Brothers of Earth

XVII

The clouds had gone by morning and Phan shed his light over a dead calm sea. Tavi rolled with a lazy motion, all but dead in the water, her crew lying over the deck where they could find space, wrapped in their cloaks.

Kurt walked to the stern, rubbing his eyes to keep awake.

His companion on watch, Pan, stood at the helm. The youth’s eyes were closed. He swayed on his feet.

“Pan,” said Kurt gently, and Pan came awake with a jerk, his face flushing with consternation.

“Forgive me, Kurt-ifhan.”

“I saw you nod,” Kurt said, “only an instant ago. Go lie down and I will stand by the helm. In such a sea, it needs no skill.”

“I ought not, my lord, I-“

The youth’s eyes suddenly fixed on the sky in hope, and Kurt felt it too, the first effects of a gentle southern breeze. It stirred their hair and their cloaks, touched their faces lightly and ruffled the placid waters.

“Hya!” Pan shrieked, and all across the deck men sat up. ‘The wind, the south wind!”

Men were on their feet, and Kta appeared in the doorway of the cabin and waved his hand in signal to Val, who shouted an order for the men to get moving and set the sail.

In a moment the night-blue sail billowed out full. Tavi came to run before the wind. A cheer went up from the crew as they felt it.

“Ei, my friends,” and Kta grinned, “full rations this morning, and permission to indulge, but moderately. I want no headaches. That wind will bear Edrif along too, so keep a sharp eye on all quarters, you men on watch. You rowers, enjoy yourselves.”

The wind continued fair and the battered men of Tavi were utterly content to sleep in the sun, to massage heated oil into aching limbs and blistered hands, to lie still and talk, employing their hands as they did so with the many small tasks that kept Tavi in running order.

Toward evening Kta ordered a course change and Tavi bore abruptly northwest, coming in toward the Isles. A ship was on the western horizon at sunset, creating momentary alarm, but the sail soon identified her as a merchant vessel of the house of Ilev, the .white bird emblem of that house shining like a thing alive on the black sail before the sun.

The merchantman passed astern and faded into the shadowing east, which did not worry them. Ilev was a friend.

Soon there were visible the evening lights on the shores of a little island. Now the men ran out the oars with a will and bent to them as Tavi drew toward that light-jeweled strand: Acturi, home port of Hnes, a powerful Isles-based family of the Indras-descended.

“Gan t’Hnes,” said Kta as Tavi slipped into the harbor of Acturi, “will not be moved by threats of the Sufaki. We will be safe here for the night.”

A bell began to toll on shore, men with torches running to the landing as Tavi glided in and ran in her oars.

“Hya!” a voice ashore hailed them. “What ship are you?”

“Tavi, out of Nephane. Tell Gan t’Hnes that Elas asks his hospitality.”

“Make fast, Tavi, make fast and come ashore. We are friends here. No need to ask.”

“Are you sure of them?” Kurt wondered quietly, as the mooring lines were cast out and made secure. “What if some ship of the Methi made it in first?” He nervously scanned the other ships down the little wharf, sails furled and anonymous in the dark. “Hnes might be forced-“

“No, if Gan t’Hnes will not honor house-friendship, then the sun will rise in the west tomorrow dawn. I have known this man since I was a boy at his feet, and Hnes and Elas have been friends for a thousand years. . . . Well, at least for nine hundred, which is as far as Hnes can count.”

“And if that was not t’Hnes’ word you were just given?”

“Peace, suspicious human, peace. If Acturi had been taken from Hnes’ control, the shock would have been felt from shore to shore of the Ome Sin. Hya, Val, run out the gangplank and Kurt and I will go ashore. Stay with the ship and hold the men until I have Can’s leave to bring our crew in.”

