Or should he first rid himself of the ropes?
To release his hands would be time-consuming, but with luck and the help of the gods he could untie his ankles, which would allow him greater freedom of movement. He lay down on his side, drew his legs back as far as possible, and tried to reach the rope around his ankles. He managed to touch the wet cord with his fingertips, but could get no closer. Cursing his body for being so inflexible, he sat up and scooted down the incline into the puddle. Better to look for a hatch than waste further time.
The water tempted him, but it smelled of rot and fish and the lord Amon only knew what else. Promising himself a drink from the river the instant he got out of this wretched ship, he cautiously rose to his feet. He could not believe how frail he felt, how wobbly his knees were.
The hull was so shallow, he could not stand erect. The vessel was not large. Shoulders hunched, head down, he tried to raise his hands high enough behind him to search for the way out. He could reach the beams that supported the deck, but was not limber enough to raise them all the way to the underside of the deck planks. Unable to think of a better solution, he decided to run his battered head along the boards. With luck, he would find the hatch through which he had been thrown almost directly above him.
He shuffled forward, moving less than a hand’s breadth with each step. As expected, he promptly found the hatch. It was a rudimentary affair, a square hole cut into the deck with a flat wooden cover on top. Hunching his shoulders beneath it, he pushed upward as hard as he could. Whether he was not quite tall enough to gather the force necessary to raise it or whether he was too weak or whether it had been fastened down, he had no idea.
Cursing his failure, more determined than ever to escape his vile prison, he shuffled along the centerboard, water sloshing around his ankles, in search of another hatch. Mov ing at so slow a pace had an advantage: he did not have to worry that he might stumble over a ballast stone or trip over a loose board or step on some disgusting creature alive or dead. Nor did he have to worry about bumping his injured head too hard.
Within a half-dozen paces-or what would have been paces if he had been able to walk normally-the centerboard began to rise and the space between it and the deck gradu ally narrowed, forcing him to squat. He could not be sure, but he thought he was in the stern. Turning around, he shuf fled back the way he had come. Was the water getting deeper? he wondered. Had he been on his feet long enough to tell?
He passed the underpinnings of the mast and, not long af ter, found a second hatch. He stood directly beneath the cover and shoved upward with his shoulders. He managed to push it up a distance of two fingers’ width, allowing the fresh, cool night air to seep inside, but he could raise it no farther. He had to get rid of the ropes around his wrists and ankles. Freed from his bounds, he should be able to raise one or the other of the hatches high enough to climb through. He refused to think that both might be impossible to open.
On the incline near the hatch, he sat down, placed his back to a rib and, feeling a moderate amount of roughness on the wood, began to rub the rope up and down. Time dragged. His hands, already swelling, grew thick and clumsy. His wrists bled where the rope chafed them. He sel dom stopped, but when he did he heard the skittering of rats, felt them coming closer, drawn by the smell of blood. Anger filled his heart, as much at himself for walking into the trap as at the men who had snared him.
After he knew not how long, something struck the boat. It shuddered and water splashed onto his kilt. He glanced up, saw pinpoints of light showing through the hull across from him. Night had turned to day.
Realizing how stiff he was, he stretched his arms and legs, flexed his tired muscles. His feet splashed into water notice ably higher than before. He stopped breathing, focused on the world around him. The vessel was rocking more, as if the river outside had grown rougher. He looked again at the spots of light showing through the hull. They were well above the waterline, but for how long? How long ago had the boat last been caulked. How many similar holes, lower in the hull, were allowing water inside.
He had to get out.
He twisted his hands around as best he could and reached with numb fingers toward the rope, praying he would feel some sign of fraying. He felt a few loose fibers, nothing more. With sagging spirits he ran his fingers along the wooden rib. He should have sought out a board far rougher, with more jagged edges that would tear the fibers apart.
Scooting on his rear toward the bow, he ran his swollen hands up one rib and down another, finding most of them worn from years of use and the wood in a few crumbling from age and rot. He wondered how the boat stayed afloat.
Once again something struck the vessel, this time with a crash so strong it jarred his teeth. It slewed around. What he thought was the bow took the place of the stern. How could that be? Again the vessel was struck, a solid blow that tipped it half onto its side, covering him with roiling, filthy water.
His heart leaped into his throat and he prayed frantically to the lord Amon.
Moments seemed like hours. Fear held him captive, para lyzing all thought and action. He clung to the nearest wooden rib as if it alone could save his life. Then the vessel slowly righted itself and even more sluggishly turned the rest of the way around. When his fear abated, when he no longer lay witless, he realized the boat was not moored and secure against the riverbank. It was running free on the floodwaters, with no one on board to guide it.
Memory rushed in, words he had heard and forgotten, words he could suddenly recall as if he could hear them yet:
“This should do it,” gravel voice said.
“I say we slay him here and now.” A second voice.
“He’s supposed to vanish somewhere far away, and we don’t have time to take him.”
A third man: “He got out of that burning storehouse.
Who’s to say he won’t get out of this?”
“We didn’t tie him then.”
“Weren’t we supposed to make his death look like an ac cident?” the second man asked.
Gravel voice snorted. “Who cares how he dies? When his body’s found, if it ever is, he’ll be at least a day’s walk north of Waset. Maybe farther. There’ll be nothing on him to iden tify him, no way of guessing who he is. He’ll be just another man set upon by robbers, tied up and thrown into this old hulk to die.”
Remembering that promise of death, Bak was consumed with anger. He would get himself out of this foul vessel, and he would hunt down the men who had put him here. He would see the lesser men sent to the desert mines and the one who had ordered his death executed in the vilest manner possible.
Bak found a wooden rib that was not simply rough and splintery, but had a prominent knot with a sharp edge. It was high up in the bow, well above the growing pool of water.
Here, the boat was narrow and the deck close to the hull, which gave him no room to stretch out or make himself comfortable. He had to smile at the thought. Comfort was far from being his greatest priority.
He lay curled up in the confined space, located the sharp knot behind him, and began to saw away at the rope. His hands were so swollen, his fingers so numb, that he could barely feel them. He hoped he would be able to untie the rope around his ankles. He chided himself for thinking so far ahead. First get the hands free and go on from there.
The prow of the boat hit something solid. Unlike before, the jolt was easy, gentle almost, and he heard a grating noise somewhere beneath him. The familiar sound of wood being dragged across sand, as if he were helping his father draw his skiff onto a sandy shore. The vessel in which he was trapped must have gone aground. Praying such was the case, he doggedly went on with his task.