Return of the Crimson Guard

The man leaned back, smiled in a way that Aron knew was meant to reassure him. ‘I know. It's yours for the bottle and a little information.’

Aron allowed his brows to rise as if in dubious surprise. ‘Really, sir? Information, you say? Out here? What could we possibly know out here?’

He gestured vaguely to the river. ‘Oh, travel. Shipments and cargo. People coming and going. That sort of thing.’

Aron's nerves now reached a screaming pitch; he kept his good-natured smile. ‘Really, sir? Such as?’

‘I'm looking for someone who may have come through here about a month ago. During the troubles. A young woman. She would have been travelling alone. You'd remember her if you saw her, if you know what I mean,’ and he winked.

Aron walked back to his counter. ‘A woman, you say…’ He shook his head. ‘What did she look like?’

‘Slim, dark hair. A pretty face. As I said, a woman men notice. Hear anything like that? She may have hired a boat to take her upriver.’

That hired hand who came through on his run south to Cawn — what was his name? Jestan? Jeth? Damn it to Hood!

Aron rubbed his stubbled cheeks; his gaze flicked to the gold Sun shining, winking, on the table. ‘I may have heard something about a female passenger on one of the riverboats…’

The man's hand covered the coin. He lost his smile. Sighing, he pushed himself up from the table.

Jhal! It was Jhal! What had he said? He'd been up at the Falls transferring cargo and he joked about a boatman fawning over some passenger of his-

The man had come to the counter. He pushed the gold Sun across. ‘Think harder. Because you can stare all you like but this coin won't multiply itself.’

Aron licked his lips, swallowed. He smiled nervously. ‘I'm trying to remember, sir.’

‘Good. Take your time.’ He returned to his table, came back with the glass and bottle, poured another drink and slid it across.

Nodding his thanks Aron took it and tossed the entire glass back. He had to open his D'rek blasted mouth! Now there was no going back. This one doesn't care about the money. This is about more than coin. No one sends a man like this out when only money is in question. And the man was watching him carefully, his eyes lazy, calm… patient.

Aron cleared his throat. He pressed a rag to his face. Who would have been going upriver then? Oddfoot? No, he's south. Cat? No, idiot! It was a man. Old Pick? He won't go past Heng. Tullen! Must've been Tullen. Been gone for ages now.

‘I heard something about a boatman who'd picked up a woman at about that time…’

‘Yes?’

‘That he'd taken up past Heng.’

The man nodded, frowning his appreciation. ‘And do you have a name for this boatman?’

Ask, man. Those that don't ask don't get! ‘Well, sir. You wouldn't have another of those gold Suns on you somewhere, would you?’ and he tried his easiest smile.

Sighing loudly, the man hung his head. Raising it, he peered about the shop for a time then his gaze returned to Aron's. ‘Tell me, Factor. When was the last time the Imperial assessors came through here?’

Bastard! Aw, no. Not the assessors…

The man gave a slow solemn nod.

‘Tullen. Old Tullen. Boats with his boys. A fine, quiet sort, never made any trouble for anyone.’

‘Thank you…?’

‘Aron Hul. And you… sir?’

Pausing at the door the man shrugged. ‘Moss. Eustan Moss. Good day to you, Factor.’

Aron went to the oiled hide that served as his one window. The man, Moss — as if that was his real name — mounted, gently heeled his mount and rode off upriver. Oh, Tullen, what have I sent your way? I'm sorry, old fellow. Then he remembered the coin. He went back to the counter, snatched it up and examined it. Looked authentic. He bit at it, as he'd heard you could tell the purity of the gold by its softness. Problem was he'd only ever bitten one other. He quickly thrust it away in the pouch around his neck. Briefly, his thoughts touched on this woman. Who might she be? A runaway wife or daughter of some noble? Imagine that! Some noblewoman on Tullen's leaky old boat! How unlikely. No, probably just someone who knew something or had heard something she shouldn't have, and so she ran. Some serving girl probably, or governor's mistress. Best he keep his nose out of business like that.

Thinking of serving girls… Aron corked the Talian and brought out a bottle of cheap Kanese red, filled the glass. Maybe he could swing one of them now. A young one. Not so bright and easy to intimidate. He drank the wine, smiling. With long hair.

Hand on the gunwale, feet spread for balance, Jemain made his way to the bow, a cup of steaming tea in one hand. The Ardent pitched suddenly in the savage high seas and the boiling liquid seared his hand but he carried on, teeth clamped against pain. He came to crouch next to a man who sat hunched, head in hands, fingers pushed through his dark filthy hair.

‘Drink this, Bars!’ Jemain shouted over the roar of waves and gusting wind. ‘It's hot! Come, you must have something!’

But the man still would not look up, would not even drink, let alone eat. Three days and three nights now. How long could one of these Avowed go without food or water? Corlo had speculated perhaps forever.

Jemain lowered his head once more. ‘We've entered the Cut, you know! A Westerly has taken us. Corlo says we may meet the demons who live in these waters!’

No response, just slow anguished rocking.

Shaking his head, Jemain set the cup down between the man's bare feet. He retreated to the companionway, went to talk to Corlo. He found him smoking a pipe in a hammock. ‘Still won't answer.’

Corlo took the pipe from his mouth. ‘No. He won't.’

‘You're a mage — why don't you do something? Ease his madness?’

A snort. ‘Not without his permission.’

‘So we can do nothing for him?’

‘We might pray for the Riders to come. That would bring him out of it.’

Jemain couldn't tell if the man was serious or not. ‘No, thank you.’ He stared upwards for a time at the timbers overhead, listened to the storm batter the Ardent. ‘I don't understand. What happened?’

‘We're too late. Missed what we'd come all this way for. All we'd endured…’ He frowned, studied his white clay pipe. ‘We lost a lot of friends. He thinks he should've been there to help. Blames himself.’

‘And you?’

A shrug from Corlo. ‘It's different for me. I'm not Avowed. The connection's not so strong.’

‘I thought you were — Avowed.’

‘No. Next best thing, though. I'm First Investiture. First round of recruiting after the Vow.’

Oh, I see.’ Or thought he did — he wasn't sure, though he suspected that recruitment probably happened far longer ago than this man's seeming forty or so years would imply.

Another of Bars’ party, Garren, thumped down the companion-way, shouted, ‘Ship sighted!’

It was a vessel of a cut and design Jemain had never seen before — which wasn't surprising, given that he'd never sailed these seas before. But he was surprised at the ease with which it rode the high, steep waves here in the Sea of Storms — the Cut, Corlo called it. Long and low, hull tarred black. Square-sailed, single-masted, bearing a brutal ram below the waterline that breasted each wave, sloughing water and foam, as the vessel pitched. And, incredibly, the galley boasted four ranks of oarsmen. Surely it would've keeled over in such a sea.

‘Who are they?’ he shouted to Corlo.

The mage's face was grim. ‘Looks like a ship out of Mare. We have to run.’

Jemain almost laughed, but wouldn't show the despair that vessel struck in his heart. No chance of outrunning that. He yelled: ‘Hard larboard! Put the stern to them, Watt!’

‘Aye, sir.’