Pathfinder Tales--Through the Gate in the Sea

by Paizo Publishing LLC.

  “Mirian Raas?”

  She turned to find a steersman in a yellow shirt doffing his hat to her. “Are you Mirian Raas?”

  “I am.”

  He made an awkward bow. “Your brother-in-law paid your fee already, Miss Raas.” His accent was broad and rolling. “If you will follow me?”

  Interesting. She’d sent word ahead, but Mirian was a little surprised it had gotten to Tradan so quickly. She supposed it was just possible, and she shook her head a little as she tried to imagine the expense of hiring one of the barges to wait for several hours. With tides and currents, after all, it was impossible to thoroughly predict when a ship might arrive, even on as short and as well-known a route as the run from Eleder to Port Freedom.

  But then, Tradan had money, old money, in a straight line from the original Chelish colonists.

  The steersman glanced nervously at her and then at Jekka. She wondered why the man should be nervous, then realized there was probably a further tip for him if he ensured delivery and could report he’d given a pleasing voyage.

  “Lead on,” Mirian told him, and they followed the fellow to a long, lean barge with a high prow crewed by eight rowers.

  “I hope you haven’t had to wait for us too long?” Mirian stepped down into the boat and then eyed the gesture of the steersman, whose sweeping arm suggested she walk the raised path to the front passenger compartment. It was shielded by a brown canvas awning. As she motioned her people ahead of her, the crew watched each of them somewhat warily, their eyes fastening with special care upon Jekka.

  “It’s all in the line of duty,” the steersman answered, then unhitched the line and jumped to the boat. “There are fruits and drinks up front for you, courtesy of your brother-in-law. We’ll have you through the maze in three-quarters of an hour, less if the gods are kind. Put your backs into it!” This last was directed at the rowers, who bent to their oars.

  Mirian followed him past the rowers and the line of storage cabinets that separated the front compartment, then dropped into the shaded space up front. Clean, cushioned seats were built into the sides, and three wicker baskets were arranged in a line on the deck.

  Jeneta opened the first with a glad cry, and Jekka was already lifting a bottle of wine.

  They pulled away from the dock and headed across open water for the sandbar-strewn opening to the river and the head-high reeds that grew jungle-thick along the banks. Ivrian watched neither the view nor the baskets, peering instead toward the rowers.

  “What is it?” Mirian asked him softly. Ivrian could be self-involved and flighty, but in his best moments he was observant and thoughtful, and when the chips were down he had proved himself one of the bravest, most dependable souls she’d ever met. When she saw that look in his eye, she was inclined to trust it.

  “Something’s not right,” he said, pretending a smile toward the steersman, who faced them from aft, grinning. “Isn’t the steersman pouring it on a bit thick?” he asked as he turned his head.

  He was right. Mirian, still smiling absently, set her hand to Jeneta’s as she was readying to peel a banana. The priestess frowned as Mirian forced her wrist down, then opened her mouth as though in challenge. Ivrian, still watching Mirian, made a soft shshing noise.

  Jekka lowered the wine bottle he’d been studying and set it back in the wicker basket.

  The thought of cold wine down her throat sounded wonderful. Probably she and Ivrian were both being paranoid. Probably.

  “What is it, my sister?” Jekka asked softly.

  “Maybe nothing,” was her bland answer through a vague smile and nod as the steersman, operating the rudder in the aft, glanced over at them.

  The rest of the rowers heaved the oars with their backs to the passengers. Only one man sat forward of them, the pilot, sunk into a seat just shy of the prow, his black headscarf just visible above a storage cabinet that separated him from Mirian and her crew.

  “Please,” the steersman called, “avail yourselves of all the food you want! Don’t let it go to waste.”

  That cinched it. Mirian nodded and waved a hand, then turned from him. To Jekka she said, “Watch them.”

  She bent as though to tighten her bootlace. Seabirds called to one another, white specks in the evening light. She pitched her voice low enough that it would not carry far over the creak of the oarlocks and the slap of waves against the boat: “Be on your guard.”