Gan t’Hnes was a venerable old man and, looking at him, Kurt found reason that Kta should trust him. He was solidly Indras, this patriarch of Actuary’s trading empire. His house on the hill was wealthy and proper, the hearthfire tended by lady Na t’Ilev e Ben sh’Kma, wife to the eldest of Gan’s three sons, who himself was well into years. Lord Gan was a widower, the oldest nemet Kurt had seen; to consider that nemet lived long and very scarcely showed age, he must be ancient.

Of course formalities preceded any discussion of business, all the nemet rituals. There was a young woman, granddaughter to the chan of Hnes. She made the tea and served it, and seeing her from the back, her graceful carriage and the lustrous darkness of her hair, Kurt thought of Mim. She even looked a little like her in the face, and when he knelt down and offered him a cup of tea he stared, and felt a pain that brought tears to his eyes.

The girl bowed her head, cheeks flushing at being gazed at by a man, and Kurt took the cup and looked down and drank his tea, thoughts returning in the quiet and peace of this Indras home that had not touched him since that night in Nephane. It was like coming home, for he had never expected to set foot in a friendly house again; and yet home was Elas, and Mim, and both were gone.

Hnes was a large family, ruled of course by Gan, and by Kma, his eldest, and lady Na. There were others of the house too, one son being away at sea. There was the aged chan, Dek, his two daughters and several grandchildren; Gan’s second son Lei and his wife Pym and concubine Tekje h’Hnes; Lei’s daughter Imue, a charming child of about twelve, who might be the daughter of either of his two wives-she had Tekje’s Sufak-tilted eyes, but sat beside Pym and treated both her mothers with respectful affection; and there were two small boys, both sons of Lei.

The first round of tea was passed with quiet conversation. The nemet were curious about Kurt, the children actually frightened, but the elders smoothed matters over with courtesy.

Then came the second round, and the ladies left with the children, all but lady Na, the first lady of Hnes, whose opinion was of equal weight with that of the elder men.

“Kta,” began the lord of Hnes cautiously, “how long are you out from Nephane?”

“Nigh to fifteen days.”

“Then,” said the old man, “you were there to be part of the sad tale which has reached us.”

“Elas no longer exists in Nephane, my lord, and I am exiled. My parents and the chan are dead.”

“You are in the house of friends,” said Gan t’Hnes. “Ai, that I should have lived to see such a day. I loved your father as my great friend, Kta, and I love you as if you were one of my own. Name the ones to blame for this.”

“The names are too high to curse, my lord.”

“No one is beyond the reach of heaven.”

“I would not have all Nephane cursed for my sake. The ones responsible are the Methi Djan and her Sufaki lover Shan t’Tefur u Tlekef. I have sworn undying enmity between Elas and the Chosen of Heaven, and a bloodfeud between Elas and the house of Tefur, but I chose exile. If I had intended war, I could have raised war that night in the streets of Nephane. So might my father, and chose to die rather than that. I honor his self-restraint.”

Gan bowed his head in thoughtful sorrow. “A ship came two days ago,” he said. “Dkelis of Irain in Nephane. Her word was from the Chosen of Heaven herself, that Elas had offended against her and had chosen to remove itself from her sight; that the true author of the offense was-forgive me, my guests-a human who did murder against citizens of Nephane while under the guardianship of Elas.”

“I killed some of t’Tefur’s men,” said Kurt, sick at heart. He looked at Kta. “Was that it? Was that what caused it?”

“You know there were other reasons,” said Kta grimly. ‘This was only her public excuse, a means to pass blame. My lord Gan, was that the sum of the message?” “In sum,” said Gan, “that Elas is outlawed in all holdings of Nephane; that all citizens must treat you as enemies; that you, Kta, and all with you, are to be killed-excepting lord Kurt, who must be returned alive and unharmed to the Methi’s justice.”

“Surely,” said Kta, “Hnes will not comply.”

“Indeed not. Irain knew that. I doubt even they would execute that order, brought face to face with you.”

“What will you, sir? Had you rather we spent the night elsewhere? Say it without offense. I am anxious to cause you no inconvenience.”

