Two weeks out of Milflor, the danger was extreme. Men were chanting the daily prayers with much greater verve than usual. The air stayed calm, the water barrels were almost dry. Gnurr cut the ration, and men began fainting at the oars—inevitably causing chaos and even injury. The next day the wind rose, but it came out of the north. Stormdancer wallowed and rolled, and the motion made rowing a worse torment than ever. Reluctantly Gathmor was forced to double up the men, two to an oar, and lack of sleep was added to the torture list; as was the salt spray that soaked every garment and bit into sun-scorched skin like acid. Rap suspected that all the men’s efforts were fruitless and the ship was being driven backward. To run before the wind meant dying of thirst before they found Faerie again, if they ever did. They might die of thirst in any case.
On the sixteenth day the lookout saw smoke ahead. Gnurr himself came around with an extra allotment of water, but it was less than two swallows per man. By nightfall, the peaks of the Nogids were visible from the masthead.
The ensuing darkness seemed to last a whole lifetime. Rowers given a break would simply fall off the benches and lie where they landed until they were kicked awake to start rowing again. The wind had brought no clouds, and the stars shone bright and beautiful and merciless.
The next day was worse. The volcanic smoke was no longer in sight, but a fringe of brown islands along the northeast horizon was visible even from the benches. Cruelly, the wind had banked to the northwest, and Stormdancer was unmanageable in a crosswind. Rap had an oar to himself now, for the ordeal was taking its toll on the weaker men. When the fear of death itself could not inspire, then the threat of a beating would not, even if it came from Gathmor.
Fear worked on passengers, also. Rap’s sole amusement of the whole day was to observe Andor bloodying his pretty hands on an oar. That was double irony, for Darad would be a much better rower. Hard to explain, though.
All day the islands drifted past. By afternoon, they were visibly drawing away, as the weakened crew lost its battle with the wind.
When the sun neared the western skyline, Gnurr handed around the last of the water and called for extra prayers. Those might be the last of the prayers, also. Inevitably morning would find Stormdancer out of sight of land, drifting away into the unknown ocean south of the Summer Seas.
As the prayers ended, the wind seemed to falter. The crew prayed all over again, forcing the words through cracked lips, and gradually—maddeningly slowly—the breeze freshened again and backed to the southwest. Smiles and laughter and cheers appeared among the holy words. The sail was raised, the oars pulled inboard, and soon the ship was dancing landward. The drab hills approached as the sky dimmed, exhausted men lay in heaps, and Gnurr and Gathmor brought out the charts.
4
A white bear had its teeth in Rap’s shoulder and was shaking him bodily. He said, “What?” without opening his eyes. Why bother with eyes when there was no light? He knew it was Gathmor.
But Gathmor did not know that Rap knew that and he continued shaking until he was satisfied that Rap was awake. The ship was plunging and leaping, ropes creaking in a stiffening breeze.
“This farsight of yours, lad. What’s your range?”
“ ‘Bout half a league, sir.” Stupid question—why couldn’t it have waited till morning?
“Thank the Gods! Come along, then.”
Grumpily Rap rose and followed, stumbling aft over the sleeping men, but being gentler than the mate, who had no choice but just to walk on them in the dark. No one complained very loudly.
By the steering oar stood the master, old and battered, a proud vessel listing in a killer storm. But Gnurr was a jotunn; he would not go down without a fight. Mundane vision would hardly discern him, were it not for his silver hair, fluttering in the dark like a captive bird. The helmsman was almost invisible, and only two white-bandaged hands nearby defined the silent figure of Andor.
“You may save us all, lad, if you really have got farsight.” Gathmor opened a case and pulled out a roll of vellum. “You’ve heard of the anthropophagi?” His voice was a dry croak.
“Aye, sir.” Rap peered all around. Even to the west, the horizon was barely visible, and forward his eyes could only just make out the humped shapes of hills against the sky. His farsight could not reach those—he sensed nothing out there except waves breaking on a reef to starboard.
