He was strangling. He gasped for air and coughed over the water mingling with it in his throat. On a second try he drew a breath and heaved it up again, along with the water in his stomach, twisting over on his belly to the stones while his insides came apart. When he could breathe again, someone picked him up and wiped his face, cradling his head off the stone.
He was lying on the dock, the center of a great crowd of nemet. Kta held him and implored him in words he could not understand, while Bel and Val leaned over Kta’s shoulder. Kta and both the other men were dripping wet, and he knew they must have gone in after him.
“Kta,” he tried to protest, but his raw throat gave out only a voiceless whisper.
“You could not swim,” Kta accused him. “You almost die. You wish this? You try to kill yourself?”
“You lied,” Kurt whispered, trying to shout.
“No,” Kta insisted fervently. But by his troubled frown he seemed at last to understand. “I didn’t think you are, enemy to us.”
“Help me,” Kurt implored him, but Kta turned his face aside slightly in that gesture that meant refusal, then[ glanced a mute signal to Val. With the big seaman’s help he eased him to a litter improvised out of planks, thong’; Kurt tried to protest.
He was in shock, chilled and shivering so he could hardly keep from doubling up. Somewhere after that, Kta left him and strangers took charge.
The journey up the cobbled street of Nephane was -a nightmare, faces crowding close to look at him, the jolting of the litter redoubling his sickness. They passed through massive gates and into the Afen, the Fortress, into triangle-arched halls and dim live-flame lighting, through doorways and into a windowless cell.
Here he would have been content to live or die alone, but they roused him and stripped the wet clothing off him, and laid him in a proper bed, wrapped in blankets.
There was a stillness that lasted for hours after the illness had passed. He was aware of someone standing outside the door, someone who never left through all the long hours.
At last-he thought it must be well into another day- the guards brought him clothing and helped him dress. From the skin outward the clothing was strange to him, and he resented it, losing what dignity he had left at their hands. Over it all went the pel, a long-sleeved tunic that lapped across to close in front, held by a wide belt. He was not even permitted to lace his own sandals, but the guards impatiently took over and, having finished, allowed him a tiny cup of telise, which they evidently thought sovereign for all bodily ills.
Then, as he had dreaded, they hauled him with them into the A-shaped halls of the upper Afen. He gave them no trouble. He needed no more enemies than he had in Nephane.
II
A large nail was on the third level. Its walls were of the same irregular stone as the outer hall, but the floor had carpets and the walls were hung with tapestries. The guards sent him beyond this point alone, toward the next door.
The room beyond the threshold was of his own world, metal and synthetics, white light. The furnishings were crystal and black, the walls were silver. Only the cabinet at his left and the door at his back did not belong: they were carved wood, convolute dragon figures and fishes.
The door closed softly, sealing him in.
Machinery purred and he glanced leftward. A woman in nemet dress had joined him. Her gown was gold, high-collared, floor-length. Her hair was amber, curling gently. She was human.
Hanan.
She treated him with more respect than the nemet, keeping her distance. She would know his mind, as he knew hers; he made no move against her, would make none until he was sure of the odds.
“Good day, Mr. Morgan-Lieutenant Morgan.” She had a disk in her fingers, letting it slide on its chain. Suddenly he missed it. “Kurt Liam Morgan. Pylan, I read it.”
“Would you mind returning it?” It was his identity tag. He had worn it since the day of his birth, and it was unnerving to have it in her hands, as if a bit of his life dangled there. She considered a moment, then tossed it. He caught it.