later; they tossed his body overboard, and watched the seagulls mob it as it floated inshore with the tide. Togura felt desolated by this death; he had come to feel that he could trust the headman, and did not know how he would fare in that worthy's absence.
The next day, they made landfall at a rivermouth city. With the help of boats and ropes, their ship was muscled into a harbour protected by a mole. The harbour was crowded with ships, and every ship was crammed with men.
A bureaucrat arrived in long robes, accompanied by an interpreter who spoke Savage. They were given a harbourside sail loft to sleep in, through they had to park their horses in the street. Both men and horses got fed and watered, after a fashion.
Togura never got to explore this new city, for, soon after arrival, he feel sick. Perhaps the riverwater was to blame; in any case, he was soon down with dysentry. A bureaucrat came and inspected him, and he was shifted out of the sail loft and into a hospital – the hospital being a ship in which dozens of people in a similar condition lay in the darkness between decks. Body handlers came round daily, to see which of the filthy, stinking bodies had become corpses overnight; other workers served up soup and water at noon each day.
Togura fully expected to die, and was soon past caring. He was marinated in filth, embraced by the stench of filth, jostled by the moaning, groaning darkness. Rats scampered across him, occasionally testing his powers of resistance with their teeth. Lice, fleas and bedbugs bit him. Cockroaches set up houses beneath his shadows.
This, he was certain, was his end.
Nevertheless, though he was sick, suffering, humiliated by his predicament – no chance to get from here to the topdeck jakes, and no such thing as a chamber pot to hand – he retained enough cunning to protect his prospects as best he could. He put his triple-harp, his most valuable possession, in a small pouch, which he hid beneath his clothes, knotted round his waist on a piece of rope; everything else, including the last of his garlic, stayed in a saddle bag which he used to pillow his head.
The saddle bag got stolen while he was sleeping, and he once woke and kicked away a villain who was trying to remove his boots, but the triple-harp stayed with him.
Chapter 34
Heat oppressed him.
Footsteps click-clocked back and forth, treading on timbers overhead. He did not know whether sunlit air lay above him, or whether there were more layers of death and suffering between him and the daylight. He did not know, but it would not be true to say that he did not care, for today he felt stronger – strong enough, in fact, to be appalled by his physical weakness and his degraded condition.
A couple of body handlers clomped by, dragging a corpse which they had shuffled into a canvas removal bag. When they were gone, there were the usual moans and groans, but apart from that it was strangely quiet. It was daylight, certainly; a little blade of sunlight had prised apart the timbers not far away, giving Togura a proof of the sun. Usually, by day, the harbour was loud with shouts, swearing, battle drills and the constant clamour of woodwork and repairs. Today, nothing. Except, somewhere, a gull crying claw-claw-claw.
Togura tried to sit up. He impressed himself by accomplishing this feat. He impressed himself less by promptly fainting. When he roused himself again, it was soup time. He drank greedily from a serving bowl; it was good.
He rested, then nerved himself to attempt a heroic project: namely, making his way to the upper deck. He found himself too weak for the task; exhausted, he slept. He woke to find the darkness alive with activity. Men, some screaming in pain, were being carried down to join him. A chop-surgeon wearing a blood-bespattered leather apron prowled up and down with a lantern, looking for mutilated limbs he could hack off. He eyed Togura hopefully, then, disappointed, moved on.
Very shortly, he found a suitable victim. Togura, with a little bit of hell now visible by lantern light, watched. And soon saw enough to make him faint dead away.
When he recovered himself, he was being dragged along in darkness. Something heavy and dark shrouded him. He screamed and punched at the darkenss with his fists. The dragging stopped. Daylight opened at his eyes; a face peered in. Two men conferred, then, without ceremony, tipped him out of their canvas removal bag. He lay on the open deck of the ship, blinking at the sunlight. A sailor grabbed him by the armpits, hauled him into the shade of a tarpaulin which sheltered twenty wounded men, and left him there.
From where he was lying, Togura could see cremation fires burning on the quayside; he suspected he was lucky not to have been incinerated.
'Do you speak Galish?' he said to his nearest neighbor.
But the man was zombie-silent, his eyes staring into the distance. Togura could get no response from him.
'What about you?' he said to the next-nearest man.
'Shrrr-shrrr,' said the man, his breath muttering in and out between stubbly yellow teeth.
'Sure,' said Togura, heartlessly. 'And what's your name and all? Hey?'
'Shrrr… ' said the man.
And said no more, for he was dead. Togura was disconcerted by this unexpected development, and felt a little bit guilty at his heartlessness.
A man came round with soup and water; Togura took his second soup share of the day. He eyed the dead man. A chest wound had ruined his jerkin, but his trews looked stout enough. But Togura was not bold enough to strip him by daylight, and soon corpse men dragged him away.
Togura was now feeling well enough to be disgusted by his own mired, filthy body and his dungbath reeking rags, which were softly seething with vermin. He swore that he would get the next setof clothes which were going. But, each time the opportunity arose, his courage failed him. When evening fell, he was still in the same rags.
He woke in the darkness to find distant sounds of battle carrying through the still night air; there was fire inland, to the east. He was cold.
He slept again, waking before dawn because of the cold. The rising sun found him stripping a corpse for its clothes; nobody raised an eyebrow. Later in the day, he managed to draw up a bucket full of harbour water which was marginally less disgusting than he was; he washed himself, after a fashion.
There was a lot of coming and going and gossiping. He heard many people talking in Galish, but was too sick and shy to dare their disfavour and ask his basic questions; their gossip, apart from their commonplace complaints, was unintelligible because he did not know the context. Then, late in the afternoon, as he was tottering about the deck, exercising his shadow, he came upon a man he thought he knew. It was Draven, flushed, sweating and feverish.
'Draven!' cried Togura, in amazement.
The pirate, who had been dozing, opened his eyes and surveyed Togura. At first, Togura thought he was too sick to speak, but speak he did, and his voice sounded strong enough.
'Who would you be, young man? No – don't tell me. Yes! Forester! Or should I say, Togura Poulaan? Isn't that how you introduced yourself in Lorford?'
'I did,' said Togura.
'You gave me quite a shock, turning up like that. I'm sorry I couldn't have stopped for a word – it would've been more than my life was worth.'
'Why?' said Togura, remembering his desperate efforts to make contact with Draven at Lorford.
'Because,' said Draven.
That was all the explanation he was ready to give; Togura suspected that if he pushed for more, he would only get an elaborate series of lies, so he let the matter drop. He was so glad to see a familiar face and hear a familiar voice that he didn't chastise Draven for the disgraceful episode on the Warwolf, when Draven had helped throw Togura to the sea serpents.
'So,' said Draven, 'you're the man with the price on his head.'
'Yes,' said Togura, claiming this identity with something close to joy, even though it might expose him to danger. 'That's me. Togura Poulaan, also known as Barak the Battleman, a veteran of many wars and battles.'
