“Who are you?” Bantor called out.
“I’m Hargar’s son, Hannis. My father has gone to Dilgarth to sell a goat. Is it really you, Bantor?” His voice sounded fearful, but he stepped outside and slowly approached the men sitting on the ground. “By the gods, it is you. What are you doing here? Why did you approach through the ditches?”
“It’s a long story, Hannis. But something’s gone wrong at Akkad. Have you heard any news from there?”
“No, no one’s gone to market in over a week,” Hannis said, still looking nervous at the sight of the rest of Bantor’s men.
“Well, we need your help. If we wanted to slit your throats, you’d all be dead by now. I need food and drink for my men.” Bantor reached into his pouch and took out the last of his silver coins. “Knowing your father, I suppose I’ll have to pay for it.” He tossed the coins to Hannis. “Give these to Hargar when he returns.”
An hour later, Bantor and all his men, full of food and a few mouthfuls of ale, had fallen asleep behind a storehouse nestled next to the river.
Klexor stood watch, as much to make sure no one left the farm as to guard against anyone approaching.
A little before sundown, Bantor and his men ate again, filling themselves on bread, cheese, and several tasteless sausages Hargar had been planning to sell in the market at Akkad.
“We’re taking your boats, Hannis,” Bantor said. “Don’t bother complaining. You’ll be paid when things settle down in Akkad.”
“And if they don’t settle down, then I’ll be out two boats,” Hannis answered. “Can’t you pay me now?”
Bantor smiled. “You’ve learned your father’s ways. I would if I could, but you’ve already got the last of my silver. Besides, you’ll probably get the boats back anyway.”
“Where are you going?”
“We’re going upriver to Dilgarth. It’s better than walking, and there’s no place nearby where we’ll find enough horses.”
“What’s going on in Dilgarth? Has Eskkar returned from the north?”
Bantor took the last piece of bread from the platter and stood. “Stay away from both Akkad and Dilgarth for at least a week. And Hannis, make sure no one in your family says anything about us being here or taking the boats. Or I’ll come back and take that silver out of your hides. You’ll wish the Alur Meriki had returned if I find you’ve told anyone we were here or where we’re going. Do you understand?”
Bantor walked away without waiting for a reply. At the river, two boats bobbed in the water, tied to posts sunk into the bank. One was little more than a skiff, and used as much for working in the irrigation ditches as on the river. The other craft was larger, and sturdy enough to ferry crops and animals to the markets in Akkad.
Four of Bantor’s men knew about boats, and he told them to take charge. They emptied the vessel of ballast, and positioned the men with care. Seventeen men could barely squeeze aboard, and both boats rode dangerously low in the water. Even Bantor could see it wouldn’t take much to capsize them. The sun had just gone down when they pushed off, heading north. Without a breeze, they didn’t bother to raise the tiny sail on the larger craft.
Powering the overloaded boats upstream took plenty of muscle, and the men handed off the small paddles to one another whenever they tired.
They paddled until well away from the farm. Only when the darkness of night covered everything did Bantor order them to turn toward the shore, satisfied no one could see them. If anyone came to the farm and put a knife to Hannis’s throat, the farmer could honestly say that Bantor had gone north, up the river.
They rested, watching the stars appear, before turning the boats around and heading back toward Akkad, with four men working the oars.
The paddling went easier downstream, and they made better time.
Bantor wanted to go faster, but the boatmen refused to speed up, afraid of a spill in the darkness, in an overweighted boat paddled by clumsy oarsmen.
Most of the men sat immobile, afraid to move. No one wanted to go for a swim in the river at night, with a good chance of drowning in the bargain.
Bantor watched the shoreline, and soon the dark outlines of Hargar’s farmhouse slid past. He saw no one, and anyone watching the river would have to be standing at the edge of the riverbank to notice the vessels’ silent passing.
The moon rose, climbed, and began to fall, as they made their way down the Tigris. Bantor guessed they still had another hour or so before dawn when the boatman called out that they were approaching Akkad.
Bantor couldn’t see anything, except the river glinting in the moonlight.
No lights showed anywhere along the river. He knew all the farmers would be fast asleep, thriftily saving their oil and candles. Torches would be burning in Akkad, but Bantor knew they would have to be farther downriver to see those.
The boat edged closer to the eastern shore, though he couldn’t make out anything, and had no idea what landmarks the boatmen recognized.
Though he’d lived near Akkad all his life, the river remained a mystery to him. Bantor flinched when the bottom grated on the sand, then thumped against a small wooden jetty protruding a few feet into the river. In the faint moonlight he could see another boat tied up there as well.
The boatmen swung onto the jetty and secured the boats fast. The men disembarked one at a time, taking care not to swamp the listing riverboats. Bantor climbed ashore last, breathing thanks to the gods that he, his men, and their weapons stood on solid earth again.
The soldiers moved inland, stringing their bows as they went. Noble Rebba’s farm, a combination of houses and corrals, lay a few hundred paces from the river. They stopped a good distance from the nearest house, crouching down behind an irrigation ditch. The farm, one of several that Noble Rebba owned, was a rich one, and he had both dogs and men to protect his herds and crops from petty thieves and robbers. It would be too dangerous to approach at night. Bantor decided to wait there until dawn.
He told the men to take what rest they could, but to keep their bows strung and at the ready for any confrontation.
When the sun’s first rays crossed the horizon, Bantor advanced toward the farmhouse. He had grown up on a farm, much smaller than this one, of course, but he remembered the ways of dogs and animals. So he headed first to the path that led to Akkad, then followed that toward the main house. A dog barked, joined at once by another, and Bantor saw two men step into the sunlight in front of the main house. They looked at him in surprise as he approached, and in a moment a third man appeared, carrying swords that he handed to the others.
Bantor knew he looked like a bandit in his ripped and tattered garment that showed the mud of the river. The dogs surrounded him, growl-ing and sniffing, but one of the men called them off, and Bantor walked right up to the door.
“Where is Noble Rebba, master of the house? I am Bantor, commander of the guard of Akkad.”
Rebba appeared at the door. An old man, already past his sixtieth season, he had long white hair that flowed past his shoulders. His wits remained sharp despite his years, however, and Rebba looked keenly at Bantor, then stepped closer, as if to make sure his tired eyes had seen correctly. “So, it is you. You look very well for a dead man.” He smiled at Bantor’s reaction. “Come in.”
Inside the main house, two frightened women and three small girls with big eyes huddled together. They stared at Bantor for a few moments before resuming their preparations for the morning meal. Bantor frowned at them, and Rebba interpreted the glance.
“Adana, take Miriani and the girls outside.”
With the women gone, Bantor examined the main room, hand on the hilt of his sword, then moved to the other rooms, looking inside to make sure they were empty. Satisfied, he went back to the doorway and checked that all of Rebba’s people had moved out of earshot before turning back to the old noble.