Elon split them into parties to fetch water or food. Tullut and Ilrud fashioned slings and brought down the bright birds for meat. Others splashed in sapphire pools, scooped gourds full of these sapphires, then spilled them, tossed them over their heads, yelling. It was a land of plenty indeed, this place where things could be wasted.
No men lived here—at least, they saw none.
Yannul plucked an orchid and tucked it in a rent in his shirt.
“Do you think I could persuade a few of these to grow in some earth on the ship? This sort of flower would fetch coins from the ladies of Alisaar.”
Many of them were talking of Alisaar now, and of Zakoris. Even this little ground had made them optimistic. They looked less narrowly at the bluer-than-blue fiery sea.
As they sat on the beach with their grilled meat and fresh water, a group of men came running from the forest, carrying yellow fruit. There had been a deal of craziness, but these men looked wild and mad, garlanded with flowers, laughing uproariously.
“What’s this?” Elon asked them.
“A rare fruit—a wonderful fruit,” a man cried out. “It goes to your head like a wine of Xarabiss.”
Tullut clicked his tongue disapprovingly.
“Did you eat it? Foolish of you. None of us know what grows here. It might be poisonous.”
“Might be—might be—”
Men mimicked him. They were drunk indeed, juice dribbling on their chins, throats and chests as they scrabbled again for the yellow fruit.
Elon turned away. Men capered up the beach.
Raldnor saw Jurl emerge from the nearest tree line, two or three of his followers trailing after. He came to the fruit pile and picked about in it.
“It’s good then?”
“But not necessarily good to eat,” Elon said. “I thought you were to stay aboard the ship, Jurl, to keep your rowers in order.”
“Only the Aarl lords will trouble Rom’s bitch in this sea. I rode the boats as you did, deck master.” Jurl took a bite at the flesh of the fruit and ate, grinning open-mouthed. “The men are better judges of the table than you, Elon.” He hefted a couple of the fruits and went to eat them at another fire about which the drunken men were dancing.
Gradually, one by one, some uneasily, some swaggering, men went to join him. They were of his faction, believing in his brutal authority, or else excited by his lack of scruple. There had been several cries of approval over the dead men under the awning.
Soon the group about Jurl grew murderously loud. They began to push out the boats again, skipping and guffawing.
“They’ll bring in the watch off the ship,” Tullut exclaimed. “Deck master, she should have some guard, whatever deserted sea we’re in.”
Elon stared at the white hem of the water.
“Do I have authority to stop him, Tullut? There seem to be few men about this fire.”
“They’re drunk on the fruit, woman-weak—”
Elon got up without another word. Stiff as a plank, he walked down the beach toward the crazy garlanded men and their boats. Raldnor rose; Tullut, Yannul and a few others followed, falling into step behind him as he went after Elon. The wheeling birds embroidered the sky in slow persistent circles.
Suddenly Jurl came thrusting out of the press. The fruit had intoxicated him, though he had not adopted the other men’s garlands or mannerisms. Like a man accustomed to wine, his character had not been blurred or altered, but rather sharpened, accentuated.
“What are you doing, Jurl?” Elon said.
“Bringing the last men and oars-pigs, and the whores from the ship. You wouldn’t deny them the island, would you?”
“They’ll be denied nothing. I’ll send a relief party shortly, when the men are rested.”
“The ship needs no guard, Elon. Not here.”
“I haven’t ordered you to disband the watch.”
“You. You no longer order anything. Go chew your bread and water, my lady, while we men enjoy ourselves.”
“You’ll answer for this in Hanassor,” Elon said softly into the silence.
“Hanassor.” Jurl spat. He had not caught their faith. “If and when is good enough. And I’ll have charges of my own. Against that landsdog at your shoulder, for one. By Zarduk, Dortharian, can’t you keep your nose out of anything?”
“The beach is as much mine as yours,” Raldnor said, “and your voice carries a good way.”
Jurl’s hand flickered at his belt and came back with the knife. The silence crackled.
“Put away your blade,” Elon said.
A man giggled, high like an excited girl.
“Let’s have them fight—Ten draks on the oars master.”
Voices cheered raucously.
“Well, Dortharian, do you take me? You’ve seen this blade used before,” Jurl said. “Milk hair.”
Raldnor’s hand moved in its own practiced manner, and produced a knife. One or two men noticed the professional intimacy of the gesture, and some of the cheers broke off.
“Yes, you’ve used the blade before—on half-dead men,” Raldnor said. “I’ll take you.”
Jurl started forward, but somehow Elon interposed himself. Jurl turned snarling and slashed into the deck master’s body. Red splashed on the white ground. Red licked up Jurl’s knife like flame. Jurl jumped sideways for the nearest boat, men leaping after him. They pulled for Rom’s Daughter and were out in the bay moments after Elon fell.
Tullut ran forward and took Elon’s head on his knee, but Elon’s eyes were already filmed over and opaque with death. His blood soaked in the sand.
They buried him in the sand and shingle at the fringe of the jungle, but it was shallow soil. They struck stone too soon. There were animals, too, not seen before and not showing themselves now, only little rustlings in the forest, bright blinks of eyes, to intimate their presence. And the birds flew round the darkening sky, wailing their greed. So the man raked off the sand and piled on twigs and creeper, and fired them. It was a cleaner burial, but the stench of burning flesh drove them far along the beach.
Tullut moved away from them all and stood alone in the twilight as the charcoal ashes that were Elon blew and smoldered. It was not a man’s part to weep, and, if he must, he grieved in hiding. It came to Raldnor, with sudden remembered pain, how he too had once restrained his tears as he walked behind Eraz’s bier at Hamos.
A huge moon floated over the trees.
A red glare spiraled and smoked from the plateau above, and sounds of singing and pipes and noisy calls came over the wash of the sea and the small muted thunder of the falls.
The boats had come back to the island as they carried the tinder to Elon’s body. Laughing men and screeching women had exploded across the beach into the trees, carrying lanterns and casks of beer from Drokler’s private storage hold. Now they drank, and ate the fruit, and sang around their fires on the rock.
Tullut came walking slowly back across the sand, his face in shadow.
“Tullut!” A sailor caught his arm, “Tullut, let’s take a boat, get to the ship and sail her. There must be some safe way home. We can leave them their island.”
“No,” Tullut said.
The tide had climbed higher up the sand, hushing in slow pale whispers, like a mother with a child.
“By Zarduk,” the sailor said, “it wouldn’t make me sad if the fruit poisoned them as you said it would, Tullut. That’d be justice. I shouldn’t trouble.”
The last glimmer of light sank in the sea. A woman’s voice burst out in high song on the plateau.
Yannul stirred uneasily. He said to Raldnor, very low: “They’re hard bitches, most of them, they can take care of themselves. But there was a little girl—from Alisaar, I think—a Zakorian pirate took her when she was a mite. She was tough on deck, but she got scared at night. There may be too much fun up there. Would you object if I went up and got her back?”