“Son of my friend,” said Gan fiercely, “there are laws older than Nephane, than even the shining city itself, and there is justice higher than what is writ in the Methi’s decree. No. Let her study how to enforce that decree. Stay in Acturi. I will make this whole island a fortress against them if they want a fight of it.”

“My friend, no, no, that would be a terrible thing for your people. We ask at the most supplies and water, in containers that bear no mark of Hnes. Tavi will clear your harbor at dawn. No one saw us come save only Ilev, and they are house-friends to us both. And I do not plan that any should see us go. Elas has fallen. That is grief enough. I would not leave a wake of disaster to my friends where I pass.”

“Whatever you need is yours: harbor, supplies, an escort of galleys if you wish it. But stay, let me persuade you, Kta -I am not so old I would not fight for my friends. All Acturi’s strength is at your command. I do not think that with war against Indresul imminent, the Methi will dare alienate one of her possessions in the Isles.”

“I did not think she would dare what she did against Elas, sir, and Shan t’Tefur is likely hard behind us at the moment. We have met him once, and he would act against you without hesitation. I know not what authority the Methi has given him, but even if she would hesitate, as you say, an attack might be an accomplished fact before she heard about it. No, sir.”

“It is your decision,” said Gan regretfully. “But I think even so, we might hold them.”

“Provisions and weapons only. That is all I ask.”

“Then see to it, my sons, quickly. Provide Tavi with all she needs, and have the hands start loading at once.”

The two sons of Hnes rose and bowed their respects all around, then went off quickly to carry out their orders.

“These supplies,” said Gan, “are a parting gift from Hnes. There is nothing I can send with you to equal the affection I bear you, Kta, my almost-son. Have you men enough? Some of mine would sail with you.”

“I would not risk them.”

“Then you are shorthanded?”

“I would not risk them.”

“Where will you go, Kta?”

“To the Yvorst Ome, beyond the reach of the Methi and the law.”

“Hard lands ring that sea, but Hnes ships come and go there. You will meet them from time to time. Let them carry word between us. Ai, what days these are. My sight is longer than that of most men, but I see nothing that gives me comfort now. If I were young, I think I would sail with you, Kta, because I have no courage to see what will happen here.”

“No, my lord, I know you. I think were you as young as I, you would sail to Nephane and meet the trouble head-on as my father did. As I would do, but I had Aimu’s life to consider, and their souls in my charge.”

“Little Aimu. I hesitated to ask. I feared more bad news.”

“No, thank heaven. I gave her to a husband, and on his life and honor he swore to me he would protect her.”

“What is her name now?” asked lady Na.

“My lady, she is Aimu t’Elas e Nym sh’Bel t Osanef.”

“T’Osanef,” murmured Gan, in that tone which said: Ei, Sufaki, but with pity.

“They have loved each other from childhood,” said Kta. “It was my father’s will, and mine.”

“Then it was well done,” said Gan. “May the light of heaven fall gently on them both.” And from an Indras of orthodoxy, it was much. “He is a brave man, this ‘t’Osanef, to be husband to our Aimu now.”

“It is true,” said Kta, and to the lady Na: “Pray for her, my lady. They have much need of it.”

“I shall, and for you, and for all who sail with you,” she answered, and included Kurt with a glance of her lovely eyes, to which Kurt bowed in deep reverence.

“Thank you,” said Kta. “Your house will be in my thoughts too.”

“I wish,” said Gan, “that you would change your mind and stay. But perhaps you are right. Perhaps some day things will be different, since the Methi is mateless. Someday it may be possible to return.”

“It is possible,” said Kta, “if she does not appoint a Sufaki successor. We do not much speak of it, but we fear there will be no return, not for our generation.”

Gan’s jaw tightened. “Acturi will send ships out tonight, I think.”

“Do not fight t’Tefur,” Kta pleaded.

“They will sail, I say, and provide at least a warning to Edrif.”

“When Djan-methi knows of it-“

‘Then she will learn the temper of the Isles,” said Gan, “and the Chosen of Heaven will perhaps restrain her ambition with sense.”

