Bahzell watched it all, making mental notes to share with his father, but then they reached the docks, and the sight of the river drove all other thoughts from his head.
The Saram had looked impressive from a distance; close at hand, it was overwhelming. Bahzell had seen the upper reaches of the Hangnysti, but they were mere creeks beside the Saram. The broad, blue river flowed past with infinite patience and slow, deep inevitability, and the thought of that much water in one place was daunting. He could swim-not gracefully, perhaps, but strongly-yet hradani and boats were strangers to one another, and he felt a sudden, craven longing to keep it that way.
Unfortunately, he had no choice, and he drew a deep breath and spoke sternly to his qualms as the train unraveled into its individual components. The largest string of wagons-Kilthan’s-rumbled gratefully into a vast brick courtyard between high, gaunt warehouses, and work gangs were already descending upon it. Bahzell joined the six other men Hartan had told to guard the pay wagon and shook his head as he watched the bustle engulf them.
Rianthus had told him Kilthan intended to spend no more than a single day in Derm, but he hadn’t quite believed it. It hadn’t seemed possible to unload, sort, reorganize, and stow so much merchandise away aboard ship in so short a time; now he knew the guard captain had meant every word of it.
Teams of hostlers joined the train’s drovers to unhitch the draft animals. Foremen with slates and sheafs of written orders swarmed about, shouting for their sections as they found the crates and parcels and bales whose labels matched their instructions. A full dozen local merchants circulated with their own foremen to take delivery of goods Kilthan had freighted to them from Esgan or Daranfel or Moretz, and a dozen more bustled in with new consignments bound further south or clear to the Empire. Squads of officers and senior guardsmen kept an alert eye out for pilferers, racing fingers clicked over the beads of abacuses, sputtering pens recorded transactions, fees, and bills of sale, and voices rose in a bedlam of shouted conversations, questions, answers, and orders. It was chaos, but an intricately organized chaos, and the first heaps of cargo were already being trundled off to dockside and the broad-beamed, clumsy-looking riverboats awaiting them.
“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.