  Now that she considered the situation, it didn’t make sense that her brother-in-law would hire a boat to wait for them, not when there was never a shortage of them; not when there was no real predicting when the Daughter would turn up.

  And then there was the look of the sailors themselves and their way with the oars. Their oar movements weren’t well synchronized, and the pilot never called any directions to the steersman.

  It might be that some new Rivermen’s Guild company had just started up and hired a load of cheap, inexperienced rowers to man its boats. And it might be that they offered cheaper rates, which was why her brother-in-law had hired them.

  But it might be something else. Here in the bay they were in little danger, for there were any number of nearby boats and ships. But they were closing on the maze of channels that led to Port Freedom, and it struck her suddenly that it would be a fine place for an ambush. Especially if some or all of her people were sickened, poisoned, or rendered unconscious by doctored food and drink. She wondered if Ivrian had noticed any or all of these things, or if he just had an innate sense. Whatever it was, she was thankful he’d put her on the alert.

  When they closed on the lane of reeds, there were two other nearby boats in their particular channel, one some thirty feet wide, crammed with passengers unhappily fanning themselves with their hands while the sun beat down. Little gray marsh birds and long-legged storks moved among the reeds, and unseen insects buzzed at them.

  The steersman grinned to her and called out in a friendly tone.

  “Miss Raas, they told me you were Mwangi, but they didn’t say what tribe. Bas’o, I think? Or Mulaa?”

  “Bas’o.” They who?

  “And what interestin’ travelin’ company you have. They didn’t say you’d have a lizard man with you.”

  That was strange, because she’d specifically mentioned to her brother-in-law that Jekka would be along. He was their whole point in coming.

  “Which ‘they’ is it you mean?” she asked with a smile.

  The steersman’s grin widened. “The folk at the shipping company, ma’am.”

  “Are you a new outfit?” Ivrian asked.

  “Why yes. I’m an old hand myself, but a lot of the crew are new. There’s always folks wantin’ to get into the business side of things. Steady work for those willing to put in the time.”

  The boat headed deeper into the lane, lagging farther and farther behind the nearer vessels. The steersman called every now and then to keep his crew together, but he seemed more concerned with his passengers.

  “Ma’am, all this food and drink was sent along special-like, and I’m to make sure you enjoy it. I’ll like as not be getting a tip if you report satisfaction with your journey.”

  “We’re not thirsty,” Mirian said, “just eager to make port.”

  They veered into an opening in the reeds. “Ah,” the steersman said, “the shortcut I’ve been looking for.”

  Mirian tensed. Damn stupid Ensara for taking her wand. She wondered if she’d be able to hire the druid to find it on the ocean bottom once they were through with all this.

  She’d loaned Ivrian its double months ago and he’d since offered to return it. But he’d actually proved to have a greater knack with wands than she’d ever had. He preferred to keep it tucked in an inside pocket of his vest, and she saw his hand slipping there even now.

  Jekka’s expression was always hard to read, but once he’d relinquished the wine his eyes hadn’t left the rowers. Jekka met her eyes and gave a small nod.

  The steersman said a word Mirian didn’t re
cognize, and the rowers let go of the oars and turned, reaching under their benches. They rose holding short spears with broad leaf-shaped blades.

  “I want the steersman alive,” Mirian hissed.

  Jekka was first in motion, springing with inhuman dexterity to land on the bulwark of the rowers’ section. He sidestepped a solid thrust at his thigh and took off a man’s head with his staff’s scythe blade. Scarlet blood sprayed wide and painted the nearby marsh grass.

  A rower to Jekka’s left dropped his spear, screaming as an emerald acid bolt from Ivrian’s wand caught him in the chest, then threw himself overboard.

  She left Ivrian and Jekka to deal with the folk behind and spun to confront the man in the prow only to discover there was not one man there but three—the storage cabinet between the pilot’s seat and the passenger compartment had swung open and two sweaty men were rising with short spears.

  Jeneta threw herself to one side as a spearpoint struck her seat, drawing her longsword.

