Hadrian looked from one face to another and saw the inexplicable conviction. Their actions made no sense, until he factored in fear. Fear made all the difference between rational and insane and could even masquerade one for the other. Once a herd starts stampeding, only a fool stands in the way.
Wishing Pickles had made the boat with him, Hadrian pushed to his feet.
“Where are you going?” Vivian asked.
“I can’t agree. So leave me out.” He took a step, then paused. “Oh, and if you try to tie him, shove him overboard, or anything like that, you can expect I’ll help him-not you.”
Silence followed. Shocked faces stared up as the boat creaked. Hadrian walked toward the stern, hoping to break their line of sight behind the cabin structure.
“He’s young and naïve,” he heard Sebastian say.
Hadrian was young. He couldn’t deny that, but he measured the time spent in Calis in dog years. He had learned many things and had been too anxious to seek those lessons, too eager to refuse his father’s tongs and hammer.
He climbed to the stern and leaned against the gunwale, looking east. The grass was still green in most of the low areas, but leaves on the high slopes were turning. Somewhere in the distance, beyond his sight, stood a tiny manorial village that he had not seen in five years. Hadrian imagined that everything there would have remained the same. Change came slowly to places like Hintindar, where generations lived and died in isolated repetition. Some were bound to the land and unable to leave, others-like his father-were unwilling. The people from his hometown occupied a handful of shacks running along a narrow road between a stone bridge and His Lordship’s manor-a road that began nowhere and ended in the same place. Hadrian had left at fifteen, and this was as close as he’d come to returning … and as close as he ever planned to.
Picturing the village, he realized he was wrong about the lack of change. There would be something new-a grave marker on the hill between the two southern fields. Most likely it would be just a stick or maybe an engraved board. The name would be burned in but no date. The villagers didn’t understand calendars.
“Gonna be a nice day, it is,” the steersman said. One hand rested on the tiller and his feet were up.
Hadrian nodded and realized he no longer shivered. The mist was thinning as the day brightened. Sunlight cut shafts through the trees, dappling the water behind them. The Bernum was a deep, wide river, especially where it neared the sea. The waterway looked tranquil, lazily meandering through the spread fingers of the low hills. But this was an illusion that concealed a fierce undercurrent in which men, women, and livestock had been lost. In spring the lowlands flooded, which explained the lack of farms close to the banks. Occasionally they passed the foundation of a house or barn; the Bernum never permitted crowding, not for long. Hadrian’s father had spoken of the river as if it were a living thing, like an evil woman who lured men to cool themselves in her waters. She would let them swim to the center, then drag them down. He also said that if the river were ever dammed-which he insisted was impossible-thousands of skeletons would be uncovered. The river never gave up her dead.
Hadrian hadn’t believed the stories. Even as a kid, he hadn’t been the type to accept what couldn’t be seen. His father had told him a great many such things.
“You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?” the steersman said with an inviting tone, earthy as well-turned soil. He possessed the engraved face of a life spent on water, his hands a pair of driftwood. “Didn’t see much of you last night. Sorta like that other one-the fella up on the bow. Name’s Farlan, by the way.”
“I’m Hadrian.”
“I know. I try to know all the passengers. Well, their names anyway. Don’t want to be too nosy. Some boatmen are. Comes with the territory. Riding the river up and down, all you ever see are the banks. It’s nice to have people to talk to, even if it’s only for the length of the trip. It’s good to meet you, sir. Hope your stay is a fine one. Not like I’m a captain of a ship or nothing, but I like my passengers to be happy with the service.”
Hadrian motioned toward the front of the ship. “And what is his name?”
“Oh, him. He didn’t offer, and I didn’t press. He’s the kind you best leave to himself and hope he does the same in return. Don’t want to be irritating a man like that.”
“And what kind of man is he?”
“A bit obvious, isn’t it, sir?”
“You think he’s the killer?”
“Well, I don’t know either way, but I can’t say I’m not concerned.”
“If you were suspicious, why didn’t you report him to the city guard?”
“I should have-would have if I wasn’t so stressed about setting out. All those crates had put us behind schedule, and I don’t like keeping the postilions and their teams waiting. Patrol came by earlier and searched the ship, but he wasn’t a passenger then. He came aboard just as we were shoving off. I was rushing to get under way and just wasn’t paying attention. After we were on the river, I realized how stupid I had been. I should have just let the postilion wait and made an excuse, like I forgot to get enough oil for the lamps or something. But I didn’t, so now I’ll have to wait until we reach Colnora.”
“What then?”
“I’ll tell the sheriff about the murders and my suspicions about that one. Sheriff Malet’s a good man … smart. He’ll conduct an investigation and get to the truth of the matter. If I were you, I wouldn’t count on getting on your way straight off. I’m sure he’ll want to talk to everyone.”
“Well, I’m not in any hurry. I just hope he’ll have better luck with that guy than I did.” Hadrian glanced once more toward the bow and the solitary man standing there.
They gathered for lunch on the deck, and just as Farlan had predicted, the mist and chill were burned away by a hot afternoon sun. The barge docked at a posthouse, where Farlan secured it by looping a rope around the bollard, and the postilion unhitched his team. A new boy brought over a fresh pair of horses and started attaching their harnesses.
Farlan set out the midday meal. Nothing warm was brought up, but the cold chicken, day-old bread, and fresh apples made for a better meal than the salted pork and sea biscuits Hadrian had become used to on the Eastern Star. The barge wasn’t soft travel, but it was efficient, operating both day and night. The passengers were little more than extra freight filling open space. The trip cost a copper a mile, which may be expensive to a man used to using his feet but was nothing to someone accustomed to a carriage. Pickles had made a good choice; the ride was gentler than the bounce and jiggle of a coach.
“So what is it you do, Sebastian?” Hadrian asked before sitting down with his wooden plate. He wasn’t actually interested, but he wanted to steer the conversation away from any plans for the hooded traveler.
“Are you familiar with Vernes, Hadrian?”
“Me? No. I pretty much came straight from the ship to the barge. Why? Are you famous?”
“In a way. I run the most prestigious jewelry shop in all of Vernes.”
Vivian had resumed the same place from earlier in the day but now balanced a plate on her lap. Her portions were small, the kind of meal a mother might serve to a child. She nodded in agreement. “Sebastian’s is the oldest jewelry store in the city.”
“Are all of you jewelry merchants?” Hadrian asked.
“Samuel is my cousin and Eugene is the son of my sister. They learned the business from me, and I loaned Samuel the money to start his own place.” Sebastian gave a wicked smile. “Customers who are angry with my prices or poor service or who just don’t like the cut of my clothing will stomp out of my shop declaring I’ve just lost an important sale. Out of spite they will walk down the street and pay more for a similar item at Samuel’s shop. They think they’re enacting their revenge, but as I am part owner in both, they still pay me after all.”