“The nuxru noorin. The river of light.”
“Dangchao seems so far away. As if it were in a different universe.”
Sofwari hesitated. “Did you…know that Donovan is your father?”
Méarana turned to him in surprise. “Did he tell you that?”
“No. He never speaks of his past. A man might suppose he didn’t have one. I tested his little thread shapes, and yours…”
“I thought your sinlaptai passed only from mother to daughter!”
“Those of the mighty chondrians do. But there are other thread shapes. If you think there is a vast universe out there in the sky, it is nothing to the vast universe inside each one of us.”
“If the universe is infinite, I suppose it is only fitting that we be, too. Why did you think I did not know?”
“The two of you do not act as father and daughter. Only, sometimes, when you look at each other.”
“There is a history between us. Or rather, an absence of history.”
“Oh?”
“The rest, you need not know.”
They walked a little farther through the mud.
“I look at these ruins here…” Sofwari kicked at a shard poking up through the mud. “I am a bone-picker. I will never discover anything. I will only rediscover it. Whatever I may learn, someone unknown learned it ages ago.”
Méarana said, “It might have been better if we had forgotten all this entirely—all the legends, all the wonders—for we live forever in its shadow.” She leaned against him.
“No. As much pain as it causes me, ignorance is never better. It was not all wonder. There was decay and war and collapse. If all we can hope for is to repeat the glories of the past, then we can hope not to repeat the mistakes.”
They heard Roaring Gorge before they saw it. It was a narrow cleft in the foothills of the Kobberjobbles—like a slit in a wall—and it howled and moaned at their approach, as if some great beast crouched within. Sloofy trembled in fear and even Sofwari seemed alarmed for a moment. Then he laughed and said, “The gorge acts like a megaphone for the waterfall at the farther end.”
The steersman heard them and he said, “Sure, but the roar of the waterfall might also cover the roar of a genuine dragon.” He laughed without waiting to see if he had alarmed them. The other boatmen laughed, too, but Méarana noted how they looked at their passengers sidewise, licked their lips, rubbed their hands.
Anticipation; but not a little fear beside. Surely, they had been through the gorge often enough to know there was no dragon.
The river narrowed and the current grew swift. The oarsmen pulled the cotter pins and lowered the walking planks that ran the length of the boat on each side. Then, two at a time, they shipped their oars and took up “setting poles” battened to the inside hull. These poles were almost as long as the boat itself. The two stemmen stepped out onto the walking boards and went to the bow of the boat, where they lowered the poles into the water. “Bottom!” one of them called, and the sweeper acknowledged. Then they put their shoulders to the leather-padded butts on the poles and began walking toward the stern, punting the boat ahead. Then the two bowmen stowed their oars and did the same, so that the four men were now walking stem to stern, pushing against the current. One of the stemmen said something low and angry to the steersman when he reached the back end of the boat, and the steersman pointed emphatically to the shoreline. Méarana looked where he pointed, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
She took up her harp and began to play at random—a jig, a taarab, a halay. She adjusted the tempos to match that of the men walking the setting poles, and the steersman grinned and beat the tempo against the handle of his steering oar. The right bowman, when he reached the head of the plank, glanced across to his counterpart and, ever so slightly, shook his head, a gesture his companion repeated before they put shoulder to pole and pushed.
__________
They made night-camp on a sandy shelf on the east side of the river where the cliffside had broken away into rubble. Upstream the river vanished into a mist created by the waterfall at the far end of the gorge. The roar was, oddly, more muted inside the canyon than at the approach, but they still had to speak up to be heard.
Donovan was the last out of the boats and when he set foot on the ground, he said in a distinct, though conversational tone, “Is that a sand viper?” And then, almost immediately, “But no, it is only a branch buried in the mud.”
It struck Méarana as a curious performance—and she did not doubt for a moment that it was a performance, for Donovan did little without intent. She and the two Wildmen erected the tent. The boatmen had grown used to the tent-that-pitched-itself, and no longer gathered around to gawk openmouthed when Méarana activated the equipment.
Billy Chins and Donovan approached, talking in Confederal Manjrin. Donovan bent and looked inside the tent.
“Where are Teddy and Paulie?” he asked.
“They went back the boats for our supplies.”
“Sofwari,” said Billy, “go fetch-them.”
The science-wallah looked to Donovan, who nodded.
“What’s going on?” Méarana asked when Sofwari was gone.