  Mirian snapped a spear shaft in half with her cutlass, veered from a thrust from another warrior. As he pulled his weapon away, Mirian caught his spear just above the point and shoved the weapon toward him. He stumbled against the side of the boat and tripped backward into the water.

  His fall shook the boat, which was a good thing, since the pilot had raised a blowpipe. Mirian felt the air of the dart as it missed her.

  She lunged, took the pilot through the chest. While he gagged and clutched at the red stain on his yellow shirt, she turned to find the remaining spearman thrusting at her.

  Jeneta knocked his spear up and away, leaving him open for Mirian, who plunged her sword deep through his chest. He sank to his knees, gurgling, as she finished him with a blow to the neck.

  “Make sure they’re down!” Mirian spun to take in the rest.

  What might have seemed a simple ambush hadn’t gone well for their enemies. Jekka had cut through three of the rowers and Ivrian had dropped two with the wand while Jeneta advanced on another, sword blazing with holy light.

  This resistance was far more than the steersman must have anticipated. As Mirian moved forward, she saw his eyes, wide with surprise, lock on to her before he turned and threw himself into the water. He landed with a splash and swam for a nearby reed bank.

  “Jekka,” Mirian cried, “get him—alive!”

  The lizard man leapt out with a longer stride than a human might have managed, striking the water at the same time he brought his staff down, clublike, on the escaping steersman.

  “What about them?” Ivrian pointed with his sword toward the rowers who’d dived overboard, and now swam for the reeds.

  “Let them go.” Mirian scanned the battle’s aftermath. The dead men she briefly inspected before telling Ivrian to heave them overboard.

  Jekka returned with the limp form of the steersmen and Mirian helped drag the body onto the boat, afraid for a moment that Jekka hadn’t been careful enough and that the fellow was already dead.

  No—he was breathing. He’d just taken a good smack to the head.

  “All right,” Mirian told the others. “Here’s the fun part. We get to row. Ivrian, you can steer. Jekka, tie our prisoner with one of the dock lines. Come on, Jeneta.”

  Once the prisoner was secure, she and the priestess bent to the oars. Mirian was in fine shape, but she didn’t train with heavy weapons the way a priestess did. It wasn’t long before her hands and shoulders ached with strain.

  After a half mile, they heard chatter from another boat passing beyond a screen of reeds. Good. So they weren’t completely lost. They ground their oars into the muddy river bottom.

  A blister had risen on Mirian’s left hand. For some reason that struck her as more irritating than the attack.

  She leaned over the imprisoned steersman Jekka had laid down in the passenger area. She saw that the lizard man had tied the fellow a little tightly, with ropes around his chest and arms and wrists. He lay motionless apart from the rise and fall of his chest. Unconscious, or shamming?

  “Jekka, let me borrow your staff.”

  Her blood brother handed it over, and then she posted him as a lookout.

  “Who do you work for?” she asked. There wasn’t an answer, so Mirian nudged him with the staff. “I’m pretty sure you’re awake. Let me explain something. I’m a little … annoyed. I’ve got a whole lot of rowing ahead of me. A bunch of strangers just tried to kill me. I can toss you overboard with or without the ropes on. You just give me some answers, and I’ll cut the ropes. Then you’ll go over the side alive, and you can fend for yourself however you want. That’s your best deal.”

  The steersman’s eyelids flicked open as she podded him again.

  “Don’t,” he said. “It’s not—”

  “Just talk.”

  The steersman did, and much of his broad coastal accent fell away. “We were supposed to make sure you drank the wine, which would put you to sleep. If that didn’t work we were supposed to subdue you.”

  “Why?”

  “There was a man, he told me all about you. He paid me to take some of his men and wait for you.”

  “What kind of man?”

  “I think he was Mzali—he referred a couple of times to ‘Holy Walkena.’ You know about the Mzali?”

  “I know,” Mirian answered. What she didn’t know was why anyone from Mzali would have it in for her. The nation of Mzali was no friend to Sargava, and labeled any colonials or their allies—or, indeed, any foreigners whatsoever—as occupiers. Walkena, their leader, had allegedly been restored to life by ancient prophecy. But then, a lot of people said a lot of things to make their rule sound more legitimate. “They mention why they wanted us?”