“We’re still in danger. We’re on a lee shore in a rising gale. We must find water before morning, and the natives are hostile.”
“They really eat people, sir?” Rap had to force the words from his parched mouth. He was becoming more interested, less sleepy, but he had a pounding headache and he felt oddly fragile and unreal. He was shivering, and so were the others, fevered by the endless thirst.
“Yes. Now look here.” Gathmor peered at his chart. He raised it almost to the end of his nose. Then he lowered it and seemed to slump back against the rail. “Evil take it! I can’t even see well enough to show you.”
“I can see it, sir.”
“You can read?”
The mate’s surprise was both insulting and oddly flattering. “Aye, sir. ”
Gathmor muttered what sounded like a prayer of thanks. “Well, look at this, then, if you really can.” He thrust the chart at Rap. “We’re approaching the channel between Inkralip and Uzinip, or so we think.”
“Aye, sir.” Rap was wondering foggily why Andor had gone away. It was Sagorn standing there in the dark, listening—erect and intent, holding tight to the rail. His sparse white hair blew free, like the captain’s. Only Rap had noticed him.
“Well, man—look at the chart!” The mate was starting to sound urgent, perhaps even desperate. He must know about the reef to starboard.
“I am looking, sir.” Rap had not tried to unroll the scroll in that wind. “I’ve found Uzinip . . . Orphanlover Shoal . . . that’s the surf over there, sir?” He pointed.
Gathmor’s fist closed on Rap’s shirt and twisted, hauling him closer, almost nose to nose. “You trying to tell me you can read a rolled chart in pitch darkness?”
“Aye, sir.”
There was a stunned pause. Then Rap was restored to vertical and also thumped hard on a painfully burned, saltscabbed shoulder. He staggered weakly and grabbed the rail for support.
“Right, faun. You may save us yet. Follow the channel. It branches. Veer to port—keep left, that is. Several small islands . . . Fort Emshandar . . . can you see it?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Water, sailor! There’s water there. There’s Imperial soldiers there. The Gods have brought us to the only Imperial outpost in this stretch of the Nogids. Can you get us to the fort?”
Rap nodded, remembered it was dark, and said, “Aye, sir.” Then he yawned, which seemed to make his headache worse. The channel looked like a tiny wormhole, but he didn’t know much about charts. If Gathmor thought it was wide enough, likely it was. Fort Emshandar was on the far side of Uzinip, facing a much wider strait.
“You see where the chart says `village’?”
“Aye, sir.”
“That’s the anthropophagi, except this chart’s old, so they may have moved by now.”
Instantly Andor stood in Sagorn’s place. “Not probable! There’s little water in these parts. The settlements will still be by the streams.” That was Andor’s voice and Sagorn’s thinking, of course.
Gathmor growled angrily into the darkness, not seeing that the old sage had already replaced Andor again.
“Never mind, then,” the mate said. “We’ll creep by them, wherever they are. But it’s narrow. This back door’s not recommended but we have no choice. We’ll have to sneak in quietly and make the fort before they know. Otherwise we’ll be caught in the narrows and there’ll be faun pie for breakfast. Coming out, we’ll have a clear run to the north. All right?”
“Aye, sir. How close to the Orphanlover did you want to go, sir? We seem to be drifting that way.”
Gathmor blasphemed.
Rap yawned and yawned. If he sat down, he would be asleep at once, so he lounged against the rail between the master and the first mate and he gave the orders. That would have been funny, had anyone felt like laughing. He told them when Stormdancer was entering the channel, and then the sail was lowered and oars were put to use. Winds in narrow passes, he was told, were not predictable. Gathmor put on his sixteen most skilled rowers, with oar blades and thole pins muffled. Out of all the rest of the crew, very few could even stand up, and among them only Ballast and Little Chicken would be capable of using weapons. If the anthropophagi attacked, they would find the larder door unguarded.