“Trouble,” said Billy.
“Nothing, we hope,” said Donovan.
“I’m glad for the warning, whichever it is.” Méarana retrieved her harp. She was still tuning it when the others returned.
Once they were gathered round, Donovan told them that Billy thought the boatmen were planning something.
“I thought so before we cast off,” the Confederate said. “The old taverner was too concerned that we expect peaceful passage through Roaring Gorge, and a little too unconcerned with our gold and silver.”
“I believe him,” said Donovan. “When I claimed to see a sand viper, I spoke Gaelactic. But several of our ‘friends’ turned around in alarm. I pretended to take no notice, and I don’t think they gave it second thoughts.”
“They have earwigs,” said Méarana.
“Or they’ve had force-learning. But in either case, why conceal their understanding? They want to know what we are saying without letting us know they knew.”
“I saw you test them,” said Billy. “There were only four who reacted.”
Donovan nodded. “Earwigs cannot be all that plentiful here. The sweeper on each boat has one.” He looked at Theodorq. “Go find Sloofy and bring him here.” The Wildman nodded and trotted off.
“Meaning no disrespect to Billy,” Donovan continued, “I doubt a Rajiloor tavern-master has the wealth to subborn fifteen rivermen. Earlier today, we passed a boundary cairn on the riverbank. We passed from Rajiloor to Jebelsanmèesh.”
Sloofy entered the tent, followed by Teodorq. The Wildman had loosened the thong on his scabbard.
The translator smiled. “What do my masters want with Sloofy?” But his smile slowly faded to match the faces he saw around him. “Have I done something to displease?”
Donovan spoke to him in clear Gaelactic. “When do they plan to strike?”
The translator went pale. He stammered ignorance, but Billy shook his head. “That will not do. We know everything. You need only tell us the rest.”
It was a formula that had struck terror in many hearts; but it meant nothing to Sloofy.
“My companion,” said Donovan, to make the matter plain, “practices an art by which others are brought to answer questions.”
Now Sloofy began to tremble. “No, a’yaih. I am but a piece played on the shadranech board of great men.”
“If you are so worthless,” Billy suggested, “you will not be missed.”
“I think,” said Méarana kindly, “that you had better tell us everything.”
Sloofy turned to her as if to his savior. “Yes, O sadie. I will withhold nothing!”
“It was the Rice of Jebelsanmèesh who hired you?” said Donovan.
“My master knows all things. Men of his gave me coins to purchase the boatmen, and promise of more when…the deed�
�was done.”
Méarana turned to her father. “Lafeev seemed friendly when we spoke.”
“But the Rice of Jebelsanmèesh,” Donovan said, “is also the Dūq of the jewelry trade. And we are searching for the source of one of his best exports.”
“But we’re not interested in the jewelry,” Méarana said. “We’re looking for my mother.”
“Lafeev could not imagine why anyone would go on such a mad quest. And I can’t say I blame him. He decided it was a cover for our true purpose, which was to cut him out of the jewel trade.”
Billy said, “A mind already wary will gaze on all with suspicion.”
“When did they plan to strike?” Donovan asked the translator again.
Sloofy stammered. “They will kill me if I tell you.”
Billy said, “And we will kill you if you don’t.” He spread his hands in helplessness.
“Hell of a dilemma,” said Teodorq. “Ain’t it?”
Billy continued. “But consider that at our hands, it might take far longer. You might live for many days before the jackals and kites find you.”
Paulie said, “He don’t look so happy about a longer life.”
Donovan asked gently, “Are all the boatmen in the plot?”
The translator nodded. “No. There are three who have not been told, because they are not blood relatives. Neither has the abominable Djamos, whose mother was a slut from the gorge. When the hammer falls, these four will be given the choice to join the boatmen or to join you with the fishes.”
“Tough choice,” Paulie acknowledged.
Donovan looked across his shoulder. “Teodorq?”
“Aye, boss. I’ll fetch ‘im.” And he ducked out the tent flap.
“When were they to carry out this deed?” Donovan continued to Sloofy.
“After we have crossed into Jebelsanmèesh, lest the deed offend the Qaysar of Rajiloor, and a little ways into the Roaring Gorge, so that blame may be laid upon the Gorgeous Folk.” Sloofy swallowed hard. “Likely tonight, after you are asleep, and they have rested from their punting.”
“Not farther up the gorge?”
