Yanados pulled the tiller straight again; they were close enough.
The others didn't look up, only rowed.
And then the wind shifted.
Yanados looked up in alarm as the sailcloth flapped noisily. She swore, tied down the tiller, and ran for the mast. The damp knots seemed determined to stick, but she yanked them out and dragged the sail down. She bundled and tied the heavy cloth, alternately angry and grateful that the others had stuck to their rowing.
Gods, what was the wind doing? Gusts from the south, the northeast smelling different, contending . . . Yanados smothered a laugh as she understood. The Dawnstream brought its own wind down its wide channel, the land's wind running headlong into the last breath up from the sea.
She had her guide at last; steering straight into that grass-scented wind would take them up the Dawnstream, past Lutegh.
But they would have to do it by oars alone.
Yanados went back to the tiller, cast a long glance over the dim lights of the east bank, and steered toward the cool northeastern wind. Stroke by stroke, the malevolent yellow lights crawled by: no end to them, fatigue a growing enemy, and the current heavier now, turbulent, making the rowers fight for headway. They must be right on top of the confluence, the junction of waters and winds, where the rivers met and struggled briefly. Yes, there: the shore lights seemed to angle away in the darkness. Once past this jumble of flowing forces, they'd be safely into the Dawnstream. But, gods, the battle went inch by inch!
"Stroke . . . stroke . . . stroke . . ." Yanados heard herself chanting. Baiz, Lord of rivers, let us go! she prayed furiously, knowing that Baiz had never been a patron god of herself or her people, and why should he listen? Mav of warriors, help us. Ioth of my kindred, help us. Kula of the wild things . . .
A soft singing flowed across the deck, barely audible, sweet and level and hypnotic in its surging rhythm.
For an instant Yanados thought of mermaids, sirens, river wights who enchanted sailors. Then she recognized the song, and the voice.
"Low lie the stars over Toslagen's memory,
High hang the flowers from the trees of her tomb . . ."
Ah, Eloti's magecraft again. That simple chant had worked small wonders twice before; it certainly could do no harm now. Accept its help; steer well.
Yanados rocked gently at the tiller, matching time with the soft repetitive song, watching the water and feeling the wind, letting all sense of time fall away.
The distant orange light-points flowed by.
An angled block of darkness cut off the pattern of stars ahead. For a moment Yanados stared at it, wondering what it signified. Then she guessed what it was, and shoved hard on the tiller with a muffled curse.
The spell-struck rowers pulled on the oars without change, and Yanados hadn't the time to warn them. She pushed harder.
The boat swerved to port, bucking in the cross-chop of the water, turned and pulled sideways along that looming block of deeper darkness so suddenly huge—no, not big, but close. Down and down its length, so close that Yanados could hear the water smacking its side: a faintly hollow booming. Yes, another hulclass="underline" a ship, sitting lightless and cargoless out on the water—and what that might mean was best not to think. So damned close!
And there, there, the end of the dark patch, the ship's stern, less than ten yards away. Gods, they had been close. Pull away now, quietly away.
Yanados looked up, saw the silhouette of a man at the stern blocking the stars. Facing them, or facing the bow of the ship? No way to tell—save that he didn't move, didn't cry out, showed no sign of having seen them.
"'Care,' sing the birds in the boughs of the Cypresses,
"Care, love and care, win you free of your doom.'"
The damned song—what if he heard it?
No, wait: what if he had heard it, heard and been ensorcelled, urged to a dreamy and intent regard for his work—which was watching the deck of the ship? Or perhaps he simply thought that a small boat, laden with passengers and mules and wagon (could he see them in this darkness?), with a mildly singing woman aboard, could surely be up to no harm, only going about its lawful business?
Shoulders hunched, waiting for the cry of notice and alarm, Yanados steered out and away from the darkened ship, steered on until the rising grumble of the water warned that she was drawing near the west bank, perhaps straight at the fork. She hauled the tiller back, turning into the Dawnstream's wind again, back against the oncoming current. Still no sound from the now invisible ship. Still the rowers pulled.
But their rowing was ragged now, breaths audible with labored panting. Eloti's singing was fainter. Fatigue, the other enemy, was winning.
For a long, despairing moment Yanados thought of putting the anchor down, letting them rest an hour before striking on up the Dawnstream, praying the darkness would hold while they idled just across the water from Lutegh's walls. How much of the night was left? Was the sky already paling, just the slightest tinge, above the city? Was that the first breath of dawn that raised the wind in her hair?
Wind—
Once more Yanados quick-tied the sweep and darted for the sails. She'd have to do this alone, no one to help her, and the resetting again soon, and the gods knew how many tacks after that. Swearing quietly, she hauled and reset the lines, tugged the boom over and tied it fast—damned, gods-beshat, back-breaking work to do alone, but she could manage.
The sails filled, swelled awkwardly sideways, ridiculously angled but workable. The boat creaked, groaned, grumbled—but began to pull away from shore. Back toward deeper water, back toward the frowning walls and treacherous lights of Lutegh, but nonetheless upstream.
Yanados leaned against the creaking mast, panting with effort and relief. "Up oars," she gasped to the faltering team of rowers. "Up oars and set them. Rest."
Eloti stopped singing, and gratefully sagged over her oar. One by one, the others fell out of the spell and followed suit. Yanados staggered down the line of the deck, helping the over-exhausted haul in their oars, finding Ziya and Arizun slumped at their stations, already asleep. She pulled the oars in for them, stumbled back to her place at the tiller, and sat down to wait.
Tack and tack, she thought, watching the sails strain. Zig and zag, one yard sideways for every yard forward, against wind and current, but we move, we move . . . How long until dawn?
Gods, the eastern sky was no longer black but definitely indigo. Another hour, and the boat would be visible. Another hour, and they'd be almost under Lutegh's docks. Half an hour, then, and she'd have to reset the sails, cross back to the west, hope these short tacks would keep them moving fast enough to get out of anyone's sight.
And if they were seen, would anyone raise the alarm?
If alarm were raised, how long would it take the Ancar to find a boat and a capable steersman and set out on the water?
If the Ancar pursued, would they overhaul, get to within bowshot range? Would any Luteghi boatmen serve their master that well?
And gods' piss, why were the stars ahead blanking out so soon? The sky was still dark. . . .
Yanados blinked twice, shook her head, then smothered a whoop of hysterical laughter.