She knew that this levity could be dangerous, but for the moment she welcomed it.
The sailors cast off with a minimum of fuss, and the sail opened like a night-blooming lily as the boat moved away from the wharf. The sailors made it evident that they were not going to pay any attention to Olivia, taking care not to get too near her as the boat edged out into the Sea of Marmara.
Silently the dorkon moved away from Konstantinoupolis, going slowly in order to maneuver through the fishing boats. Even the luff of the sail was muted; the bow whispered through the water as if wanting to keep its passage secret. No calls, no signals from the fishermen disturbed the dorkon as she began to pick up speed, leaving the fishing boats bobbing like fireflies over the moon-flecked water.
They were moving at a good pace when the boatmaster resigned the tiller to his next-in-command and brought two men aft with him.
'We might as well do it now,' the boatmaster said as he approached Olivia.
She froze, her hand almost on the dagger hidden in her belt. 'Now?'
The boatmaster went on as if she had not spoken. 'We'll slack off, slow down and make sure she's in the water. No telling what a sorceress like this might do.'
'Boatmaster,' Olivia said, speaking forcefully. 'I wonder if I might make a request?'
He struck her across the face with the back of his hard, thick hand. 'You're not to talk. We were warned about that.'
Already slightly dizzy from being on the boat, Olivia fought nausea as she tried to steady herself. Then she fell to the deck and her fingers closed on the dagger.
The boat was slowing down, and it began to rock more as she was brought around, wallowing in the rise and fall of the waves.
'Get her up and over,' the boatmaster ordered. 'Now. Before she can do anything.'
'But we're supposed to tie the sack again, over her head,' one of the sailors protested.
'If you want to take that kind of chance, you're free to, but I wouldn't open that sack. She might conjure anything out of it, and who knows what would become of us all. I say throw her in now. The Censor won't know or care unless someone tells him.' There was a threat in this last, and two of the sailors made signs against the Evil Eye.
Olivia's brief rush of elation was lost before it had begun; she was wrenched to her feet, then hoisted into the air and flung away from the side of the boat to a host of blasphemous oaths. She struck the water, and for a short time was so disoriented that she dared not move. Eventually her head broke water and she caught a glimpse of the dorkon drawing away from her. She tried not to stare after it, knowing that would only serve to sap her fading spirits to no purpose. The dorkon's wake was froth in the moonlight, then drifted and was lost.
With a terrible effort, Olivia worked her knife out of her belt, trying not to thrash with the struggle. Part of the time she was able to breathe air, occasionally she was under the water, and it stung her nose and lungs, adding to the discomfort and confusion that was gradually overwhelming her. She fumbled with the knife and it dropped to the bottom of her sack; it took her far too long to retrieve it, and when she did, her whole body was lethargic, so that any movement at all was a grueling ordeal.
She brought the knife up to the cord around her neck, but could not cut it. Disheartened, she let herself drift for a little time, then resolved to make another attempt. This time she tried to cut the sack itself. One, two, three times she poked at the rough fabric without success. On the fourth jab, which she noticed was weaker than the others had been, the tip of the knife snagged on a heavy slub in the weave, and as she tried to pull it free, a large tear opened like the mouth of an exotic sea creature. Sobbing, choking, Olivia renewed her efforts, and at last she had ripped away all but the small section of the sack that held the cord around her neck like a bizarre wreath.
She was out of the sack, but her body was exhausted; the earth in the soles of her shoes was wet, steadily losing its potency. Only the power of the night gave her any resistance to the insidious somnolence that tempted her. It would be so easy to stop fighting, to yield to the seductive lure of the water, to drift away from all the turmoil and the pain and the strife.
Only the distant motion of the torches on the fishing boats held any fascination to her, and she clung to that with some small, committed core of herself. If they could float, so would she! Her arms ached whenever she moved them, her head was muzzy, her legs might as well have belonged to someone else for all the sense she had of them. Her knife was gone, dropped some time—she did not recall when—while she strove to escape from the sack. She focused her dwindling attention on the fishing boats and hoped that morning would not come too soon.
Dazed, demoralized, she floundered, sometimes keeping the torches in sight, sometimes not. There were fewer of them, she thought. Most of the fishermen must have their catch and were now returning to the land. She tried to paddle toward them, but the effort was too great.
But it did seem to her, she thought when she was not filled with chaos, that a few of the boats were nearer. One of the torches seemed to be growing larger, and she made a last, pathetic effort to swim toward it. She splashed ineffectively, and for a short time she slipped under the surface again.
When she rose and was able to clear her head a bit, she noticed that one of the fishing boats had come quite near, and was moving back and forth over the sea. She watched it, bemused, her body no longer able to move.
She was gazing up into the immensity of the night, caught by the beauty and vastness of the sky, the constellations no longer clear to her, when something brushed her outflung arm.
Olivia let out a hoarse yelp, then whimpered as a darkness loomed between her and the stars.
'For Poseidon, will you give me your hand, Olivia?' Niklos ordered in an undervoice.
Although she was certain that none of this was happening, that she had actually sunk to the depths of the sea and was lost in a pleasant dream, she did her best to humor herself, and with tremendous exertion, was able to wag her hand out of the water.
Niklos grabbed it, muttering a string of obscenities that would have awed the boatmaster. He was desperate with worry, and took little care about how he got her aboard. Dragging first her arm and then her leg, he wrestled her over the side and onto the rough planks. He wrapped four stout ropes around her, securing her to the mast. All the while he watched her, distracted with apprehension.
'Zejhil!' he commanded, keeping his voice low since he was aware how well sound carried over water.
The Tartar woman came from the shallow hold. 'You have her?'
'Yes,' he said, and the word itself made him giddy. 'Bring that rolled mattress. Wrap it around her. And then head for Cyzicus.' He rose from his task and went to the high tiller set aft in the boat.
Zejhil obeyed, her impassive features only once revealing the alarm she felt. 'She is half-drowned.'
'But only half,' Niklos pointed out, letting himself laugh for the first time in days. He kept his eye on the shore, but his attention was more on Olivia than the line of darkness at the edge of the bright sea.
Near dawn, Olivia turned her head. 'Niklos?'
Though the word was little more than a croaking whisper, Niklos beamed at her.
'Where…'
'We're going to Kythera.' He glanced down at Zejhil asleep in the bottom of the boat. 'You?'
'I'll… heal.' She leaned back against the mast. 'This mattress is soaked.'
'So were you,' he pointed out, leaving most of his feelings unspoken.
'That hymn—?'
'I gave a donation to three monks; I said it was for a relative feared lost at sea. They accepted the donation.' He secured the tiller with cords, then came to her side. 'Shall I take the mattress away?'
'Not yet. I still need it.' Her voice was faint but each word was steadier, less strained.
'All right.' He beamed at her. 'Tell me about it later. There's plenty of time.'
Her answering smile was weary and her chuckle ended in a cough, but at last she said, 'Yes, centuries. Thanks to you.'
Niklos put his hand on her stringy, matted hair. 'Just returning an old favor.' As he got to his feet, he said, 'Sunrise soon.'
Olivia turned her head to the stern of the boat and saw the first tarnished glow at the rim of the sea. As she watched, it brightened and smoldered, as if distant Constantinople were on fire. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she had turned, facing the bow again, and the pallid moonpath spread over the wrinkled sea.
* * *
