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The day was an especially hot one, even for the desert; the sun felt exceptionally bright, reflecting glittering off the tawny sands and half-dazzling even Laurence’s sea-experienced eyes. Temeraire had tried to shade their group with his wing for a while, but he had grown tired and Keynes had near-forced him to stop, fearing some injury in such hot weather; and in any case his nearness made the camels—only seven now—more restless than was desired.
Now they were trudging along the spine of a dune, all soaked in sweat although it was not past noon, and shading their eyes against the blinding white sun, which seemed to come from all directions at once. Only Tharkay seemed undaunted, as was reasonable (Laurence thought, with slight bitterness) for a man who at least acted as though he crossed the Taklamakan regularly and unremarkably.
They had all been given wide-brimmed hats in the Chinese style, to shield them from the sun; but young Roland and Dyer had somehow lost theirs, and both were quite red-faced without this protection. Laurence still had his, and, he saw, looking to the side, that Granby did too: an understanding passed between them, and Laurence called, “Roland, Dyer!”
The two young runners accepted the hats thankfully, along with Laurence’s strict order not to misplace them this time, and the march resumed.
A little later they stopped for water and a bit of food, though the dried meat was hard to swallow and the heat made all of them have little appetite. Laurence for his part drank last, and took only enough water to moisten his dry mouth, thinking that their meagre amount ought be saved for Temeraire, and for the younger crewmen.
When they set out again Laurence saw that Granby’s hair, no longer covered by the hat, was plastered down with sweat; but as he was also feeling rivulets of it run down his back, like being soaked by a splash of sea-water aboard a ship but with far less soothing coolness, he did not think this something to remark upon.
The sun lowered in the sky, now, and it seemed almost as if they were walking into it. Walking became a blur, every motion automatic, the slow drag of every step matching the low roaring that was growing in Laurence’s ears. He felt curiously unmoored from the world about him, or as if he were in a kind of stupor; all sounds that reached his ears were deadened in their intensity, as though the stifling heat were swallowing them up.
He realised that someone was saying his name, and turned slowly.
It was Roland. “Sir, it’s Mr. Granby!”
Granby was indeed lying limply on the sand, with Keynes at his side loosening his clothing; he was pale beneath the sunburn, and sweat sheened his skin and soaked his shirt. Laurence was beside him in an instant, ignoring the way his legs cramped at the movement.
“It is the ictus solis, sir,” Keynes said, without prompting; “the sun-stroke.”
“Will he—” Laurence started, and was forced to stop: his tongue was heavy and dry in his mouth, and forming words had become a chore.
“His skin is cold, not hot,” Keynes said; “and he has merely fainted, I think; so he may survive yet. But we must get him into some shade.”
Temeraire’s great shadow was above them in an instant, blessedly diminishing the glare of the sun upon the sand. “Will this do, Mr. Keynes?” the dragon said. “Only, I do not see how we can get any shade otherwise, even if the camels will not like this very much.”
“It will do very well,” Keynes said, although the camels were certainly not pleased by the turn of events, and were snorting uneasily. “Now help me prop him up, Captain.”
Laurence did so, albeit with a brief flicker of bewilderment at the discovery that Granby’s skin was not, in fact, cold at all. That was strange; but he put it to the side as Granby’s eyes fluttered open.
“Damned desert,” Granby declared, though his voice was uncharacteristically faint. “Is there any chance of a fellow getting some water?”
Tharkay had appeared at their side also—Laurence was not sure when—and he did have some water, handing it to Granby and saying, “Drink slowly,” in a tone that was almost military in its sternness.
Granby did not heed their guide’s advice, and gulped the water thirstily; and a moment later he twisted to the side and vomited it back up. Tharkay sighed as though he had been afraid this would happen, and Laurence felt a spike of indignation; but he was also feeling queerly ill himself, and that was quite out-of-the-ordinary, with him ordinarily having a strong stomach when it came to others’ illness.
“I beg your pardon,” he managed, and pulled himself to his feet; he stumbled a few steps away from the others before he was overcome by the queasiness, and began to retch.
When he had finished, he stayed there on his hands and knees, panting: he felt much too dizzy to attempt standing.
“Sir?” Roland was hovering awkwardly beside him, looking back and forth from him to the others.
“I believe he has the sun-stroke as well,” Tharkay said matter-of-factly. “It is not unusual, in this heat.”
