“Cattle barge?” That reminded him of what the crewman on theSunlit Meadows had said when Dumery had offered to work for his passage. He stood up and peered across the dock.
Sure enough, the cattle were being herded across a heavy gangplank onto a great flat-bottomed barge.
“That’s right,” the old woman said. “The lords up in Sardiron like to get their beef from the south. I’ve heard they think it’s better-tasting and more tender than the local meat.”
“Oh,” Dumery said, reaching a quick decision. “Excuse me, but I think I’ll be going. Thank you very much for your help.”
“You’re welcome, boy,” she said, watching with amusement as Dumery clambered back up onto the dock.
He had had a sudden inspiration when she had said the cattle were going north, and now he acted on it; he ran forward and slipped between two of the steers as they were herded across the gangplank onto the barge.
The drovers were too busy keeping the cattle headed the right direction to worry about anything else, and the barge crew was crowded to the ends, out of the way of their frightened and rambunctious cargo. If the drovers noticed Dumery at all they didn’t mention it, and the barge crew, he was sure, hadn’t seen him.
Of course, his chosen method of boarding was not particularly comfortable. The cattle jostled against him from all sides, and several times he narrowly avoided falling and being trampled. Even staying upright, three or four times a heavy hoof landed directly on his toes, making him gasp-but not cry out-with pain.
He’d seen cattle now and then in the markets, and had passed a few on the way from Ethshar to the Inn at the Bridge, but up until now he had never come directly into contact with the beasts. They were, he discovered, quite large, completely solid, surprisingly warm to the touch, and not very pleasant company.
He stood there, half-smothered by steerhide pressed against his face, for what seemed like half of eternity, getting bumped back and forth and scraped about.
Several of the steers were lowing plaintively, their hooves were thumping loudly on the decking, and people were shouting incomprehensible orders, adding up to a real cacophony. The stink of unwashed, frightened cattle was thick and foul in his nostrils. He could see nothing but brown hide.
Then the barge began moving, and though the shouting died away the cattle made more noise than ever, stamping about and bellowing. Dumery waited, concentrating on continuing to breathe.
He was considering several interesting questions, such as whether it was time to reveal his presence to the crew, whether he wanted to reveal his presence at all, how he could attract their attention in the first place, and whether he was going to survive this little escapade, when he raised his head to take a breath and found himself looking up directly into a man’s face.
“Just what the hell are you doing there, boy?” the man demanded, in oddly-accented Ethsharitic.
“Mmmph,” Dumery said.
“Hai!” the man called; he slapped the steers surrounding Dumery, and they parted, as if by magic.
Relieved, Dumery obeyed the man’s order to march up to the little deck at the bow of the barge. The man followed close behind.
Dumery found himself the center of attention for the five-man crew as he clambered up onto the narrow deck; all eyes were on him.
“Who areyou?” one man demanded.
“Dumery of Shiphaven,” Dumery replied. There wasn’t any point in lying.
“And what are you doinghere?” asked another.
“I needed a ride north,” Dumery explained.
The five just stared at him for a long moment, and he added, “I can work for my passage. I have no money, but I really want to go up north...”
The five men exchanged glances with one another.
“You’ll work?” one of them asked.
Dumery nodded. “Whatever’s needed,” he said, “if I can do it, I will.”
Another man grinned. “Kid,” he said, “I think you’ve got a deal.”
“Hey, Kelder,” another called, “where’s the shovel? We’ve got someone here who’s really going to need it!”
Chapter Twelve
“Well, now,” Thetheran said, “it’s not really my specialty, finding things...”
“Dumery is not athing,” Falea said. “He’s our son.”
“Oh, I know, I know,” Thetheran assured her. “I merely meant that locative magic is outside my usual practice.”
“Your sign says you’re a mage,” Doran pointed out, “and when I brought my boy here I was told you were one of the best wizards in the Quarter. Are you telling me you can’t even find my son?”
“Oh, no, no, nothing like that,” Thetheran said hurriedly. “Merely that it’s not a spell I commonly use, so that I may not have the ingredients readily available! I’ll need to check. And I’m not sure just which spell would be best. Do you merely wish to knowwhere he is, or do you want to know his state of health? Do you want a message conveyed? Would you...” He stopped, catching himself. He didn’t want to promise anything he couldn’t deliver. The truth was that he had no idea what spells he had that might apply in this case, or which spells he could buy from the neighbors without his customers finding out about it.
“Well, we certainly want to know if he’s still alive and well!” Doran snapped.
“It isn’t going to do us any good to locate a...” Suddenly realizing that completing the sentence with the word “corpse,” as he had intended to do, might upset his wife, he let it drop and instead said, “I mean, yes, we want to know the state of his health!”
“And if there’s some way we could talk to him...” Falea added, ignoring her husband’s blunder.
“Ah,” Thetheran said, stroking his beard. “Well, if you actually want totalk to him, that will call for a little research. Tell me, do you have any idea at all where he is? Is he still inside the city walls?”
“We don’t know,” Doran said, annoyed. “All we know is he’s gone.”
“Well, then,” Thetheran said, “I suggest that the two of you go keep yourselves busy for an hour or two while I investigate the matter, and when you come back I hope to have a spell ready for you.”
Hehoped he would, but he admitted to himself that it wasn’t very likely.
The merchant and his wife hesitated, and whispered to each other for a moment, but then they rose from the velvet chairs and made a polite departure.
The moment they were outside Thetheran slammed the door and ran for his laboratory. He snatched his personal book of spells from the shelf and began flipping through the pages, encountering one useless or inappropriate spell after another.
“Eknerwal’s Lesser Invisibility,” he muttered to himself, “Felshen’s First Hypnotic, The Polychrome Smoke, the Dismal Itch. Damn. Love spells, curses, invisibility, levitations, nothing about finding anything. The Iridescent Amusement. Fendel’s Aphrodisiac Philtre. The Lesser Spell of Invaded...”
He stopped, and turned back.
“The Lesser Spell of Invaded Dreams,” he read. “Requires fine grey dust, incense tainted with morning mist...” He nodded to himself as he read over the instructions and the lessons of his own long-ago apprenticeship came back to him.
Then he got to the detailed description of the spell’s effects and stopped, cursing.
“Thatwon’t do,” he said. He stood staring at the page for a moment, then looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “There’s something, though. This isn’t quite what I remember.”
Then it struck him. “TheLesser Spell,” he said, and he began hurriedly flipping pages again.
He found what he wanted and stopped. “Ah!” he said, tapping the page with his finger. “Here we go!” He began reading avidly.
An hour later he was waiting in his cozy front room when Falea and Doran knocked on the door. Thetheran sent the sylph to let them in, while he stood and adjusted his robe to make the most imposing figure possible.
