“Jaxart was right, Boghaz. There is someone hidden there, in the inner cabin.”
With some irritation Boghaz said, “Ywain’s wantoning is nothing to me.”
They labored in silence for a while. Then Carse asked abruptly, “Who are the Dhuvians?”
Boghaz stared at him. “Where do you really come from, man?”
“As I told you—from far beyond Shun.”
“It must have been from far indeed if you haven’t heard of Caer Dhu and the Serpent!”
Then Boghaz shrugged his fat shoulders as he labored. “You’re playing some deep game of your own, I suppose. All this pretended ignorance—but I don’t mind playing that game with you.”
He went on, “You know at least that since long ago there have been human peoples on our world and also the not-quite-human peoples, the Halflings. Of the humans the great Quiru, who are gone, were the greatest. They had so much science and wisdom that they’re still revered as superhuman.
“But there were also the Halflings—the races who are manlike but not descended of the same blood. The Swimmers, who sprang from the sea-creatures, and the Sky Folk, who came from the winged things—and the Dhuvians, who are from the serpent.”
A cold breath swept through Carse. Why was it that all this which he heard for the first time seemed so familiar to him?
Certainly he had never heard before this story of ancient Martian evolution, of intrinsically alien stocks evolving into superficially similar pseudo human peoples. He had not heard it before—or had he?
“Crafty and wise as the snake that fathered them were the Dhuvians always,” Boghaz was continuing. “So crafty that they prevailed on Rhiannon of the Quiru to teach them some of his science.
“Some but not all! Yet what they learned was enough that they could make their black city of Caer Dhu impregnable and could occasionally intervene with their scientific weapons so as to make their Sark allies the dominant human nation.”
“And that was Rhiannon’s sin?” Carse said.
“Aye, that was the Cursed One’s sin for in his pride he had defied the other Quiru, who counseled him not to teach the Dhuvians such powers. For that sin the other Quiru condemned Rhiannon and entombed him in a hidden place before they left our world. At least so says the legend.”
“But the Dhuvians themselves are no mere legend?”
“They are not, damn them,” Boghaz muttered. “They are the reason all free men hate the Sarks, who hold evil alliance with the Serpent.”
They were interrupted by the broken-winged slave, Lorn. He had been sent to dip up a bucket of sea water and now appeared with it.
The winged man spoke and even now his voice had music in it. “This will be painful, stranger. Bear it if you can—it will help you.” He raised the bucket. Glowing water spilled out, covering Carse’s body with a bright sheath.
Carse knew why Ywain had smiled. Whatever chemical gave the sea its phosphorescence might be healing but the curse was worse than the wounds. The corrosive agony seemed to eat the flesh from his bones.
The night wore on and after a while Carse felt the pain grow less. His weals no longer bled and the water began to refresh him. To his own surprise he saw the second dawn break over the White Sea.
Soon after sunrise a cry came down from the masthead. The Black Banks lay ahead.
Through the oar port Carse saw a welter of broken water that stretched for miles. Reefs and shoals, with here and there black jagged fangs of rock showing through the foam. “They’re not going to try to run that mess?” he exclaimed.
“It’s the shortest route to Sark,” Boghaz said. “As for running the Banks—why do you suppose every Sark galley carries captive Swimmers?”
“I’ve wondered.”
“You’ll soon see.”
Ywain came on deck and Scyld joined her. They did not look down at the two haggard scarecrows sweating at the oar.
Boghaz instantly wailed piteously. “Mercy, Highness!”
Ywain paid no attention. She ordered Scyld, “Slow the beat and send the Swimmers out.”
Naram and Shallah were unshackled and ran forward. Metal harnesses were locked to their bodies. Long wire lines ran from these harnesses to ringbolts in the forecastle deck.
The two Swimmers dived fearlessly into the foaming waters. The wire lines tautened and Carse glimpsed the heads of the two bobbing like corks as they swam smoothly ahead of the galley into the roaring Banks.
“You see?” said Boghaz. “They feel out the channel. They can guide a ship through anything.”
To the slow beat of the drum the black galley forged into the broken water.
Ywain stood, hair flying in the breeze and hauberk shining, by the man at the tiller. She and Scyld peered closely ahead. The rough waters shook along the keel with a hiss and a snarl and once an oar splintered on a rock but they crept on safely.
It was a long slow weary passage. The sun rose toward the zenith. There was an aching tension aboard the galley.
Carse only dimly heard the roar of breakers as he and Boghaz labored at their oar. The fat Valkisian was groaning ceaselessly now. Carse’s arms felt like lead, his brain seemed clamped in steel.
At last the galley found smooth water, shot clear of the Banks. Their dull thunder came now from astern. The Swimmers were hauled back in.
Ywain glanced down into the oar pit for the first time, at the staggering slaves.
“Give them a brief rest,” she rapped. “The wind should rise soon.”
Her eyes swung to Carse and Boghaz. “And, Scyld, I’ll see those two again now.”
Carse watched Scyld cross the deck and come down the ladder. He felt a sick apprehension.
He did not want to go up to that cabin again. He did not want to see again that door with its mocking crack nor smell that sickly evil smell.
But he and Boghaz were again unshackled and herded aft, and there was nothing he could do.
The door swung shut behind them. Scyld, Ywain behind the carved table, the sword of Rhiannon gleaming before her. The tainted air and the low door of the bulkhead, not quite closed—not quite.
Ywain spoke. “You’ve had the first taste of what I can do to you. Do you want the second? Or will you tell me the location of Rhiannon’s Tomb and what you found there?”
Carse answered tonelessly. “I told you before that I don’t know.”
He was not looking at Ywain. That inner door fascinated him, held his gaze. Somewhere, far at the back of his mind, something stirred and woke. A prescience, a hate, a horror that he could not understand.
But he understood well enough that this was the climax, the end. A deep shudder ran through him, an involuntary tightening of nerves.
“What is it that I do not know but can somehow almost remember?”
Ywain leaned forward. “You’re strong. You pride yourself on that. You feel that you can stand physical punishment, perhaps more than I would dare to give you. I think you could. But there are other ways. Quicker, surer ways and even a strong man has no defense against them.”
She followed the line of his gaze to the inner door. “Perhaps,” she said softly, “you can guess what I mean.”
Carse’s face was empty now of all expression. The musky smell was heavy as smoke in his throat. He felt it coil and writhe inside him, filling his lungs, stealing into his blood. Poisonously subtle, cruel, cold with a primal coldness. He swayed on his feet but his fixed stare did not waver.
He said hoarsely, “I can guess.”
“Good. Speak now and that door need not open.”
Carse laughed, a low, harsh sound. His eyes were clouded and strange.
“Why should I speak? You would only destroy me later to keep the secret safe.”
He stepped forward. He knew that he moved. He knew that he spoke though the sound of his own voice was vague in his ears.