“Come back to me, Jean,” Locke spat. “I know your brains are jarred, but Crooked Warden, come back!” He yanked at Jean, holding on to the gunwale of the wave-tossed boat with his other hand, and for all his pains succeeded only in nearly capsizing it again. “Shit!”
Locke needed to get in first, but if he let Jean go Jean would probably sink again. He spotted the rowing lock, the u-shaped piece of cast iron set into the gunwale to hold an oar. It had been smashed by the boat’s slides across the deck, but it might serve a new purpose. Locke seized Jean’s oilcloak and twisted one end into a crude knot around the bent rowing lock, so that Jean hung from the boat by his neck and chest. Not a sensible way to leave him, but it would keep him from drifting away while Locke got aboard.
A fresh wave knocked the side of the boat against Locke’s head. Black spots danced before his eyes, but the pain goaded him to furious action. He plunged into the blackness beneath the boat, then clawed his way up to the gunwale on the opposite side. Another wave struck, and out of its froth Locke scrabbled and strained until he was over the edge. He bounced painfully off a rowing bench and flopped into the ankle-deep water sloshing around the bottom.
Locke reached over the side and grabbed Jean. His heaving was desperate, unbalanced, and useless. The little boat bobbled and shook with every effort, rising and falling on the waves like a piston in some nightmarish machine. At last Locke’s wits punched through the walls of his exhaustion and panic. He turned Jean sideways and hauled him in a foot and an arm at a time, using his oilcloak for added leverage. Once he was safely in, the bigger man coughed and mumbled and flopped around.
“Oh, I hate the Eldren, Jean,” Locke gasped as they lay in the bottom of the tossing boat, lashed by waves and rain. “I hate ’em. I hate whatever they did, I hate the shit they left behind, I hate the way none of their mysteries ever turn out to be pleasant and fucking good-neighborly!”
“Pretty lights,” muttered Jean.
“Yeah, pretty lights,” Locke spat. “Friendly sailors, the Amathel has it all.”
Locke nudged Jean aside and sat up. They were bobbing around like a wine cork in a cauldron set to boil, but now that their weight was in the center of the little boat, it seemed better able to bear the tossing. They had drifted astern and inshore of the Volantyne’s Resolve, which was now more than fifty yards away. Confused shouts could be heard, but the ship didn’t seem to be putting about to come after them. Locke could only hope that Jean’s cold-cocking of Volantyne would prevent the rest of the crew from getting things together until it was too late.
“Holy hells,” said Jean, “how’d I geddhere?”
“Never mind that. You see any oars?”
“Uh, I thing I bead the crap out of the guy that had them.” Jean reached up and gingerly prodded his face. “Aw, gods, I thing I broge my node again!”
“You used it to break your fall when you hit the boat.”
“Is thad whad hid me?”
“Yeah, scared me shitless.”
“You saved me!”
“It’s my turn every couple of years,” said Locke with a thin smile.
“Thang you.”
“All I did was save my own ass four or five times down the line,” said Locke. “And cut you in on a hell of a landing. If the waves keep taking us south, we should hit the beach in just a few miles, but without any oars to keep ourselves under control, it might be a hard way to leave the water.”
The waves did their part, bearing their little boat south at a frightful clip, and when the beach finally came into sight their arrival went as hard as Locke had guessed. The Amathel flung them against the black volcanic sand like some monster vomiting up a plaything that had outlasted its interest.
5
THE COASTAL road west of Lashain was called the Darksands Stretch, and it was a lonely place to be traveling this windy autumn morning. A single coach, pulled by a team of eight horses, trundled along the centuries-old stones raising spurts of wet gravel in its wake rather than the clouds of dust more common in drier seasons.
The secure coach service from Salon Corbeau and points farther south was for rich travelers unable to bear the thought of setting foot aboard a ship. With iron-bound doors, shuttered windows, and interior locks, the carriage was a little fortress for passengers afraid of highwaymen.
The driver wore an armored doublet, as did the guard that sat beside him atop the carriage, cradling a crossbow that looked as though it could put a hole the size of a temple window into whatever it was loosed at.
“Hey there!” cried a thin man beside the road. He wore an oilcloak flung back from his shoulders, and there was a larger man on the ground beside him. “Help us, please!”
Ordinarily, the driver would have whipped his team forward and raced past anyone attempting to stop them, but everything seemed wrong for an ambush. The ground here was flat for hundreds of yards around, and if these men were decoys, they couldn’t have any allies within half a mile. And their aspect seemed genuinely bedraggled: no armor, no weapons, none of the cocksure bravado of the true marauder. The driver pulled on the reins.
“What do you think you’re doing?” said the crossbowman.
“Don’t get your cock tied in a knot,” said the driver. “You’re here to watch my back, aren’t you? Stranger! What goes?”
“Shipwreck,” cried the thin man. He was scruffy-looking, of middle height, with light brown hair pulled loosely back at the neck. “Last night. We got washed ashore.”
“What ship?”
“ Volantyne’s Resolve, out of Karthain.”
“Is your friend hurt?”
“He’s out cold. Are you bound for Lashain?”
“Aye, twenty-six miles by road. Be there tomorrow. What would you have of us?”
“Carry us, on horses or on your tailboard. Our master’s syndicate has a shipping agent in Lashain. He can pay for your trouble.”
“Driver,” came a sharp, reedy voice from within the carriage, “it’s not my business to supply rescue to those witless enough to meet disaster on the Amathel, of all places. Pray for their good health if you must, but move on.”
“Sir,” said the driver, “the fellow on the ground looks in a bad way. His nose is as purple as grapes.”
“That’s not my concern.”
“There are certain rules,” said the driver, “to how we behave out here, sir, and I’m sorry to have to refuse your command, but we’ll be on our way again soon.”
“I won’t pay to feed them! And I won’t pay for the time we’re losing by sitting here!”
“Sorry again, sir. It’s got to be done.”
“You’re right,” said the crossbowman with a sigh. “These fellows ain’t no highwaymen.”
The driver and the guard climbed down from their seat and walked over to where Locke stood over Jean.
“If you could just help me haul him to his feet,” said Locke to the crossbowman, “we can try and bring him around.”
“Beg pardon, stranger,” said the crossbowman, “it’s plain foolishness to set a loaded piece down. Takes nothing to set one off by accident. One nudge from a false step—”
“Well, just point it away from us,” muttered the driver.
“Are you drunk? This one time in Tamalek I saw a fellow set a crossbow down for just a—”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said the driver testily. “Never, ever set that weapon down for as long as you live. You might accidentally hit some fellow in Tamalek.”
The guard sputtered, sighed, and carefully pointed the weapon at a patch of roadside sand. There was a loud, flat crack, and the quarrel was safely embedded in the ground up to its feathers.
Thus, it was accomplished. Jean miraculously returned to life, and with a few quick swings of his fists he eloquently convinced the two guards to lie down and be unconscious for a while.
“I am really, reallysorry about this,” said Locke. “And you should know, that’s not how it normally goes with us.”
“Well, how now, tenderhearts?” shouted the man within the carriage. “Shows what you know, eh? If you had any gods-damned brains you’d be inside one of these things, not driving it!”