“Ai,” murmured Kta. “I do not want this, Gan.”

“This is Hnes’s choice. Elas has its own honor to consider. I have mine.”

“Friend of my father, these waters are too close to Indresul’s. You know not what you could let loose. It is a dangerous act.”

“It is,” said Gan again, “Hnes’s choice.”

Kta bowed his head, bound to silence under Gan’s roof, but that night he spent long in meditation and lay wakeful on his bed in the room he shared with Kurt.

Kurt watched him, and ventured no question into his unrest. He had enough of his own that evening, beginning to fit together the pieces of what Kta had never explained to him, the probable scene in the Upei as Nym demanded justice for Mim’s death, while the Methi had in the actions of Elas’ own guest the pretext she needed to destroy Elas.

So Nym had died, and Elas had fallen.

And Djan could claim he had made it all inevitable, his marriage with Mim and his loyalty to Elas being the origin of all her troubles.

. . . Excepting lord Kurt, -who must be returned alive and unharmed to the Methi’s justice.

Hanan justice.

The justice of a personal anger, where the charges were nothing she would dare present in the Upei. She would destroy all he loved, but she would not let him go. Being Hanan, she believed in nothing after. She would not grant him quick oblivion. .

He lay on the soft down mattress of Hnes’s luxury and stared into the dark, and slept only the hours just before dawn, troubled by dreams he could not clearly remember.

The wind bore fair for the north now, warm from the Tamur Basin. The blue sail drew taut and Tavi’s bow lanced through the waves, cutting their burning blue to white foam.

Still Kta looked often astern, and whether his concern was more for Gan t’Hnes or for t’Tefur, Kurt was not sure.

“It is out of our hands,” Kurt said finally.

“It is out of our hands,” Kta agreed with yet another look aft. There was nothing. He bit at his lip. “Ei, ei, at least he will not be with us through the Thiad.”

“The Necklace. The Lesser Isles.” Kurt knew them by repute, barren crags strung across the Ome Sin’s narrowest waters, between Indresul and Nephane and claimed by neither side successfully. They were a maze by fair weather, a killer of ships in storms. “Do we go through it or around?”

“Through if the weather favors us. To Nephane’s side- wider waters there-if the seas are rough. I do not treat Indresul’s waters with the familiarity the Isles-folk use. Well, past that barrier we are free, my friend, free as the north seas and their miserable ports allow us.”

“I have heard,” Kurt offered, “that there is some civilization there, some cities of size.”

“There are two towns, and those are primitive. One might be called a city, Haithen. It is a city of wood, of frozen streets. Yvesta the mother of snows never looses those lands. There are no farms, only desolate flats and impossible mountains and frozen rivers. Ice masses float in the Yvorst Ome that can crush ships, and there are great sea beasts the like of which do not visit these blue waters. Ai, it is nothing like Nephane.”

“Are you regretting,” Kurt asked softly, “that you have chosen as you have?”

“It is a strange place we go,” said Kta, “and yet shame to Elas is worse. I think Haithen may be preferable to the Methi’s law. It pains me to say it, but Haithen may be infinitely preferable to the Methi’s Nephane. Only when we are passing by the coast of Nephane, I shall think of Aimu, and of Bel, and wish that I had news of them. That is the hardest thing, to realize that there is nothing I can do. Elas is not accustomed to helplessness.”

En t’Siran, captain of Rimaris, swung onto the deck of the courier ship Kadese, beneath the furled red sails. Such was his haste that he did not even sit and take tea with the captain of Kadese before he delivered his message; he took the ritual sip of tea standing, and scarcely caught his breath before he passed the cup back to the captain’s man and bowed his courtesy to the senior officer.

“T’Siran,” said the courier captain, “you signaled urgent news.”

“A confrontation,” said t’Siran, “between Isles ships and a ship of their own kind.”

“Indeed.” The captain put his own cup aside, signaled a scribe, who began to write. “What happened? Could you identify any of the houses?”

