Oath of Swords

He was asleep before Brandark could think of a suitable retort.

For the first night in weeks, no dream disturbed Bahzell, and he woke feeling utterly relaxed. He lay still, savoring the slowly brightening pink and salmon dawn, and a strange contentment filled him. Perhaps it was simply the consequence of undisturbed sleep, but he felt oddly satisfied, as if he were exactly where he was supposed to be. The river gurgled softly down the side of the hull, reinforcing the novelty of being afloat, and he sat up and stretched.

Others began to stir, and he sat idle, content to be so, while cooking smells drifted from the galley. The other boats of Kilthan’s convoy floated ahead and astern of his own, nuzzling the docks, hatches battened down, and a peaceful sense of expectancy hovered about them. He gazed out over them, and it came to him, slowly, that for the first time in his life, he was free.

He’d never precisely resented his responsibilities as a prince of Hurgrum-not, at least, until they took him to Navahk!-but he was who he was, and they’d always been there. Now he was far from his birth land, an outcast who couldn’t go home even if he wanted to, perhaps, but in command of his own fate. No doubt he’d return to Hurgrum in time, yet for now he could go where he willed, do as he chose. Up to this very moment, somehow, he hadn’t quite considered that. His mind had been fixed first on getting Farmah and Tala to safety, then on keeping his own hide whole, and finally on his duties as a caravan guard. Now it was as if the simple act of boarding the riverboat had taken him beyond that, released him from some burden and freed him to explore and learn, and he suddenly realized how much he wanted to do just that.

He smiled wryly at his thoughts, drew his boots on, and stood. Brandark snored on, and he left his friend to it, rolled his own blankets, and ambled over to the forward deckhouse. It was higher than the bulwark, more comfortably placed for one of his inches to lean on, and he took advantage of that as he watched the barge master pull a watch from his pocket. The captain glanced at it and said something to his mate, and the crew began preparing to cast off. They picked their way around the snoring guardsmen wherever they could, with a consideration for the sleeping landsmen’s fatigue that almost seemed to embarrass them if anyone noticed, but they couldn’t avoid everyone.

One of them poked Brandark in the ribs, and the Bloody Sword snorted awake. He scrambled up and dragged his bedroll to the side to let the riverman at the mooring line he’d blocked, then stretched and ambled over to Bahzell.

“Good morning,” he yawned, flopping his bedding out on the deckhouse roof and begi

“And a good morning to you. I see you weren’t after rolling overboard in the night after all.”

“I noticed that myself.” Brandark tied the bedroll and glanced somewhat uneasily at his haubergeon. He started to climb into it, then changed his mind, and Bahzell gri

The Bloody Sword ignored him pointedly and buckled his sword belt over his embroidered jerkin. Crewmen scampered about, untying the gaskets on the yawl-rigged barge’s tan sails, and halyards started creaking aboard other boats while mooring lines splashed over the side to be hauled up by longshoremen. The first vessels moved away from the docks while canvas crept up the masts and sails were sheeted home, and Bahzell and Brandark watched in fascination as the entire convoy began to move. They understood little of what they saw, but they recognized the precision that went into making it all work.

Half the barges were away, already sweeping downriver with thin, white mustaches under their bluff bows, when a commotion awoke ashore. A brown-haired, spindle-shanked human with a flowing beard of startling white scurried past piles of cargo. He was robed in garish scarlet and green, and he grabbed people’s shoulders and gesticulated wildly as he shouted at them. The hradani watched his antics with amusement, and then, just as their own mooring lines went over the side, someone pointed straight at their boat.

The robed man’s head snapped around, his expression of dismay comical even at this distance, and then he whirled and raced for the dockside with remarkable speed for one of his apparently advanced years.

“Wait!” His nasal shout was thin but piercing. “Wait! I must-”

“Too late, white-beard!” the barge master bellowed back. A gap opened between the riverboat’s side and the dock, and the old man shook a fist. But he didn’t stop ru

“I’m thinking that lackwit’s going to try it,” he murmured.

“Well, maybe he can swim,” Brandark grunted, but he moved forward in Bahzell’s wake as the Horse Stealer ambled towards the rail.

There was eight feet of water between the barge and the dock when the old man reached it, but he didn’t even slow. He hurled himself across the gap with far more energy than prudence, then cried out in dismay as he came up short. His hands caught the bulwark, but his feet plunged into the river, and his dismayed cry became an outraged squawk as water splashed about his waist.

“Here, granther!” Bahzell leaned over the side. His hands closed on shoulders that felt surprisingly solid, and he plucked the man from the river as if he were a child. “I’m thinking that was a mite hasty of you, friend,” he said as he set his dripping burden on deck.

“I had no choice!” the man snapped. He bent to glare at his soaked, garish garments, plucking at the wet cloth, and Bahzell raised a hand to hide a smile as he muttered, “My best robe. Ruined-just ruined!”

“Oh, now, it’s not so bad as all that,” Bahzell reassured him.

“And what do you know about it?” The old man-who wasn’t so old as all that, Bahzell realized, despite his white beard-gave his soggy splendor a last twitch and turned to glower over his shoulder at the gales of laughter rising from the dock workers who’d watched his exploit. “Cretins!” he snarled.

Bahzell and Brandark exchanged glances, ears twitching in amusement, and then the barge master arrived.

“And just what the Phrobus d’you think you’re doing?” he snarled.

“I told you to wait!”

“And I told you it was too late! This is a chartered vessel, not a damned excursion boat for senile idiots!”

“Senile? Senile!? Do you know who you’re talking to, my good man?!”

“No, and I’m not your ‘good man,’ either. I’m the master of this vessel, and you’re a damned stowaway!”

“I,” the newcomer said with dreadful dignity, “am a messenger of the gods, you dolt.”

“Aye, and I’m Korthrala’s long lost uncle,” the captain grunted, and spat derisively over the side.

“Imbecile! Ass!” The bearded man fairly danced on deck. “I’ll have you know I’m Jothan Tarlnasa!”

“What’s a Jothan Tarlnasa and why should I give a flying damn about one?” the captain demanded.

“I’m chairman of the philosophy department at Baron’s College, you bungling incompetent! Do you think I’d have come down here in full ceremonials and set foot aboard this rat-infested scow if it weren’t important?!”

“Ceremonials?” The captain eyed Tarlnasa’s water-soaked splendor and barked a laugh. “Is that what you call ’em?”

“I’ll have your papers revoked!” Tarlnasa ranted. “I’ll have you barred from Derm! I’ll-”

“You’ll go for another swim if you don’t shut your mouth,” the captain told him, and Tarlnasa’s jaw snapped shut. Not in fear, Bahzell thought, but in shock, judging by his apoplectic complexion. “Better,” the captain grunted. “Now, I’ve no time for you-no, and no patience with you, either. You’re on my vessel, and how you got here is your own affair. If you think the dockmaster will fault me, you’re an even bigger fool than I think, and that’d take some doing! You stay out of my way if you want me to put you aboard a boat headed back up this way.” Tarlnasa started to open his mouth again, but the captain shot him a dangerous look and added, “Or you can just swim back ashore right now. It’s all the same to me.”