Wandervere called, “Backwater.”
The rowers, seated facing aft, dropped their oars, then pushed them toward the stern to slow the galleot’s progress. At the proper time, the oars were drawn into the ship. Smooth as glass, Quarrel gently drew up to the canal master’s quay.
An officer, eyes still bleary with sleep, stumbled out of the barbican gate. Behind him trooped several dozen city guards. Tol was interested to see they formed a neat phalanx behind their commander-the very formation he’d taught the city’s soldiers years earlier.
“What in the name of bloody Chaos is this?” inquired the officer, staring up at the overhanging prow of the galleot.
“The good ship Quarrel, of the Imperial Ergothian Navy!” Wandervere called back cheerfully.
“There’s no such thing!” the officer snapped.
Tol, richly attired in regalia borrowed from Lord Tremond, appeared on deck beside the captain. “There is now, soldier. I am Tolandruth of Juramona, come from Tarsis to attend upon the new emperor.”
Even in the wavering torchlight, the paling of the officer’s face was obvious. “My lord!” he cried, drawing himself up and saluting quickly. “We heard rumors of your coming!”
“I would enter the city,” Tol replied. “Open the gate.”
The officer hastened to obey. With much shouting and gesturing, the heavy gates blocking the canal were opened. Their motion generated a slight swell in the water, setting Quarrel to rocking.
“Send word to the palace I have come,” Tol called down, easily maintaining his balance after so long aboard ship. “Does The Bargeman’s Rest still stand?” Assured it did, he said, “I shall be there awaiting the emperor’s command.”
Quarrel crawled forward at one beat. The soldiers on the quay raised their spears in tribute as Tol passed, and their commander shouted, “Corij be with you, my lord! We are strengthened, now that you are here!”
The bowl-shaped canal harbor within the walls of Daltigoth offered just enough room for the galleot to turn about. Wandervere nosed his ship up to the dock Tol indicated, and lines were dropped. Nimble sailors leaped overboard and tied Quarrel to the stone-paved pier.
Miya and Kiya came up on deck. All the rowers left the hold and filled the waist of the ship, curious to see the empire’s greatest city.
Rising in tiers above the canal basin, Daltigoth by night resembled a heap of coals scattered with jewels. Thousands of windows winked with interior light, and thousands more were shuttered and dark. Massive villas, opulent private residences, temples, and towers thrust up into the cloud-capped sky, shadowing the lesser buildings below them. The streets were never completely devoid of traffic, even at this time of night, and from the galleot’s deck they could hear carts rolling, horses clip-clopping along, dogs barking, and the shouts of late revelers.
Behind Tol, a rower hired in Thorngoth uttered a heartfelt oath. “Who knew there were so many people in the world?” he said.
The Dom-shu sisters snorted, but Tol smiled. That had been his own reaction the first time he’d laid eyes on the capital of the Ergoth Empire.
While the crew worked to run out a gangplank, Wandervere sought out Tol.
“Now we are here, my lord, what shall I do?”
“Return to Thorngoth and report to Admiral Darpo for new duties.” Extending a hand, he thanked Wandervere for their safe passage.
The former pirate clasped his arm and grinned. “No one will believe I sailed a pirate ship into the heart of Ergoth!”
“It is an age of wonders. What we dare, we can do.”
Followed by sailors and awestruck rowers, Tol and the Dom-shu sisters descended the gangplank to shore. Once on the pier, Miya stomped her feet.
“Solid ground at last!” With a yawn, she added, “I’m for bed!”
They roused the innkeeper of The Bargeman’s Rest, who gaped at the enormous vessel tied up outside his establishment. When he learned the identity of his guest, he nearly fell over himself ushering Tol inside. He assured Tol that, although the inn was full, he would gladly turn out the lodgers from his best room, but Tol said pallets in the common room would be good enough.
Kiya and Miya set down the heavy chest they’d been carrying between them. It was the small cask of Xanka’s treasure that Tol had confiscated for his own use.
The innkeeper and four lackeys cleared space before the bar and spread furs and quilts on the flagstone floor. The sisters, tired from rowing, lay down one on each side of the chest and promptly went to sleep.
Tol removed his helmet, cloak, and breastplate. The innkeeper presented him with a brimming mug of beer.
“Welcome home, my lord,” said the master of The Bargeman’s Rest, beaming from ear to ear. “Now you are here, all will be right!”
Tol was almost asleep before the implications of those words struck him. What was not right in Daltigoth?
Kiya awoke with the sound of the sea still in her ears. Although they were no longer on the pirate ship, she could hear a loud wash of noise, rising and falling like the surf against the shore. The common room of The Bargeman’s Rest was already light. Miya was still asleep, but Tol’s eyes opened even as Kiya sat up.
He obviously heard the strange noise, too. He looked questioningly at her, but she could only shrug. They both spotted the innkeeper and two of his servants hovering by the shuttered front windows. Tol rose and came up behind them.
“What is it?” he asked.
The innkeeper jumped and nearly fainted from fright. “My lord!” he gasped, bracing one pudgy hand against his underling’s shoulder. “We are besieged!”
Tol peered through the slats. The quay outside was packed with a milling throng, the source of the strange sound. They did not appear to be an angry mob, just ordinary folk in great numbers, filling the waterfront as far the eye could see. Talking, walking, eating tidbits sold by dockside vendors, they seemed to be watching the front of The Bargeman’s Rest.
Kiya had left her pallet and come to join Tol at the windows. She handed him his saber.
“Go and find out what they want,” Tol said to the innkeeper.
The fellow’s rubicund face paled visibly. “Me, lord?” he squeaked.
“You. Someone. Anyone!”
Nodding firmly, the innkeeper propelled one of his hired lads outside. When the door opened, the crowd surged forward. Tol’s hand tightened on his sword hilt, but the people stopped, obviously disappointed by the sight of the apron-clad youth.
“Is Lord Tolandruth within?” said a woman. Dumbly, the young man nodded.
“When did he arrive?” asked another matron.
“And when is he coming out?” another voice called.
The kitchen lad shrugged. At a word from Tol, the innkeeper hissed at the young man to come hack inside, then sent him and his comrade back to the kitchen.
“Why do they want me?” Tol wondered.
“All Daltigoth has awaited your arrival, my lord,” said the innkeeper simply.
Tol walked slowly back to where Miya still slumbered, and Kiya sat cross-legged on the floor. Turning abruptly to the innkeeper once more he asked, “But why? Why should the people crave my return?”
The innkeeper combed stray strands of gray hair from his face with thick fingers. Wiping his hands on his apron, more for something to do than because there was anything on them, he approached Tol deferentially.
“Things have been unsettled lately, my lord. The old emperor, may the gods grant him eternal rest, was a long time dying.”
“And the new emperor?”
The innkeeper looked pained. “It is not my place to speak ill of the Master of the Great Horde and the Strong Right Arm of Corij.”
It took some cajoling, but Tol finally extracted the story. The city had been mourning the death of Pakin III, as was proper, but the equally proper accession of Amaltar had not been entirely welcomed. In the days since the old emperor died, armed groups had appeared in the streets, wearing colored armbands or cockades to signify their loyalties. Amaltar’s partisans-and they were relatively few-wore Ackal scarlet. Gangs marked with black were followers of his brother, Prince Nazramin. Also seen were parties bearing blue bands, and another faction wearing white. No one dared wear Pakin green, at least not yet.