by Alex Stewart
“Sounds like a story there,” Ariella said, conspicuously failing to take the hint. “Are you divorced, or widowed?”
Drago shrugged. “No, and haven’t a clue. Haven’t seen or heard from her in years.”
“That’s sad,” Ariella said, sounding genuinely sympathetic, to his surprise. “Any children?”
Drago shrugged again. “Same answer. If she was expecting before she left, she never said.”
They were picking up the pace again now, the horses cantering along a broad, well-defined track that might have seemed familiar if Drago hadn’t been too shaken around by the motion of its hindquarters to take any notice of his surroundings.
“You’re missing out,” Graymane said, also with a surprising amount of sympathy. “There’s nothing like a happy marriage to smooth life’s little bumps.”
“You’re married?” Drago managed to get out in staccato bursts between the jolts, which at least masked his incredulity.
“Not at the moment, but I was happy when I was. Every time.”
“How many is every?” Ariella asked, sounding intrigued.
“Five,” Graymane said.
“Dear God in the earth,” Drago said, with feeling, and took no further part in the conversation for the rest of the journey to the quay.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“The word you’re looking for is ‘gnome.’”
By the time they arrived at the riverside garrison, Drago was battered, disorientated, and felt sicker than he could ever remember without having drunk an excessive amount of alcohol the night before. As Ariella reined her horse in, and the jolting subsided to a merely unpleasant degree, he took a deep breath and hauled himself upright, leaning against the wickerwork frame enclosing him for support.
“Told you you’d be fine,” Ariella said, although Drago couldn’t remember any such assurances. Come to that, though, he was feeling so shaken at the moment that he could barely remember his own name.
Conscious that any reply he might make would undoubtedly fall under the heading of lèse-majesté, Drago chose to say nothing, using his elevated position instead to look for any potential threat as they passed through the gates. The camp by the waterside was exactly as he remembered it, even down to the scattered donkey droppings, but the soldiers manning it seemed different, conversing animatedly as they went about their duties. Everywhere he looked, the lassitude of a few days ago was gone, replaced, it seemed, by a sense of barely suppressed urgency. The messenger Oaktwig had dispatched had clearly not been reticent about his errand, and the news of Gorash’s supposed death had swept through the camp like a surge tide.
“That must be her,” one of the guards on the gate muttered to his companion as Ariella rode by, eyeing her with wary respect, and failing dismally in his attempt not to look as though he was staring at the satchel slung from the pommel of her saddle. “Who’s the shortarse?”
“Her lunch?” the other guard suggested with heavy humor, determined not to seem intimidated, until Ariella glanced down at him with a smile which was far from reassuring.
“We work together,” she said. “He kept Gorash’s guards busy for me. Like to see how?”
Drago smiled lazily, in the fashion he’d discovered years ago made much bigger and stronger felons back down without a fight, and locked gazes with the guard. After a moment, the elf broke eye contact, and they passed fully inside the camp.
“Keeping a low profile I see,” Graymane remarked, favoring them both with a wry smile.
“Don’t think that’s going to be an option,” Ariella said, with a glance at the deputation coming to meet them. Judging by the amount of decoration on his tunic, and the size of the paunch it inadequately reined in, the elf leading it was clearly in charge here. A gaggle of aides accompanied him, casting appraising eyes at Moonshade and Meadowsweet, no doubt trying to work out their relative status. All were on foot, and the leader gazed up at Oaktwig with a faint air of resentment at having to crane his neck to converse.
“Welcome, in His Majesty’s name,” the overdressed elf said, raising a hand in formal greeting, the capitalization clearly audible.
“Quite so.” Oaktwig raised a languid hand, and climbed down from the saddle, intent on continuing the conversation more comfortably now that his importance had been established. Graymane and Ariella followed his lead immediately, taking up a flanking position at each of his shoulders. The two officers from the mine remained where they were, until Oaktwig gestured irritably for them to join him; they clambered down a little more reluctantly, remaining as close to their mounts as they could without appearing to be deliberately insubordinate. “I take it a boat has been readied as I requested?”
