She gripped the nearest solid objects, not caring whether they were animate or inanimate, or even minotaur or human. She would not fall down in a faint over a mere narrow escape from capture or death by minotaurs. She would save that for something serious, such as a proposal of marriage or being with child.
One immodest thought led to another-how much was left of her gown? She had the undeniable sensation of breezes blowing on places that should not have been exposed to breezes. Before she could look down, someone behind her reached over her shoulder and handed her a sailor’s cloak. It was large enough to make a tent for two women her size, but it certainly satisfied all possible requirements of modesty.
It did not, however, satisfy the requirements of mobility. It dragged on the deck, and on her third step Eskaia stumbled over the heavy wool. She would have fallen if one of those large hands hadn’t held her up.
“Grimsoar?”
“What would Haimya and Pirvan say if you were killed? Compared to them, minotaurs are a trifle.”
He tried to keep her turned away from the ship’s waist, but she looked anyway. She counted more than twenty bodies, human and minotaur, and could not find a stretch of unbloodied deck larger than a man’s hand. Two of the ship’s boys lay dead beside their overturned sand buckets, one impaled on a shatang, the other with his head split-
“Excuse me.”
Eskaia gripped her dignity for a few moments longer, then dashed for the side. She almost reached it. Grimsoar waited until her stomach was empty, then offered her a clean cloth dipped in clean water-something, she suspected, by now almost as precious as healing potion.
That brought Tarothin back to her mind.
“We have to begin the healing work. Are the minotaurs driven off? Is Tarothin safe? Where is he? Is there any more healing potion? I need a new gown before I can-”
Grimsoar pointed over the side. Both minotaur ships now rested on their oars just out of bowshot. The sides of the one that had rammed Golden Cup was smeared with blood and seemed to be lower in the water.
“They’ll be back. They’ve left bodies aboard, and they can’t do that without losing honor.”
“Suppose we threw the bodies-?”
Grimsoar said something that shocked even Eskaia’s newly hardened ears. “Then they’ll fight to the death, and if they capture anybody, they’ll torture him to death. Don’t even think that again. They might have a mage aboard, as witness, and some minotaur mages can read thoughts.”
“Then let me find Tarothin, and we can try to heal any who are still alive. After we’ve done the work with our own-”
“No time for that. The lookouts have sighted two more ships approaching. One’s too far off to identify, but the one in the lead is minotaur-rigged.”
Eskaia wished she knew ail of Grimsoar’s words and a few more besides, preferably in the minotaur tongue so that she could curse them and be understood by even the meanest rower among them That wish might not be granted. What could she hope for?
“Very well. If we have to treat the bodies honorably, let us drag them off the open deck. They will not be the better for being trodden on by their comrades. Nor will we be the better for stumbling over them.
“Any who survive can be healed when we have leisure. But none will survive if they must endure another battle-”
“Aye, aye, Captain Eskaia,” Grimsoar said, in chorus with Kurulus. The mate had joined them during Eskaia’s outburst.
“If you are mocking-” Eskaia began.
“Your pardon,” Kurulus said, and his stricken tone told her that he was sincere. “You are wise and honorable, and we will do as you suggest.”
“Thank you,” Eskaia said. She hoped they would do it without her watching. She needed to sit down, drink something (even water), and change her gown. The dignity of House Encuintras, as well as her own, required that last measure.
Chapter 18
Haimya led Pirvan across the rain-swollen stream with the same finished skill as he had used in contriving their way down the cliff. When they finished the crossing, they were no wetter than they had been, as this was impossible. More serious, they had hardly a dry article of clothing or a bite of food that had not turned to a dog’s breakfast.
“We can steal food and clothing if need be,” Haimya said. “But Kiri-Jolith grant that we can see to our weapons before much longer. I do not care to approach an enemy’s camp with a sword that may be rusted into its scabbard before it comes time to draw it.”
Indeed, Pirvan had begun to weigh the merits of an alternative course of action: Summon Hipparan, ride him into the enemy’s stronghold, snatch Gerik Ginfrayson, and fly beyond the reach of Synsaga’s men, the mage’s spells or the black dragon.
It was much easier-except that it offered not much more chance of success than a stealthy approach on foot, as well as risking Hipparan’s life against both magic and the brute strength of an evil dragon not improbably stronger and shrewder than he was. That was more than Pirvan could in good conscience ask of Hipparan, unless for a much better reason than letting him and Haimya cover the last few miles of their journey dryshod.
Sodden as they were, the packs weighed even more, and it was good fortune that the ground beyond the stream was all downhill and much of it easy going as well. It might prove still better fortune that the firelighters in their packs seemed uninjured. Now all they needed was something dry to burn, a safe place to light the fire, and time to use the heat to dry everything they possessed, from the skin out.
Failing all of these things, they kept marching.
The smell of woodsmoke warned them long before they saw the fire, and they saw the fire long before they saw the silhouettes around it. Creeping close, they saw that the silhouettes were human, and heard speech in Common with half a score of accents.
Creeping closer, they listened.
“-a tree spirit. Had to be,” one man said. “Just the tree there one moment, the next moment the woman leaping out of it at me. No footprints either.”
“An army of giant ogres wouldn’t have left tracks, not in this rain,” somebody else said. “Proves not a thing.”
“No, it proves one thing,” a third man said, in a voice that seemed to carry authority. “Synsaga’s not the man he used to be. Why would he leave old hands like us out in the rain, facing who knows what, while letting people like that Istarian play lapdog to Fustiar?”
Somebody suggested that being so close to the mage was maybe not much of a privilege, and drew a chorus of agreement. Somebody else added that the Istarian had, after all, sworn the true oath to Synsaga.
“A year ago,” the voice of authority said. “A year ago, and him a captive for no more than two months before that. I’ve served Synsaga ten years, and where am I?”
“There was the king who had a tame sea troll,” another voice put in. “After ten years he asked the king for a promotion. The king told him that after ten years, he was still a sea troll.”
Pirvan expected-indeed hoped-that the next sound they heard would be a brawl, as the insulted man took his vengeance in blood. Instead he heard a stifled whimper from Haimya, and then loud, raucous laughter.
“Think you can draw me into a fight for my place, Gilsher?” he asked. “I’ll play games by your rules when that Istarian lapdog rides the dragon!”
After that, everybody seemed to talk at once. Pirvan listened, trying to draw some sense out of the babble, but he heard little except tales of battles and bawdy encounters. They made enough noise that he could not have heard much from Haimya unless she had come up and spoken into his ear.
So it was a surprise, when it came time to turn and slip away, to find himself alone.
* * * * *
Jemar the Fair had been in Windsword’s prow since first light. He would gladly have watched from the masthead, but for knowing that he would pay the price by being too weary to fight when battle was joined.