The river was broad and slow here. The galleot had the water to itself. River boatmen habitually tied up for the night, and none were stirring yet. Aside from a few sailors dozing, Quarrel’s deck was as quiet as a farmyard in the gray predawn light.
Tol had been surveying the eastern shore, off their starboard rail. When he turned toward the bow, he saw something that brought his hand to the hilt of his sword.
“Who is that?” he hissed. “There, on the bowsprit!”
Wandervere straightened and looked where he pointed. Sure enough, a gray-wrapped figure stood far out on the bowsprit, although the spar was a simple pole no thicker than the calf of a man’s leg.
The half-elf whispered, “No hand of mine could stand on the ’sprit like that!”
Drawing his saber, Tol rushed to the bow. Quarrel was flush-decked, so there were no steps to climb. A few paces from the bowsprit he halted.
“Come down from there!”
The apparition did not respond. Tol had an impression of two shining eyes staring out at him from under a loose — fitting gray cowl. He repeated his demand, but still the stranger did not comply.
Gould this be yet another attempt on his life by his unknown foe? The thought filled Tol with fury and he rushed at the phantom.
“My lord, take care!” Wandervere called.
At the foot of the bowsprit Tol sheathed his sword. Turning, he made his way out along the narrow spar, sliding his hare feet sideways. The closer he got, the stronger grew the sensation the apparition was watching him, waiting for him.
The river was calm enough, but the forward motion of the galleot caused the bow to dip and rise in time with each stroke of the oars. It took a great deal of concentration for Tol to keep his balance. The stranger seemed to hold his place effortlessly.
A pace away from the figure, Tol halted. “Who are you? Why do you plague me?” Silence was his only answer. The slight breeze that dried the sweat on his neck did not ruffle the watcher’s dark cloak.
Tol’s temper snapped. “Very well! I have an answer for you!”
He drew his saber, managing to maintain his wobbly equilibrium. The flash of naked metal stirred the apparition at last. It raised its hands in a very ordinary way, as if to ward off the blade. The growing light of dawn showed Tol a strange detaiclass="underline" the phantom’s hands were different colors. One was pale, the other dark.
“Trouble me no more!” Tol cried and thrust Number Six at the stranger.
When the tip of his saber touched the apparition, the gray-cloaked figure vanished, completely and instantly. Off balance now, Tol lost his footing and pitched forward.
The bowsprit hit him in the chest and he rolled off one side. Clutching his sword in his right hand and the spar with his left arm and leg, Tol dangled above the galleot’s streaming bow wave. If he fell, the ship would plow him under, its ram cleaving him like a soft clod of earth.
He was wondering whether he’d have to drop Number Six when a voice called out, “Hold on! I’m coming!”
Someone shinnied out onto the bowsprit. Strong hands grasped his left thigh, then his sword belt, and Tol was dragged along the spar toward the ship.
“Give me the sword!”
He held his arm back, and the dwarf-forged blade was taken from him. Several pairs of hands grasped his jerkin and hauled him roughly to safety. Sprawled on his back on the damp deck, Tol finally saw the faces of his rescuers.
Miya was breathing hard from her exertions. Standing beside her, still holding Miya’s belt, was Kiya.
“How did you get here?” Tol demanded.
“There’s gratitude for you,” said Miya, giving her sister a disgusted look.
“We’ve been aboard the whole time,” Kiya told him. “We signed on as rowers.”
Wandervere joined them, and Tol got to his feet. Ignoring the captain, Tol glared at the Dom-shu. “You disobeyed me!”
“Aren’t you glad we did?” Miya grinned and slapped him on the back, staggering him.
There was no denying it, and trying to maintain his outrage was pointless. He hooked a hand behind each sister’s neck (having to reach up to do so) and gave them a hearty shake.
“Next time you disobey me, I’ll have you bound in irons,” he growled.
Miya laughed. Kiya did not. She knew he meant it.
“My lord,” Wandervere said. “The apparition-did you see its face?”
Tol hadn’t. He did not mention the mismatched hands. An odd detail like that might prove important, if the phantom crossed his path again.
Quarrel reached the Dalti Canal as the sun cleared the horizon. A hodgepodge of small craft was queued up to enter the waterway from the river. The canal was closed at night by a massive boom of timbers anchored on either shore. A stone roundhouse, manned by a contingent of territorial soldiers, guarded the boom. Tol was surprised to see the boom still blocking the way. The canal usually was opened promptly at dawn.
The galleot moved like a dragon among the barges and flat-boats. Boatmen frantically poled their craft out of the way. Wandervere backed oars, stopping the galleot’s ram just short of the boom. Trumpets blared, and the small garrison filled the battlements of the roundhouse.
Wandervere watched the Ergothians’ reaction with amusement. Had he wished, he could have charged the boom and broken it asunder. As it bobbed peacefully in the slight current, Quarrel’s friendly intentions should’ve seemed obvious.
Kiya was below, rowing, when they reached the canal. Miya, who was on a different rotation, was on deck with Tol.
Cupping hands to his mouth, Tol called, “Halloo! Captain of the guard!”
After some scrambling, an officer with a crest on his helmet appeared on the roundhouse parapet.
“Who are you?” he shouted. “What are your intentions?”
“This is Tolandruth of Juramona! I am summoned to the capital to attend upon the new emperor! Open the boom!”
The officer visibly started. “Lord. Tolandruth? Draco Paladin! Stand fast, my lord!”
Tol had little choice, short of ramming imperial property. With the blare of more horns, the garrison turned out on the stone quay below the little fort. The officer, followed by two aides, walked out on the catwalk that ran along the top of the boom. He halted below the prow of the ship and saluted briskly.
“It is you, my lord!” he exclaimed.
“Of course it is!” Miya said. “Who were you expecting? Pirates?”
The officer ignored her. “If my lord would come ashore, I shall explain!”
Though he chafed at any delay, Tol nodded. Wandervere’s sailors dropped a rope ladder over the bow and he climbed down to the catwalk on the boom. Miya followed.
The officer bowed. “My lord, my name is Nazik. You won’t remember me, but I served under Lord Urakan in Hylo. I was with you when we beat the Tarsans at Three Rose Creek.”
Tol did not recall him, but he extended a hand and clasped Nazik’s forearm. “Why is the canal still closed?” he said, bringing his host back to the matter at hand.
“Orders, my lord. All traffic heading for Daltigoth is to be thoroughly checked.”
“Checked for what?” asked Miya.
Nazik blinked. “Anything treacherous or seditious.”
Tol and Miya exchanged a quick glance. “There’s no cargo on Quarrel but my party,” Tol said. He gave a rapid account of his journey from Tarsis to Thorngoth, omitting completely the incident with the Blood Fleet, then asked, “May we proceed?”
Nazik snapped his ironclad feet together with a clank. “Certainly, my lord! My apologies for detaining you!”
“Never apologize for doing your duty.”
Tol returned to the galleot. Behind him, Nazik bawled for the boom to be opened.
The heavy timber structure moved slowly back. Great oiled ropes, as thick as a man’s thigh, slid over wooden tackle as the boom swung away from the ship. Wandervere called for a speed of eight beats, and Quarrel ghosted ahead. Its wake sent waves surging back among the waiting river craft.