Waterborn

conversed in low tones in a language he did not understand. Each wore his weapon in plain sight, as he did. Another, solitary man—he reminded Perkar of a ferret—sat scratching vaguely at his table with a knife. None of the four seemed much inclined to talk to him, and so he kept his distance, waiting and watching.

Around noon, four more men came in, three wearing plain kilts and one—a young, slim fellow—in tar-stained pants. Pants seemed a rarity in Nhol; these were the first he had seen. None of the four wore weapons, at least not visible ones, so he concluded that they were in the Crab Woman to drink rather than to look for 'sellsword' jobs.

They chose a table near his, ordered beers. Casually he listened in on their conversation, which largely concerned an individual named 'Lizard' who seemed to be their foreman. The four didn't like Lizard very much. As Perkar did not know Lizard, the conversation failed to capture his interest, and so his mind wandered with his gaze out beyond the door, to the people strolling past.

Until, that is, one of them mentioned his boat, and that took hold of his notice and kept hold of it.

'Strangest thing I ever saw,' the pants-wearer was saying. 'A whole crowd of us watched it, too; it's not like it was just me.'

'Currents,' an older fellow with a thin beard said. 'Currents are strange.'

'It was going against the current, no sail, no paddles, nobody even in it.'

'And?' the bearded man responded.

'And that's it. It sailed right up Eel Canal, quiet as you please, six men in it yanking on the tiller.'

'Priest stuff,' one of the other men ascertained, and they all mumbled general agreement.

That was too much for Perkar. He rose and approached the table.

They nodded wary greetings, as if fearing he might want something.

'Excuse me,' Perkar said. 'I am Perkar of the Kar Barku Clan. I'm sorry to have been listening to you, but I did overhear you talking about a boat, sailing along without anyone in it.'

'That's right,' said the small man defensively, the one who had seen it. 'It's true.'

'What happened to it?'

The little man grinned. 'Last I saw, two of the priests had come down from the temple with some of those brooms of theirs, the ones they burn.'

Which meant nothing to him. 'Where might that be?' he asked.

'Might be in the deep blue sea,' the bearded man grunted. 'But it's not. Back up that way, where the canal runs up to the palace.'

'I'd like to see that,' he told them.

'Well, that's nice,' the bearded man said, and the others laughed.

Determined not to lose his temper, Perkar merely nodded at them. 'Thanks,' he said. Surely someone outside could tell him where Eel Canal was.

'Just go left, out the door, follow Shadowfish Street,' the small man piped up. 'That'll take you to Eel Canal. Just walk up that, you'll see it if the priests haven't managed to do something to it yet.'

'Thanks again,' Perkar said, and continued on out the door. Outside he glanced at the docks, several streets down, and turned left. He looked back—to memorize the landmarks near the Crab Woman, so that he could find his way back, and raised his eyebrows in astonishment. The largest man he had ever seen was just entering the tavern. He surely stood seven or more feet tall, massively muscled, thick, broad, with relatively short bowed legs. Despite his size, the glimpse of his face Perkar got reminded him of Ngangata. Heavy brows, sloping forehead.

Shaking his head in amazement, he went on in search of his boat.

Finding Eel Canal was no great feat, and neither was following it to the palace, though it was a long walk. There, perhaps a hundred paces from the base of a towering wall, was the Crow God's boat. Floating, empty and serene. Perkar wondered what had happened to the dead men he had left in it, but quickly put that thought away as something he didn't want to dwell much on. The boat was covered in streamers or ribbons of some sort, and no less than four blocks of some strange incense were burning on the canal wall nearest it. A young man was tending the incense and looking glumly at the boat. Perkar waved at him, and he stared back.

'Good day,' Perkar said, not knowing how to wish 'Piraku' in the language of Nhol. The man nodded back at him.

'You are watching this boat?'

'Yes' was the sullen reply.

Perkar was startled; the man was younger than he appeared, a boy really. 'Why?'

'It was moving by itself,' the boy explained. 'It is either some gift from the River to the priesthood or a demon; we aren't sure yet.'

'Perhaps it is inhabited by a god,' Perkar offered, leaning against a nearby building, hoping that would not give any offense.

'Barbarian,' the boy said, clearly disgusted. 'The River is the only god.'

'There are many gods where I come from,' he replied reasonably.

'Demons, you mean. Ghosts, maybe. No gods.'

He shrugged, remembering Balati, the Huntress, Karak. They certainly were not ghosts.

'Are you a shaman?' he asked, hoping that was the correct word.

'A witch, you mean? An old midwife? You are a barbarian. I am a priest of the River.'

'Priest.' Perkar knew the word—ghun—of course, but the concepts connected to it were vague. 'What is a priest exactly?'

The man eyed him with a new, more intense disdain—which Perkar would not have thought possible. He spoke very slowly, spacing his words. 'Priests… serve… the… Ri-ver,' he said.

'I know your language,' Perkar said, restraining himself from snapping. 'I don't know your ways as well.'

'Why are you, an outlander, even concerned?'

'I'm curious.'

The boy nodded. 'I will tell you then. Listen to the sound of Running Water. Long ago, our people lived in the great desert. We had nothing, and monsters surrounded us. The daughter of one of our primitive chiefs had a child by the River, and he freed us from the demons, brought us here, to the River, and began the city of Nhol.'

Perkar nodded. 'My people have children by gods, as well.'

The boy's face reddened again. 'If you continue to blaspheme, I will cease speaking to you.'

'I apologize,' Perkar said. 'You were saying?'

'The Chakunge—the Son from the Water—was the first of the Waterborn, the first of our kings. In them the blood of the River flows most deeply.'

'And you priests? You are also Waterborn? Relatives of this Chakunge?'

'No,' the boy said. 'No, that is another story. The Waterborn, you see, are a part of the River and so they cannot serve him, worship him. They let us know his will, they wield his power. But to those of us who serve him, the River sent another man—a stranger. This man was known as Ghun Zhweng, the Ebon Priest. He taught us how to worship the River, built the Great Water Temple, established the flow of water into the palace. The River gave us his blood and thus our rulers, but it was Ghun Zhweng who brought us civilization. He gave us our rites, the spirit brooms, the knowledge of writing.'

Perkar nodded. 'I understand. The priests serve the River, the Waterborn are the River. So, then, does your priesthood serve the Waterborn?'

'Yes, of course,' the boy said—but Perkar sensed a hesitation in that answer. 'Though we serve the River more directly, sometimes.'

Perkar allowed himself to look puzzled, even exaggerated the expression.

'What I mean to say—' The priest frowned and looked down at his palms. 'Do not mistake me,' he said. 'The Waterborn are the children of the River, and so we worship them, especially the Chakunge, the emperor—may he live a thousand years. But there are others who have far less of the blood, whom the River is not so much a part of. They are ruled by their coarser, Human half— which we as priests understand. We are also closer to the people— we mediate between the Waterborn and these people you see in the streets.'

Perkar thought that somewhere in that rambling answer was the implication that the priesthood did not always bow to the will of the Waterborn—but he was confused enough not to be certain. What did seem certain was that