“The Silt Lion is no dinghy, Your Highness,” he said with forced courtesy. “We can’t stop her at a moment’s notice.” He took the king’s eye and returned it to the mate. “If you please, Sachet needs the eye to guide the ship.”
“Then bring us around,” Tithian ordered, pointing into the haze on the leeward side of the schooner. “I must speak to that giant!”
Saanakal rolled his eyes. “In the Sea of Silt, you avoid giants, Your Highness,” he said. “Failing that, you run for deep silt, or fight if you must-but you don’t talk to them.”
“This giant belongs to me,” Tithian said, putting his dust-shields back in place. “I must find out what he’s doing here. He’s supposed to be taking care of an important matter outside Balic.”
“Very well,” Navarch Saanakal sighed. To the mate, he said, “Bring the Silt Lion around. Have the rest of the fleet form a semicircle with us at the center.”
As the mate relayed the orders, Tithian looked over the gunnel. He could see nothing but a pearly miasma of dust, with no demarcation between the surface of the sea and the air. Even the sun seemed half lost, its position marked only by a faint halo of orange light.
Despite the poor visibility, the king continued to search the murk for Fylo. No matter how he looked at it, the giant’s presence meant trouble. Either the oaf had killed Agis and somehow tracked Tithian to the Strait of Baza, or he had realized that his “friend” was not coming back and released the noble.
The king didn’t know which to hope for. If Agis lived, he would still be following, no doubt determined to make Tythian answer for the raid on Kled. Sooner or later, the noble would catch up and, probably, they would fight.
The king did not want that. His memories of their youthful camaraderie remained too vivid. Tithian could still hear a teenaged Agis pleading with him not to sneak out of the academy for a night of debauchery, then trying to comfort him after the master ordered him to pack his robes and leave the grounds. Later, after Tithian had betrayed his birth class by joining Kalak’s templars, the noble had been with several young lords when they happened upon him in the Elven Market. One insult had led to another until the meeting came to blows, but Agis had fought on the young templar’s side, saving him a severe beating. Then there was the time after his brother’s death.…
Tithian could not allow himself to think of that, not until he knew whether or not he would have to kill Agis. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced the memories from his head, then looked to the ship’s mate.
“Can you see my giant?” he asked.
“No,” came the reply. “We’re too far past.”
Tithian turned to berate Navarch Saanakal for allowing Fylo to disappear, but the high templar was ready with a response. “With twenty ships looking for him, we won’t have any trouble finding your giant again.” To the mate, the half-elf said, “Ready the catapult slaves, all ships to do the same.”
“I don’t want Fylo killed,” Tithian objected. “Not yet, anyway.”
“I have no intention of killing him, but he may be disinclined to talk,” said the high templar. “Until we have persuaded him to behave, perhaps you should join Ictinis. The floater’s pit is the safest place on the command deck.”
The high templar pointed to a shallow cockpit in front of the helm, where a gray-haired man named Ictinis sat with his palms resting on a table-sized dome of polished obsidian. Although he had the haggard aspect of a pauper, the gold rings on his fingers betrayed his true status. Ictinis was a shipfloater, a mindbender especially trained to use the Way to keep the schooner from sinking into the dust. He kept the ship afloat by sending his spiritual energy through the dome and into the hull. The task was a difficult one, requiring both physical endurance and psychic strength.
Tithian slipped into the chaperon’s seat, a small bench where the floater sat while training his apprentices. During the last five days, the king had passed much of his time in this seat, learning Ictinis’s art. He was not so much interested in keeping the ship afloat as in understanding how the dome worked, for it resembled the obsidian balls sorcerer-kings used to tap the life-force of their subjects when casting their most powerful magical spells.
Having begun his study of sorcery only five years ago, Tithian did not yet know any enchantments so potent that he could not cast them through the conventional means. But the thought had occurred to him that he could increase the effectiveness of his limited abilities by using an orb. Besides, he suspected that the sooner he learned to control the flow of mystic energy through obsidian, the easier it would be for him when the time came to learn the most powerful spells.
Ictinis suddenly looked up from the dome, his red-rimmed eyes opened wide in alarm. At first, Tithian feared that the old man had fallen ill, but the shipfloater twisted his head toward Saanakal’s station to relay a message that he had received through the dome.
“Captain Phaedras reports that, as he began his turn, he saw a wall of giants blocking the exit to the strait, High One,” said Ictinis.
“What type?” demanded Saanakal. “How many?”
Ictinis turned his gaze back to the dome. His eyes glazed over, then he called, “Perhaps fifty, all beasthead.”
“Beasthead?” Tithian asked.
“The giants are divided into two tribes, the humanoid and the beasthead,” explained the sailor at the helm, an anonymous young woman whose face remained hidden beneath her dust-shields and silt-scarf. Although her voice was calm, she clenched the wheel so tightly that the veins showed in her forearms.
Saanakal scowled and peered into the dusty haze ahead. “So many,” he said, shaking his head. “They must have come from Lybdos.”
Tithian climbed out of the cockpit. “What for?”
“To ambush us. We’re only a couple of days from there, and the beastheads don’t allow visitors to that island,” the high templar explained. “Now I must ask you to return to the floater’s pit.”
Tithian shook his head. “I prefer to see what is happening.”
“Then stand aside,” snapped Saanakal, gesturing toward the gunnel. “We’ve a battle to fight.”
Tithian started to object to the rude treatment, then held his tongue and did as he was told. There would always be time after the battle to chastise the high templar.
Saanakal looked to the ship’s mate. “Terrain?”
“Seven low islands to port,” he said, peering to the left side of the bow. He swept the king’s eye to the right, then added, “Scattered boulders-no, make that giants-a half mile to starboard. Another fifty, I would guess.” He lowered the glass cone and looked at Saanakal. “They’re closing on our flank.”
“Chain the catapult slaves to their weapons,” said Saanakal, his voice strangely calm and quiet. “Have the wizard brought up and tell him to prepare the Balican fire.”
The ship’s mate blanched and swallowed hard. “As you wish, High One.”
While the mate relayed the order to the rest of the ship, Saanakal spoke to Ictinis. “Close the line. The Lirr Song is to lead a run for the islands, but no one’s to break formation. All ships are to use Balican fire in their catapults.”
“Yes, High One,” replied Ictinis. He returned his attention to the black dome, and his eyes grew vacant.
Tithian went to the quarterdeck rail to watch the battle preparations, hoping the crew would keep the ship afloat long enough for him to find Fylo. The king did not know what part the big oaf had played in this ambush, but it could be no coincidence that the giant happened to be crossing the Strait of Baza at that moment.