As Jorian scrambled aft, he saw that the Xylarian with the lariat was again whirling his noose. The man's black hood had fallen back, exposing a head of long, wheat-colored hair. The man, Jorian thought, was probably a nomad from the steppes of Shven. Xylar often hired these Northerners for the Royal Guard because of their skill with the lariat, since the principal duty of the Guard was, not to protect the king, but to keep him from escaping and to catch him alive if he tried.
This time, Jorian was within easy casting distance. He scuttled into the cockpit.
"Ship your oar," he said, "and catch hold of my belt in back."
"Why?"
"Just do it."
The oar clattered inboard. Jorian stood up in the cockpit, with one hand on the mizzen backstay, and thumbed his nose at the Xylarians. Zerlik caught his belt from behind. The Xylarian put one foot on his gunwale to make his cast.
Helped by the wind, the noose whirled through the air and settled around Jorian's shoulders. Jorian seized the rope in both hands and gave a mighty heave. Zerlik pulled at the same time. The Xylarian was jerked clear out of the barge, splash!
With cries of rage and alarm, the pursuers stopped rowing. Those on the near side of the barge rose and stretched out their oars to the man in the water. One, in his zeal, hit the swimmer over the head. The head vanished but soon bobbed up again.
The Flying Fish gained speed. Jorian crouched in the cockpit, holding the tiller with one hand and with the other, reeling in the rope. He grinned at Zerlik.
"One can never have too much good rope on shipboard," he said.
The barge fell astern, while the Xy larians hauled their dripping comrade aboard. Zerlik asked:
"Are we safe, now?"
"I know not. She seems to point pretty well on this tack; but we have yet to learn how featly she comes about and how well she points with the sails taken aback."
"What means that?"
Jorian explained the features of lateen sails and the good and bad points of shifting the yards to the leeward of the masts with each tack. He cast a worried glance ahead, where the far side of the estuary was opening out as they neared it: a long, low green line of marshes and woods, interspersed with croplands and villages.
"Get forward, Zerlik," he said, "and watch for shoal water. All we need now is to run aground."
"How shall I do that?"
"Look straight down and yell when you think you see bottom."
After a while, Jorian called a warning, put the helm sharply down, and brought the Flying Fish about on the starboard tack. The little ship responded well and pointed almost as high on this tack as on the other. Zerlik called:
"The Xylarians have not yet given up, O Jorian. They seek to cut us off."
Jorian shaded his eyes. Laboring into the teeth of the wind, the pursuers were forging seaward. Although the Flying Fish moved much faster than the barge, the angle at which the lateener was forced to sail by the direction of the wind brought the two vessels on converging courses.
"Should we not tack again, ere we come close?" asked Zerlik.
"Mayhap; but they'd still be south of us. They'd run farther out to sea and intercept us on the next tack. I have a better idea."
With a dangerous glint in his eye, Jorian held his course. Closer came the barge.
"Now,""said Jorian, "take the trumpet, go forward, and shout a warning, that we mean to exercise our right of way. Let them stand off if they would not be run down."
"Jorian! The collision would smash both ships!"
"Do as I say!"
Shaking his head, Zerlik went forward and shouted his warning. The Xylarians turned faces towards the Flying Fish, swiftly bearing down upon them. There was motion aboard the craft as some of the pursuers readied their nets and lariats. The Flying Fish kept on.
"Can you swim, Zerlik?" asked Jorian.
"A little, but not from here to shore! My gods, Jorian, would you really ram them?"
"You shall see. Repeat your warning."
At the last minute, the barge burst into action. The rowers backed water, the sea foaming over their oars. The Flying Fish raced past so close to windward that the barge rocked in her wake. One Xylarian stood up to shake a fist until his comrades pulled him down again.
"Whew!" breathed Zerlik. "Would you have truly run them down?"
Jorian grinned. "You'll never know. But, with that much way on, 'twould not have been hard to dodge them. Anyway, we can now devote ourselves to the sea road to Iraz—if storms, calms, sea monsters, and pirates interfere not. Now excuse me whilst I pray to Psaan to avert these perils."
Night fell, but the brisk wind held. Having lost his lunch and being unable to eat any dinner, Zerlik sat moaning with his head in his hands.
"How do you stand it?" he asked, watching with revulsion as Jorian, one hand on the tiller, put away a hearty supper. "You eat enough for two."
Jorian bit a piece out of an apple, swallowed, and replied: "Oh, I used to get seasick, too. On my first cruise against pirates, as king of Xylar, I was sick as a dying dog. I was like that fellow in the operetta, The Good Ship Petticoat, by Galliben and Silfero—you know, the one who sings about being a pirate captain bold."
"I know it not. Could you give it to me?"
"I can try, albeit vocal training is one skill for which I've not had time." In a heavy bass voice, slightly off key, Jorian sang:
"That is good!" said Zerlik. "I would learn it; for I know no Novarian songs." He started off in a high but well-controlled tenor.
"You sing better than I ever shall," said Jorian after he had helped his comrade through the lyrics.
"Ah, but amongst us, to carry a tune well is deemed one of the accomplishments of a gentleman! How got you over your seasickness?"
"Well, thanks to Psaan—"
"Thanks to whom?"
"Psaan, the Novarian sea god. Anyway, my system adjusted, and I've never been seasick since. Perhaps you will adapt likewise. That reminds me: Is my—ah—colorful past known in Iraz?"
"Nay, at least so far as I know."
"Then how did you learn of it?"
"Doctor Karadur told me about your having been king of Xylar and accompanying him to Mulvan and Shven, to make it easier for me to find you. He swore me to secrecy, howsomever."
"Good for him! Karadur is a wise old man, if sometimes absent-minded. Now, when we reach your homeland, I want no word of my former kingship or aught else breathed abroad. To the Irazis I shall be merely a respectable technician. Do you understand?"
"Aye, sir."
"Then come hither and take the tiller. It must be the hour of the owl already, and I needs must get some sleep."
"May I run her closer to shore? I can barely see the coast, and so much water around me makes me nervous."
Zerlik gestured to eastward, where the Xylarian coast formed a black strip between sky and sea, both illuminated by the rising moon. The moon cast a million silvery spangles on the waves between the Flying Fish and the shore.