“It has.” The garrison commander smiled insincerely. “But I’m afraid it’s a little smaller than you asked for.”
“How small?” Graymane butted in, ignoring protocol as punctiliously as he always did.
The commander evidently remembered him from his arrival here on his way to the mine; judging by his faintly panicked air, Graymane had been just as tactful at the quayside as he had been on reaching his destination.
“Large enough for Miss Silverthorn, yourself, and whoever you choose to accompany you. But not, I’m afraid, to accommodate a full troop of soldiers.”
“You mean it’s not the cargo boat we specified,” Graymane said. Drago thought about the Rippling Light, and the innumerable similar vessels he’d seen from its deck on his way up river. You could have squeezed everyone they’d brought with them on board a boat that size, but it would have been uncomfortably crowded to say the least. Anything smaller would be impossible.
“No. But on the plus side, it’ll be a lot faster. You’ll be in Sylvandale by dawn, if you leave now.” The commander’s tone betrayed just how much he hoped they would.
“Let’s see it, then,” Ariella said, and Graymane nodded his agreement.
“I suppose we’d better,” he conceded.
Oaktwig turned to Moonshade and Meadowsweet. “Stay here while we find out what’s going on. Get the troops fed and rested. We might still need them.”
“By your command, sir,” Meadowsweet said, with elaborate formality. He turned to the troopers behind them. “Dismount and fall out.”
At which point, Drago realized he was still marooned on the back of Ariella’s horse. He scrambled out of the basket, his rucksack in one hand, and clung to the rim of the wickerwork with the other as the animal shifted its weight irritably beneath him.
“A little help here?” he asked, trying not to sound too concerned, or notice the general amusement of the elves surrounding him.
“Just jump,” Ariella said. She gestured impatiently to Moonshade, who was standing nearest to the horse. “She’ll catch you.”
“I’ll do no such—” Moonshade began, before becoming belatedly aware that over four stone of gnome was already plummeting toward her. Not sanguine enough to expect her active assistance, Drago reached out, snagged her shoulders, and arrested his descent by sliding the rest of the way to the ground. Fortunately her mail shirt deflected any suspicion of opportunistic impropriety on his part, but she glared at him nevertheless, shoving him away impatiently. “If you ever touch me again I’ll gut you like a fish. Clear?”
“As the forest stream,” Drago said, quoting an expression he’d heard the elves use among themselves. The only one he’d ever come across, in the woods near Gorash’s camp, had been muddy, with bits of dead leaf floating in it, but he supposed there were nicer ones in the forests of the Sylvan Marches. At any rate, it had been a lot more inviting than the side channels of Fairhaven, which weren’t so much waterways as slow-moving trickles of semi-liquid ordure.
“Wouldn’t fancy your chances much,” Graymane said, with a snide smile. “I’ve seen him fight. I’d pay money to watch you try, though.”
“I’m sure you would,” Moonshade said witheringly, and turned to give orders to the soldiers, many of whom were trying to conceal their amusement at her
discomfiture.
“This way.” The garrison commander led the way down to the jetty Drago had disembarked at a few days before, and pointed out the boat moored there with a gesture of proprietorial pride. “There she is. The Silverroad Messenger.”
“It’s a dispatch boat,” Graymane said, taking in the sleek lines and neatly furled sail. It was less than half the size of the Rippling Light, but being from a maritime city Drago could appreciate the craftsmanship which had gone into the long, narrow hull. The rigging was simple, just a larger version of the sails on the dinghies which plied the waters of the lower Geltwash, ferrying passengers between the two halves of Fairhaven.
“You said time was of the essence,” the overdressed and overweight elf said, trying to sound placating, “and there’s nothing faster than this on the upper reaches. Apart from the others of her class, of course. She’s identical to the one your dispatch went off on.”
