When next he knew, there was a sour smell of wine, it was dark and
dripping sounded. He could not think through the curtain of headache;
the scampering was undoubtedly rat, but why? Where was added to why with
slowly gathering memory—still on the ship certainly, since the bare
boards on which he lay heaved with a slow and even beat.
The right side of his neck was sore, and the opposite soreness was on
his head. He thought: ah, for why am I so punished? and heaved himself
upon an elbow to find a pannikin of water by his side, which he drank
greedily. It was dark, a kind of velvet twilight; yet not so dark that
he failed to make out that he lay prisoned in a narrow passage between
tall casks that rose on either hand, groaning in their lashings. The
quantity of light must mean day was outside, and he had lain a long
time. Now he came afoot and wondered whether he should seek the deck,
but decided contrary, since someone for some reason had brought him
here, and there might be perils abroad. Sleep? Ah, no. He sat down to
think out his situation, but could make no sense of any part, therefore
abandoned the effort, and with a tinge of regret over his lost books,
let his mind run along the line of Iren Dostal’s sweet rhymes until
tears reached his eyes.
This could not occupy him forever, either; a profound and trembling
ennui came on him, so his fingers made small motions tracing out an
imaginary design. A long time; a step sounded, coming down from
somewhere and then along among the casks. Krotz. He said:
“You must be careful. Oh, do not make a noise. He would hurt me if he
knew I helped you. Here.”
In the gloom something was thrust against Rodvard’s hand which, by the
touch, he knew for a dish of congealing food. “What is it?” he asked. “I
was struck and lost remembrance.”
“You truly do not know? I thought it was feigned when you failed to
speak as he said you were to be thrown overside, and he took the young
Kjermanash—.” A shout sounded flatly from above. “Oh, I could hurt him.
I must go.” The last words went dim as Krotz disappeared among the tall
columns of casks and Rodvard was left to his meditations. The food was a
stew of lamb, and it tasted like candle-grease.
Dark had come before the lad did again, with a meal even worse than its
foregoer; trembling and unwilling to talk. Rodvard found himself
fingering round the great casks from one curve to another, counting the
planks in them and thinking whether there might not be some mathematical
relation in the figures he counted. A futile thing to do, he told
himself, wishing he had Dr. Remigorius’ philosophy, who often spoke of
how a man should be complete in himself, since each one lives in a
self-built cell of pellucid glass and may touch another only with, not
through, that veil. Ah, bah! It is not true (he thought); I have been
touched sharply enough by this very Remigorius, but for whom I’d not be
in such a coil, with Lalette and Damaris, ideals thrown down, and on a
mad voyage to nowhere. . . . There was something wrong with this, on
which he could not put the finger—so now he fell to counting the planks
again, or try to make a poem, ending the effort with an inward twitter,
as though mice were running under his skin, as he waited, not with
patience, for the next arrival of Krotz with his purloined food.
The lad was faithful, but always looking over his shoulder; trembling so
that it was nearly impossible to get two consecutive words from him, by
which it came about that there was no plan for Rodvard’s escape when the
word was that Charalkis Head had come in sight. The ship would lie that
night in the harbor of Mancherei’s brick-built capital, and what counsel
now? Shifting his feet like a dancer, Krotz said he thought Rodvard
might easily slip past the deck-guard into the water; but this scheme
split on the fact that he lacked the skill of swimming. All was still
undecided that night; a sharp sword of apprehension pricked his fitful
sleep, nor were matters amended when he was fully roused by hammerings
over the doors of his prison.
Kjermanash voices sounded their customary cackle. A shaft of light
struck down, so brilliant that Rodvard’s dark-hooded eyes could scarcely
bear it, and he shrank back along the cask-alley, hands over face. It
was not the best means of hiding; down swung one of the Kjermanash to
fix the tackle for lifting out the cargo, gave a whoop and pounced,
being presently joined by other sailors. There was much laughter and
excited talk in their own language; they patted Rodvard and tweaked the
long-grown hair on his face, then urged him up the ladder deckward, with
“Key-yip! Kee-yup!” and a sheath-knife that banged him in the crotch
from behind as he climbed, blinking.
At the top he stumbled out on a deck where the mate stood, wrinkling
eyes against the sun. “Puke-face, by the Service! I thought you had been
fish-farts long ago. Ohé, captain! Here’s your cheating mechanician!”
Now Rodvard noticed that Captain Betzensteg was a few paces beyond,
talking to a man in a decent grey jacket and a red-peaked hat, but
wearing no badge of status. The one-eyed monster turned, and his full
lips twisted. “Put him in the lazarette with chains, since he’s so
slippery. Well have the trial at sea.”