“Thanks,” Mont said. He grabbed the knife and slid it into his belt on the opposite hip from his sword. “If we don’t throw them in the river, what’s the alternative?”
Clang. Clang. Shaa replaced the bar in his belt. “By the time they wake up we’ll be on the island. Come on.”
The wharves occupied most of the long east-facing curve of Roosing Oolvaya’s riverfront, jutting out into the slack current, pulling back, winding around artificial pools and coves. Hundreds of vessels rocked at their moorings against the wharves or in the confusion of cheaper spots just offshore, vessels ranging in size from dinghies up to the massive cargo-hauling river barges. Here and there a light twinkled in a cabin or a lantern picked out the dim spiderspins of rigging. The air was quiet, though, lacking the usual floating strains of river melodies and the lilt of harsh voices raised in strife. “This one,” Shaa announced, staring over the edge of the wharf.
“Why that one?”
“Are you going to be difficult again?”
“But - it’s tiny!”
“You were perhaps expecting the Venerable Yacht? We don’t want to attract attention, while on the other hand we don’t want to get swamped. Observe the relatively high gunwales.” Actually, Shaa had considered as a possibility stowing away on the Venerable Yacht, but the scheduling had proved inconvenient.
The twin uprights of a ladder poked skyward at the edge of the wharf. Shaa indicated the ladder with a hand, Mont descended, and Shaa picked his way carefully after him. The bottom rungs were coated with slime, and led to a small platform floating at the base and a boat moored to the platform. The swells went slap-slap-slap against the side of the boat. “Go ahead,” said Shaa. “Get in.”
The boat in question was apparently used for local net fishing and the tending of crustacean pots. Its length was three fathoms, or a little less, but it was narrow enough in beam for one person to handle the pair of oars amidships. The gunwales were indeed high, matching Shaa’s requirements; the state of the river was somewhat agitated. “Shaa,” Mont said, “there’s some very scummy water in the bottom of this thing.”
“It’s called ‘bilge’,” Shaa said, casting off the stern line and proceeding along the wharf toward the bow. “Everything has a name.” He released the bow line, tossed it into the boat, and stepped gingerly after it. “In fact, scummy bilge is a good sign; that means the water has been sitting there for a long time.”
“So?”
“No, don’t sit there, sit in the bow. The front.” Shaa arranged himself between the oars, facing aft. The boat rocked as Mont lurched forward. “If the water has been stagnating there for weeks, that would mean the boat has not been leaking.”
“Oh,” Mont said. “That’s good.”
“Indeed. Now, I will row, and you’re going to guide and fend. Push off.”
Mont leaned over, shoving at the nearest piling. The prow spun slowly toward the river. Shaa craned his neck around, sighted down past the end of the wharf, and began to paddle. The boat moved tentatively ahead and nosed out into the current.
“I think there’s something up ahead, big,” Mont said. Shaa looked around again. “I see it,” he said. “Now keep your voice down.” Shaa backed water with the starboard oar, then stroked carefully. The boat proceeded along a hulking wall festooned with fresh-water barnacles, edged around an anchor chain leading silently off into the darkness, and regained course.
“Uh - I think it’s open now.”
“Good.” Shaa checked; Mont’s assessment had been accurate. “Do you see the palace? The second island from the left?”
“Yes, I see it. I know where the palace is.”
“We will steer thirty degrees to port, to compensate for the current. That’s the left.”
“I knew that.”
“Indeed,” Shaa said. He rowed, grunting occasionally. Between the swells and the current the outing was fairly strenuous. Probably a storm upriver someplace, Shaa thought. Things could be worse.
Mont looked back toward the shore. The ground level rose gently as one retreated through the city away from the river, so rank after rank of rooftops and protruding upper stories ascended into the distance, lit by the patchy orange glow of torchlights. The black shadows of barges swayed uneasily in the foreground. Their boat was swaying too, in two axes, not only side-to-side but forward and back as well. Mont began to hear, faintly, the nasal honk of a distant foghorn. “Uh, Shaa?” Mont said. “I’m not feeling too good.”
“Are you seasick, or -”
“Do you hear a foghorn?”
“No indeed.”
“Then I’m starting to synchronize. I think it’s the way these waves are hitting the boat.” Clouds of fluffy white were moving in from the corners of his vision.
“Don’t fade now,” Shaa said. “Here. You row for a while; it will give you something else to concentrate on.”
“If we had a sorcerer,” Mont said weakly, “we wouldn’t have to row.”
“If we had a sorcerer what you would have to worry about would be much more serious.” Shaa shipped oars and moved to the bow. Mont eased reluctantly past him.
“Stroke,” Shaa said.
Mont’s learning curve was steep. They spent several minutes moving up its slope before they straightened out, again on course. The island of the palace of the Venerance slowly approached. The river gurgled around them.
“We’re - getting there,” Mont panted. “What do we - do when we - get there?”
“As we have done to date - improvise. More starboard oar, please. See, isn’t that better? I’ll take over in a moment. How well do you know the palace? The island, too, for that matter.”
“I know - how to get - to the dungeons - if I start - in the right place.”
“And the secret passages?”
“What - secret passages?”
“Every palace has secret passages. Especially those with dungeons.”
“I thought - you said - you’d find them.”
“I had thought you might be able to help save some time.”
“If you - can find them - I’ll be glad - to use them.” Mont fell silent, except for the sound of loud gasping.
Shaa glowered back at him. “Perhaps I’d best take over now,” he said. “I’d hate to have to stop right in the midst of everything interesting because my aide-de-camp had gone into heart failure.” Mont gratefully released the oars and fell over. The boat twisted in the current and began to move south. Shaa clambered over Mont onto the oar bench, dipped a hand over the side, and splashed water in Mont’s face. Mont sputtered; Shaa rowed.
Mont gradually recovered his breath and struggled back to the bow. He looked ahead at the approaching island. “Where are we going to land? This is the side with the docks and the beaches, but it’ll probably be loaded with guards.”
“There is little ‘probably’ involved. You forget, however, that we are also guards.” Shaa rattled his cuirass.
“Yes, but, landing from the river in a snapper-boat?”
“That is a very good point,” Shaa said, pleased. “You are acquiring a sense for details. If we cannot land on this most convenient side, then, what about the others?”
“Well, there’s rock, cliffs, walls, that kind of thing.”
“Indeed,” said Shaa. “How climbable are they?”
“They’re not supposed to be climbable at all.”
“Umm.” Shaa thought about it, steering against the current to the north of the island in the meantime. Finally he said, “Let us have a look at the north wall.”
The island was still ahead, but it was beginning to slip around to their right. Atop the rocks and curtain walls were the lights of torches and watchfires, casting splashes of red and yellow across the towers and crenellations. The building was a palace primarily by convention, having started life as the local Imperial garrison keep centuries before, in the time of a greater empire. The fortifications had been designed to resist a large-scale assault, and had indeed successfully done this several times over the years. Still, Mont thought, a few hand-picked, highly trained, supremely motivated men might … Mont stopped himself. It wouldn’t help to treat this thing like it was just another adventure story.