“Easily on the one side. They bore the moon of Acturi on their sails-Gan t’Hnes’ sons, I am well sure of it. The other was a strange sail, dark green with a gold dragon.”

“I do not know that emblem,” said the captain. “It must be one of those Sufak designs.”

“Surely,” agreed t’Siran, for the dragon Yr was not one of the lucky symbols for an Indras ship. “It may be a Methi’s ship.”

“A confrontation, you say. With what result?”

“A long wait. Then dragon-sail turned aside, toward the coast of Sufak.”

“And the men of Acturi?”

“Held their position some little time. Then they went back into the Isles. We drew off quickly. We had no orders to provoke combat with the Isles. That is the sum of my report.”

“It is,” said the captain of Kadese, “a report worth carrying.”

“My lord.” En t’Siran acknowledged the unusual tribute from a courier captain, bowed his head and, as the captain returned the parting courtesy, left.

The captain of Kadese hardly delayed to see Rimaris spread sail and take her leave before he shouted an order to his own crew and bade them put about for Indresul.

The thing predicted was beginning. Nephane had come to a point of division. The Methi of Indresul had direct interest in this evidence, which might affect polices up and down the Ome Sin and bring Nephane nearer its day of reckoning.

From now on, Kadese’s captain thought to himself, the Methi Ylith would begin to listen to her captains, who urged that there would be no better time than this. Heaven favored it.

“Rowers to the benches,” he bade his second, “reliefs at the minimum interval, all available crew.”

With four shifts and a hundred and ten oars, the slim Kadese was equipped to go the full distance. The wind was fair behind her. Her double red sail was bellied out full, and there was nothing faster on either side of the Ome Shi.

There were scattered clouds, small wisps of white with gray undersides that grew larger in the east as the hours passed. The crew of Tavi kept a nervous watch on the skies, dreading the shift of wind that could mean delay in these dangerous waters.

In the west, near at hand, rose the grim jagged spires of the Thiad. The sun declined toward the horizon, threading color into the scant clouds which touched that side of the sky.

The waves splashed and rocked at them as Tavi came dangerously close to a rock that only scarcely broke the surface. One barren island was to starboard, a long spine of jagged rocks.

It was the last of the feared islets.

“We are through,” exulted Mnek as it fell behind them. “We are for the Yvorst Ome.”

Then sail appeared in the dusky east Val t’Ran, normally harsh-spoken, did not even swear when it was reported. He put the helm over for the west, cutting dangerously near the fringe rocks of the north Thiad, and sent Pan running to take orders from Kta, who was coming toward the stern as rapidly as Kta ever moved on Tavr’s deck.

“To the benches!” Kta was shouting, rousing everyone who had been off duty. Men scrambled before him.

He strode up to the helm and gave Val the order to maintain their present westerly heading. “Tkel!” he called up to the rigging. “What sail?” “I cannot tell, my lord,” Tkel’s voice drifted down from the yard, where the man swung precariously on the footrope. “The distance is too great.”

“We shall keep it so,” Kta muttered, and eyed mistrustfully the great spires and deadlier rough water which lay to port. “Gently to starboard, Val. Even for good reason, this is too close.”

“Aye, sir,” said Val, and the ship came a few degrees over. “They are following,” Tkel shouted down after a little time had passed. “They must think we are out of Indresul, my lord.”

“The lad is too free with his supposings,” Val said between his teeth.

“Nevertheless,” said Kta, “that is probably the answer.” “I will join the deck crew,” Kurt offered. “Or serve as relief at the benches.”

“You are considered of Elas,” said Kta. “It makes the men uneasy when you show haste or concern. But if work will relieve your nerves, indulge yourself. Go to the benches.” Kta himself was frightened. It was likely that Kta himself would gladly have taken a hand with the oars, with the rigging, with anything that would have materially sped Tavi on her way. Kurt knew the nemet well enough to read it in his eyes, though his face was calm. He burned to do something. They had fenced together; Kurt knew the nemet’s impatient nature. The Ancestors, Kta had told him once, were rash men. That was the character of Elas.