“I am…quite all right,” Laurence muttered reflexively, but he was beginning to realise that this was not entirely the truth. The world had taken on strange colours, and he felt almost as though he were back on the deck of a ship, swaying, swaying…
He opened his eyes, though he did not recall closing them, to find that he was lying on his back. Temeraire was nosing anxiously at him. “Laurence? Oh, Mr. Keynes, he is awake!”
Laurence tried to speak, but found his mouth and throat far too dry, feeling restricted although—he noticed now—his neckcloth had been removed. Instead, with effort, he raised a hand and patted Temeraire’s nose in reassurance: there was worry in the great blue eyes, and that made him feel worse than the illness did. “I am…sorry to frighten you, my dear,” he managed to croak.
“That is quite all right,” Temeraire said; “but you are not all right, at all! Mr. Keynes!” he called again, and the surgeon hurried over from where he had been talking with Tharkay.
“I am glad you are awake again, sir,” said Keynes; “but I am afraid we have a problem. I have been conferring with Mr. Tharkay, and it seems clear that to treat you and Mr. Granby will require the use of much of our water supply.”
Laurence received this news grimly: yet another reason to return to Cherchen, and lose more weeks of their journey. Then he comprehended the surgeon’s other words, and tried to sit up, to see what had become of Granby, for he had been far worse off than Laurence, earlier; but a vertiginous rush to his head stopped him. He settled for asking, “How does Mr. Granby fare?”
“Not worse than you, nor better,” Keynes said; “but we must have the water, to do anything for either of you.” He paused. “It is your choice, Captain.”
Laurence did not quite see what choice they had: to use up all their small amount of water, turn back, and reach Istanbul late, if alive; or to die in the wasteland of the Taklamakan under the scorching sun.
“I am sure I can drink less,” said Temeraire; “for I can go several days without food, and I do not see why water should be any different. Mr. Tharkay,” he called, “If I can do that, will there be no need of turning back?”
Tharkay’s brow furrowed, but he nodded curtly, and several of the crewmen began to open a water-cask, and to soak cloths in it on Keynes’ orders; but Laurence’s doubts were not eased at all, and in fact compounded by the idea of Temeraire risking his own well-being in such a way. He resolved still to drink as little water as possible, but this resolve broke when Roland actually brought him a cup. The water was only slightly cold, the heat of the day having melted the ice which ordinarily formed during the frigid nights, and it tasted strongly of the cask; but it was still more wonderful than any wine.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Roland was saying.
“I am afraid I do not understand,” Laurence said, blankly.
“You and Mr. Granby gave me and Dyer your hats,” she said, “and then you both got the sun-stroke.” Her face was set in a way that reminded Laurence suddenly of her mother. “So it’s my fault really, and I ought to give it back, sir.” She reached to remove the hat, but Laurence stopped her.
“I am certain we can come up with some sort of covering, if Mr. Keynes feels it necessary,” he said; “but it is also possible that it had nothing to do with that, and I beg you not to worry yourself about it.”
Roland thanked him, nodded, and dashed away after Dyer, who seemed to have just finished a similar conversation with Granby; Laurence and Granby looked at each other, sharing an expression that was chiefly of tiredness.
“I never expected something like this when we left England on the poor old Allegiance,” Granby said, reaching up to adjust the wet cloth that Keynes had placed around his neck. He was still pale, but improving; Laurence imagined that, being given the same treatment, he looked much the same.
“Nor I,” he replied; but then another shadow fell upon them: Tharkay.
“It is dangerous to travel in the desert without hats,” he said; “as I am sure you are both aware.”
“What would you have us do?” Granby demanded, even more short-tempered than usual from the heat. “The runners lost theirs; or would you have them take ill instead of us?”
“No,” Tharkay said, and hesitated, as if there were something more he wished to say. “Take these,” he said finally, and held out two makeshift head coverings, made of—Laurence looked closer to be sure—their neckcloths, stretched over what might have been leather from an aviator’s harness.
“I thank you,” Laurence said after a bemused moment, taking the hat; Granby did likewise, though he still looked unconvinced.
An odd look crossed Tharkay’s face then; but he said nothing more, and only strode away towards the camels.
“Strange fellow,” said Granby; Laurence found himself agreeing.
Now that the sun was closer to setting, the heat was no longer so terrible, and cooled by Keynes’ cloths Laurence did not feel quite so ill; but he could not help but wonder, nonetheless, if they really had a chance of surviving the inhospitable Taklamakan.