How are you feeling?”
“M’lord Gaelin?” said Viensen. He couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.
“I feel weak as a child. I’ve barely the strength to stand,” Gaelin replied. It was the truth – his limbs trembled, he shivered with cold, and his head floated with dizziness. “Where are we?”
“About twenty miles downriver from where we stopped,” Viensen said. “I thought it wise to keep moving, but we’ll have to make for shore soon. We sprang a seam when they rammed us, and we won’t be able to continue until we make repairs.”
Gaelin frowned. “At least we were able to move. They’ll have a hard time finding us again. How did your men fare?”
The captain grimaced. “Not well – I lost half my crew, but without your warning it would’ve been worse. They’d have cut our throats in our sleep.” He glanced at Gaelin, and shook his head again. “I can’t believe you’re standing here talking to me, m’lord. The only reason the brigands fled is because they thought they’d killed you.”
“Is good they were wrong,” Madislav said.
Viensen hooked one arm around the topmost spoke of the helm and tamped tobacco into his pipe. “M’lord, those were no common river bandits. They knew you were on board.”
Gaelin leaned against the rail. “I know, I heard them. And the first thing they did is go after the deckhouse, where you’d expect to find passengers. They knew I was here, no doubt of it.”
“Rivermen don’t kill nobles, m’lords. It’s bad business. First, they miss out on ransom. Second, nothing riles the constables like a dead noble.” Viensen paused. “Someone wanted you dead and sent these men after you, m’lord. This was no coincidence.”
Gaelin stood and looked out over the dark river. The silence was eerie now. The mist deadened the sounds of their speech and the boat, as if to erase the memory of the skirmish. Daene was dead in his place, a good friend and fine man who’d done nothing to earn the death he received. Who would want me dead? Gaelin thought. Ghoere? How could my death be of use to him, or to anyone for that matter? Or was I to be abducted, not killed? Gaelin felt cold and sick. Taking one’s chances in a clean fight was one thing, but waiting for assassins and cutthroats to strike in the dark was another matter entire l y. “How much time do you need for repairs, Master Viensen? ”
“I don’t like the way she feels, m’lord,” the captain replied, indicating the list and the slow, heavy awkwardness of the boat. “We’re taking on a lot of water. I’d guess at least one full day to work on the hull, and another day for pitch to set. In fact, I’m going to make for shore. We’re pushing our luck now.” He scowled and spun the wheel toward the Alamien bank. The keelboat yawed sluggishly but came about.
“In two days, we can ride to Endier or back to Riumache,”
Madislav observed sourly. “No point staying with the boat.”
Gaelin nodded, and pressed a hand to his wounded abdomen.
“I won’t be able to ride fast for a day or two, but I think I can travel. Should we continue on to Endier, or return to Mhoried?”
“The bard can wait,” Madislav said flatly. “Your father must know of this attack.”
“There’s a Mhorien consul in Endier. We can contact my father from there. Besides, if my enemies think I’m dead, they shouldn’t trouble us again for a while,” Gaelin pointed out.
He considered the question while Viensen steered for the dark and lonely shoreline ahead. “Wait a moment! Ruide brought carrier pigeons! We can send a message to the Mhor at first light.”
“But the Mhor cannot reply, since he is not knowing where you are.” Madislav scratched at his beard. “You will have to tell him if you will make for Endier or Riumache. Then he will be knowing where to reach you.”
“ Endier,” Gaelin said. “If anything has developed at Shieldhaven, my father will expect to find me in Endier.” He attempted a weak grin. “Besides, I hate turning my back on something I’ve started.”
“Hold on, m’lords,” Viensen said. The dark shoreline was very close now, and the current pushed the boat up against the sandy bank. With a scraping sound, the keel grounded on the sandy bottom. “Can’t sink now,” the captain observed.
“Sorry about the delay, m’lords.”
“It’s not your fault, Master Viensen,” said Gaelin. The eastern skies were now streaked with ribbons of rose and gold; dawn was not far off. Suddenly, weakness flooded through his limbs, and he staggered against the rail. His injury was not yet healed, not by a long measure, and he fought to control a fit of trembling that threatened to bring him to his knees.
Madislav caught him before he fell. “Endier is being fine, but you are not well enough to ride yet,” he growled. “You must rest, Gaelin. If your wound opens, it could kill you.”
Gaelin nodded. “Help me back to the cabin. I’ll rest a bit.
Wake me an hour after sunrise, and we’ll get going.” The huge Vos half-carried him to the deckhouse, supporting the prince’s weight until Gaelin collapsed into his bunk. Before he allowed himself to fall asleep, Gaelin insisted that Madislav bring him a scrap of paper to write his dispatch to the Mhor. The hulking warrior eyed him suspiciously but did as he asked and helped to steady Gaelin’s hand. In a weak, spidery script, the prince wrote:
22nd day of Pasiphiel, 1456 HC
My lord Mhor:
We were attacked by river bandits between Riumache and Endier. Daene was killed, but I will be fine. We must leave our boat and continue by land; I expect to be in Endier in two days. We will await your reply there. I don’t believe this was a coincidence.
Your son,
Gaelin, Prince of Mhoried
“Have Ruide dispatch this by pigeon as soon as it’s light enough for the birds to fly,” he said.
Madislav nodded. “It will be done. Now rest, Gaelin.” He said something else, but Gaelin did not hear him; he was falling back into darkness already, sinking into the bunk as if it were a bottomless chasm.
Chapter Four
Gaelin awoke late in the day to the sounds of horses stamping and prancing on the foredeck. He sat up too quickly and was rewarded with a burning pain in the center of his stomach that doubled him over. Cursing weakly, he dragged himself out of the bunk and began to dress. By the slanting shadows outside the porthole, he guessed it was late afternoon.
Although each careless movement drove a jagged knife through the muscles of his belly, he forced himself to don his mail shirt, lacing the leather ties tightly to press against his injured stomach. It was stiff and awkward, but he hoped it would provide some support while riding. When he finished, he took a moment to smooth the pain out of his face before striding onto the deck to see what was going on.
Madislav, Ruide, and a pair of Viensen’s sailors were carefully leading the horses down a makeshift ramp to the shore.
The animals’ hooves scraped and thumped on the wooden deck, and some rolled their eyes suspiciously at the planks and the water beneath. It was a clear, cold day, with a raw wind from the north raising whitecaps on the river. Gaelin made a long, careful sweep of the water from one bend to the next, but he saw no other vessels beating their way against the bitter weather.
“Prince Gaelin! You’re looking much better,” Viensen called from the quarterdeck. His face was red from the wind.
“I’m feeling a little better, Master Viensen,” Gaelin replied.
He noted pitch and sawdust caked on the boatsman’s clothes.
“How does the boat look?”
The captain’s face fell a little. “The damage is not irreparable, but we’re going to have to haul her up on the bank and cut some lumber to patch the hull. At least this weather’ll help the pitch set quickly when we’re ready.”