Kushiel's Chosen

There was too much to say, and too little, and the thought of Joscelin was more than I could bear. In the absence of words, beyond the sound of waves and creaking rigging, came the distant sound of a drumbeat, steady and relentless.
    Somewhere behind us across the dark seas, the Serenissiman war-galleys pursued, chasing our faint, flitting lights.
    Kazan gazed across the waters. "So it will be Epidauro, then," he said softly. "Just know ..." He switched to Caerdicci, the language we had always shared between us. "... I didn't think they would kill you, eh? Remember me kindly, you." He touched my hair, and gave me a faint smile. "Marjopf was right, yes? Bad luck, after all. But I will think of you, when I die. It would please Daroslav, that I knew one such as you, before the end."
    For that, too, I had no words; I watched him go, consulting with his men, lending a word here or there, giving them hope.
    A roiling dawn broke in the east, purple clouds shot through with ragged streaks of orange, beating the waves into bronze. The winds picked up, errant and fitful, gusts from the north driving us sideways and setting peaks of white foam atop the wave crests. Our pursuers were behind us still, and if they began at last to flag, so too did our progress slow.
    A half a league behind us, no more, did they follow. If the winds had favored us, we might have done it; Kazan's ships could have scattered in one of the many archipelagos, disappearing in minutes. It had ever been their plan for evading pursuit, and a successful one; but the pursuit had never been so well-planned, so dogged. In the past, Kazan Atrabiades had struck as an opportunist. This time, the opportunity had been Marco Stregazza's, and he had taken it to its fullest.
    We made for Epidauro.
    Kazan spoke briefly to his crew. "You know what we face, all of you, behind and before. Let my mother's curse claim me then; 'tis long enough overdue. If the Ban may profit from it, 'tis worthwhile in the end. Pekhlo, tell Nikanor I bequeath command to him when I am dead. I ask only that he leave the house to Marjopí, and see that she is given a proper loom, an upright loom like the D'Angelines use." He raised his voice, shouting the order. "All sails out for Epidauro!"
    They did not cheer, then, but merely obeyed. I made my way to Glaukos' side, to see if I could be of assistance to him. He was working in the dark hold, where the injured had been secured, and his normally cheerful face was set and lined.
    "All the gods be thanked," he muttered, "that he's set aside his damned superstition long enough to save our hides. Did you talk him into it, my lady?"
    "A little." I caught his satchel as it threatened to overturn as the ship lurched sharply. "He thinks he's going to die, Glaukos."
    "I know." He steadied himself against the inner wall of the ship, then bent over to check a dressing, sniffing to see if the wound had gone bad. The sailor, half-conscious, murmured in pain.
    "Do you believe it?"
    "Ah, now ..." Glaukos glanced at me. "I don't know, my lady. Do you ask me do I think the kríavbhog will take him, well, no, I think no such thing. Tis Illyrian superstition, that, and naught else; tales to frighten children. But when a man sets himself to die, I have seen it, how his spirit may go out like a blown candle flame. Kazan, he's more life in him than any ten men. But still... I don't know."
    At that, the ship heeled sharply again, rendering talk a wasted effort. I helped him as best I could, and when I could do no more, I went back above deck. The morning's clouds had thickened, and rainsqualls threatened here and there, moving across the surface of the sea as if of their own volition. The Serenissiman galleys had drawn closer.
    And ahead of us lay Epidauro.

FIFTY-SEVEN
    i he city of Epidauro has stood for a long time, as Illyrians reckon history; always it has been populated, although it was the Tiberians who build the first fortifications there. Once an island, it is linked to the mainland by the causeway, and defended on three sides by water and sturdy walls all around.
    We bore down upon it like so many leaves driven hither and thither before the wind, Kazan's sailors scrambling frantically with each new tack. And all the while behind us came the relentless drumbeat, the banked oars of the Serenissiman war-galleys churning double lines of foam.
    There can be no doubt that our approach was spotted by the harbor ward-towers, for the response was swift. At such a