Torches, mobile and stationary, lit the beach. They'd posted sentries tonight, not just a fire watch. Until they knew the story behind those old stone heads, until they knew one way or another if they were not alone on this island, no one was taking any chances.

Riley watched from the Mandalay's map room as smaller torches carried by his crewmen or by former pirates bobbed back and forth as pairs of men walked the picket. He and Fauntleroy had unrolled the two halves of the map on the chart table, reading the back of it once again. It was written in Latin, one of Fauntleroy's many languages, one that Riley was a shade rusty in.

"Two stones, it says," Fauntleroy said, pointing to the relevant part of the text.

"What about inhabitants, though? Does it say anything about people living here?"

"Nothing, Cap'n." He rubbed his chin. "Could be there's no one left."

"What, they all left on ships? Left their great ruddy heads behind in the forest?"

"Well," said Fauntleroy, "the heads was in pretty rough shape, and they all but one still had the emeralds in place for their eyes. That one, remember, that one was cracked apart by a tree? Takes a long time for somethin' like that to happen, I wot." He looked thoughtful, eyes drifting slowly apart, till it was clear he wasn't looking at anything in the map room. "Could be they all died, too."

"Where are the bodies, then?"

"Mayhap somethin' ate them," said Fauntleroy.

"Is that better or worse than us being overrun by natives?"

Fauntleroy shrugged, and looked ready to say something, but right then Robert Miller burst into the map room. "Sorry, Cap'n—Cap'ns," he said, seeing Fauntleroy, "but there's shouts comin' from shore."

Riley looked at Fauntleroy, who raised an eyebrow. "Maybe we've got our answer," Riley said. To Miller: "Thank you, son. Back to your station."

"Aye, siah," said the young man.

#

Two men were bleeding when Riley arrived on shore. He'd jogged where he could, walked fast where the stone of the spit was too loose to trust, and behind him, he could hear Fauntleroy, breathing heavy.

Light from one of the fires flickered across the mens' faces. One, a man from the Aeolus, had a gash above his right eye, and the blood, glistening in the firelight, ran down the side of his face to his chin and dripped to the sand. Gabriel Toujours, from the Ione, bled from the hole where a newly-absent tooth had been.

"What happened?"

No one spoke.

"What happened?" Riley said again, letting an edge creep into his voice.

One of the other men, one not bleeding, said, "Richard"—indicating the man bleeding from his scalp—"and Gabe got in a fight, Cap'n."

I can see that, Riley thought. "Over what?"

Toujours mumbled something, then spat blood.

"I didn't hear you, Toujours. What was that?"

"Dice game." He pointed at a blanket spread on the sand, a little way from the fire. Blood spotted it here and there. A carved, painted wooden cup and three or four small cubes were scattered at its center. "Fucker cheated—"

"I never—" began Richard—whose last name, Riley believed, might have ironically been Goodson or Goodman—and took a step toward Toujours.

Riley stepped forward too, putting his hands up to the sides, as Toujours continued, "—used a weighted die, I saw it tumble—"

"Bullshit," said Goodson or Goodman, "the blanket was—"

Riley bellowed, "Shut the fuck up," and heard the hiss of metal against leather as, behind him, Fauntleroy drew a pistolet from its holster. "I don't care what happened, I don't, I really don't." His hand made contact with Toujour's chest, and through the thin shirt the man wore he could feel hard muscle, shifting as he raised his fists. Riley hoped he wasn't about to do something stupid. He'd hate for Fauntleroy to have to shoot someone tonight. "Calm down, gentlemen, calm down." He felt hot blood drip on his knuckles, felt sweat roll down his side. He turned a bit, to speak to Toujours, and then something heavy, hard, and fast struck the side of his head.

It was like he had no bones for a moment. He collapsed to the sand like a human-shaped bag of jelly. He breathed sand in, coughed, felt it scratch his throat. He managed to roll to his back.

The stars above him flickered like the fire did. He saw the Cross, and fixed on it, hoping it might take him home. If not home, then perhaps back to Farfelu, back to Abbassi, back to Toussain, to her arms, to her warm and narrow bed of woven reeds and thin cotton.

He heard a sound like a whipcrack, and knew he should be doing something, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out what. Something hot and sticky sprayed across him, and there came a soft, heavy thud from somewhere north of his right shoulder.

He wiped the sticky stuff from his face with a hand that felt a little numb, and looked at it by the light of the fire. He felt a little concerned to discover that it was blood.

Cap'n?

What, he tried to say. Someone was gasping, not far away. He coughed, turned his head, spat something gritty. "What?" he said.

"Are you all right?" Fauntleroy crouched down, offering a hand.

"I think so." Riley took the proffered hand, pulled himself up. "Jesus. I've got a headache…"

"He hit you pretty hard," said Fauntleroy, helping him to his feet.

"Hit?"

Fauntleroy pointed. Richard Goodman lay on the sand, face up. He had a large hole to the right of center in his chest, filling with foamy blood. His eyelids flickered down and back up in time with the ragged, laboured gasps that were his breathing.

"Jesus," said Riley, softly and reverently.

"I shot him," said Fauntleroy, his voice a whisper. "I wasn't sure I was going to, but then I did."

Toujours had knelt down in the sand beside Goodson. He cradled the big man's head in his lap, running his fingers through his hair, weeping silent tears that glittered in the firelight like diamonds, completely ignoring the blood that still flowed from the gash above his eye.

"Can Hutch do anything—?" Riley began, but trailed off when Fauntleroy shook his head. "Shit," he whispered.

All around them, men from all the ships of the flotilla stood silent, watching. Riley wondered how many of them were friends of the man dying on the sand.