He led the horse and mule inland, eyes sweeping the dark. This might be a fishing village, but somewhere there had to be a-
Ah! He grinned to himself as he found the small, stonewalled pasture. It held perhaps a dozen cattle and runty horses, and he made his way around to a gate in the low wall. The night was undisturbed by so much as a barking dog as he eased the gate open and turned his own animals quietly into the pasture. They stood for a moment, gazing back at him curiously, then shook their heads and trotted over to the pasture’s other inhabitants, and Bahzell chuckled as he closed the gate behind them.
Unless he missed his guess, the owner of that pasture was unlikely to mention the sudden arrival of two big, strong, healthy, and expensive animals to anyone. Indeed, he might go to some lengths to hide his unexpected gifts, which would suit Bahzell fine. Even if he did report them to the authorities, Bahzell should be long gone by the time those authorities figured out where they’d come from, and he felt better leaving them to someone’s care. They’d served him and Brandark well, and the thought of simply abandoning them hadn’t set well with him.
He started off once more, and, divested of the animals, he made better time. He jogged past two more villages-their existence welcome signs that he was nearing his destination-and the moon was still well above the horizon when he finally spied the dull glint of high walls before him.
Bortalik dozed under the moon. Bahzell made his way out onto a rocky point and leaned back against a boulder, catching his breath while he gazed across a wide arm of Bortalik Bay at the sleeping city. Watch lights dotted the curtain wall and crowned the countless towers that ribbed its length, and more lights were smears of brightness along the wharves that lined its foot. There was activity at dockside even this late at night, and masts and rigging rose in a black lace forest against the light. Other vessels dotted the bay, lying to anchors or buoys, and, despite himself, Bahzell felt a trace of wonder at the sheer size of the port.
The northern hradani tribes knew little more about the Purple Lords than the Purple Lords knew about them, but even they had heard of Bortalik Bay, and Zarantha and Tothas had told him far more. Bortalik was the undisputed queen of the southern coast and determined to remain so. The enormous bay was not simply a superb natural anchorage; it also controlled the entire delta of the mighty Spear River and, with it, all trade that moved up the Spear or any of its tributaries. It was an advantage the Purple Lords used ruthlessly, and the power it gave them was obvious as Bahzell looked out upon their city.
He shook himself after a moment and turned his eyes away from the city walls and back out over the bay, searching for what he needed. Not too small, he thought, but not too big, either, and well away from the docks. Surely, among all that shipping, there must be-
His eyes settled on a single vessel, and he rubbed his chin. The twin-masted schooner was further from shore than he’d hoped, but aside from that it seemed perfect. The anchor light on its foredeck burned like a lonely star, for there was nothing else within a hundred yards of it, and even in the uncertain moonlight it looked low, sleek, and fast. Best of all, it was little larger than one of Kilthan’s riverboats, which suggested a reasonably small crew.
He studied it a moment longer, then nodded once.
There was no surf within the confines of the sheltered bay, but water washed and surged rhythmically as Bahzell laid aside his baldric and unbuckled his weapon harness. He’d left his arbalest and scale mail with Brandark, for he’d known this moment was coming, but he felt exposed and vulnerable as he methodically stripped to the skin. He belted his dagger and a fat, jingling purse back about his naked waist, then laid his sheathed sword atop his discarded boots and clothing with a final pat he hoped looked less dubious than it felt. Part of him wanted to ask Tomanāk if this whole notion was truly a good idea, but the rest of him dug in stubborn toes and refused the temptation. A man couldn’t just go about asking “May I?” every time he had to make a decision, he told himself. Of course, he was relying heavily on what Tomanāk had told him about his sword, but even so-
He snorted and shook himself, ears half-flattened in amusement. Either it worked, or it didn’t, and standing here thinking of excuses to delay the inevitable wouldn’t change the final outcome! He grinned crookedly at the thought and waded out into the bay.
The bottom dropped off more sharply than he’d expected. It was going to be a longer swim than he’d planned, but a broken, drifting spar bumped up against him, as if to compensate, and he seized it gratefully. He was no fish, and the spar’s added buoyancy was welcome as he kicked his way across the bay. There was enough noise in the night to hide most sounds, yet there was no point taking chances, and he tried-not entirely successfully-to avoid splashes. It was a long, tiring swim; the bay was colder than he’d anticipated when he was only wading through the surf; and he was acutely aware that he was a land animal. He sensed the empty water between him and the bottom, how easily it could suck him under, and found himself thinking about sharks. Or octopuses-they ate people, too, didn’t they? And even if they didn’t, the gods only knew what else might be hiding just under the water, circling him, waiting . . . .
He pushed the thought firmly away. People swam in the sea all the time, and they’d hardly do that if something pounced on anyone who tried! Of course, that didn’t mean nothing ever pounced, and-
He looked up and inhaled in deep, heartfelt relief as he saw his destination close ahead. He kicked more strongly, and his ears twitched in amusement at his own eagerness to reach it. For all he knew, that vessel’s entire crew had seen him coming and was lined up behind the bulwark to knock him on the head, but it didn’t matter. The company of his thoughts on the swim out left him impatient to confront them even so.
He reached the schooner’s side and swam along it as quietly as he could. It was flush-decked, with a low sheer and a freeboard of no more than six or seven feet, yet that was high enough to make things difficult for a man in the water. He was confident that he could lunge high enough to get his fingers over the rail, but not without an appalling amount of noise, and he continued forward until he reached the flared bow. The bowsprit was a long, graceful lance, reaching out above his head, but the anchor cable plunged into the water beside him, and he laid a hand on the thick hawser. He craned his neck, peering up to where it curved over the anchor bits. It looked far more promising than trying to heave himself bodily over the side, and he nodded in satisfaction and shoved the broken spar away.
He got a grip on the hawser and hauled himself cautiously up it. A cathead thrust out above him, and he hooked an elbow around it, then curled his body up to get his knees over it. He crouched there a moment, catching his breath, listening to the trickling splash as water dribbled back into the bay from his skin, then shoved his head cautiously over the rail.
There was no one in sight, but he heard a fiddle and what sounded like an accordion, and what he’d thought was just an anchor light was also the gleam of light from the scuttles of a low, midships deckhouse. More light glowed from an open companion, and his ears flattened at the realization that some, at least, of the crew was awake. He had no special desire to harm anyone if he could help it, but they wouldn’t have any way of knowing he sought peaceable conversation, now would they? That was why he’d hoped to surprise them asleep in their berths, but it seemed he was going to have to do things the hard way.