It suddenly occurred to me that Six-Finger hadn't cast his line. "You can't catch anything-except your death of cold-without putting your hook in the water," I said.

"Giving orders already, huh?" growled the old man. "I've fished these waters before and I'll not find the Monster hereabouts."

With my stomach calm, I was getting hungry. I'd eaten raw fish before, so I asked, "Do you mind if I use your line and see what I can catch? After all," I reminded him, "I get a percentage of your take."

He shrugged his shoulders. "If you're going to fish," he said gruffly, "give me the oars." Six-Finger heaved on the wooden oars, turning his head away from me as he stared out into the gathering twilight.

My line splashed into the red water, trailing behind the boat as we moved farther out to sea. I closed my eyes, enjoying the steady, rhythmic movement of the old man's rowing.

This is a good way to live, I thought. Someone to row for me, and dinner just waiting to be caught. But then, as always, I started dreaming of more: I'd have a whole fleet of fishing boats with scores of old men bringing in a huge catch every day. I'd be generous and give them ten percent of the profits. Then I stopped and thought, no, I'd give them just two percent.

I smiled to myself and sighed with satisfaction.

I'd be known as Duder, Captain of the Blood Sea. And I'd be the richest elf in the world. The other elves would envy me. They would be sorry they had treated me so badly. I had been expelled from my homeland;

punished for a youthful indiscretion; shunned, made to travel all alone-oh, how I hated being by myself. But when the elves needed my fish, needed my money, needed my power and influence… they'd come to me then and say, "Duder Basillart,we're sorry. Come home." And I would just grin and tell them