LaSalle smiled at him. “The First Daughter has given us three of the pieces. Two remain—a robe of unusual fabric and a sword. If you refuse to hand them over, we will have to take unpleasant action.”
“We do not have them,” Carissa insisted, drawing LaSalle’s attention back to herself. “The sword is still in Kiriath, and I have no idea what’s become of the robe.”
“You refuse to obey a direct order of the king?”
“We’re not refusing. We simply don’t have what you want.”
“No? Well, I notice that your husband is not protesting nearly so much as you are, my lady. Perhaps because he knows exactly where to find them.” He smiled again at Trap. “But he will tell us soon enough.” He nodded at his men to take him away, and they escorted him from the room.
LaSalle addressed her again. “If you’d like to spare him the pain of an interrogation, simply tell us where they are.”
“I told you. They’re not here. I have no idea where they are.”
“Well, we will make sure of that. Now, if you’ll sit here out of the way—”
She pulled away from him. “I’ll go with my husband.”
“I’m sorry, Highness, but you will not. Please sit down and we’ll get this over with as quickly as possible.”
CHAPTER
18
Abramm stepped from the shadow of the evergreens into the sundrenched meadow, following the muddy trail as it curved through the grass toward a stand of new-leafed oak trees. A small white butterfly zigzagged before him, and crescents of still-melting snow arced in the shadows at the meadow’s edge, fringed by clumps of flowering daffodils. Water trickled all about him as birds chirped in the trees, and somewhere beyond the springgreen foliage ahead of him, a bell clanged.
Eagerness roiled him as, boots squelching on the muddy path, he crossed the meadow with long strides. Any moment now he would come out on the bluff overlooking the river town of Ru’geruk and the Jardrath Valley beyond it. Finally he was free! He’d said his good-byes to the group this afternoon, when it was clear they should easily be able to reach Ru’geruk by day’s end. Trinley had not been happy with his decision, but Abramm no longer cared. They planned to part ways in Ru’geruk anyway, and he had his own concerns. Besides, sooner or later the others would have to fend for themselves. In Ru’geruk he hoped to get work on one of the riverboats, perhaps as a deckhand or oarsman, and make his way downriver. Given his size and strength, and his rock-solid belief that Eidon had already prepared the way for him, he even had the audacity to think he might be on the river as early as tomorrow morning. After that, from all everyone had told him, he’d be in Fannath Rill within a month. Every time he thought of it he wanted to whoop for joy.
There’d be no more of Trinley’s faultfinding and sly insults, no more of his arbitrary assignments, his stubborn insistence on what any sane person could plainly see was the hardest way to do a thing, his constant one-upmanship. Though Abramm had borne it all in silence, leaving the injustice to Eidon to handle, he felt now like a caged bird set free.
Thanks to the winter’s unusually deep snowfall, the Ankrill was running dangerously high, and the others had decided that once they reached Ru’geruk they would take the safer route inland to Caer’akila, a settlement of Kiriathan exiles in the foothills of the Aranaak. It had been hardest for Rolland, who had been so determined to go to the front with Abramm and do battle with the Esurhites. In the end, though, he was not willing to risk his children to the river’s raging wiles, and his wife had not wished to travel to Caer’akila without him. So he’d reluctantly given up his plans, promising to find Abramm at the battlefront as soon as he got his family settled.
The blue of sky and hazy distance now showed through the rapidly thinning screen of branches, and shortly Abramm emerged onto the edge of a granite cliff that overlooked the world. To his left the Ankrill roared over the same cliff in a cloud of mist, then tumbled along in a flurry of white-frothed rapids before finally settling into the wide, smooth current of a proper river, brown and murky with all the sediment. At the edge of a cove on its near bank stood the stone-and-wood-built settlement of Ru’geruk. The river had swamped the boat docks and lapped against the sandbags the locals had piled atop the existing stone walls to protect the waterfront buildings. From there it coursed southeastward through a tumble of low hills before heading off toward the vast reddish haze of the deserts on the horizon.
