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after week, could earn more than enough to keep himself healthy and alert. If
he didn't make enemies among the guards or his fellow prisoners, he could last
as long as he'd need to.
Blade suspected that he would need no more than a few months. He hoped it
would be no more than a few weeks. There wasn't much time to lose if he was to
escape in time to help Harkrat and Elyana.
Chapter 13
«^»
Shell Island was only five days from Gohar if the winds cooperated. On Blade's
voyage they didn't, and it took his ship ten. About noon on the ninth day
Blade heard men moving on deck, and the ship drifted to a stop. Then a boat
came bumping alongside and loud-voiced men scrambled aboard. The pilot to
guide the ship through the twisting channel to Shell Island was aboard.
All that afternoon the ship tacked back and forth, masts and rigging creaking
and groaning and the sailors cursing at the extra work. As the sky began to
turn red, they gave Blade the largest meal he'd ever eaten on board meat, a
huge bowl of porridge, bread with oil and spices, even some dried fruit. He
couldn't help thinking of "the condemned man's last meal," but in spite of
this he fell asleep more easily than he'd expected.
Blade awoke with another painful headache, a dry mouth, salt-caked lips, and a
stomach rumbling with hunger and quivering with nausea. He felt as if he'd
been on a truly awesome binge and was now paying the price in the form of an
equally impressive hangover.
Unfortunately, there was gritty sand and small pebbles under him, a hot sun
blazing on his bare skin, and a salt-scented wind blowing across his body. Not
far off sea birds were crying, and waves rolled in on a beach.
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Blade turned his head so that he wouldn't be dazzled by the sun, then opened
his eyes. Even then he couldn't see anything for a while. Finally he saw that
he was lying at the foot of a sand dune on the narrow gravel and sand beach
between the dune and the water. Small waves splashed and died on the sand
twenty yards away.
The sand dune cut off Blade's view toward the land, but to seaward he could
make out a line of white as waves broke over a half-submerged reef. From the
position of the sun, it was midmorning, a few hours before noon.
He'd been drugged at dinner, then dumped on Shell Island during the night. At
least he couldn't see any reason to believe he wasn't on Shell Island, and he
was certain he'd been drugged. He sat up, tried to stand, and found that his
legs wouldn't stay under him. The movement made his stomach rebel, and up came
the remnants of last night's dinner.
Now his stomach felt better, though not his head. Gradually the headache also
faded, and the second time he tried to stand he found he could do it. He still
decided to stay where he was for a little longer.
The prisoners of Shell Island were often hostile to newcomers until they'd
proved themselves in a few fights. Blade knew he might have to fight the
moment he left the shelter of the dune, couldn't afford to lose, and wanted to
be completely fit.
He stretched out on a patch of the softest sand he could find in the shade of
the dune and tried to relax and breathe deeply. Now he found himself wondering
why he'd been dumped here, on an isolated beach of Shell Island. Normally
prisoners for the island were taken to a fort on the southern tip and
registered before they were turned loose. The Goharans were advanced
enough to have invented bureaucracy and bureaucrats who insisted on keeping
useless statistics.
It occurred to Blade that he might be more useful to Kloret if he wasn't
registered. If nobody except his fellow prisoners, who wouldn't know who he
was, knew that he was on Shell Island, this reduced the chances of any of his
friends or any of Kloret's enemies tracing him. Of course the ship's crew
might be a link between Gohar and Shell Island, so those sailors were probably
doomed. If ever there was a believer in the rule "Dead men tell no tales," it
was Kloret.
Blade wondered how Kloret would manage to dispose of the sailors,
but found it hard to concentrate. The sun was getting warmer, the fresh
air after days in the musty hold was delicious, and the sand under him was
softer than the dirty planks. He also hadn't got all the drug out of his
system.
He looked at the sand dune, and it seemed to blur and waver. It probably would
hide him for another few hours of sleep. Even if it didn't, he was in no shape
to fight. Blade's ferocious survival instincts could recognize an impossible
proposition when they saw one.
He shifted position until he was almost comfortable, and was asleep almost at
once.
He woke up with a bare foot prodding him gently but persistently in the ribs.
He found that most of the drug was out of his system and all his senses were
normal again. He was trying to decide whether to play sick or show signs of
life, when from somewhere above him a voice spoke.
"Ullo, ullo, man from the Sea. What do you here?"
The voice was a woman's, rich and deep, with an accent Blade recognized as
Mythoran. He sat up and found himself staring at a pair of magnificent
breasts, supported but hardly concealed by a narrow band of rawhide. He stood
up and stepped back, to survey the owner of the breasts from head to foot.
For a Goharan woman, she was almost a giant nearly six feet tall, and
big-boned as well. She'd
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been eating well enough not to lose her figure, but there wasn't any fat on
her. There was plenty of muscle, though, smooth and supple under a brown skin
further darkened by sun and wind and soot. Her face was long, with high
cheekbones, and framed in sun-bleached light brown hair. She wore a wider
strip of rawhide around her waist, and sandals of what looked like snakeskin.
She looked more like a queen than Elyana ever would. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]