... nothing. 

Irritably, he demands "What?"

The presence wavers, resolves and the contact grows a little stronger.
In his mind, he sees Niara in her bedroom, atop her flowerbush painted
dresser, its mirror at her back.

Take the Mona Lisa. Make her darker and elfin boned, and substitute her
straight brown-black hair with ebony. Widen her almondine eyes. Color
them bronze, like those of some leopards. Occasionally, fleetingly,
re-draw that famous smile onto a Dionysian mouth. Give her slender,
fragile hands, impossibly tiny feet, and indolent grace that is the
stuff of scientific treatise. Shear her lustrous hair until the back is
just at ear level, and beginning to curl. Snip her bangs into a coronet
of short ringlets. Tuck her into lean, hip-waisted sable trousers. Pipe
a line of orange and purple cording up the sides of their legs. Slide
black leather over them to the knees. Fold her into a white blouson
sleeved halter. Drop a swallow-tailed purple weskit on over that, a
tailor's wet dream of darts, princess seaming and button-and-chain
fasteners. Float a lotus-riddled round of lapis against her collarbone
from a delicate silver chain. Buckle a black scabbard low on her right
hip. Stick a plain sabre in it. Make her smell like musk and
honeysuckle.

She murmurs, slowly, "H-hi."

Martin's hair is riffled by the wind at his back, the sails full-bellied
behind him. A startled pause, and then, a faint smile. "Hi," he answers.

Niara's mouth moves from side to side, then settles into a quirk in one
corner. The fading light filtering in from a nearby window reflects in
her gaze. "Things alright?"

Martin's smile hazes over into a frown, "Fine. Is something wrong?"

Niara blurts, "I didn't get out of it, after all." before taking a
breath. "He made me a Knight of the Unicorn," she says, then, quietly.
"Whatever in the Nine Hells that means."

She says "But, but, no, that's ... I just wanted to say, hi, I found the
card, and I hope that things are alright, and that."

Martin appears taken aback. "Did he?" he smiles slowly, then chuckles.
"I guess he's got plans for you." A shrug, and "Wondered how long it'd
take you." His tone grows serious again, "Who else knows you have my
Trump?"

Niara mumbles, "Who doesn't?" before a quiet, "No one. I just found it."
She adds, "Monster was out of water."

Martin nods, the smile returning, "Keep it that way, please."

Niara says "He bit a hole in the top corner. I hope that doesn't ... not
to worry."

In your mind, Martin quirks a brow, and chuckles, "Well, it still
works." Another pause, and, with some regret, "You know I won't ask you
to join me out here."

"I know." Niara says "You've got a job to do, and all that. And I guess
I do too."

Martin nods, "Yeah, for now." Another moment, and he adds, "but if
you're in trouble, if you need to reach me in a hurry..." he leaves it
hanging, his intent, hopefully, clear.

Niara develops a small smile. "Thank you."

She says "I'm sorry if I interrupted anything."

Martin shakes his head, and laughs, gesturing idly about him, to the
amusement of a sailor in the background. "Out here? All you're
interrupting is a long day of staring at sea, sky and the occasional
seagull."

Niara's smile grows. Her lips purse some, and she brings a hand up to
them to blow a kiss.

Martin snatches up the imaginary kiss and slips it into a pocket. "Trump
me again tomorrow at this time if you're still curious about my state of
health," he grins, and then suggests gently, "go sleep."

Niara murmurs. "Food first, I think, then, yes. Talk to you tomorrow."

Martin nods. "Good night."

With regret, and a little effort, he concentrates on severing the
contact and does so. Niara's new to this, he reminds himself.

A Knight of the what? he thinks a little later.

Ahead he sees only blackness and his quavering shadow that the lantern
behind him casts on the dark waves below. Retaliation carries him ever
onwards, rushing into the shadows. Food, he thinks. Then something to
drink. He'll be running the Virgan blockade in a few days. At least
Amber's at his back. He smiles a half-smile to himself, starts whistling
a cheery air, and heads below.

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5/4/98