She snorted, flinging the wet hair from her eyes. “Madoc might enjoy it more, the brat.”
His brows squinched tighter; it bothered him. But obviously not that much as he thought it over. His lip twitched, then gave into a full-blown smile. “You know, I think he would.”
“And you’re reasonably pretty when you smile. You should do it more.” And ai, but half the fun was watching him blink, like landed fishKin.
“Only reasonably?” he finally answered, and smiled even broader. “Wait here. Catch your breath. I’ll signal Akumeh, then we’ll dive again.”
“DO YOU see them?” Madoc had to ask twice; the first didn’t come out loud enough to be heard.
Laocha shook her head.
“Me, neither,” Kuli added, frowning. “They’ve been down a long time.”
“We should do something.” Madoc turned to Akumeh.
Akumeh plainly disagreed. “There are shadows behind the fall.”
Madoc tried to look past the watery curtain, but saw nothing. He shouldn’t be this concerned. He told himself it was about Anahli, not Tokela.
Laocha had no reason to hide any worries. “But Akumeh, what if—!”
“Both of you, be still.” Akumeh ordered. “I said there are shadows behind the fall, two of them. Tokela mentioned a small lee place there. Likely they’re taking a breath.”
Madoc frowned and stared at the falls. He still couldn’t see anything. With a gusty sigh, he kept dogged hold on his part of the traces and hoped with all his heart Akumeh was right.
He was. Not two heartbeats later, a dark head parted the falls and Tokela leapt through, coming against the banks to tread water and peer upwards. Madoc sagged against the ropes in relief, and was abruptly furious with himself.
With quick hand signals, Tokela detailed what was to be done: keep a steady haul on the ropes so they could squeeze in and free the weir. Madoc wished he was down there instead of Anahli. He knew these falls better than any horsetalker.
Akumeh signalled understanding, and with a pumped fist of acknowledgement, Tokela dove once more beneath the surface.
“Keep your eyes upon the fall; if there’s trouble, sing out,” Akumeh told Laocha and Kuli, then turned to Madoc. “You know what we must do. Take the near trace. Pull until your gut says quit, and then keep pulling.”
Madoc obeyed, taking the trace. Following Akumeh’s lead, he wrapped the waxy-rough hemp about his palms, realised those palms were sweating. Madoc gritted his teeth.
All right, then. Perhaps when this was done, he should forgive Tokela after all.
“FORGIVE ME! Oh, good Rivermaster, forgive my clumsiness!” The scrawny Matwau aimed again for his precarious seat on the stool beside the wide board. He’d missed the first time, nearly upending not only the board, but the small circle laid with carved wooden discs. “But I know… I know, y’ see.”
Old Munro sighed. The yakhling seated across from Našobok snarled a question, rising in threat. Našobok held up a staying hand, then leaned against the board and growled at the Matwau, “What can you possibly know that is worth interrupting my game?”
No need to advertise that he was looking for anything, much less information. Našobok came here seldom. It was just one more port with houses dug temporarily into the banks, held up with spit and shit and straw—until the next flood, of course, when they’d move, wait it out, then come back and try again. But he knew Kaaven—the yakhling—fairly well, had willingly agreed to a game and a drink and an exchange of news, keeping his ears open to everything about him.
The Matwau laid a finger against one side of his nose, trying to look canny. But the finger trembled, ruining any illusions save that of too much drink, or dreaming dust, or any of myriad escapist vices that crowded into portside villages the farther downRiver one travelled.
Not that Našobok blamed any of them. Life was hard; harder still when you’d no place or People to call your own. Everyone had to belong somewhere, somehow. Even outliers. Even outLanders.
“It’s your people, aye? You little people. They’re looking for your kind. You should take care, Rivermaster. Go back home.”
“River-chieftain,” Munro growled.
Našobok agreed. One didn’t master River; one prayed She carried her People gentle.
“Wha’ever,” the Matwau said. “There’s slavers hereabouts. I know the sgralka Rivermas… well, you… takes ’em down as you can.”
As he could, was right. A drop in a very large cauldron, the slavers Našobok had sent to River as sacrifice. He could spend his whole life and never get them all.
The Matwau edged closer, whispered in Rivertalk, “Randan said ye was headed this way. Said t’ find ye.”
Munro slid his eyes to Našobok. Randan was one of many names for an acquaintance who lived in the estuaries.
“Said t’ tell ye. Warn ye. The Chepiś are buying sgralka slaves.”
At this, Munro sat up. Even the dryLander’s eyes widened between the folds of his headwrap.
“Chepiś don’t buy slaves,” Našobok replied, slow.
“They do now.”
Našobok frowned, then shrugged at Kaaven. “You and Munro finish the game.” He rose and wrapped his blanket about his shoulders. “Come on, Matwau. Let’s walk.”
“NOT JUST any slaves. They’re looking for ones of a certain age, of a certain build.” Našobok’s voice dropped, barely a breath against the candle in his hold. “Ones who have Power.”
It was then he spread out the parchment upon his chart board. And…
Munro’s breath sucked in. “It’s him.”
The parchment crumpled easily in Našobok’s fist. Lurching up, he paced back and forth across the dim hold. “Palatan told me. Or good as, not that he says much of anything about these things, but he knew Chepiś had interfered with Tokela. All those rumours, and Tokela’s dam stirring them like well-seasoned stew for reasons I can’t understand, but there’s no way I believed that Chepiś sired him. You can’t breed lionKin
