and child. The Beysib craft was a ten-oared cutter. It began to close the
distance from the first strokes that roiled the phosphorescence and brought the
cutter to Samlor’s attention.
An archer stood upright in the cutter’s bow. His first shot was’ wobbly and
short by fifty of the two hundred yards. He nocked another shaft, and the cutter
pulled closer.
Samlor dropped his oars. He knelt and raised his hands. He did not trust his
balance to standing up. ‘Star,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid that these men have caught
us after all. If I try to get away, something bad may happen to you by accident.
And I can’t fight them, I don’t have any way to fight so many.’
Star peered over her shoulder at the Beysib cutter, then turned back to Samlor.
‘I don’t want to go with them. Uncle,’ she said pettishly. ‘I want to go back to
Cirdon. I want to play in the big house.’
‘Honey,’ Samlor said, ‘sweetest … I’m sorry. But we can’t do that now, because
of that boat.’ The cutter was too big to overturn, the caravan-master was
thinking. But perhaps if he jumped into the larger boat with his push dagger, in
the confusion they might –
The Beysib archer pitched into the water.
It was a moment before Samlor realized that the man had fallen forward because
the cutter had come to an abrupt halt beneath him. The swift craft had thrown up
a bone of glowing spray. Now the spray’s remnant curled forward and away from
the cutwater as a diminishing furrow on the sea.
‘Now can we go to Cirdon, Uncle?’ the little girl asked. She lowered the hands