“Quite, ah, impressive , don’t you think?” a familiar tenor voice drawled. Bahzell turned his head, and Brandark grinned up at him. “Did you ever see so many people run about quite so frantically in one place in your life?”
“Not this side of a battlefield.” Bahzell chuckled. “I’m thinking some of these folk might have the making of first-class generals, too. They’ve the knack for organization, don’t they just now?”
“That they do.” Brandark shook his head, ears at half-cock, then turned as his platoon commander bellowed his name and pointed at a line of carts creaking back out of the courtyard towards the docks. The Bloody Sword waved back with a vigorous nod, then glanced at his friend.
“It looks like I’m about to find out what a boat is like.” He sighed, hitching up his sword belt. “I hope I don’t fall off the damned thing!”
“Now, now,” Bahzell soothed. “They’ve been sailing up and down the river for years now, and you’re not so bad a fellow as all that. They’ll not drop you over the side as long as you mind your manners.”
“I hope not,” Brandark said bleakly. “I can’t swim.”
He gave his sword belt a last tug and vanished into the chaos.
True to his word, Kilthan had every bit of cargo stowed by nightfall. The final consignments went aboard by torchlight, and even Bahzell, whose duties had consisted mainly of standing about and looking fierce, was exhausted by the time he plodded across the springy gangway of his assigned riverboat. He felt a bit uneasy as his boots sounded on the wooden deck and the barge seemed to tremble beneath him, but he was too tired to worry properly.
As usual, his size was a problem, especially with the limited headroom belowdecks, so he was one of those assigned berth space on deck. He would have preferred having a nice, solid bulkhead between his bedroll and the water, given his recent restless dreams, but he consoled himself with the thought that at least the air would be fresher.
The riverboat’s master was a stocky, squared-off human who knew a landlubber when he saw one. He took a single look at the enormous hradani, shook his head, and pointed towards the bow.
“That’s the foredeck,” he said. “Get up there and stay there. Don’t get in the way, and for Korthrala’s sake, don’t try to help the crew!”
“Aye, I’ll be doing that,” Bahzell agreed cheerfully, and the captain snorted, shook his head again, and stumped off about his own business while Bahzell ambled forward. Brandark was already there, sitting on his bedroll and gazing out at the stars and city lights reflected from the water.
“Looks nice, doesn’t it?” he asked as Bahzell thumped down beside him.
“Aye-and wet.” Bahzell grunted, then grinned. “Deep, too, I’m thinking.”
“Oh, thank you!” Brandark muttered.
“You’re welcome.” Bahzell tugged his boots off, then stood and eeled out of his scale mail. He arranged his gear on deck and groaned in gratitude as he stretched out. “You’d best be taking that chain mail off, my lad,” he murmured sleepily, eyes already drifting shut. “I’m thinking someone who can’t swim’s no need of an extra anchor to take him to the bottom.”
He was asleep before Brandark could think of a suitable retort.
For the first night in weeks, no dream disturbed Bahzell, and he woke feeling utterly relaxed. He lay still, savoring the slowly brightening pink and salmon dawn, and a strange contentment filled him. Perhaps it was simply the consequence of undisturbed sleep, but he felt oddly satisfied, as if he were exactly where he was supposed to be. The river gurgled softly down the side of the hull, reinforcing the novelty of being afloat, and he sat up and stretched.
Others began to stir, and he sat idle, content to be so, while cooking smells drifted from the galley. The other boats of Kilthan’s convoy floated ahead and astern of his own, nuzzling the docks, hatches battened down, and a peaceful sense of expectancy hovered about them. He gazed out over them, and it came to him, slowly, that for the first time in his life, he was free.
He’d never precisely resented his responsibilities as a prince of Hurgrum-not, at least, until they took him to Navahk!-but he was who he was, and they’d always been there. Now he was far from his birth land, an outcast who couldn’t go home even if he wanted to, perhaps, but in command of his own fate. No doubt he’d return to Hurgrum in time, yet for now he could go where he willed, do as he chose. Up to this very moment, somehow, he hadn’t quite considered that. His mind had been fixed first on getting Farmah and Tala to safety, then on keeping his own hide whole, and finally on his duties as a caravan guard. Now it was as if the simple act of boarding the riverboat had taken him beyond that, released him from some burden and freed him to explore and learn, and he suddenly realized how much he wanted to do just that.
He smiled wryly at his thoughts, drew his boots on, and stood. Brandark snored on, and he left his friend to it, rolled his own blankets, and ambled over to the forward deckhouse. It was higher than the bulwark, more comfortably placed for one of his inches to lean on, and he took advantage of that as he watched the barge master pull a watch from his pocket. The captain glanced at it and said something to his mate, and the crew began preparing to cast off. They picked their way around the snoring guardsmen wherever they could, with a consideration for the sleeping landsmen’s fatigue that almost seemed to embarrass them if anyone noticed, but they couldn’t avoid everyone.
One of them poked Brandark in the ribs, and the Bloody Sword snorted awake. He scrambled up and dragged his bedroll to the side to let the riverman at the mooring line he’d blocked, then stretched and ambled over to Bahzell.
“Good morning,” he yawned, flopping his bedding out on the deckhouse roof and beginning to roll it up.
“And a good morning to you. I see you weren’t after rolling overboard in the night after all.”
“I noticed that myself.” Brandark tied the bedroll and glanced somewhat uneasily at his haubergeon. He started to climb into it, then changed his mind, and Bahzell grinned.
The Bloody Sword ignored him pointedly and buckled his sword belt over his embroidered jerkin. Crewmen scampered about, untying the gaskets on the yawl-rigged barge’s tan sails, and halyards started creaking aboard other boats while mooring lines splashed over the side to be hauled up by longshoremen. The first vessels moved away from the docks while canvas crept up the masts and sails were sheeted home, and Bahzell and Brandark watched in fascination as the entire convoy began to move. They understood little of what they saw, but they recognized the precision that went into making it all work.
Half the barges were away, already sweeping downriver with thin, white mustaches under their bluff bows, when a commotion awoke ashore. A brown-haired, spindle-shanked human with a flowing beard of startling white scurried past piles of cargo. He was robed in garish scarlet and green, and he grabbed people’s shoulders and gesticulated wildly as he shouted at them. The hradani watched his antics with amusement, and then, just as their own mooring lines went over the side, someone pointed straight at their boat.
The robed man’s head snapped around, his expression of dismay comical even at this distance, and then he whirled and raced for the dockside with remarkable speed for one of his apparently advanced years.
“Wait!” His nasal shout was thin but piercing. “Wait! I must-”
“Too late, white-beard!” the barge master bellowed back. A gap opened between the riverboat’s side and the dock, and the old man shook a fist. But he didn’t stop running, and Bahzell glanced at Brandark.
“I’m thinking that lackwit’s going to try it,” he murmured.
“Well, maybe he can swim,” Brandark grunted, but he moved forward in Bahzell’s wake as the Horse Stealer ambled towards the rail.