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Shutting his eyes once more, Palin rolled over to ease
his cramped muscles, pressing his aching head against the
cool, damp wood of the crude bed.
Or perhaps he should say "berth." That's the nautical
term, isn't it? he said to himself bitterly. That's what you
call a bed on a ship. And what will they call US on the
ship? Palin asked himself in despair. Galley slaves?
Chained to the oars, subject to the overmaster
with his whip, flaying the flesh from their backs. . . .
The motion of the ship changed, the sea chests skittered
along the floor in the opposite direction, sky and clouds
leaped back into the window, and Palin knew he was going
to be sick again.
"Palin . . . Palin, are you all right?"
There was an anguished tone in the voice that brought
Palin to consciousness. Painfully, he once again opened his
eyes. He must have slept, he realized, though how he could
have done so with this throbbing in his head and the queasy
state of his stomach he had no idea.
"Palin!" The voice was urgent.
"Yes," said Palin thickly. It took an effort to talk, his
tongue felt and tasted as though gully dwarves had taken up
residence in his mouth. The thought made his stomach
lurch, and he abandoned it hurriedly
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