  “I asked, but they weren’t really talkative.”

  “What did they say?”

  He licked dry lips and looked at her through wide eyes. “Their leader—he just said, ‘It is Walkena’s word.’”

  “And that was good enough for you?”

  “They were scary.” The steersman sounded defensive.

  “As scary as us?”

  His eyes flicked up to her and over toward where Jekka stood in the prow. “You’re scarier than you looked at first.”

  “How much did they pay you?”

  “Er … fifty crowns.”

  “You were willing to kill us for fifty crowns?” She felt her eyebrows rise.

  “It was take the fifty crowns and lead you into the swamp, or get stabbed and thrown in the swamp. Their promise.”

  “I see. All right, Jekka, cut him loose. Give over the crowns, and swim for it.”

  “From out here?”

  “You want my sympathy?”

  “No…”

  Jekka took his staff, flipped it about to get the proper blade, then deftly sliced the man free before putting the spearpoint to his chest. “My sister wants the gold.”

  “Sister?” he asked.

  “The crowns.” Mirian wriggled her fingers. “Reach for them slow.”

  With great care, the steersman loosed a bag at his waist, and set it on the boat planks. Jekka lurched forward and jabbed it so that coins leaked out.

  “How nice,” Mirian said. “Looks like we get your blood money. And you get a swim. Jekka?”

  But the steersman had already dashed for the side of the boat. Jekka slammed him across the backside with his staff and the fellow howled as he dropped into the water.

  Jeneta cackled.

  “Why, Jekka,” Ivrian said, “I do believe you’ve developed a sense of humor.”

  They went back to the oars, Jekka relieving Mirian. Ivrian resumed his post at the rudder. After the steersman thought himself far enough off to be safe, he resurfaced and cursed them, telling them the Mzali would get them, and that he’d be glad, and that Mirian’s mother was a lizard-humper.

  “Where’s a crocodile when you need one?” Ivrian asked.

  “What warned you about them, Ivrian?” Mirian asked.

  “Something about the steers
man. And the way the rowers didn’t look at us. They weren’t like bored workmen. They were on the alert and pretending not to be.”

  Mirian nodded. “Well, good job catching that.”

  “Any thoughts on why the Mzali want us?”

  Mirian shook her head. She hoped this didn’t mean that Tradan and her sister had been hurt. It was odd to go from rarely thinking about them to being concerned about their welfare. Would they care if she were in danger?

  When they hit the main channel they encountered a line of boats. So protective was the Rivermen’s Guild of the monopoly it held on shipping that Mirian’s group was challenged almost immediately by the steersmen manning other boats, demanding they show their papers and permits to operate their craft.

  Their rowing at least was over when crew members from other boats climbed on to theirs to guide it in, but the confusion and skepticism over their tale took them the rest of the evening to sort through at the rivermen’s guild house. Ivrian’s status as a lord had little to no effect. The rivermen were chiefly concerned that Mirian and her group had stolen the boat or even murdered its original crew.

  In the end, she greased palms with most of the blood money from the steersman, gave testimony and an address where they would be staying, and left.

  Port Freedom sprawled in an eclectic blend of architectural models, from Chelish influences, to the thatched roofs of Ijo make, to mud-and-wattle buildings scattered down shadowy side streets. It spread out well back of the great nest of spindly quays that were its lifeblood. It prospered in its way, but there was no true “old town” as one could find in Eleder or even Crown Point. The settlement seemed built up from whatever had rolled through.

  It was crowded even in midafternoon, when Sargavans often withdrew from the tropical sun. Mirian knew her way around well enough to have chosen from several decent inns, but instead hired a carriage for her weary group and ordered it out toward her brother-in-law’s estate.

  The route led them east of the city along a rutted road. Moss draped the limbs of the towering live oaks, hanging like green waterfalls. The air was rich with the scent of rotting vegetation.

  Most people seemed content to ride in silence, but Ivrian, as usual, came up with questions. “When’s the last time you saw your sister, Mirian?”