Had it been left to Loclon, the prisoners would not have emerged at all from the hold. Loclon was all for locking the door and forgetting about his charges until they docked. The boat’s captain exploded when he heard the suggestion, his voice carrying easily to the prisoners locked in the freezing hold.
“Leave them there?” his deep voice boomed. “Be damned if you will!”
The prisoners gathered near the flimsy wooden door to listen to the exchange. Loclon’s reply was inaudible, but the riverboat captain could probably be heard back in the Citadel.
“I don’t care if they’re a bunch of bloodthirsty mass murders! Do you know what that hold will smell like after a few days? I want them out! Every day! And not just for an hour or so! I have to carry other cargo, you know! It’s bad enough your horses are stinking up my deck without making the rest of my boat uninhabitable as well!”
A few moments of silence ensued, as Loclon presumably pleaded his case, but the captain was adamant. “I want them out, do you hear? If you don’t like it, I will put into the bank, offload the whole troublesome lot of you, and you can wave down the next passing boat!”
A door slammed angrily, followed by silence. Guessing that the entertainment was over, the prisoners wandered back to their hammocks.
The convicts had unconsciously sorted themselves into three distinct groups. The men had gathered themselves nearest the entrance. The women had taken possession of the opposite side of the hold in a cluster of hammocks. Stuck somewhere in the middle was Tarja – a group of one that nobody wanted to associate with, either through fear of him or disgust that he had betrayed his compatriots.
Sunny had taken R’shiel under her wing and had introduced her around to the other women. The tall, dark- haired one was called Marielle. She was on her way to the Grimfield for assaulting a Sister. Marielle’s husband was serving time in the Grimfield for theft. She had walked from Brodenvale over the Cliffwall to the Grimfield, only to be turned back when she reached the prison town. Furious, she had walked all the way back to Caldow, where she had hurled a fresh cowpat at the first Sister she saw. She was now quite contentedly on her way to where she wanted to be in the first place.
Danka was only a year or so older than R’shiel. A slender blonde with a lazy eye that had a disconcerting habit of looking in a different direction from the other, her crime was selling her favors in an unlicensed brothel.
Telia and Warril were sisters; both convicted of murdering a man they had been arguing over. The sisters were sentenced to five years, although Harith had informed them sternly that it was more for their irresponsible behavior than the fact they had actually killed the poor man. The sisters were now the best of friends, having decided that no man would ever drive them apart again.
The sixth female prisoner was an older woman named Bek, sour-faced and wrinkled, who offered no information regarding herself or her crime. Sunny had whispered to R’shiel that she was an arsonist who had set so many fires in the Citadel, it was a wonder it wasn’t black with soot, instead of the pristine white it usually was. R’shiel wasn’t sure if she believed Sunny, but she noticed the old woman staring at the shielded lantern-flame for hours at a time, as if it held some secret fascination for her.
As for Sunny, she was, she explained soberly to R’shiel, a businesswoman. Her unfortunate involvement in Tarja’s escape attempt was purely accidental. She was a patriotic citizen of Medalon. This whole thing was simply a mistake, which would be cleared up as soon as she reached the Grimfield and found an officer who would listen to her.
Not long after the argument between the riverboat captain and Loclon, a rattle at the lock in the door had all the prisoners jumping to their feet with anticipation. A sailor pushed the door open and stood back to let two red- coated Defenders step through. They were carrying a number of leg irons in each hand.
“Cap’n says you’re to go up on deck where we can keep an eye on you,” the corporal announced. “I want you lined up, one at a time.”
The sailor remained in the doorway. “And just how do you suppose they’re going to get up top with those things on?”
The corporal frowned. “The Cap’n ordered it.”
“And I’m sure the Cap’n is quite a wonderful chap, but they’ll never get up those companionways wearing leg irons.”
“But what if they try to escape?”
“Then you can club them into submission with the chains.” The sailor was teasing him, but the soldier did not seem to realize it.
The corporal considered his advice for a moment, before nodding. “All right. But they go on as soon as we get on deck.”
“A wise move, Corporal. You’ll go far in the Corps, I’m sure.”
The corporal stood back and ordered the prisoners out of the hold. They shuffled into a line, and R’shiel found herself standing next to Tarja. She glanced at him for a moment, but they had no chance to speak. He looked a little better today. The bruise over his eye was fading although the one on his jaw looked the color of rotting fruit. As she bent to walk through the doorway, the sailor winked at her, and she silently thanked him and his captain for sparing them from both the confines of the hold and the leg irons.
The sunlight stung R’shiel’s eyes as she emerged onto the deck. Although cold, the wind was a refreshing change. Once they were assembled, the corporal didn’t seem to know what to do with them, and Loclon was nowhere to be found. With a shrug, he dumped the leg irons at the top of the steps and turned to face his charges.
“A bit of exercise will tire them out,” the sailor suggested helpfully as he followed the Defenders up onto the main deck. “Make them much easier to handle.”
The corporal nodded. “All right you lot! Move about! You’re up here for exercise!”
The prisoners dutifully began moving about. Expecting to be called back, R’shiel headed forward. In the bow, heading swiftly south with the current, a chill breeze swept over her. She sank down behind the temporary corral where the horses were tethered and began to run her fingers through her hair in a futile attempt to tidy it. She had not had a proper bath since the day she had been arrested. She tugged at the tangles as best she could and slowly rebraided her long hair, wondering if she smelled as bad as everyone else did.
“What are you doing?” Sunny asked, lowering her voluptuous frame down beside R’shiel.
R’shiel shrugged. “Nothing.”
“That sailor surely has Hurly’s mark,” she chuckled. For a moment, R’shiel wasn’t sure what the
“I don’t know.”
“You reckon the rebels will try to free Tarja?”
“I don’t know.”
The
“Why would they do that?”
“Because he squealed on them.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“ ‘Course he did,” Sunny assured her confidently. “The Sisterhood would’ve have hung him, otherwise. Anyway, the rebels won’t try anything while we’re on the river.”
“Hurly!” Loclon’s angry yell cut through the still morning like a scythe. “What the hell are these prisoners doing roaming around the deck like this? It’s not a bloody pleasure cruise!”
Sunny sighed loudly. “Well, there goes our few moments of glorious freedom. Ol’ Wick-‘em-an’-Whack-‘em Loclon is on the warpath again.”
R’shiel glanced at Sunny as the Defenders began rounding everyone up to clamp on the leg irons. Hidden in the bow, she figured they had a moment or two yet before they were discovered.
“Why do you call him that?” she asked.
