"You said you wouldn’t shoot him!" shouted Toroca in Quintaglio.

The Other captain must have been anticipating the question, because he answered it even though he couldn’t possibly have understood the words. "You may not be able to lie," he said simply, "but I can."

*28*

Toroca ran over to the fallen Afsan. A neat round hole, with blackened edges, was visible on his upper-left chest. Blood was seeping from the wound. Toroca lifted Afsan’s sash from over his shoulders, wadded it up, and pressed it against his chest, trying to stanch the flow. Afsan groaned.

"Why?" Toroca said, but he realized that wasn’t the question he really wanted to ask. He fixed his gaze on the captain and spoke the eighth Other interrogative word: "Glees?" How righteous is this?

Jawn, too, was looking at the captain in naked disgust. He turned to Toroca. "How is he?"

"Bad," said Toroca, his Other vocabulary lessons failing him. "Bad."

Afsan tried to lift his head. There was some blood in his mouth; the metal pellet had probably torn into his lung or windpipe. "I…" His voice was raw, pained. "I do not wish to die here."

"Nobody’s going to die," said Toroca, glad for once that his father was blind and could not see his muzzle. He turned to Jawn. "I am not a healer," he said. "I have to get him back to my people."

"No," said the captain. He gestured at some of his sailors. "Take them below."

Jawn protested in language Toroca couldn’t follow, but soon weapon tubes were being waved at them. Toroca put an arm around his father and helped support his massive weight as they were taken down a ramp into the ship’s interior. Large skylights were inlaid into the ceiling; there were no signs of interior lamps.

Afsan was groaning slightly with each step. While helping him walk, Toroca could no longer hold the leather sash against his father’s wound, but Afsan himself was doing it now. They soon found themselves at the doorway to a little room. Even aboard ship the Others favored any floor plan that wasn’t square; the room was five-sided. A circular skylight admitted late-afternoon sun.

There were coarse sacks stacked in three of the five corners. Toroca helped Afsan lie on his side, leaning against one of the sacks. The door was closed, and Toroca heard the sound of metal hitting metal. He tried to open the door but found he couldn’t shift it.

"Locked," said Afsan faintly.

"What does that mean?" said Toroca.

"Secured … so it can’t be opened."

"Oh." Toroca came back to where Afsan was lying. "How are you?"

"Cold," he said. "Cold. And thirsty."

"The hak-al is still inside you?"

"Hak-al?" said Afsan.

"It’s an Other word. A piece of metal, fired from a weapon."

"Oh." Afsan groaned. "I think I prefer a society that doesn’t often use locks, and has no word for such weapons." He winced as his fingers probed his wound. "It’s stopped bleeding." He shuddered. "How long … how long until they attack Land?"

"They’re only a day’s sail away now," said Toroca. "But they’re not used to real darkness; I suspect they’ll attack early in the morning of the day after tomorrow."

Afsan grunted, but whether in pain or acknowledgment, Toroca couldn’t say. Soon, he slipped into unconsciousness. Toroca leaned back against the opposite wall and watched Afsan’s shallow breathing.

Much later — Toroca had lost all track of time — he heard footfalls in the corridor outside, and the sound of metal against metal again. It was now quite dark; only pale moonlight filtered in through the skylight. Cautiously, Toroca got up and walked across the room. He tried the door again. It swung open. He peered out into the corridor. No sign of anyone.

Jawn, he thought. Jawn understood not wanting to die away from home. Toroca hurried over and touched Afsan’s shoulder. No response. He shook it lightly. Again nothing. He placed a hand on his father’s chest. It was still warm, still moving up and down with respiration. Toroca let out a sigh of relief, and gently shook Afsan once more. If Afsan had been well, he never would have woken him thus; he could have regained consciousness startled, jaws snapping. Soon, though, Afsan did slowly lift his muzzle.

"The door," whispered Toroca. "It’s open. Come on, let’s go…"

"A trap?" said Afsan weakly.

Toroca shook his head. "A friend, I think." He reached a hand out and grasped Afsan’s arm, helping him up. "Hurry."

Toroca looked out the corridor again, then, cupping Afsan’s elbow, led him up on deck. The nighttime breeze was cool. Clouds covered about half the sky. The sound of water slapping the ship’s hull and of the sails rippling in the breeze masked their footfalls.

Toroca jogged ahead to look over the edge of the ship. The rope ladder was still there leading down to the Stardeter. He looked back at Afsan, who was walking slowly, a hand clasped over his wound. Toroca hurried back to him, once more cupping his elbow, and led him to the ladder.

"I’ll go down first; you’ll need help getting aboard. Give me about twenty-five beats, then follow me down."

Afsan grunted in pain. Toroca slipped over the side of the ship and started the descent. The rope ladder was wet, having been in the spray kicked up by the ship’s movement for many daytenths now. Finally, Toroca made it into the boat. The Stardeter had taken on a small amount of water, either from spray or rain. Toroca almost slipped as he stepped off the ladder. He looked up. Afsan was coming over the side of the ship now. The ladder seemed to sag under his weight, and at one point, Afsan missed a rung and almost fell the remaining distance to the ship, but he managed to steady himself and make it down the rest of the way. Toroca could barely discern Afsan’s face in the darkness, but his expression was one of agony, as if with each movement of his arms or legs, spikes were being driven into his body.

At last the older Quintaglio was aboard. Toroca unfurled the tiny ship’s sails. Afsan collapsed against the Stardeter’s stern, holding the tiller with one hand and his chest with the other. The ship slipped away into the night.

Doubtless at least one of the ships in the armada would have a lookout on duty, but hopefully that person would be scanning the horizon, not the waters close by. "I can’t take you directly back to Land," said Toroca. "For one thing, we can’t outrun their ships, and for another, they’ll be watching the waters ahead carefully. Will you be all right if I sail south for a bit first, and then takes us in near Fastok?"

Afsan grunted. His voice was faint. "I’ll be fine." In the dim light, though, there was no way to tell if he was speaking the truth.

The next morning, Afsan and Toroca were still out on the water. The night’s rest seemed to have done Afsan some good. Toroca had briefly gone swimming to catch some fish, and although Afsan had trouble swallowing — further evidence that the metal pellet had clipped his windpipe — he seemed to regain some strength after the meal.

"I feel like one whose shell had been too thick," said Toroca. "I was so sure we could convince them. Now they know our weakest point. I’ve doomed our people."

Afsan’s voice was raw and faint. "You knew the docks were undefended because you’d heard that at that briefing just before we left."

"Yes. If only we’d missed that briefing." He raised a hand. "I know, I know: you were right in insisting we attend."

"Indeed," said Afsan. "Didn’t you find the choice of who was giving the briefing unusual?"

Toroca, paying out rope to change the angle of the mainsail, nodded. "At first, yes. But then I figured Dybo was no strategist. I assume this other fellow had a flair for that sort of thing."

"Actually, Dybo’s contributions were invaluable. But do you know who that other fellow was?"