His amulet began to irritate him. It had not while he was in the water.
Pirates started yelling. Some began clambering across me ships moored inshore.
One more line to cut
A Calziran with more courage than brains flung himself across the widening gap between the dhow and its nearest neighbor. He landed on loose rope, fell, broke something. Else heard bone snap. The pirate barked in pain.
Three more heroes followed the first. One leapt and landed successfully. The next came down on the rail and, miraculously, balanced there, arms flailing, for as long as it took the third to fall short and snag his leg as he tried to avoid getting wet.
Sergeant Bechter scattered the distracted pirates on shore. Then he and his men scattered themselves.
The barricade on the Blendine Bridge was leaking desperate pirates.
Else severed that final mooring line, then removed his unwanted shipmates. They were fishermen. They should be able to swim.
The dhow finished its turn end for end. It smashed violently into the flank of a moored ship. Timbers groaned and snapped. Bits of rigging tumbled down. Else hustled around making sure his dhow did not become entangled with the other.
The cycle repeated itself, less violently. Else was no sailor. How was he going to steer this thing? A ship had to have steerage way on in order to be steered. Meaning it had to be moving in relation to the water, not just moving.
There was a more immediate problem, though. The sorceress. Starkden. Who had to know who he was. Because she had tried to kill him in Runch. Which made no sense if she was a true Praman fighter.
The ship was not big enough to have decks and cabins and whatnot, except back aft where there was a platform on which the steersman could ply his trade. There was nothing to cover, anyway. The pirates had brought a lot of empty space they hoped to fill with booty.
There was a sort of hovel under the steersman's platform. Else found the woman hidden there, delirious. He dragged her into the light. She was a stranger. Nevertheless, he thought she seemed familiar.
She was short, stout, unwrinkled, dark, dressed nothing like her pirates. And bald. Her clothing consisted of brightly dyed cotton like clothing favored by fortune-tellers.
Why the shaved head? That had to mean something. He could not recall anyone in the soothsayer racket shaving, then wearing a wig to hide it. For wear a wig she did. Else found it while looking for something to use as a gag and bonds.
It seemed like a good idea to get a sorceress thoroughly restrained while she was too groggy to disagree.
A gaggle of pirates chased the ship along the riverbank. And several boats that had fled earlier had discovered courage enough to join the chase.
Not good. He was alone, cold, and saddled with a dangerous prisoner, with enemies chasing him. Suppose he lured a few in, let them board, disarmed them, and made them work ship?
Daring, yes, but overly optimistic.
His wrist throbbed. The amulet was not responding to Starkden as it had Grade Drocker when the sorcerer tried to kill him. The pain was tolerable. The amulet was responding to presence rather than level of threat. It raised scarcely a tickle around Drocker, nowadays.
The pursuit on shore ended when the pirate rabble collided with a band of militia armed with crossbows they had had little practice rearming. Incompetence battled incompetence. Those able to project their incompetence at longer range seized the advantage by default
The pursuit on the river never closed in tight. Every Calziran wanted someone else to make the first move.
The ship stopped spinning, drifted broadside to the current, bow indicating the south shore. Else recalled the little cargo and passenger boats he had seen on canals in Sonsa, propelled by one man who waggled a long oar back and forth behind the boat Maybe the dhow's big, ugly steering oar could be used the same way. After some experimentation he got the bow pointed downstream — within a point or two. The current pushed the dhow toward the north bank.
It ran into a log boom, an accumulation of driftwood piled up against the upstream face of the ruins of some riverside structure harkening back to imperial times.
Else scrounged up an anchor stone, twenty pounds of rock with a hole through where a line could be bent, and was. He heaved the stone onto the driftwood mountain, hauled the line taut, tied it off, grabbed his dusky prize.
Starkden was heavier than she looked, even stripped of jewelry and anything that might harbor some magical tool. Else strained under her weight as he battled treacherous footing. This had better be worth the trouble. He wanted to learn something before he killed her.
He had no choice, there. She knew too much.
22. The Connec, Duke Tormond's Venture
Having recognized that Duke Tormond would not change his mind, the Connecten factions began doing what they could to influence the course of his mission to Brothe.
Yes. Tormond IV, Duke of Khaurene, lord of the Connec, the Great Vacillator, had decided to appeal to the Patriarch in person. So there could be no misunderstanding. So there would be no more random armies wandering into the End of Connec to get themselves massacred.
The popular consensus was that Tormond was willfully naive. A face-to-face with the Patriarch would clarify nothing. Sublime wanted to loot the richest province in the Chaldarean world so he could finance a crusade to recover the Holy Lands.
Brother Candle joined the Duke's train. Also included were Michael Carhart, Bishop LeCroes, Tember Remak's son, Tember Sihrt, and others the Brothen Patriarch was unlikely to welcome. Most tried to travel incognito, a waste of time. The Patriarch's spies knew who was who.
The instrumentalities of the Church could be as insidiously omnipresent as those of the Night. And were more likely to make someone's life miserable. The wickedness of the Night was cruel but seldom personal.
Sir Eardale Dunn declined the opportunity to visit Brothe, not because he opposed the mission — which he did — but because someone trustworthy and capable had to stay behind. Because of Count Raymone Garete. Sir Eardale suspected Count Raymone of intent to commit mischief.
Tormond brought his sister. Isabeth would represent her husband. King Peter was a vigorous supporter of Connecten independence. He found having a buffer between Nayaya and the rapacity of Arnhand comforting. And Peter had leverage. His wars of reconquest were important to Sublime. Sublime thought they reflected gloriously on his stewardship.
Peter's skilled professional soldiers were useful in keeping Sublime safe, too. The twenty-four men of the Patriarchal Guard were all Navayan veterans who had received their posts as rewards for service to the Faith.
Then, too, there were powerful Direcian Principatйs in the Collegium. Sublime depended on their support. His political fortunes would sink fast if he offended Peter.
Brother Candle began to wonder. Were the Instrumentalities of the Night determined to keep Tormond away from Brothe? The weather remained stubbornly awful. Bitterly cold rain fell for hours every day. Even the old Brothen military roads became difficult.
And then there were sicknesses.
Nothing fatal, of course. Just bouts of dysentery interspersed with flu and bad colds. 'The Coughers' Crusade,' Michael Carhart dubbed the mission. Brother Candle discharged a nostril load of snot and agreed.
After a month on the road Duke Tormond was two weeks behind schedule. The party had not yet reached Ormienden when Tormond's planners had expected to be in Firaldia, nearing Brothe.
The Duke chose to pause at Viscesment. He would visit Immaculate while his disheartened companions