Abramm brought his gaze back to the town and the boats, and his excitement rose another notch. Soon now, my love, he thought. And he could not keep himself from grinning as he switchbacked down the muddy trail toward the city.
The footpath emptied into a wide square bounded by a stone trough and a low wall. The yard, a patchwork of grass and mud, stood mostly empty, just a few people standing or crouching in small groups with their horses and mules. The riverfront was another matter—it bustled with activity as men stacked bales of wool, kegs of ale, and bags of grain on the dock behind the low stone retaining wall augmented by stacked sandbags.
Abramm walked the busy boardwalk along the wall, eyeing the singlemasted, wide-beamed boats drifting aimlessly over the submerged stone quays. Workers sloshed along the top of those quays, back and forth from land to boats, loading supplies and cargo. In fact, it appeared that trade goods were the cargo of choice.
He had his eye on three vessels with wooden sheds built up against the masts to serve as cabins, the trio glossy with varnish and trimmed with yellow paint. From a distance they were smart-looking boats, but when he stopped on the dock directly before them, he was disappointed. The paint was cracked and peeling in places, and the boats were glazed with a general film of dirt and grime. That could have been from the flooding, he supposed. The other vessels were no better, and most were far worse.
An old deckhand leaned on the near gunwale of the closest vessel, watching him with age-clouded eyes. He was gaunt, hunch-shouldered, and clad in a rumpled grimy tunic over which he wore a bright blue tapestry vest with gold embroidering along the front edges—the castoff of some nobleman. His thin, frizzy white hair was caught in a long queue, and the skin of his face was pale and papery. Abramm looked up at him.
“You own this boat?” he asked.
The old man shook his head.
“I’m looking to work my way downriver,” Abramm said.
“River’s too high right now,” the voice rasped coldly. “No one’ll be sailin’ passengers for at least a week. Best ya go overland.” The white eyes stared at him sullenly.
“Are you the captain of that vessel, then?”
“Na. That’d be Arne Dugla’is. He’s the owner, too.”
“And where would I find him?”
The deckhand glared at him, then waved a hand downriver. “He be in the Silver Wolf with the rest of ’em, down in the south yard. He won’t take ya on, though. None of ’em will. ’Cept maybe old Janner, if he’s drunk enough. ’Course, ya wouldn’t get very far with him, either.” The old sailor wheezed a laugh, then turned away.
Abramm continued down the walkway toward the south yard, which turned out to be considerably more active than the one through which he’d crossed earlier. People, donkeys, and sheep milled with the local dogs and cats around more bales of wool, kegs, boxes, and bags stacked in wagons or in piles on the bare ground. Traders came from the surrounding lowlands to sell their wares to the rivermen, who would take them downriver and sell them again. Two lines of men going in and out of the open doorway in the one two-story building fronting the square drew Abramm’s attention, and asking about, he confirmed that this was where he would find Arne Dugla’is.
Inside the tavern the riverboat owners were spread out at different tables, traders lining up at each one. One of them pointed out Dugla’is, a potbellied man at a large table nearest the fire. He wore a leather vest over a white shirt decked with copious lace at cuffs and collar, though he wore the latter unbuttoned and gaping open so all might see his Terstan shield. Surrounded by a sprinkling of dark, wi
ry chest hairs, it was not a pretty sight. Stringy brown hair fell to his shoulders around a doughy face and a warm smile.
The man ahead of Abramm was a wool trader and was just finishing his transaction when Abramm stepped up to the table. The deal was closed, the papers signed, and Dugla’is’s assistant counted out a payment of gold coin, then pushed it across the table toward the trader.
Then it was Abramm’s turn. When he stated his business, the man’s brows raised in surprise. Then his eyes flicked over Abramm’s chest and shoulders and down to his hands, gauging his soundness and strength. “Ya ever worked a riverboat before?”
“No. But I’ve rowed in a galley ship.”
“Have you?” Something about his tone and the sudden speculative look in his brown eyes set Abramm’s back up. Then Dugla’is’s gaze shifted to something—or someone—at Abramm’s back, though when Abramm turned, there were so many men, all going about their business, that he had no idea which one Dugla’is had looked at.
