‘How can you bother with this smelly creature? We have proved our point, that Radado and Throssa were once connected. God the Azoiaxic was on our side. The small colony of iguanas isolated on Gleeat Island are an inferior strain, isolated from the main body of iguanas on the southern continent. This creature, living among white phagors, probably represents some kind of survival of the Hespagorat-Pegovin black strain. Doubtless they’re dying out on such a small island.’
He shook his head. While admiring her quick brain, he perceived that she reached conclusions too hastily.
‘She claims that her party were on a ship which was wrecked on Gleeat in an earlier monsoon.’
‘That’s clearly a lie. Phagors do not sail. They hate water.’
‘They were slaves on a Throssan galley, she says.’
Odi patted his shoulder. ‘Listen, Sartori, it’s my belief that we could have proved that the two continents were once linked just by looking at the old charts in the chartroom. There’s Purporian on the Radado shore and a port called Popevin on the Throssa shore. “Poop” means “bridge” in Pure Olonets, and “Pup” or “Pu” the same in Local Olonets. The past is locked up in language, if one knows how to look.’
Although she laughed, he was vexed by her superior Sibornalese style. ‘If the smell is overcoming you, dear, you had better go back on deck.’
‘We shall soon be approaching Keevasien. A coastal town. As you know, “ass” or “as” is Pure Olonets for “sea” — the equivalent of “ash” in Pontpian.’ With that burst of knowledge, smiling, she retired, climbing the ladder to the quarterdeck in practical fashion.
He was surprised next day to find that Gleeat was wounded. There was a golden pool of blood on the deck where she lay. He questioned her through the interpreter. Although he watched her closely, he could detect nothing resembling emotion when she answered.
‘No, she is not wounded. She says she is coming on oestrus. She has just undergone her menstrual period.’ The interpreter looked his distaste but made no personal comment, being of inferior rank.
Such was his hatred for phagors — but it was gone now, like much else from his past life, he realised — that SartoriIrvrash had always neglected their history, just as he had refused to learn their language. Such matters he had left to JandolAnganol — JandolAnganol with his perverse trust in the creatures. However, the sexual habits of phagors had been a target for prurient jest to the very urchins in the Matrassyl streets; he recalled that the female ancipital, neither human nor beast, delivered something like a one-day menstrual flow from the uterus as prelude to the oestral cycle when she came on heat. It might be memories of those old whispers which caused him to imagine that his captive emitted a more pungent odour on this occasion.
SartoriIrvrash scratched his cheek. ‘What was that word she used for catamenia? Her word in Native?’
‘She calls oestrus “tennhrr” in her language. Shall I have her hosed down?’
‘Ask her how frequently she comes into oestrus.’
The gillot, who remained tied, had to be prodded before she gave answer. Her long pink milt flicked up one of her nostrils. She finally admitted to having ten periods in a small year. SartoriIrvrash nodded and went on deck for some fresh air. Poor creature, he thought; a pity we can’t all live in peace. The human-ancipital dilemma would have to be resolved one day, one way or another. When he was dead and gone.
They drove before the monsoon all that night, the next day, and the night following. The rains were frequently so thick that those aboard the Golden Friendship could not make out their sister ships. The Straits of Cadmer were left behind. All about them was the grey Narmosset, its waves streaked with long spittles of white. The world was a liquid one.
During the fifth night, they encountered a storm, and the carrack almost stood on its beam ends. The hollies and orange trees growing along the waist were all lost overboard, and many feared that the ship would founder. The seamen, always superstitious, approached their captain and begged that the captive phagor be cast overboard, since it was well known that ancipitals aboard ship brought bad luck. The captain agreed. He had tried almost everything else.
SartoriIrvrash was awake, despite the late hour. It was impossible to sleep in the storm. He protested against the captain’s decision. No one was in any mood to listen to his arguments; he was a foreigner, and in danger of being thrown overboard himself. He went and hid while Gleeat was dragged from her foul hold and thrown into the raging waters.
Within an hour, the worst of the wind died. By the time of false light, when Poorich was just visible ahead, nothing more than a fresh breeze prevailed. By dawn, the other three vessels were disclosed, miraculously unharmed and not too far distant — God the Azoiaxic was good. Soon, the mouth of the Kacol, where Keevasien lay, could be discerned through purplish coastal mists.
An unnatural gloom hovered about the hinges of the horizon. The sea all round the Sibornalese fleet was alive with dolphins, darting just below the surface. Flocks of sea and land birds numbering many hundreds circled overhead. They uttered no cry, but the beat of their myriad wings sounded like a downpour in which no rain fell. The flocks did not swerve as the call ‘Good Tidings’ rolled out from ship to coast.
As the wind died, the cordage slackened and slapped against the masts. The four ships closed as they approached the shore.
Dienu set a spyglass to her eye and stared at where a strip of island lay among the breaking waves. She saw men standing on the strip, and counted a dozen. One was coming forward. During the days of the monsoon, they had skirted the coasts of Randonan; here Borlien commenced — enemy territory. It was important that news of the fleet’s coming was not flashed ahead to Ottassol; surprise counted for much, in this as in most warlike enterprises.
The light improved, minute by minute. The Golden Friendship exchanged signals with the Union, the Good Hope, and the white caravel, the Vajabhar Prayer, alerting them to danger.
A man in a wide-brimmed hat was wading out into the foam. Behind him, at the mouth of the river, a boat could be seen, hull half-hidden. There was always the possibility that they were moving into an ambush and, getting too far in, would lose the wind and be trapped. Dienu stood tense at the rail of the quarterdeck; for a moment, she wished that her faithless Io were with her; he was always so quick to make up his mind.
The man in the surf unfurled a flag. The stripes of Borlien were revealed.
Dienu summoned artillerymen to line the landward rail.
The distance between ship and shore diminished. The man in the surf had halted, up to his thighs in water. He was waving the flag in an assured manner. The mad Borlienese…
Dienu instructed the artillery captain. He saluted, went down the companion ladder to give orders to his men. The men worked in pairs, one operating the wheel lock, the other supporting the muzzle.
‘Fire!’ shouted the artillery captain. A pause, and then a volley of shots.
So began the battle of Keevasien sandbar.
The Golden Friendship was close enough for Hanra TolramKetinet to make out the faces of the soldiery along its rail. He saw the artillerymen taking aim at him.
By now, the insignia on the sails had revealed that these were Sibornalese vessels, surprisingly far from home. He wondered if his opportunist king had concluded a treaty to bring Sibornal into the Western Wars on Borlien’s side. He had no reason to believe them hostile — until the weapons were raised.