Kamiskwa nodded, but smiled as well.
Vlad held up a finger. "That reminds me." He turned, and scurried off into the wurmrest.
Woods placed his pouches toward the canoe's front end. "Good craft, these. Sturdy and not so delicate as you might be wanting to imagine. Still, you have to be careful. You don't want to put a foot or an oar through the sides."
Kamiskwa went back to where the canoe had been stored and returned with three leaf-shaped paddles. He handed one to Woods, but didn't give Owen the second.
Owen frowned. "I may not be in the navy, but I can paddle."
"The spare is just in case we need it. This canoe only requires two. It would steer funny if you was paddling." Woods pointed toward the middle of the boat. "You're just self-loading cargo, Captain."
"Here is more cargo, for your father, Kamiskwa." The Prince returned with a burlap bag. He pulled out one of Mugwump's scales. "There's four. He'll find something to do with them, I hope."
Owen held a hand out and accepted the scale from the Prince. "Did you have this painted and lacquered?"
"No. I just pulled four from a pile."
The soldier traced a finger along a scarlet stripe. "Wurmriders paint and lacquer scales. Even when they do that, they're never as pretty or polished as this."
Vlad took the scale back and slipped it into the sack. "While you're gone, I shall experiment. I'll leave some in the sun and see if that has any effect. Another mystery to explore. I shall be pleased to share the results upon your return."
Kamiskwa accepted the gift. "The Prince again proves himself to be a good friend of the Altashee."
"Merely returning kindnesses the Altashee have showed me."
Kamiskwa stowed the scales with his other gear, then he and Nathaniel hefted the canoe and carried it down to the river. They slid it into the water, then pulled it around parallel to the shore.
Nathaniel looked Owen up and down. "You'll be wanting to take off your boots and stockings. Your feet will get wet, but will dry off faster. Help your feet heal, too."
That made sense, so Owen went barefoot. The cool water and oozing mud actually felt good as he put his gear into the canoe. A small deck made of gapped cedar planking kept him from thrusting his feet through the canoe. He arranged his pack so he could use the back of it as a desk, and slid his musket in on the right, keeping it close at hand.
Prince Vlad held on to the canoe's stern as the other two men got in, then gave it a shove into the current. He waved from the shore. "Good luck!"
They headed upriver. Though the Benjamin didn't have a strong current, Nathaniel and Kamiskwa paddled steadily to make headway. Both men glistened with sweat after a short time, but made no complaints about their labors.
"I reckon, Captain, you figgered that rivers is our roads. Work fine going up, better coming back. Canoe full of pelts make a man rich down to Temperance."
"I can see that." Owen studied the shore. Mostly forests, with the occasional swampy meadow full of cattails, long grasses, and bright flowers. "Do you know the river's speed?"
Nathaniel shook his head. He'd removed his buckskin shirt, baring his upper torso. The man's muscles worked fluidly beneath tanned skin. A few scars stood out. Owen recognized the raised welts of a whip, a couple of knife cuts, and one gunshot wound, but asked about none of them. If Nathaniel wanted him to know, he'd tell him, otherwise it was none of his business.
"She flows as she flows."
"I need to know speed to calculate rates of movement for troops."
"Miles per hour, then?"
"Yes, that sort of thing."
"You won't be finding that of much use here, Captain." Woods smiled back over his shoulder. "Ain't really how fast the river goes as how fast a man can go on the river."
Owen frowned. "Meaning?"
"Well now, supposing the river goes five miles in an hour. A man going from dawn to dusk could go pretty far."
"Sixty miles. Knowing that, I can estimate how quickly du Malphias could deliver troops to Temperance."
"But if his people all got in canoes and paddled fast, they'd go farther, and your figuring would be wrong."
"Yes, but…"
Nathaniel shipped his paddle and turned halfway back toward Owen. "The Altashee don't worry none about miles. For them it's all 'walks.' Right fine system."
Owen frowned. "Let me be clear. I need to know distances so I can put things on a map."
Kamiskwa cleared his throat. "Captain Strake, how long does it take a man to walk one of your miles?"
Owen looked back at the Altashee. "Flat road, easy pace, a third of an hour."
"And in the rain, no road, through the forest, heavily laden?"
Owen laughed, remembering more than one similar march in the Low Countries. "One in a day."
"Distance does not matter. Speed of arrival does." Kamiskwa smiled indulgently. "We have many walks. Your flat road would just be a walk; though we have no flat roads. A hunting walk would be slower. Garrahai -warwalk-much faster. Then there are wet and dry walks, and light and heavy walks. We have words for all of them."
Owen was about to complain that this system was highly impractical, but he stopped. For a people that migrated seasonally, in a land where no roads existed, the system actually did work. And while it seemed impractical to his mind, it suited the land. He might have to calculate distance backward for mapping purposes, but absent a surveying crew, his measurements were going to be inexact. While his sextant would allow him to track latitude, but without a pair of timepieces, determining longitude couldn't be done.
He frowned. "If you measure in walks, how do you measure travel on the river?"
"This river is a two-three: twice as fast as a walk paddling up, three times floating down." Kamiskwa dipped his paddle again. "The system has worked for all time."
Owen nodded. "And the charts sent back from those who came before me? Their distances?"
Nathaniel shrugged. "Made up mostly, I 'spect. Ain't never run into any of the Branches outside Bounty. Only true distance they know is between alehouses and stills."
The Altashee chuckled. "They measure in dizzy-walks."
Owen fell silent and listened to the sound of paddles in the water. A dragonfly zipped over, paced them for a bit, then lighted on a gunwale. Its iridescent wings sparkled in the sunlight. The insect's mahogany body hue reminded him of Catharine's eyes for a moment, then his thoughts abruptly shifted to Bethany Frost. He thought she would be entranced by the insect.
Catharine would want me to save her from it.
The dragonfly took off, zigzagging toward the shore. Owen followed its flight, then looked up and gasped. "My God, what is that?" He reached for his musket.
Nathaniel turned and signaled for him to leave the gun alone. He lowered his voice. "It's a tanner. This range your ball would bounce off."
Owen stared. The creature appeared to be an elk, but one of prodigious proportions. It stood taller than he was at its shoulder, and he was certain he could have lain straight out on its vast rack of antlers with plenty of room for his head and feet. It grazed, still chewing, as it lifted its head to regard them.
"A tanner?" The brown coat with white throat blaze provided no clue about its name. "Why do you call it that?"
"One of the first explorers through here, Blackston, I'm thinking his name was, called it the 'Titan Elk.' Cumbersome name."
"Ti- tan becomes tanner, I see." Owen shot Nathaniel a sidelong glance. "And I could hit it from here."
"Hitting ain't killing." Nathaniel nodded toward the elk. Tanner'd take more than one ball. Wounded, it would run a fair piece. We'd be all day finding it. If it tried to find us, well, we'd run a fair piece our own selves."
The guide sighed. "Now, iffen we was out trapping or hunting, beast like that would be worth the shot. Meat'd feed a village for a week. That hide would cover Reverend Bumble. Worth a pound or three down to Temperance."