Silence stretched between them as the river captain’s eyes turned blank. Then, as suddenly as a flame bursting from pitch, his attention returned and he smiled jovially. “Forgive me if I’m a bit startled, but . . . Eidon be blessed! I don’t suppose ya have any idea that I lost one of my best workers last week—broke his arm in a fall. I’ve been wondering ever since how I was going to get all my cargo stowed and handled on the river, fast and tricky as it is these days. Y’are just what I need. Come down to the docks tomorrow and we’ll have a place for ya.”
He smiled up at Abramm, obviously expecting him to leave now that his request had been granted. So with a “Thank you” and a “See you tomorrow,” he did so.
As he stepped into the bright commotion of the square outside, Abramm waited for excitement and relief to break over him . . . but he only felt a dull sense of unease. Men jostled him as they passed, and he stepped aside out of the flow. A slight breeze washed around him, creaking the signboard that hung over the entrance, and for the first time he saw the silver wolf that had been painted upon the weathered wood.
Either the artist who had rendered it was terribly incompetent or it was no normal wolf. Indeed, the creature’s large humped shoulders reminded him eerily of Tapheina, who that first night of their journey had promised to meet him here in Ru’geruk. He’d seen neither her nor her companions for weeks, and had begun to count her promise as no more than idle threat—until the night before last when he’d caught her watching him from the shadows in the forest, a beast again and so shockingly changed he’d hardly recognized her.
Her mottled silver-and-white fur had fallen away in clumps, as if she were shedding, except the skin was sloughing off along with the hair. Huge silvery bald spots stretched unevenly across her side and flanks and down her legs, the latter seeming thicker and squatter without the furry body to balance them. The bald hump was bigger and more bulbous, a grotesque deformity without its hair. Her muzzle had faded to gray, and her eyes were as clouded and milk white as a blind man’s.
Even the mind behind the eyes seemed weakened and confused, pulling at him one moment, then backing away into the darker shadows when he stepped toward her. A sense of embarrassment preceded angry and spiteful images of his wife in the arms of that dark-haired eastern lord. “Better hurry,” she’d taunted him. “He’s almost won her away from you. . . . But we’ll get you in Ru’geruk.” He had no idea what she meant by that last and no time to figure it out.
An owl had swooped out of the darkness then, talons flashing, wings battering her cheeks and ears until she’d whirled and run snarling into the trees.
He had no idea what to make of any of it—except that trouble undoubtedly awaited him in Ru’geruk.
Now as he stared up at the signboard he wondered if this place might be a residence she used when in her human form. Though he’d seen no sign of her inside, neither had he been looking. There’d been rumors along the upper trail that some of the rivermen in Ru’geruk were involved in trading slaves, preying on the groups of exiled Kiriathans who so routinely came through the town every spring and summer. Was Arne Dugla’is one? Yes, he wore a Terstan shield, but it might not be genuine. Maybe he wore it openly—a practice Abramm no longer appreciated—just so people would think him trustworthy.
Still, the man had the best table in the place and the highest stacks of coins. His boats were the best, too. Why would a man who was obviously doing well for himself want to risk something like trafficking in slaves? And what choice did Abramm have? He’d known the likelihood of being hired was slim, and having counted on Eidon to provide for him, why question when the provision was made?
“If you want to go down the river at this time of year, Krele Janner’s your man,” said a low voice at his back.
Abramm turned to find a man standing behind him, dark haired, with a scarred face and deep eyes. “Krele Janner?” Abramm asked.
“Best driver on the river, north or south. Even drunk he’s better than most. Especially when it’s flowing high like this.”
“What makes you think I want to go down the river?”
“You’re Kiriathan, aren’t you? You all want to go downriver.”
“I’ve already made arrangements with Captain Dugla’is in there.”
“Oh? You might want to rethink that.” He paused. “Will he be taking all of you, then?”
“All of us?”
“You’re not with the group of Kiriathans that’s trickling into the upper yard just now?”
