Alone for a moment in the crow's nest of the Reefrunner, Kalaban sighs wearily and opens one of Oscar's "medicinal bottles." He drinks deeply, ignoring the burn in his throat. "Oscar, you smull-brain," he says to himself, "you should have spent just a couple more glorn's of Zulies gold on the good stuff." His hands shake as he replaces the stopper. He fights back his revulsion-revulsion owing in only a small part to the poor quality of the liquor.

"Okay," he says to himself, "so lizard men aren't like humans. But they are close enough that they should know better." He shakes his head with bewilderment, still uncertain of how he had let this disaster happen. "Ay-culda! I had Sargeant Triangle figured for a straight shooter, not a murderer. After two months with him, could I have been wrong?" He groans and kicks his bag. The image of the butchery on the pirate ship sticks to his brain like a stain. He had been so stunned he had been unable to do anything to save them... it was all he could do to drop the two overboard that he had tangled with on the merchant sloop. His protests had been dismissed outright by Triangle as he and the Korb methodically killed every last pirate. There was nothing he could do...at least, that is what he had been telling himself for fifteen minutes.

Of course, the prospect of physically trying to halt the barbarity and tangling with a trained lizard-man warrior (and likely Krik and one or two others as well) proved an undeniable restraint on his guilty conscience. He sighs.

He considers the other crew of the "Reefrunner." It is understandable that Krik would have no conscience about murdering prisoners. There time together on the Gravy Boat had been sufficient for Kal to determine that he had an unrelenting and alien view of the world that could not be humanized. [At least least, not by Kal -- he is a thief, not a priest.]

But lizardmen, unlike Korb, are supposed to be civilized. They are supposed to know the rules. They are supposed to know the meaning of life and death. Certainly, Triangle had led him to believe he had a sense of morals...

Armando, whom Kal was certain had at least a background as a buccaneer, seemed a good enough sort. A little to stuck on his abilities with the ladies though -- which no doubt contributed to his marital woes and his poor prospects with Lori. Still, even the "retired" buccaneer had not taste for murdering the helpless prisoners. It might well be due to the fact that Armando might never have had the chance to change his life had he encountered such a bloody handed captain in his travels. Lori clearly was as appalled as he was. He grins to himself, wondering what "song" she might sing of this adventure. His mother had told him, "Sometimes a clear reflection of yourself in the eyes of another whom you respect can cause you to at least change clothes." Perhaps that might apply here.

Yamella... is also a lizardman, although clearly not of the island variety that the sergeant appears to be. His demeanor is so different that it is hard to think of him as the same race at all with Triangle. Perhaps, over some good drink or one of those mind altering smokes, Yamella could give him a little insight?

"Back to work, scapango," he says to himself. He dumps out his bag, reverses it -- exposing a brown checked lining that will now serve as the outside. He replaces the contents, and adds to them the hollow crutches and the remains of "Oscar". Good riddance to that disguise for a while. After two months he had started to annoy even himself.

He leaves out his bag of tools and medicinals. The passenger from the merchant-the monkey bird-was supposedly injured and may require treatment. "...at least, if Triangle hasn't already cut him in half and tossed him to the Grotto Crabs." He shakes his head.

"Keep the thoughts of the dead to yourself, Kalaban," he thinks. "Either you have been taken for a fool, or there is more to this than you know". He slings the long strap of his bag over his shoulder and leaps out of the crows nest and onto the rigging with catlike grace.

Life goes on. If this can't be resolved through a little information gathering and a sprinkling of a few well chosen words, then there is always the way of the Prince of Thieves. He promises himself one thing, as he drops to the deck of the catamaran.

The next time he won't be caught standing with his jaw hanging.