In the jolted, moving vision of Kta that Kurt had from the rowers’ pit, his own mind numbed by the beat of the oars and the need to breathe, the nemet still stood serenely beside Val at the helm, arms folded, staring out to the horizon. Then Tkel’s shrill voice called down so loudly it rose even over the thunder of the oars.

“Sails off the port bow!”

Tavi altered course. Deck crews ran to the sheets, the oars shuddered a little at the unexpectedly deep bite of the blades, lifted. Chal on the catwalk called out a faster beat. Breath came harder. Vision blurred.

“They are three sails!” Tkel’s voice floated down.

It was tribute to Tavi’s discipline that no one broke time to look. Kta looked, and then walked down among the rowers along the main deck so they could see him clearly.

“Well,” he said, “we bear due north. Those are ships of Indresul ahead of us. If we can hold our present course and they take interest in the other ship, all will be well. Hya, Chal, ease off the beat. Make it one which will last. We may be at this no little time.”

The cadence of the oars took a slower beat. Kta went back to his place at the helm, looking constantly to that threatened horizon. Whatever the Indras ships were doing was something outside the world of the pits. The pace maintained itself, mind lost, no glances at anything but the sweat-drenched back of the man in front, his shoulders, clearing the sweep in back only scarcely, bend and breathe and stretch and pull.

“They are in pursuit,” said Sten, whose bench was aftmost port. . The cadence did not falter.

“They are triremes intercepting us,” Kta said at last, shouting so all could hear. “We cannot outrun them. Hard starboard. We are going back to Nephane’s side.”

At least two hundred and ten oars each, double sail.

As Tavi bore to starboard, Kurt had his first view of what pursued them, through the carport: two-masted, a greater and a lesser sail, three banks of oars on a side lifting and falling like the wings of some sea-skimming bird. They seemed to move effortlessly despite their ponderous bulk, gaining with every stroke of their oars, where men would have reliefs from the benches.

Tavi had none. It was impossible to hold this pace long. Vision hazed. Kurt drew air that seemed tainted with blood.

“We must come about,” Val cried from the helm. “We must Come about, my lord, and surrender.”

Kta cast a look back. So, from his vantage point, did Kurt, saw the first of the three Indras triremes pull out to the fore of the others, her gold and white sail taut with the wind. The beat of her oars suddenly doubled, at maximum speed.

“Up the beat,” Kta ordered Chal, and Chal shouted over the grate and thunder of the oars, quickening the time to the limit of endurance.

And the wind fell.

The breath of heaven left the sail and had immediate effect on the speed of Tavi. A soft groan went up from the crew. They did not slacken the pace.

The leading trireme grew closer, outmatching them in oarage.

“Hold!” Kta shouted hoarsely, and walked to the front of the pits. “Hold! Up oars!”

The rhythm ceased, oars at level, men leaning over them and using their bodies’ weight to counter the length of the sweeps, their breathing raucous and cut with hacking coughs.

“Pan! Takel!” Kta shouted aloft. “Strike sail!”

Now a murmur of dismay came from the men, and the crew hesitated, torn between the habit of obedience and an order they did not want.

“Move!” Kta shouted at them furiously. “Strike sail! You men in the pits, ship oars and get out of there! Plague take it, do not spoil our friendship with mutiny! Get out of there!”

Lun, pit captain, gave a miserable shake of his head, then ran in his oar with abrupt violence, and the others followed suit. Pan and Mnek and Chal and others scrambled to the rigging, and quickly a “ ‘ware below!” rang out and the sail plummeted, tumbling down with a shrill singing of ropes.

Kurt scrambled from the pit with the others, found the strength to gain his feet and staggered back to join Kta on the quarterdeck.

Kta took the helm himself, put the rudder over hard, depriving Tavi of what momentum she had left.