“Then the sooner we follow it, the better,” Ariella said, with a meaningful glance at Drago and Graymane.
After a moment’s thought, Graymane nodded briefly. “You’re right,” he said. “We’ll just have to leave the escort behind. How many passengers can this tub take?”
“Three,” the commander said, with a dismissive glance at Drago. “Though I don’t suppose he’d slow you down much if you insist on taking him along too.”
“We do,” Ariella said. She glanced at Oaktwig, then back to Graymane. “And the two officers we brought with us from the mine.”
“That’ll slow us down a lot,” Oaktwig said, “even if we can fit everyone aboard.” He turned to Graymane, the picture of insincere helpfulness. “I appreciate the point you made earlier about the importance of our journey to His Majesty, but perhaps Meadowsweet and Moonshade would be better employed making their way back to the mine, and—”
“They would not,” Graymane said, in tones of complete finality. “They’re coming, and the matter is closed. You can, of course, raise the matter with the king in person, if you still wish to protest my handling of the commission he gave me once we reach Sylvandale.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Oaktwig said. He glanced at the boat again, with manifest distaste. “And I’m sure you’ll still be able to find room for a crew, along with everyone else you seem to think is indispensable. Perhaps they can swim along behind, and push it.”
“We won’t need much of a crew,” Drago said, his eyes still on the boat. “If whoever’s on the tiller knows what they’re doing, once the sails are set there shouldn’t be a lot adjustment required along the way.” He turned his face into the prevailing breeze. “The wind’s steady enough, and in the right direction. We’ll hardly need to tack at all, unless the river starts meandering upstream from here.”
“It runs fairly straight as far as Sylvandale,” Ariella said, glancing at Graymane, then speculatively at the gnome.
Graymane nodded. “Could you handle it?” he asked Drago.
“If I had to.” He wasn’t exactly an expert, but you didn’t grow up in Fairhaven without acquiring the rudiments of controlling small watercraft. He must have spent hundreds of hours watching expert ferrymen ply their trade as he travelled around the city, and had taken the tiller of hire craft himself now and again when his business was better carried out without other eyes and ears in the vicinity. “It’s a bit bigger than anything I’m used to, but the principle’s the same.”
“Good. Then you’re our crew,” Graymane said, an instant before it fully dawned on Drago what his response to the apparently idle query was letting him in for.
The garrison commander seemed to inflate, and his aides began to quack among themselves in indignant undertones. “I simply cannot allow one of His Majesty’s courier boats to be left in the hands of a—of a—”
“The word you’re looking for is ‘gnome,’” Drago said mildly, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword. “At least I hope it is. If it isn’t, things could get very unpleasant.” He was beginning to find the Marchers’ constant and open disdain for anyone who wasn’t an elf extremely tiresome, and combined with the lingering nausea and rising hunger clashing in his belly, it was making him more irritable than usual.
“I’m sure that was exactly the word my colleague was attempting to remember,” Oaktwig said hastily. He hadn’t seen Drago in action himself, but he knew he’d impressed Graymane, and that was enough for him to try and defuse the situation before blood was shed. Not that Drago would really commit murder for the sake of a petty insult, but Oaktwig didn’t know that, still under the impression that he’d assisted the faux Caris Silverthorn to commit a cold-blooded assassination.
“And I’m the personally appointed emissary of the king,” Graymane reminded everyone, pulling his now rather battered letter of commission from inside his jacket and waving it at the commander to emphasize the point. “I say he’s taking the tiller, and that’s the end of it.” He smiled in a distinctly non-reassuring manner at the angry elf. “I’ll be sure to let His Majesty know of your reluctance to relinquish the vessel when I speak to him, though. Are we all happy now?”
“Of course.” The commander seemed anything but, if Drago was any judge, but wasn’t fool enough to press the point. He turned to Oaktwig, whom he seemed to consider the most reasonable member of the party, and took several deep breaths. “I’ll send for your officers, if you insist on taking them with you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Oaktwig said. “I’ll fetch them myself. I’ll need to give the troopers we’re leaving behind their orders in any case.”
