He forced a smile at the terror-stricken little thief. “Go on, then, if you think you can save yourself. Little Chicken and I will surrender to the soldiers, even if it means the last weighing.”
The goblin had been listening. “No!” he shouted. The door shuddered, and a whole spar fell out. “Yes!” Rap said. “Unless you’ve got any ideas?”
A gust of hot, muggy wind swirled into the chamber. Surf roared.
“Death Bird! Here!”
All three spun around. There was no one in sight to explain the voice, but the casement now looked out on strange frondy trees silhouetted against a grayish predawn sky. Rap smelled sea and damp vegetation. Another wave broke noisily, somewhere nearby. Stunned and wary, all three hesitated.
“Who said?” Little Chicken growled.
“Palms!” Thinal screamed. “Those trees, Rap! They’re palms!” The door shuddered again, the top hinge almost torn loose from the frame.
“Death Bird! Hurry!”
There was still no one visible to explain the dry old voice, but Rap knew it. ”It’s Bright Water!” Would she save the faun as well as the goblin she had called precious?
Thinal grabbed Rap’s arm. “That Rasha—she was a djinn. From Zark. Where there’s djinns, there’s palms!”
“Right!”
All three moved at once. Little Chicken went fastest, clearing the sill in one huge bound. Then he seemed to realize his error, for he yelled from outside, ”Flat Nose! Come!”
“I’m coming!” Rap called, and toppled over after him, tumbling onto hot, dry sand. Hampered by his robe, Thinal came last and tipped out almost on top of Rap.
The door fell bodily to the floor. The legionaries poured into the chamber.
They heard a faint, fading echo of a voice crying, “I’m coming.”
They caught a faint wisp of warm, tropic air, and then an icy blast from the Krasnegar night swirled snow at them.
One window was open. There was some discarded bedding on the floor. Otherwise, the chamber was empty.
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind.
— Shakespeare, The Tempest