The wound did not look deep; the trails and smears of dried blood underneath made it look worse than it actually was. The airship’s owner had been a lousy swordsmen, and the sword hadn’t been very sharp. The wound stung, but he was more annoyed about the sleeve of his coat being ruined. Sorren had flown the airship above the mountains and set it on a slow course northward. He and Kovola were sitting in the airship’s cargo room, now empty save for a few wobbly wooden chairs, a narrow wooden table, a log book full of schedules and statistics, and writing supplies. Sorren’s staff stood leaning in a corner near a softly glowing lantern. Quove sat perched on the staff, facing his master. “You let him slash you with a sword?” Kovola asked. “It’s only a small wound.” Sorren squeezed the wound between his mechanical silver-copper fingers, testing the strength of the clotted blood. Red beads of fresh blood emerged and oozed down over his skin. Kovola grimaced. “Even so,” he said, “why wouldn’t you disarm him first?”