So they’d arrived. That was good to know. “We’re not together anymore. Why do you ask?”
The man ignored his question, his gaze snagging Abramm’s. “You should stay with them. They’re going to need you. And you’re going to need them.”
Abramm stared at him, completely taken aback. How did this man know him? Or the others? Where had he come from? Why was he saying such things? “Who are you?” he asked.
But the man only gestured along the river southward to the end of the town. “Janner’s got a shack down there, just beyond where you see that boat on the blocks. And he needs a bowman right now.”
Abramm looked in the direction he had indicated, but when he turned back, the man had wandered off, lost already in the crowd. Then his eyes fell upon the white-eyed deckhand in the blue tapestry vest with the gaudy gold embroidery. The one that worked for Dugla’is. He was looking right at Abramm, despite the blind appearance of his eyes. And he was frowning.
Abramm decided to at least talk to Krele Janner.
Though it was barely midday, the best driver on the river sat on its bank under an oak tree drinking whiskey from a gray ceramic jug. He was an unkempt, red-haired, hill-country man, his beard gilt with gold beneath squinty, pale blue eyes. Muscular arms showed a riot of freckles rather than tanning, and a long, thick scar ran diagonally across one forearm. He received Abramm’s interest in filling in as his bowman for a trip downriver with studied indifference.
“Do ya even know what a bowman is?” Drinking or not, his voice carried no slur.
“Not exactly,” Abramm admitted.
“Ya have experience on this river?”
“No.”
“Any river?”
“No.”
Janner huffed. “Least y’are honest. Most men woulda lied.”
“You’d see the truth before we got to the bend in the river.”
“Aye.”
“I do know how to row and steer.”
Abramm waited as the man drank from his jug, watching as a mama duck led her brood of ducklings out of the bushes and down to the water’s edge.
“I could make it worth your while,” he said quietly when the other man said nothing. “I have friends in the south—”
Janner snorted. “That’s what ya all say. But then the friends turn out to be just as poor as the rest of ya.”
“We all?” Abramm asked.
“You think it’s not obvious what ya are? Another poor Kiriathan, hoping for a new life in Chesedh, when we
can barely keep ourselves afloat. Leeches is what ya are. What ya oughta do is go down to the strait and start fighting Belthre’gar’s armies.”
“And I mean to, if I can just get down there.”
Janner’s lips twitched in a wry smile. “Do ya, now?”
“My friends are Chesedhan. Not Kiriathan. Take me to Fannath Rill, and—”
“My boats stop above the falls at Deveren Dol,” Janner interrupted. “And it’s more than enough that I’d trust ya for the payment as far as that. But to let ya go off t’ Fannath Rill promising to return?” He huffed incredulously. “Do ya think I have wool in m’ head?” He took another swig from his jug. “ ’Sides. The river’s too dangerous for passengers. Best go overland toward Caer’akila and down to Deveren Dol if ya can’t wait. How many are you?”
“Just me.”
“Well, y’are a big strong fella, so I might consider it if I had a reason to go downriver. But seeing as I have no cargo yet and no prospects of gettin’ any, I’d say it would be pointless. . . . Yer promises of wealth to come notwithstanding.” He took another swig from the jug. “If ya don’t want to wait, take the inland road. It’ll be clear by now.”
“Actually Arne Dugla’is has already agreed to take me on.”
Janner frowned. “Then what the plague’re ya comin’ here botherin’ me for?”
“I don’t trust him.”
“A nice man like him? With that Terstan shield for all to see and know how honest and good he is?” He eyed Abramm sidelong. “Ya’re smarter than ya look.”
“So you’re saying I’m right not to trust him.”
The man looked startled, even a little scared—as if he’d not realized where his words were taking them. “I’m not sayin’ anythin’.” With that he stoppered the jug, ambled over to the shack, and disappeared into its dark depths.
Abramm walked back along the riverfront to the north end of the town, more conflicted than ever. As expected, he found his friends newly arrived in the north yard. Some were just shrugging out of their rucksacks and refilling their water bags at the trough.