Tordun stepped up to the Haven man, towering over him. "Bugger you, Haven man," he groaned. "I quit. We aren't going to last another day. The water's almost gone, and we look like something a sewer rat would reject as food. Face facts for once; we aren't going to get through this. I refuse to drag that bloody cart another inch."
Drex had refused to move from her sleeping bag, and Grimm understood just how she felt: his unsteady legs felt no more substantial than straw. The mage no longer knew what motivated him, but something ordered him to carry on, regardless. However, another, contrary part of his brain yearned for somebody, anybody, to give him the least excuse to stop.
Xylox spoke next, through chapped and blistered lips. "Tordun is right. We have been drinking water at a prodigious rate, Foster, on your advice, and we are not even half-way through this journey. What does it profit us to struggle on for another two or three days, when it is plain that we will not survive? Of what use now is your marvellous training, and your beloved Technology? I will wager that in seven hours' time we will have exhausted the last vestiges of our drinking supply, and that we will be all but incapable of moving further.
"We must start rationing the water, Foster, regardless of what you say. I will oversee the issue of the fluid myself, and I will rule its distribution with an iron hand. Water will be rationed according to size. I will assume the role of supervisor of this expedition from now on!"
The blistered Tordun nodded. "I say that any port is acceptable in a storm. This moron irks me."
Crest chimed in: "I agree, Lord Mage; take charge, for the Names' sakes! We can't do any worse."
Foster opened his mouth in what looked like a series of convulsions, but no sound came out.
"We wait here," Xylox said, "for at least another day. This is not surrender; it is a healing period of rest from the ravages of the sun's damaging rays. We will wait here, and we will refrain from drinking more than is necessary."
Grimm did not like Xylox, but he knew the acerbic thaumaturge would be as good as his word; he would deny himself as much as anybody else. The senior Questor had issued his imprimatur, and given Grimm his excuse to quit. Only a single day after the young mage's proud self-declaration, he felt only a little disgust at finding that he now felt so willing to listen to anybody who would grant him an honourable reason for forgoing another day of the punishing trek. He excoriated himself for this weakness, even if it were only known to him, but he could not deny it.
He vowed not to submit to his weak, base drives; his deep introspection was his constant guide and his goad. Left to his own devices, he would still never have been the one to suggest stopping. However, after a brutal, honest assessment of his motives, he had to acknowledge that the giant and the slight girl were not coping well with the harsh desert conditions.
"I concur, Questor Xylox," the young mage said. "Tordun and Drexelica are in no condition to continue."
Foster's shoulders sagged for a few moments at this concerted mutiny, but he soon raised his head. His eyes were glittering and intense, but he seemed to be just on the right side of mania.
"So we just lie down here, do we?" His voice sounded like dry leaves underfoot, but it was still strong enough to carry throughout the group. "Do we just wait here, in the vain hope that someone will have some kind of magical premonition, and find us? Or do we fight? I can assure you that people have survived far longer than a day in the desert without water. I told you it'd be uncomfortable, but we're actually in very good shape."
"I beg to differ," Tordun said, in a frosty tone. If his words had been water, everybody would have felt much more comfortable. "My skin is very sensitive to the sun, and it is badly burnt wherever it has been exposed."
Foster clapped a hand to his mouth. "Oh, yes, I said I'd try to get you some cream, didn't I? Sorry, it must have slipped my mind." The pilot wore a grin of embarrassment, and he emitted a short, nervous giggle, which seemed not to amuse the sunburnt albino.
"I'm sorry I didn't rip your bloody spine out, Foster; only joking, of course."
The swordsman's expression was anything but humorous.
The pilot waited for a moment, as if assessing just how serious Tordun was, before he apologised.
"I'm sorry, Tordun," Foster said, bowing his head. "I really didn't mean to make fun of your problem with the sun. I know I run off at the mouth a bit sometimes, and I'll try to watch that as best I can."
The ruddy-faced giant looked hard and straight into Foster's pleading eyes, and he seemed to relent a little. "I must accept your apology, I suppose."
The pilot held out his hand in the universal gesture of amity, but Tordun just emitted a low growl from the depths of his throat, causing the Haven man to withdraw the proffered extremity as if he had passed it over a flame.
"Do not presume too much, bird-man," the white-haired giant grunted. "I am still trying to get used to the idea of you being human, instead of just a bite-sized snack. I am a big man, and I have an appetite to match."
Tordun grinned, but maybe just a little too widely for Foster's comfort.
"Look, everybody, I'm just as tired and hungry as you are," the smaller man said, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. "But that'll just get worse. Don't you see? If we stay here a day to recoup our strength, we'll still have to drink, and we'll be left with another three days' journey to go, with less than a day's water. It'll also mean another day without food, which will weaken us all.
"Tordun: you don't like pulling the cart, but most of the weight is in water, and that's two-thirds gone. The tents don't weigh much, and the packs have next to nothing left in them but bits of parachute silk."
"If that cart's so damn' light, why don't you pull it, Foster?" Crest demanded.
"Fellows, fellows!" the pilot cried, his arms outspread in a placating gesture. "Let's be reasonable about this; I don't like the situation any more than you do, but we must be realistic here. We aren't going to die, any of us, after another couple of days' walk. But, if we wait here for a day, some of you will want to wait a little bit longer, and then a little bit longer still. In the end, we'll just become stacks of whitened bones in the desert. We have to keep moving!"
Foster swept his hands across the top of his head, as if he were a mage, summoning a mighty spell to sway the minds of the recalcitrant mutineers.
"As for rationing the water, it doesn't work!" he went on. "Proportional shares? That doesn't work, either; small people require relatively more water than large people, even though they handle the heat better."
Tordun frowned and readied a retort, but Foster spoke first cutting him off.
"Let me give you a little science lecture, gentlemen," he snarled, all traces of humility gone. "I know you don't want to hear it, but it might just save our lives. Are you willing to listen, or would you rather just lie down and surrender to the desert?"
The Haven man's hands were on his hips, and his tone had switched from pleading to confrontational. If nothing else, he appeared sincere in his convictions.
Tordun and Crest shrugged. Grimm knew little more about science than the other members of the group, but he knew that great wisdom, as well as great folly, lay within the discipline; he nodded. Xylox, arch-enemy of the art, surprised the junior mage by signalling assent.
"Very well, Foster; we will listen without prejudice."
The pilot stepped back, as if he had been pulling a great load that had vanished in an instant; it was plain that he had been expecting greater resistance. He took a few moments to compose himself, and he shot out his right arm, pointing at Xylox.
"Questor Xylox! Who requires more water in the course of a day: Crest, or Tordun?"