Return of the Guardian-King (33 page)

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, wiry 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.

Seeing him, Rolland came over to ask how things had gone, and Abramm told him what had happened. “I’d rather go with Janner, I think. He seems a down-to-earth sort for all his reliance on the spirits. But he won’t leave until he has the cargo to justify a trip down. And from what I gather, he’s something of a pariah around here.”

“Well, you can always come with us.” Rolland grinned at him.

“Or wait. Or talk some of you into changing your minds.” He grinned back.

“We’ll go with you,” Cedric said, drawing their eyes and indicating himself and his father. He shrugged. “We’re used to rivers . . . it’d be faster, and lots easier. Ridin’ instead of walkin’. Pop’s gettin’ weary o’ walkin’.”

“I’m not sure two would be enough. I’m afraid I’m just going to have to wait.”

About then Oakes Trinley came striding up from the town. With but a single snide expresson of surprise at seeing Abramm again, he announced a change in plans: “I couldna find any horses—least not that anyone wanted t’ sell. But I did learn the road t’ Caer’akila will be harder to travel than we thought. The snowpack’s so high this year we’ll not get through ’til midsummer, at least. So I made arrangements fer us t’ go down the Ankrill, instead.”

Abramm was not the only one to stare at him in astonishment.

Relishing his moment in the limelight, Trinley opened his hands. “None of us wanna stay here fer three months. And when they told me ’twould only take a week t’ reach Deveren Dol, while we sit an’ watch the scenery go by . . . well, it seemed Eidon was making his will pretty clear.”

Abramm frowned. “I heard it would take closer to three or four weeks.” More than that, Janner had suggested he take the road if he didn’t want to wait, and said nothing about its being snowed in.

Trinley’s grin widened. “That’s ’cause ye talked t’ the wrong man, Alaric. Krele Janner is a drunk and an incompetent. His vessels’re constantly going aground, I’m told. Hittin’ snags, shoals, rocks.”

“How did you know I—” Abramm began.

Trinley overrode him. “An’ because he spends so much time at th’ bottle, he doesn’t keep them up—lets the caulking dry out so thet halfway down the river they start leakin’. Those that have the misfortune of traveling with him spend most of their time bailing. Or sitting on the side of the riverbank waiting for him t’ fix the leak.” He turned to the others. “The man I chose has an excellent reputation. Captain Dugla’is’s vessels are bigger and faster—he’s the only one who could take us all, in fact. Of course, as I understand it, Alaric, ye’ve already made yer own arrangements with yer drunken friend, so I didn’t include you in ours. . . .”

“We’re not going down the river,” Rolland said firmly.

Trinley shrugged. “If that’s yer choice, Rollie, fine, but from what they’ve told me here, Caer’akila is burstin’ at the seams with exiles. There’s food and water shortages, an’ most o’ the new folks’re staying in tents now. Last fall there were rumors of sickness.”

“How do you know this Dugla’is isn’t lying about that just to get your business?” Marta asked.

Trinley turned to her as if surprised. “Dugla’is wears the shield, Marta. He wouldn’t lie to us.”

Abramm snorted. “Anyone can slap on a shield and call himself Terstan. Even if it’s real, he can still be in the darkness of his own Shadow.”

“I suppose ye’d know all about that,” Trinley sneered. “You think I can’t tell a trickster when I meet one?”

“If he’s a good one, aye.” Rolland took up the argument now.

Trinley glared at him.

“Remember that one man who told us to b’ware?” Rolland said. “That some of ’em here are suspected o’ tradin’ in slaves with the desert folk? We’d make the perfect target. Nobody knows we’re comin’, nobody knows who we are, and no one will know if we ever arrive at our destination because we don’t even know what our destination is.