If it came to it, he would rather die trying to be free.

"Can't sit here all night," he said. "Take the other side and let's get this boat in the water. Lift first, then push."

Taking hold of the gunwales on either side, they heaved and strained together. At first, it stuck fast in the shingle. But once they lifted and broke the hold, it began to slide more easily. Then it was afloat, and the two of them clambered aboard. Will gave one last shove with his foot and the skiff drifted out from the beach. Will felt a moment of triumph, then he realized he didn't have time to congratulate himself. Evanlyn, white-faced and tense, was clinging to the gunwales on either side of her as the boat rocked in the small waves.

"So far so good," she said. But her voice betrayed the nervousness she was feeling.

Clumsily, he settled the oars in the oarlocks. He'd watched Svengal do it a dozen times. But now he found that watching and doing were two different matters, and for the first time, he had a twinge of doubt. Maybe he'd taken on more than he could handle. He tried a clumsy stroke with the oars, stabbing at the water and heaving. He missed on the left-hand side, crabbing the boat around and nearly falling onto the floorboards.

"Slowly," Evanlyn advised him, and he tried again, with greater care. This time, he felt a welcome surge of movement through the boat.

He recalled that he'd seen Svengal twisting the oars at the end of each stroke to prevent the blades grabbing in the water. When he did the same, the action was easier. With more confidence, he took a few more strokes and the boat moved more smoothly. The tide was taking effect now, and when Evanlyn looked back at the beach, she felt a lurch of fear to see how far they had come. Will noticed her reaction.

"It'll move faster as we get out into the middle," he told her, between strokes. "We're just on the edge of the tide run."

"Will!" she cried out in an alarmed voice. "There's water in the boat!"

The wrappings around her feet had prevented her feeling the water so far. But now it had soaked through, and when she looked down, she could see water surging back and forth over the floorboards.

"It's just spray," he said carelessly. "We'll bale her out once we're clear of the harbor."

"It's not spray!" she replied, her voice cracking. "The boat is leaking! Look!"

He looked down and his heart leaped into his mouth. She was right.

There were several centimeters of water above the floorboards of the skiff, and the level seemed to be rising.

"Oh my God!" he said. "Start baling, quickly!"

There was a small bucket in the stern and she seized it and began frantically scooping water over the side. But the level was slowly gaining on her and Will could feel the boat responding more sluggishly as more and more water rushed in.

"Go back! Go back!" Evanlyn yelled at him. All thought of secrecy was abandoned now.

Will nodded, too busy to talk, and heaved desperately on one oar, swinging the boat around to head for the beach. Now he had to fight against the tide run and panic made him clumsy. He missed a stroke and overbalanced again, nearly losing an oar over the side. His mouth was dry with fear as he grabbed at the oar, catching it at the last minute.

Evanlyn, scooping frantically at the water in the boat, realized that she was spilling as much water back in as she was throwing overboard. She fought down the sick feeling of panic and forced herself to bale more calmly. That was better, she thought. But the water was still gaining on her.

Luckily, Will had the good sense to move the boat sideways, back to the edge of the tide run, where the outflow was not as fierce. Free of the grip of the main current, the boat began to make better headway. But it was still settling deeper into the water, and the deeper it settled, the faster the inflow of water became. And the more difficult the boat became to row.

"Keep rowing! Row like hell!" Evanlyn encouraged him. He grunted, heaving desperately on the oars, dragging the sluggish boat slowly back to shore. They nearly made it. They were three meters from the beach when the little boat finally went under. The sea poured over the gunwales and it sank beneath them. As they floundered in the waist-deep water, staggering with exhaustion, Will realized that, free of their weight, the skiff was floating again, just below the surface.

He took hold and guided it back into the shallows, Evanlyn following him.

"Trying to kill yourselves?" said a grim voice. They looked up to see Erak standing by the water's edge. Several of his crew stood behind him, broad grins on their faces.

"Jarl Erak-" Will began, then stopped. There was nothing to say.

Erak was turning a small object over in his hands. He tossed it to Will.

"Maybe you forgot this?" he said, his voice ominous. Will studied the object. It was a small cylinder of wood, perhaps six centimeters long and two across. He stared at it, uncomprehending.

"It's what we simple sailors call a bung," Erak explained sarcastically. "It stops water from coming into the boat. Usually it's a good idea to make sure it's in place."

Will's shoulders slumped. He was soaked, exhausted and shaking from the gut-gripping fear of the past ten minutes. Most of all, he felt a massive sense of despondency at their failure. A cork! Their plan was in ruins because of a damned cork! Then a massive hand grabbed the front of his shirt and he was hauled off his feet, his face centimeters from Erak's angry features.

"Don't ever take me for a fool, boy!" the Skandian snarled at him.

"You try anything like this again and I'll flog the skin off you!" He turned to include Evanlyn in the threat.

"Both of you!"

He waited until he was sure his warning had hit home, then hurled Will away from him.

The apprentice Ranger sprawled on the hard stones of the beach, utterly defeated.

"Now get back to the hut!" Erak told them.

"W OULDN'T YOU KNOW IT?" H ALT SAID SOFTLY, IN A DISGUSTED tone.

Ahead of them, a humpbacked stone bridge reared over a small stream.

Sitting his horse between the two travelers and the bridge was a knight in full armor.

Halt reached back over his shoulder and took an arrow from the quiver there, laying it on the bowstring without even looking to see what he was doing.

"What is it, Halt?" Horace asked.

"It's the sort of tomfoolery these Gallicans go on with when I'm in a hurry to be on my way," he muttered, shaking his head in annoyance. "This idiot is going to demand tribute from us to allow us to cross his precious bridge."

Even as he spoke, the armored man pushed up his visor with the back of his right hand. It was a clumsy movement, made even more so by the fact that he was holding a heavy, three-meter lance in that hand.

He nearly lost his grip on the lance, managing to bang it against the side of his helmet in the process, an action that caused a dull clanging sound to carry to the two travelers.

"Arretez la, mes seigneurs, avant de passer ce pont-ci!" he called, in a rather high-pitched voice. Horace didn't understand the words, but the tone was unmistakably supercilious.

"What did he say?" Horace wanted to know, but Halt merely shook his head at the knight.

"Let him speak our tongue if he wants to talk to us," he said angrily, then, in a louder voice, he called: "Araluens!"

Even at the distance they stood from the other man, Horace made out the shrug of disdain at the mention of their nationality. Then the knight spoke again, his thick accent making the words barely more recognizable than when he had been speaking Gallican.

"You, ma sewers, mah not croess ma brudge wuthut you pah meh a trebute," he called. Horace frowned now.