“Yes, I know Shan t’Tefur and his late father.— Ai,you would not have heard. Tlekef t’Tefur is dead, killed in the violence.”

“How?” asked Kta at once. “Who did so?”

“A certain t’Osanef.”

“O gods,” Kta breathed. The strength seemed to go out of him. His face went pale. “Which t’Osanef?”

“Han t’Osanef did the killing, but I have no further information. I do not blame you, t’Elas. If a sister of mine were involved, I would worry, I would indeed. Tell me this: why would Sufaki kill Sufaki? A contest for power? A personal feud?”

“A struggle,” said Kta, “between those who love Nephane as Osanef does and those who want to bring her down, like t’Tefur. And you are doing excellently for t’Tefur’s cause, Methi. If there is no Nephane, which is the likely result of your war, there will be another Chteftikan, and that war you cannot see the end of. There are Sufaki who have learned not to hate Indras; but there will be none left if you pursue this attack.”

Ylith joined her hands together and meditated on some thought, then looked up again. “Lhe t’Nethim will return you to the hold,” she said. “I am done. I have spared all the time I can afford today, for a man out of touch with reality. You are a brave man, Kta t’Elas; and you, Kurt t’Morgan, you are commendable in your attachment to this gentle madman. Someoneshould stay by him. It does you credit that you do not leave him.”

21

“Kurt.”

Kurt came awake with Kta shaking him by the shoulder and with the thunder of running feet on the deck overhead. He blinked in confusion. Someone on deck was shouting orders, a battle-ready.

“There is sail in sight,” said Kta. “Nephane’s fleet.”

Kurt rubbed his face, tried to hear any clear words from overhead. “How much chance is there that Nephane can stop this here?”

Kta gave a laugh like a sob. “Gods, if the Methi’s report is true, none. If there is civil war in the city, it will have crippled the fleet. Without the Sufaki, the Families could not even get the greater ships out of the harbor. It will be a slaughter up there.”

Oars rumbled overhead. In a moment more the shouted order rang out and the oars splashed down in unison. The ship began to gather speed.

“We are going in,” Kurt murmured, fighting down panic. A host of images assailed his mind. They could do nothing but ride it out, chained to the ship of the Methi. In space or on Tavi’s exposed deck, he had known fear in entering combat, but never such a feeling of helplessness.

“Edge back,” Kta advised him, bracing his shoulder against the hull. He took his ankle chain in both hands. “If we ram, the shock could be considerable. Brace yourself and hold the chain. There is no advantage adding broken bones to our misery.”

Kurt followed his example, casting a misgiving look at the mass of stored gear in the after part of the hold. If it was not well-secured, impact would send tons of weight down on them, and there was no shielding themselves against that.

The grating thunder of three hundred oars increased in tempo and held at a pace that no man could sustain over a long drive. Now even in the dark hold there was an undeniable sense of speed, with the beat of the oars and the rush of water against the hull.

Kurt braced himself harder against the timbers. What would happen if the trireme itself was rammed and a bronze Nephanite prow splintered in the midships area needed no imagination. He remembered Tavi’s ruin and the men ground to death in the collision, and tried not to think how thin was the hull at their shoulders.

The beat stopped, a deafening hush, then the portside oars ran inboard: the ship glided under momentum for an instant.

Wood began to splinter and the ship shuddered and rolled, grating and cracking wood all along her course. Thrown sprawling, Kurt and Kta held as best they could as the repeated shocks vibrated through the ship. Shouting came overhead, over the more distant screaming of men in pain and terror, suddenly overwhelmed by the sound of the oars being run out again.

The relentless cadence recommenced, the trireme recovering her momentum. All-encompassing was the crash and boom of the oars, pierced by the thin shouts of officers. Then the oars lifted clear with a great sucking of water, and held. The silence was so deep that they could hear their own harsh breathing, the give of the oars in their locks, the creak of timbers and the groan of rigging, and the sounds of battle far distant.

“This is the Methi’s ship,” Kta answered his anxious look. “It has doubtless broken the line and now waits. They will not risk this ship needlessly.”

And for a long time they crouched against the hull, staring into the dark, straining for each sound that might tell them what was happening above.

New orders were given, too faintly to be understood. Men ran across the deck in one direction and the other, and still the motion of the ship indicated they were scarcely moving.

Then the hatch crashed open and Lhe t’Nethim came down the steps into the hold, backed by three armed men.

“Do you suddenly need weapons?” asked Kta.

“T’Elas,” said Lhe, “you are called to the deck.”

Kta gathered himself to his feet, while one of the men bent and unlocked the chain that passed through the ring of the band at his ankle.

“Take me along with him,” said Kurt, also on his feet.

“I have no orders about that,” said Lhe.

“T’Nethim,” Kurt pleaded, and Lhe considered an instant, gnawing his lip. Then he gestured to the man with the keys.

“Your word to do nothing violent,” Lhe insisted.

“My word,” said Kurt.

“Bring him too,” said Lhe.

Kurt followed Kta up the steps into the light of day, so blinded by the unaccustomed glare that he nearly missed his footing on the final step. On the deck the hazy shapes of many men moved around them, and their guards guided them, like blind men toward the stern of the ship.

Ylith sat beneath the blue canopy. There Kurt’s sight began to clear. Kta went heavily to his knees, Kurt following his example, finding comfort in him. He began to understand Kta’s offering of respect at such a moment: Kta did what he did with grace, paying honor like a gentleman, unmoved by threat or lack of it. His courage was contagious.

“You may sit,” said Ylith softly. “T’Elas, if you will look to the starboard side, I believe you may see the reason we have called you.”

Kta turned on one knee, and Kurt looked also. A ship was bearing toward them, slowly, relying on only part of its oarage. The black sail bore the white bird of IIev, and the red immunity streamer floated from its mast.

“As you see,” said the Methi, “we have offered the Families of Nephane the chance to talk before being driven under. I have also ordered my fleet to gather up survivors—without regard to nation; even Sufaki, if there be any. Now if your eloquence can persuade them to surrender, you will have won their lives.”

“I have agreed to no such thing,” Kta protested angrily.

“This is your opportunity, t’Elas. Present them my conditions, make them believe you,—or remain silent and watch these last ships try to stop us.”

“What are your conditions?” Kta asked.

“Nephane will again become part of the empire or Nephane will burn. And if your Sufaki can accept being part of the empire,—well, I will deal with that wonder when it presents itself. I have never met a Sufaki, I confess it, as I had never met a human. I should be interested to do so,—on my terms. So persuade them for me, t’Elas, and save their lives.”

“Give me your oath they will live,” Kta said, and there was a stirring among the Methi’s guards, hands laid on weapons.

But Kta remained as he was, humbly kneeling. “Give me your oath,” he replied, “in plain words, life and freedom for the men of the fleet if they take terms. I know that with you, Ylith-methi, words are weapons, double-edged. But I would believe your given word.”