"Where are we going to berth?" Ullsaard asked the shipmaster, Eoruan, who thrust a hand into a leather pouch at his belt and pulled out a gilded crown-shaped token.
"King's Wharfs," Eoruan said with a grin. "Your friend, the herald, knows all the right people."
With slow sweeps of the oars, the galley slid serenely between the ships, coracles and boats filling the waterway, the smaller vessels hurrying out of its path as it headed implacably coldwards along the main canal. The water opened into a large artificial lake, broken by anchored rafts on which were piles of wood for fires. The clean-hewn banks of the reservoir jutted steeply at the water's edge, and there stood high beacon towers.
"You should see this place at night," the captain said. "It's not called the Harbour of a Thousand Fires for no reason. The firelight glittering on the water, the shadows and silhouettes of a hundred ships. Makes my old heart stir, it surely does."
Ullsaard nodded but said nothing. He had seen plenty of firestorms by night; when Lehmia had burned; when his legions had put the torch to Mekhani settlements hotwards of Khar; when lava-throwers had torched enemy encampments. He chose not to share the memories with the ship's master.
"About time," muttered Eoruan.
"What's that?"
"The harbour authorities have talked about a halfway bridge for the past three years. Good for unloading light, perishable goods without having to dock fully. You know, using just boats. Looks like they're finally doing something."
The captain pointed to a long pontoon bridge stretching about a third of the way across the lake from the coldward bank. Dozens of men laboured on the extended bridge, naked save for black scarves that covered their heads and shoulders; slaves taken by the legions and criminals labouring to atone for their acts against the empire, under the watchful gaze of robed members of the Brotherhood. Soldiers with black crests stood at regular intervals along the line of labourers, carrying long clubs rather than spears. More coloured hats, thought Ullsaard. Black hats to match the black robes of the Brotherhood. More nonsense.
The King's Wharfs were built of stone blocks, unlike the wooden quays and jetties that made up the rest of Narun. On solid piles sunk into the bottom of the lake, three wide piers speared into the water, each large enough to berth four ships, two to each side. Only one was in use at the moment, the middle quay providing mooring for a bireme and a small yacht. A blue banner embroidered with the gold symbol of the crown fluttered at the masthead of the smaller vessel.
"Prince Kalmud's ship," said Eoruan. "Was here when we left. I guess the prince has been spending some time in Askh."
"Very likely," grunted Ullsaard.
"I thought he was hotwards along the Greenwater," Eoruan continued.
"He was," said Ullsaard. "Now he isn't."
The captain caught Ullsaard's stare and quelled whatever he was going to say next. He coughed self-consciously.
"We'll be in berth soon enough. Time to start getting the stores ready to unload."
"Right," said Ullsaard. "Do that."
With another glance at Ullsaard, Eoruan headed along the deck, bellowing for the crew to muster. The pounding of feet on the deck roused Noran, who sauntered from belowdecks. Erlaan was behind him.
"Not long now, eh?" Noran said to the prince as they joined Ullsaard. "Soon we'll be back in Askh, chasing the women and drinking the finest wines."
"I am more concerned with my father's health," replied the youth.
"Of course, of course," said Noran. "I didn't mean to be dismissive. It's just… I'm sure there's no cause for serious concern."
Erlaan's eyes were fixed on the dawnward shoreline.
"I hope not," he said. The prince turned and his gaze moved between Ullsaard and Noran. "I know you think me inexperienced, and you're probably right. But I know enough to wonder what's happening when my uncle sends a herald so far hotward to bring back his favourite general."
"Probably the Greenwater campaign," said Ullsaard, meeting Erlaan's look. He smiled in the most encouraging fashion he could. "It doesn't mean anything, really. I'll probably just be sent to keep an eye on his troops while your father recovers. We'll be back kicking sand at the Mekhani next year."
Erlaan shook his head.
"Why bring you to Askh just to send you all the way back down the Greenwater again? Seems like an awful waste of your time."
Ullsaard looked to Noran to provide an answer. The herald shrugged, earning himself a frown.
"I just know what I am told," said Noran. "Prince Aalun gave me no instructions other than to bring you back to Askh; and no information other than Prince Kalmud had been taken with an illness."
"You don't think it's something worse, do you?" asked Erlaan, grabbing Noran's arm. "About my father, I mean."
"Not at all, young prince," said Noran, patting Erlaan's hand. "Your father was not well, but far from death when I left. His condition did not seem to be worsening, and with the attentions of the Brotherhood there is no reason to think things are so bleak."
Erlaan was about to say something but the captain intervened. There was a gaggle of sailors behind him, with ropes and lading hooks.
"Please excuse us," he said.
The group moved out of the way and stood to one side of the tillerman. The sailor kept his gaze solidly ahead, affecting the blank expression of a man who is deaf to all things, as the galley slid towards the nearest quay of King's Wharf.
"Look at this way," said Noran, keeping his voice quiet. "If there really was some problem with your father, it would have been the king who sent me, and many other messengers beside. Your family are keeping this quiet because there is no cause for alarm, but rumour could be very disruptive."
"I suppose you are right." Erlaan folded his arms and bit his lip.
With a rough scraping and a couple of thuds, the galley was brought in alongside the wharf. Thick cables were thrown over to the landsmen who had swarmed out of the buildings along the length of the pier. A short, heavyset, sweaty man in a thick blue robe puffed and wheezed as he pulled himself over the side of the ship on a rope ladder.
"Token," he said, reaching out an open palm towards Eoruan.
"Here it is," said the captain, holding the golden crown between thumb and forefinger, forcing the jettymaster to take it from him with a frown. The functionary pulled a small wax tablet from his belt. Line after line of perfectly formed script almost filled the tablet.
"Make your mark," he said, thrusting the tablet to Eoruan. The captain turned towards Noran.
"It's your mark that's needed, not mine," Eoruan said.
Noran gave a huff of annoyance and crossed the deck. He took up the official's stylus and wrote his name into the wax. The jettymaster brought forth two thin sheets, almost transparent, and a block of charcoal. He made a rubbing of the impression in the wax on each piece and handed one to Noran. The other he carefully folded and placed in a bag at his belt. He smeared Noran's mark out of the wax and returned the tablet and stylus to his belt.
"Token," prompted Noran, beckoning with a finger. Absentmindedly, the jettymaster handed back the royal seal.
He dragged himself back over the ship's side without another word and disappeared into the crowd of labourers waiting for instructions from the ship.
"We'll get the ailurs off first, and be out of your hair," said Ullsaard, slapping a hand to the captain's shoulder. "My people will unload the rest of our baggage."
"It's been no burden for me," Eoruan said with wink and a nod to the cargo being made ready for unloading. "Crown business never is."
As always, Ullsaard was conscientious and deliberate during the disembarkation of the ailurs, while the crew heaved and pushed the abada down the gangplanks to the dockside and the servants loaded the wagon with their master's baggage. It was almost nightfall by the time they were ready to leave the quayside, and Ullsaard decided that they would spend the night in Narun.