Across the fire, Barnevelt was distressed though not much surprised to see parts of his late boatswain hung on lines to sizzle. Barnevelt swallowed the lump in his throat and started back.
Back at the hiding place, Barnevelt said, "I found him all right. They're eating him."
"How dreadful!" said Zei. "And he such a worthy wight! What a bestial and abhorrent custom!"
"Too bad, but actually it's no different from what you do in Qirib."
"Not at all! How can you utter such blasphemous sophistry? Whereas the one's solemn ceremony, the holy powers above to gratify, the other's but the swinish satisfaction of the alimentary appetite."
"Well, that's how some people look at it. But let's not argue—let's get out of here. It's pretty far to swim, and we don't want to leave our clothes and/ weapons behind…"
"So why not finish the raft our slaughtered friend and deputy began?"
"Because the sound of the axe would fetch 'em running." He sniffed the breeze. "The wind's backed to the northwest, and we're on the northwest shore of the island. The woods look dry, and my lighter should be working."
"You mean to set the weald ablaze, to distract the tailed ones from our enterprise?"
"Matter of fact I'll set the damndest forest fire you ever saw. Bear a hand, gal."
For the next hour they prowled the shore, pilling sticks and dead shrubs where they would do the most good, until they had a line a hoda long running along the shore, bending inland at the mouth of the stream to afford room to finish the raft.
When that task was done, Barnevelt started at the east end of his line of bonfires and lit the first with his lighter. When it blazed up, he and Zei each thrust into it a torch of faggots and ran down the line, igniting blaze after blaze.
By the time they finished, the whole slope extending inland was a roaring hell, the fire leaping from tree to tree.
Barnevelt, his face red from the heat, sweated over his raft. There was not much more to be done: to cut two logs from the felled trunk, shove these into the water, and tie them together with the piece of anchor rope. Then he felled a sapling and trimmed the soft wood of the trunk down to a couple of crude paddles—too narrow in the blade to be efficient, but not even the long Krishnan day provided time for a better job.
"Off we go!" he shouted over the roar of the fire, and drove the axe blade into one of the logs to secure it. Zei straddled the logs forward. With their footgear hung around their necks, they paddled out from shore, the heat of the blazing hillsides beating with blistering force upon their backs. All of Fossanderan seemed to be red with fire or black with smoke.
The thick stems of the paddles were awkward; Barnevelt wondered if bare hands wouldn't have done as well. Every swell swirled up to their waists as they angled out from shore. When they were far enough to start west for the mainland, the swells made their craft roll precariously; every second Barnevelt expected the raft to roll clear over and dunk them.
Meter by meter they struggled westward as the sun sank. The first stars were out when they came to the western channel of the Strait of Palindos. This was just as well, Barnevelt thought, because the stranded galley was all too visible from where they crossed the channel.
The galley sat with lanterns hung about her. The low tide had left her hull exposed down to the curve of the bilge, and the settling of her weight upon her keel had made her heel over at an undignified angle. Beyond her, a dark-red shape in the twilight where the fires of Fossanderan shone upon her, lay the galley's consort. Hawsers stretched in graceful catenary curves between the two ships;, the banked oars of both rested quietly upon the water.
Peacefully, Barnevelt and his companion paddled across the channel. When all three moons arose, now more widely spaced than they had been the previous night, the travelers grounded gently on the sand spit projecting from the mainland towards the blazing island.
CHAPTER SIX
Three days later, in the early afternoon, Barnevelt and Zei came out of the forest of Rakh beside the Shaf-Malayer road. Both were gaunt, dirty, worn-looking, and shabby. Zei carried a spear, which Barnevelt had made by lashing the hilt of his dagger to a pole. After they had been treed by a yeki, Barnevelt had made the spear in case they met another one. But, having assembled the weapon, they had no occasion to use it.
Barnevelt sighed. "I suppose we ought to start hiking north, but let's sit here a while and hope to catch a ride."
He tossed his axe on the ground and sat down heavily with his back to a tree. Zei dropped down beside him and laid her head on his shoulder. He said, "Let's see the rest of those berries."
She handed over her seaman's cap, which she had been using as a bag. Barnevelt started fishing out berries, feeding them alternately to her and to himself.
He looked hard at one and threw it away, saying, "That's the kind that gave us a bellyache. Can't you just imagine the meals we'll have when we get to town?"
"Aye, verily! A fine roast unha, with tabids on the side, and a tunest in its mouth. The platter swimming in betune sauce."
"And a bunch of those yellow what-d'you-call-'ems for dessert, and a big mug of falat wine…" ,
"Not the falat of Mishdakh, which is thin stuff, but that of Hojur, especially that of the year of the yeki…"
"Don't talk to me about yekis! I've seen all I want of them. We'll also have a loaf of badr, to sop up what's left…"
She raised her head. "What a blade! Here you sit, with a most royal maiden all but lying in your arms, and all you think upon's your beastly stomach!"
"Just as well for you."
"How mean you?"
"There's no guardian of virtue like starvation. If I had my strength you wouldn't be a maiden long."
"Braggart! Your thoughts would still center upon aliment. Oh, I saw the repasts you consumed aboard the Shambor and knew your nation's gluttonous reputation were but a pallid phantom of the fact."
"It's a cold country," he said.
"But you're not cold now!"
"And at least we eat normal wholesome food, and not our husbands."
"The kashyo's no feast, dolt, but a solemn ceremony…"
"I've heard that before, and I still think it puts you on a level with the tailed men of Fossanderan."
"Insolent carper!" she cried, and slapped him—gently, to show it was in fun.
"And," he continued, "I don't see how your royal line perpetuates itself if every time the consort finds the queen looking at him he wonders if it's the love light in her eyes or whether she's picking out a nice chop. That sort of thing must be unmanning."
"Perchance our men are less readily unmanned than those of your chill abode. A Qiribu on the verge of death retains his gallantry, whereas if you put a Nayme on berries and shellfish for three days…**
"Four!"
"Four days, he's blind insensible to aught but food."
"Fool! You were imagining just as big a meal as I was."
"I was not! The repast of your fancy overtopped mine as the Zogha overshadows Mount Sabushi."
"How d'you expect to prove that?"
"A princess royal has no need to put matters to proof. Her word alone is adequate."
"Is that so? Then you'd better learn some new customs."
"Such as that Earthly usage called 'kissing,' wherein you've schooled me. Methinks I need more practice at this sport…"