The helmsman spun his wheel, and the slaves along the left gunnel withdrew their poles from the silt. The caravel pivoted so rapidly that Agis had to grab Nymos’s arm to prevent the reptile from tumbling overboard. Despite the sharp turn, the noble could see that the bow would plow into the next dust swell before the ship completed the maneuver.
Growling in anger, Kester leaped past her shipfloater and took a long whip off the rail. She jumped down onto the main deck and savagely lashed at the men on the port side. Each time the scourge’s tail popped, a slave howled in pain and a welt rose on his naked back.
“I said hard to port!” the tarek yelled.
The port-side slaves angled their poles forward and pushed, as though trying to move the ship backward. The Shadow Viper’s bow snapped around instantly, the bowsprit just missing the next dust swell. Kester continued to lash her crew members, cursing their slow response and making sure to open a cut on the back of every man in line.
Agis went down to Kester’s side and laid a restraining hand on her whip. “Don’t you think that’s enough?” he asked. “It’s bad enough to crew your ship with slaves, but they don’t deserve such abuse.”
Kester bared her fangs. “This is my ship,” she snarled. Her breath was rancid, for long journeys were difficult on the tarek’s system. Instead of live lizards or snakes, she ate salted and dried meats which were only slightly better for her than the moldering faro her human crew ate. Agis suspected that the tarek’s diet fouled more than her digestive system, for Kester’s temperament had been growing steadily worse since leaving Balic. “I’ll run her as I like.”
“Not while you’re under my hire,” Agis replied, taking the whip from the tarek’s big hand.
“These men were convicts before they became slaves,” said Nymos, speaking from the rail of the quarterdeck. His milky eyes were focused blankly in the air above Agis’s head. “They deserve what Kester gives them-and they owe their lives to her.”
“That’s right,” agreed Kester. “Everyone of ’em would have had his heart cut out in the arena if not for my purse.”
“Saving a man doesn’t give you the right to brutalize him,” countered the noble, returning to the quarterdeck with the whip. “I won’t stand for it-not even from the captain of a ship.”
Kester followed him. As he returned the whip to its peg, she pointed at the flotsam ahead and asked, “I suppose what ye’ve planned for your friend isn’t brutal?”
The Shadow Viper was so close to the wreck that Agis could see Tithian lying on his face, his long braid of auburn hair coiled over one shoulder.
“I have nothing planned for Tithian, except to take him back to answer for his crimes,” replied the noble.
“And to find out what he and Andropinis are doing,” Nymos added. “Your aversion to brutality had better not keep you from loosening his tongue.”
“There are other ways to make Tithian speak,” replied Agis. “Besides, no amount of pain can make him tell the truth if he doesn’t want to.”
“Especially not if he’s dead,” added Kester. The tarek’s eyes were fixed to the starboard of the Shadow Viper’s bow, which was just passing alongside Tithian’s motionless body. She allowed her ship to creep forward a few more yards, then barked, “Dead stop!”
The crewmen lifted their poles, then angled the long shafts forward and plunged them back into the dust. The caravel lurched to a stop, its quarterdeck just aft of the derelict. The starboard slaves peered down on the wreck in weary silence, studying Tithian’s inert form.
Kester jumped off the quarterdeck and grabbed a long plank. She pushed it through a slot in the bottom of the gunnel, guiding it toward the wrecked bow. Motioning Agis to the plank, she said, “Ye be careful. Just because the silt’s shallow and the hull rests on the bottom doesn’t mean she won’t shift. If ye fall in, there’ll be nothing we can do to save ye.”
“What about tying a rope around my waist?” Agis asked, climbing over the gunnel.
“I told ye once, I’ll not have any corpses on me ship,” Kester replied testily. “By the time we dragged ye back, yer lungs would be full of silt.”
“Why don’t you use the Way to fly or levitate?” suggested Nymos.
Agis shook his head, more to himself than to the blind sorcerer. “That’s not one of the areas my meditations have led me to explore,” he answered. “And the king’s too heavy for me to move with other forms of the Way. If I want to take him back to Tyr, I’ll have to walk over there and get him.”
The noble turned his attention to the plank of mekillot rib in front of him. It was about as wide as his shoulders and more than ten yards long with a weathered surface the color of ivory. Below it lay a pearly layer of dust, so loosely packed that it looked more like an oasis mist than a silt bed.
The other end of the gangway rested near the midpoint of the derelict bow, which lay with a steep slant toward the aft end. Because of the angle, only one corner of Agis’s plank rested firmly on the wreck. The other hung without support a few inches above the wooden hull.
Tithian lay on his belly in the center of the wreck, his satchel strapped across his chest and his face turned in the opposite direction. The king’s auburn hair was matted with blood, and the golden diadem around his head had been badly dented by a blow.
Agis released his hold on the gunnel and shuffled forward, his heart pounding in fear each time the gangway wobbled. As he crossed the halfway point, the plank twisted under his weight and began to slip down the hull of the wreck. He dropped to his stomach to spread his weight out more evenly, then pulled himself the rest of the way across without rising. It seemed to take forever to reach the end, but when he finally did, he breathed a deep sigh of relief and crawled onto the bow.
A muffled groan rumbled up from the timbers. The aft end slowly tipped more steeply toward the sea. Tithian’s motionless form slipped closer to the silt, and Agis nearly lost his balance. The noble scurried forward and caught the king by the shoulders, pulling him toward the bowsprit and stabilizing the wreck.
Agis shook Tithian’s shoulder. “Wake up,” he said. “You and I have places to go.”
When there was no response, Agis rolled the king onto his back. The body turned limply, with no hint of tension in the muscles. If not for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, Agis would have thought him dead. Tithian’s eyes were sunken, and dried blood caked both cheeks. From between his cracked lips protruded a dun-colored tongue, hugely swollen with thirst and as dry as the Sea of Silt.
“Even from here, he looks as dead as a toppled giant,” called Kester. “Push him into the silt and let’s be gone. It’s not wise to tarry in these parts.”
“He’s alive, more or less,” Agis reported. He looked back to see Kester, Nymos, and half the crew standing along the gunnels. “It’s just that I can’t wake him.”
“Wet his lips,” suggested Nymos. “Thirst is a powerful incentive, even to an unconscious mind.”
Since no waterskin lay in view, Agis opened the king’s satchel and peered inside. Despite its bulky outward appearance, it was empty. The noble closed the bag, then looked back to the ship. “Throw me a waterskin.”
Kester took a half-filled waterskin from a hook on the mainmast, then tossed it toward Agis. The heavy sack fell short of the noble’s grasp and dropped on the king’s chest with a dull thump. Tithian did not stir.
“If that didn’t wake him, nothing will,” said Kester. “Ye’ll have to carry him. If we don’t hurry, that wreck’ll sink beneath ye.”
Casting a wary eye toward the unsteady plank, Agis said, “Let me try Nymos’s way first.”
The noble sat down and cradled Tithian’s head in his lap, then poured a small amount of water over the king’s mouth. A few drops ran down Tithian’s swollen tongue into his throat. He coughed violently, but did not open his eyes or show any other sign of waking.