“Don’t take too long,” Graymane admonished, and Ariella smiled at Oaktwig, with every appearance of friendliness.
“I’ll come with you,” she said. “See if we can grab some food for the journey.”
“There’s no need,” Oaktwig said. “I’m sure Meadowsweet can take care of that.”
“It’s no bother.” She was clearly not taking no for an answer, and Oaktwig could see that as clearly as Drago could. He looked as though he was about to argue anyway, then turned and walked off without another word, Ariella trotting cheerfully at his heels. The other elves followed them, evidently having decided that anyone who’d contemplate trusting a gnome, let alone conversing with him as an equal, was beneath their notice however unassailable his authority was.
“Neatly done,” Drago said, with a final glance at Ariella’s retreating back. Graymane nodded, picking up his meaning at once. Left to his own devices, there was no telling what Oaktwig might say to Meadowsweet and Moonshade, or what orders he might leave for his soldiers. One of the three was definitely a traitor, who’d conspired to murder the queen and install her brother on the throne, and if one, then why not two: or even all three? Bringing the soldiers along, on the flimsy pretext of an honor guard, had been Graymane’s insurance: if things had turned out really badly, the rank and file would have followed the orders of the king’s emissary over their own commanders, even to the point of placing them under arrest if instructed to. But now that resource would be denied them. “Just between ourselves, I don’t suppose we could leave the other two behind after all, could we?”
“No.” Graymane’s tone brooked no argument. “And Oaktwig has to stay with us, or he’ll head straight back into the Barrens to look for her.”
Drago nodded, and jumped down into the boat. The mast was already raised; all he had to do to get them moving was cast off the mooring lines and hoist the sails. “That he would,” he agreed. And if anyone in the mining camp put two and two together, Ariella’s life would be left hanging in the balance once again. Not to mention Gorash and his band, who were already in enough danger.
“And I want the other two where I can see them,” Graymane went on. “Don’t trust either of them further than I could throw a troll.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Drago agreed, checking the ropes with more apparent confidence than he felt. It had been some time since he’d sailed by himself, and never in a boat this big. Everyt
hing had been designed for elves to handle, too, which meant the tiller loomed, huge and unwieldy, above his head; he’d have to stand on the stern thwart and lean into it in order to steer. Which meant trimming the sails exactly right before they set off, because he wouldn’t be able to do it on the move, and he certainly wouldn’t trust any of the elves to try. They’d probably be capsized in moments if they did.
Which was another thing, the extra passengers would leave the vessel uncomfortably low in the water. He’d just have to hope none of them moved around too much . . .
By the time he’d finished his inspection Ariella and Oaktwig had returned, accompanied by Moonshade and Meadowsweet, neither of whom seemed particularly enthusiastic about boarding the small craft. Meadowsweet, in particular, stopped short on the jetty, and stared at it with open distaste. “We can’t all fit in that,” he said.
“We can,” Graymane said, “just not comfortably. And the sooner we get moving, the sooner we can get out at the other end.”
“He’s got a point,” Moonshade told her fellow captain, and clambered awkwardly into the boat, setting it rocking.
Forewarned by decades of experience of boarding and disembarking from small boats, Drago held on to the tiller for support, allowing his sense of balance to adjust, and kept his feet easily. “Next,” he said, carefully not noticing the gathering crowd of onlookers clearly hoping to see their betters taking an impromptu swim.
“Fine. Just don’t blame me if we sink,” Meadowsweet grumbled, and scrambled down too, settling next to Moonshade. The vessel listed alarmingly, the gunwales on that side sinking to within six inches of the water. A faint susurration, which might have been the wind rising, but which Drago strongly suspected was a murmur of anticipation from the onlookers, reached his ears.
“Alternate sides, keep the boat balanced,” he instructed briskly. “Haven’t you ever been on the river before?”