The leading ship veered a little in its course, no longer coming directly at them, and tension ebbed perceptibly among Tavi’s men.

Then light flashed a rapid signal from the deck of the rearmost trireme and the lead ship changed course again, near enough now that men could be clearly seen on her lofty deck. The tempo of her oars increased sharply, churning up the water.

“Gods!” Val murmured incredulously. “My lord Kta, they are going to ram!”

“Abandon ship!” Kta shouted. “Val, go-go, man! And you, Kurt-“

There was no time left. The dark bow of the Indras trireme rushed at Tavi’s side, the water foaming white around the gleaming bronze of the vessel’s double ram. With a grinding shock of wood Tavi’s s rail and deck splintered and the very ship rose and slid sideways in the water, lifted and pushed into ruin by the towering prow of the trireme.

Kurt flung an arm around the far rail and clung to it, shaken off his feet by the tilting of the deck. With a second tilting toward normal and a grating sound, the trireme began to back water and disengage herself as Tavi’s wreckage fell away. Dead were Uttered across the deck. Men screamed. Blood and water washed over the splintered planking.

“Kurt,” Kta screamed at him, “jump!”

Kurt turned and stared helplessly at the nemet, fearing the sea as much as enemy weapons. Behind him the second of the triremes was coming up on the undamaged side of the listing ship, her oars churning up the bloodied waters. Some of the survivors in the water were struck by the blades, trying desperately to cling to them. The gliding hull rode them under.

Kta seized him by the arm and pushed him over the rail. Kurt twisted desperately in midair, hit the water hard and choked, fighting his way to the surface with the desperation of instinct.

His head broke surface and he gasped in air, sinking again as he swallowed water in the chop, his hand groping for anything that might float. A heavy body exploded into the dark water beside him and he managed to get his head above Water again as Kta surfaced beside him.

“Go limp,” Kta gasped. “I can hold you if you do not struggle.”

Kurt obeyed as Kta’s arm encircled his neck, went under, and then felt the nemet’s hand under his chin lift his face to air again. He breathed, a great gulp of air, lost the surface again. Kta’s strong, sure strokes carried them both, but the rough water washed over them. Of a sudden he thought that Kta had lost him-and panicked as Kta let him go-but the nemet shifted his grip and dragged him against a floating section of timber.

Kurt threw both arms over it, coughing and choking for air.

“Hold on!” Kta ^napped at him, and Kurt obediently tightened his chilled arms, looking at the nemet across the narrow bit of debris. Wind hit them, the first droplets of rain. Lightning flashed in the murky sky.

Behind them the galley was coming about. Someone on deck was pointing at them.

“Behind you,” Kurt said to Kta. “They have us in sight- for something.”

Kurt lifted himself from his face on the deck of the trireme, rose to his knees and knelt beside Kta’s sodden body. The nemet was still breathing, blood from a head wound washing as a crimson film across the rain-spattered deck. In another moment he began to try to rise, still fighting.

Kurt took him by the arm, cast a look at the Indras officer who stood among the surrounding crew. Receiving no word from him, he lifted Kta so that he could rise to his knees, and Kta wiped the blood from his eyes and leaned over on his hands, coughing.

“On your feet,” said the Indras captain.

Kta would not be helped. He shook off Kurt’s hand and completed the effort himself, braced his feet and straightened.

“Your name,” said the officer.

“Kta t’Elas u Nym.”

“T’Elas,” the man echoed with a nod of satisfaction. “Aye, I was sure we had a prize. Put them both in irons. Then put about for Indresul.”

Kta gave Kurt a spiritless look, and in truth there was nothing to do but submit. They were taken together into the hold-the trireme having far more room belowdecks than little Tavi-and in that darkness and cold they were put into chains and left on the bare planking without so much as a blanket for comfort.

“What now?” Kurt asked, clenching his teeth against the spasms of chill.

“I do not know,” said Kta. “But it would surely have been better for us if we had drowned with the rest.”