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.’
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.
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.
Aron cleared his throat. He pressed a rag to his face.
‘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?’
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?’
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.
Hand on the gunwale, feet spread for balance, Jemain made his way to the bow, a cup of steaming tea in one hand. The
‘Drink this, Bars!’ Jemain shouted over the roar of waves and gusting wind. ‘It's hot! Come, you must have
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
‘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.
‘Aye, sir.’