rations. As for water, a mere mouthful and no more must last us.
We pulled ourselves up on the benches as the sails were furled and we settled to the looms. The drum-deldar beat out his rhythm and, all as one, like beating wings, the oars dipped and rose to dip again. Silently we stole into the coast.
Nothing meant anything. When the final beat from the drum and the oar-master’s whistle signaled a cessation to our labors, every slave drooped over his loom. I squirmed about for a softer spot on the ponsho-fleece, for without these sacks and the fleeces a man could never last at the rowing benches. I prepared for sleep and knew I would dream my nightmares.
I dreamed that Zorg was telling me how he had secreted a piece of cheese; he wanted to divide it between all four of us, but we must do it when the Rapas on the next oar could not see, for it had once been theirs and they could not understand where it had gone. Nath and Zolta had chingled their chains in one of the many signals we oarslaves used to pass messages.
The thing must be done furtively. Not only must we not alert the Rapas, but the whip-deldars walking the narrow deck would delight in any excuse to lash us with old snake at a time when we should be resting.
'Hold still, Stylor!'
That was Nath, breathing in my ear.
We spoke in whispers.
'Split it fairly, Zorg,' I said, and instantly Nath said: 'Quiet, Stylor! For the love of Zair! Quiet!' And Zolta, strangely near for his apostis seat, whispered: 'Hurry it up, you great fambly!' And Nath, breathing hard: 'It takes a man to do this, you nit of nits.' Well, they would always argue and insult each other, and each ready to hurl himself to death to save the other.
'Is the Grakki-thing free yet?'
'In a mur — in a mur-'
And I said, sleepily, 'Make the cheese a nice juicy Loguetter, Zorg. In the name of Diproo the Nimble- Fingered, we’ve earned it.'
'Quiet, numbskull!' And: 'Clap a fist over his wine-spout, Zolta, while I' — grunt of effort — 'finish this.'
And, oddly, I felt a hand over my mouth. How, I wondered in my dream, could it be Zolta’s? He sat at the apostis seat, almost fully over the water. But it was a dream; anything could happen in a dream. The night breathed about us, a night of Notor Zan, when no moon shines in the sky of Kregen. In the darkness I dreamed that Zorg partitioned up his cheese and the Rapas had not seen. I reached out for my portion. I felt a fist under my fingers, a fist that spread into a hand that grasped my hand.
'Where-'I began, and the other hand clapped back over my face. I squirmed. My chains did not rattle. I was being lifted up.
This was indeed a most miraculous dream. Was I astride a fluttrell or a mirvol or even a flutduin? I rose into the air and I felt hands grasping me and movement. I tried to turn over to find another comfortable place on the ponsho-fleece, but the hands gripped me so I could not move. The strange swaying persisted. Then I was being passed down like a sack from a freighter. I felt a bump and something hard struck into my backbone. Before I could do anything or cry out a great evil-smelling canvas was thrown over me. I lay there, wondering when I would wake up and, however nightmarish the dream, preferring it to the reality of slaving on the rowing benches. The softly swaying movement beneath me told me I lay in a small boat. Well, they might not ask me to pull an oar then.
I heard a voice, somewhere high overhead.
'Weng da![4]Speak up, speak up!'
From close by my head Nath bellowed back: 'Provision party, sir!'
'Carry on then, Palinter.'
I heard a low chuckle in the boat. Why should the officer of the watch call Nath Palinter? Palinter was the title for the fat and jovially wicked fellows who were the pursers in — but no matter. This dream intrigued me through my madness.
The boat pushed off. There were two oars, I could hear.
The stroke was steady, the kind of rhythm that only two old comrades who had slaved together could row. I moved beneath the odiferous canvas.
'Lie still, Stylor. Only a few strokes more.'
I lay still. I wanted to go to sleep and sleep dreamlessly. But this dream persisted, it pursued me, it would not let me go. The boat grounded. The canvas cover was thrown back. The night sky blazed above. I stood up. Nath and Zolta gripped my arms and helped me from the boat.
'All very nice, Nath, Zolta,' I said. 'But where is Zorg?' They looked at me.
'I need my sleep. Let me go back to sleep.'
Nath took my arm. 'This way.'
'Grace of Grodno.' I stumbled along after Nath, with Zolta supporting me from the side. My legs felt like smashed bananas. 'Zorg will row.' The dream began to coil in my head. I panted. I felt the pains in my chest, in my head. My legs weren’t there. 'Zorg! Nath! Zolta! We must row — must pull — pull-'
'Nearly there, Stylor, nearly there.'
I tried to haul up but they pulled me on.
'Nearly where, you two rascals? Is it wine and a wench you are after? I know you two, two oar comrades, two great rogues. .'
We passed through a screen of trees, dark, massive and mysterious lumps in the star-flecked blackness. A clearing showed, with an arm of water curving into it hidden from the sea. A rickety hut of leaves and branches leaned over the water. I stopped, thunderstruck by a thought.
'Why do you call me Stylor? You know my name is Dray-'
'Yes, Dray, but we knew you first as Stylor. Now you are Dray Prescot. .' Then, in a lower tone, Nath said, 'Into the hut with him before he wakes the whole damned crew.'
'Where is Zorg?' I said again. And then the thought finally rooted. 'Zorg is dead! We have roistered in Sanurkazz, many and many a time, with Nath and his wine and Zolta and his wenches — and Zorg is dead!'
'Aye, Dray, Zorg is dead — and so will we all be if you don’t stop yowling like a chunkrah in calf and get a move on!'
I felt my legs then. I felt the ground beneath my feet.
I trembled.
I touched Nath. I touched Zolta.
They were real!
I wrenched away from them. I pawed my eyes. The trees, the hut, the stars, remained. I hit myself in the chest. I did not wake up.
They were staring at me, there in the starlight.
'Yes, Dray, who we called Stylor. You do not dream.' Nath smiled in the old reckless way.
'By Zair, Dray Stylor! We’ve rescued you from the Krozairs of Zy and they’ll have all our heads if they catch us!' And Zolta seized my arm and ran me into the hut.
Rescued? Rescued?
Chapter Thirteen
The succulent palines dropped one by one into my mouth: luscious cherry-like fruits, palines, sovereign remedies for the black dog.
I lay back on the rough pallet of the hut and marveled.
I was alone. Nath and Zolta, giving me no time to express my wonder, my fierce pride in them, my joy, had whispered ferociously that I was to stay hidden in the hut and they would be back as soon as they could.
For the first time I noticed they were clad as Zimen, the lay brothers of the Krozairs of Zy. Their dull red tunics bore the Krzy emblem decorously on the breast and back. Thick belts cinctured their waists and they swung
