“Not unless S’ AntOn himself passes a miracle,” said DOnoju in a dead voice.
Then, snapping erect: “There is only one thing you can do for us, S’flor. If you will leave now, with the women— There are high born ladies among them, who must not be sold into captivity and
disgrace. Bear them south to Port Wanawato, where the calde will look after their welfare.”
“I do not like to run off,” said Ruori, looking at the men fallen on the wharf.
“S’flor, these are ladies! In el DIo’s name, have mercy on them!” Ruori studied the taut, bearded faces. He did owe them a great deal of hospitality, and he could see no other way he might ever repay it. “If you wish,” he said slowly. “What of yourselves?”
The young noble bowed as if to a king. “Our thanks and prayers will go with you, my lord captain. We men, of course, will now return to the battle.” He stood up and barked in a parade-ground voice: “Atten-tion! Form ranks!”
A few swift kisses passed on the main deck, and then the men of Meyco had crossed the gangplank and tramped into their city.
Ruori beat the taff rail with a clenched fist. “If there was some way,” he mumbled. “If I could do something!” Almost hopefully:
“Do you think the bandits might attack us?”
“Only if you remain here,” said Tresa. Her eyes were chips of green ice. “Would to Marl you had not pledged yourself to sail!”
“If they come after us at sea—”
“I do not think they will. You carry a hundred women and a few trade goods. The Sky People will have their pick of ten thousand women, as many men, and all our city’s treasures. ‘Wliy should they take the trouble to pursue you?”
“Aye . . . aye. . . .“
“Go,” she said coldly. “You dare not linger.”
He faced her. It had been like a blow. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Do you think the Maurai are cowards?”
She hesitated. Then, with a stubborn, reluctant honesty: “No.”
“So why do you scoff me?”
“Oh, go away!” She knelt by the rail, bowed head in arms and surrendered to herself.
Ruori left her and gave his orders. Men scrambled into the rigging. Furled canvas broke loose and cracked in a young wind. Beyond the jetty, the ocean glittered blue, with small whitecaps;
gulls skimmed across heaven. Ruori saw only the glimpses he had had before, as he led the retre~it from the palace.
A weaponless man, lying with his head split open. A girl, hardly twelve years old, who screamed as two raiders carried her into an alley. An aged man fleeing in terror, zigzagging, while four archers took potshots at him and howled laughter when he fell transfixed and dragged himself along on his hands. A woman sitting dumb in the street, her dress torn, next to a baby whose brains had been dashed out. A little statue in a niche, a holy image, with a faded bunch of violets at its feet, beheaded by a casual war-hammer. A house that burned, and shrieks from within.
Suddenly the aircraft overhead were not beautiful.
To reach up and pull them out of the sky!
Ruori stopped dead. The crew surged around him. He heard a short-haul chantey, deep young voices with the merriment of always having been free and well fed, but it echoed in a far corner of his brain.
“Casting off!” sang the mate.
“Not yet! Not yet! Wait!” –
Ruori ran toward the poop, up the ladder and past the steersman to Doflita Tresa. She had risen again, to stand with bent head past which the hair swept to hide her face.
“Tresa,” panted Ruori. “Tresa, I’ve an idea. I think—there may be a chance—perhaps we can fight back after all!”
She looked up. Her fingers closed on his arm till he felt the nails draw blood.
Words tumbled from him: “It will depend. . . on luring them to us. At least a couple of their vessels. . . must follow us.
to sea. I think then—I’m not sure of the details, but it may be. we can fight . . . even drive them off—”