“What a comfort! We’re all going to be dead, but we’ll know the background.”
“We don’t need to bother if you think it’s futile.”
“How do I know what’s futile. Do whatever you think might help.” Boarmus made himself look directly at Sepel794DZ. So very plain. So very … boxish. Without even any decorations on it, just a few lights and sensors. “How long will it take you to do that?”
“Who knows?” Did the dink actually sound weary? “It may take some little time. I know these are sensory recordings, but I don’t know how to access them. It may take a while to find out. We don’t feel fatigue, but I know you must be tired. I had a bed brought in for you. It’s over there, under the auxiliary files, where it’s quiet. There are foodstuffs there as well, and liquids if you need them. Perhaps you’d like to refresh yourself while we get on with it?”
Boarmus sighed again. He couldn’t remember when the last time was he had slept soundly, without waking, without lunging up, heart pounding, terrified, thinking the ghosts were about to eat him—or already had. “Thank you.”
The box blinked a light beam, showing him the couch against the far wall. It was hard, and too narrow, but Boarmus didn’t care. He collapsed upon it, shutting his eyes firmly. He had done everything he could do. Jacent was still back in Enarae, pretending that Boarmus was there with him, entering Boarmus’s credit code at one establishment or another, ordering food and drink in Boarmus’s name. Perhaps it would be enough. Maybe the thing in the Core was very busy right now. Trying to kill Danivon, maybe. Trying to kill Fringe Owldark. Maybe it was so busy it wouldn’t detect the subterfuge. Maybe it wouldn’t come looking for him for a while.
When he slept, however, he groaned in his sleep, dreaming of being torn apart by something he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t avoid, couldn’t understand.
Upstream from Molock, Nela and Bertran found the captain walking along the deck, repeatedly hanging over the side to stare at the hull, shaking his head the while as he had done now and then since leaving Salt Maresh. He was obviously anxious about something.
“What’s the matter?” Bertran asked him.
“We’re riding lower than we should,” he muttered. “Ever since Shallow. I’ve had the men down in the hold searching for a leak, but we find no water coming in. I thought some monster gaver might be hanging on the bottom. They’ll do that sometimes….”
“Monster gaver? How big?”
“Girl, I’ve seen them come rearing sail-high out of the river, the length of ten men laid end to end. Once, when I was a mere boy, I saw one take the top watch off the mast with its teeth. Seldom they get that size, true, the young ones being hunted as they are for their hides, but I’ve seen it happen. Howsoever, we’ve run ropes under the hull, and there’s no gaver there, monster or otherwise. I’ve taken this old lady up and down the river for half my life, and I know how she rides depending on what we’re carrying. It’s as though something in the cargo is heavier than it should be, but I supervised the loading myself and nothing seemed out of the usual.”
He was more annoyed than anxious, but still he continued his search, leaning over to peer at the waterline. It seemed a small matter to the twins despite his obvious concern, and eventually he seemed to agree for he threw up his hands and made a note in his pocket file.
He pointed to the shore they were approaching, saying: “After this next tack, as we come near the south shore, we’ll turn back downstream to Du-you, the main Derbeckian port. It’s near impossible either to go straight across the Floh this time of year, or to come into the harbor from downstream. Coming from upstream is far easier on the men at the sweeps.”
“Why do we have to stop at Derbeck at all?” asked Nela as they joined the others at the bow.
“Cargo,” the captain said, shrugging.” Sorry for the delay, but it’s business. I have grain and fiber from Shallow and dried fish from Salt Maresh for my factor in Houmfon, and we’ll pick up preserved fruit from the highland orchards.”
“We had to stop here anyhow,” said Danivon. “Not long ago I got a message from Boarmus. We’re to investigate something or other in Derbeck. Unofficially.”
“We’re not going to show ourselves as Enforcers, are we?” asked Fringe.
“No. Molock was the last official visit. From here on, we’re only showmen.”
They separated, he silent, she silent, both of them concentrating (though for different reasons) on the snap and billow of the sails, the rattle of chain, the whistle of the wind in the lines, both of them hearing words, what he had said to her, what she had said to him; what he (she) should have said, instead; what she (he) would not say again.
The high Molockian shore receded behind them, its red-clay banks dark as blood above the leaden ripples of the river. Slowly the Derbeckian shore drew nearer, swampy and grown up with waving sedges and taller reeds as far inland as they could see.
When the reed beds were only an arrow’s flight away, the ship turned lazily on the current and went downstream, held bow-on by the six men plying the two long sweeps at the stern. “Hauuu,” they cried as they pushed hard against the weight of the river. “Lah,” as they raised the blade high. Then silence for two beats as the sweep was swung wide for another stroke. It became an endless slow march, full of pauses. “Hauuu-lah.” Three, four. “Hauuu-lah.” Quiet, quiet.
The top-mast watch first saw the boat, almost a
