Tyrone Deslock, famed explorer, author of several travelogues, adventurer and general man-of-the-world, was not a patient man. He could only endure so much ranting, so many seething comments, before he himself would burst forth with enraged interruptions.
"Look," he said, interrupting Mark Resdian, cutting off a lengthy and impassioned lecture on the various moral (and, apparently, genealogical) failings of the men who had attacked him in Tyb, "are you fit to walk about on your own or not? We've left everyone who didn't like us behind in Tyb. I don't care about them. I
do care about whether you can stand on your own, because you're useless to me if I have to carry you everywhere."
There was much glaring. "I'm fine," said Resdian. "I said that earlier, when those quack healers were going over me."
"And that's
all I wanted to know," said Deslock, forestalling further conversation by rising from his chair and heading for the door. "Take care, will you? You're not exactly in the prime of your life here."
The explorer closed the door on Resdian's return comment, something about how he could stand more punishment than any of today's fucking wuss youth. Deslock didn't need to hear it. He went up on deck and leaned against the rail.
"Why the hell did you bring him along, anyway?" asked Grummond, when Deslock told him where he'd been.
"We need someone to count the treasure," said Deslock amiably. "Mister Resdian used to be a bank manager, I'm told, and despite his age he's sturdier than most of that profession I've run into."
This information was considered. "Accountant?" said the captain.
"Something like that," said Deslock.
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Later that day, Mark Resdian made his way unassisted to the mess hall and ate a large dinner. That is not to say no one
tried to assist him: many sailors, and a few of the Expedition, offered their shoulders to the old man when they saw him coming down the hall, limping hugely and supporting himself on the wall, looking like grim death. All such offers were refused in a way that managed to leave everyone with the vague impression that Resdian had misheard and thought they were offering obscene services. By the end of the week, though, Resdian was receiving no such offers, partially because his stride was much easier and partially because word had gotten around.
At about the same time, Keil had tried staggering through the ship with the aid of a pair of crutches fashioned from twine and fragments of crate from the hold. The strain had proved too much too soon, or else some other mysterious force was at work, and the boy thus spent the night in bed with a vicious fever. After another week or so he was up once again, staggering about on his crutches, face pale and set against the pain.
It was at about that time that the island came into sight, a dense slice of tropical paradise sitting in the middle of otherwise unbroken ocean.
"We're dropping anchor," the captain declared to Deslock when the lookout sighted the isle.
"Any particular reason why?" asked the explorer.
"Water," said Grummond. "We need more of it." Deslock opened his mouth to speak, and Grummond hurried to add, "
Fresh water, to be exact."
"Oh," said Deslock, "right." There was an awkward pause. "Didn't we pick up a few barrels in Tyb?"
"Well, there's a funny story behind that," the captain began, but Deslock waved him into silence.
"I don't need to hear it to know how it went," he said. "And before you start making excuses, yes, I know we were in a hurry to leave and not thinking of the supplies."
He took a moment to stare at the island, covered in trees that indicated
some source of fresh water. "Hopefully," he said finally, "we didn't forget anything else."
