Chapter seventeenThe fleet sailed majestically about us. This gathering of fliers, an Armada of the Clouds, drove on in the rigid sailing lines so typical of Shank aerial doctrine. Darham and I and many other slaves were packed into a weyver, a barge-like voller, with tremendous carrying capacity. Pazzians called them Quoffas of the Skies. The fishfaces regarded these highly useful barges with a degree of contempt. They called them Bishters. A great concentration of flying vessels about us, we flew on under the streaming mingled lights of the Suns of Scorpio.
Where we were going, and why, naturally, we had not the foggiest idea in all of Kregen.
Out to raid our own Paz; that was the general consensus among the slaves huddled in the weyvers.
The fleet was heavily stocked with provisions.