“No, lord. They want to blame the Gorgeous, not actually encounter them.”
Donovan nodded, looked at the others. “There you have it. Do you see any problems?”
Billy shook his head. “Yes. How are we to handle three durm boats if all the boatmen are dead?”
“We’ll manage somehow,” Donovan said. “Depends on the other three, I guess.”
Teodorq re-entered with Djamos held by the scruff of his neck. “Found him, boss. Where do you want him?”
But Sloofy said, “The gods have maddened you. You face twelve men, at least. You have only two fighting men. And maybe this one—” He indicated Billy. “—is more than mere talk. But the soft one will be as nothing in a fight, and what use an old man and a bini?”
Donovan looked at Teodorq. “What do you think?”
Nagarajan scratched his head. “Three boats-full? I can handle one. Paulie can maybe handle most of the second. That leaves five for the rest of you. I don’t think this thing-found-on-my-shoe-bottom understands what his friends are biting off.”
The confidence of the “regarders” was beginning to undermine the translator’s certainty. Méarana only wished it would bolster hers. But she knew not to show fear in front of the enemy. “I could play my harp,” she suggested.
Billy began to laugh, but Donovan shushed him and both Sloofy and Djamos showed genuine alarm. Sloofy tried again. “Your occult arts will not help you.”
Donovan turned to Djamos. “How much do you know about this?” he asked in the language of Riverbridge.
Djamos glanced at his colleague. “I knew these downstream dogs planned something ill, but I thought to stand aside and see how things played out.”
“There’s a brave soul,” said Paulie.
Djamos shrugged. “Foolish is the man who dies in another’s quarrel.” But he saw the faces of Donovan and Billy, and he said, “But I see that the matter is settled, so let it be fighting the downriver dogs rather than aiding them.”
They did not kill Sloofy. Billy wanted to, but Donovan said that would alert the boatmen. Instead, he would join them at their fire, which they built farther up the shelf, away from the others. In the dim light, it would not be evident that Sloofy was bound and gagged. Billy cautioned him to sit still because if he tried to raise an alarm he would die “the first death and the last.” Sloofy understood. “What do I owe those upriver wharf rats?” he asked before they jammed the ball in his mouth. It was a rhetorical question. By his own admission, he owed them the second installment of Lafeev’s payment.
“A man who is willing to kill another for his gold,” Donovan told Méarana, “is seldom willing to die for it.”
Méarana placed a camp chair outside the tent and perched her harp on her lap. She tuned it to the third mode, humming a bit to herself. The boatmen lay about on blankets a little ways off and watched with some curiosity. One man spread an ointment on another’s shoulders. Yes, it could not have been an easy day for them, working the setting poles. Yet while it had been needful to reach the gorge before doing the deed, they did not want to linger too long in this place.
She remembered how they had rubbed their hands, licked their lips. Not anticipation, she realized. They were wharfside thugs, not professional assassins. They must nerve themselves up to the deed. They would probably start drinking soon.
She sang the “Tragedy of Hendryk Shang.” A well-known poem on Die Bold, the translation into the loor nuxtjes’r was tricky. She rehearsed the words sotto vocee, letting the earwig suggest the proper phrasing, then doing it over because she wanted a poetic translation, not a literal one. She was not entirely happy, for the poetic standards for the two languages were very different; but great poetry was not her intent.
Hendryk Shang had famously sold his lord to his enemies for a bag of silver coins. But once Lord Venable was in his enemy’s clutches, his captors refused to pay Shang, and so the man was left with no money, no lord, and no honor. Méarana sang the tale not as that of a good but desperate man who had succumbed to temptation. Such subtleties were for the concert halls of Èlfiuji not a sandy bench in the Roaring Gorge. She sang it as a satire. Shang as an object of ridicule and shame to his family, his friends, his profession.
“For he had taken Lord Venable’s money
And sold off Lord Venable’s life.”
The boatmen were only half-listening, but Méarana noted how some shifted uncomfortably and two moved off a little way from the others and proceeded to get into an intense discussion with each other.
Afterward, she played ominously in the goltraí, disturbing their rest. When she was finished, she returned to the tent. Teodorq grinned at her. “I’d hate to have you mad at me, babe.”
Djamos the translator was trembling and stared at the harp with bulging eyes. “You are not from here,” he said again and again.
They sat huddled in the tent while different constellations appeared in the sky above the gorge. “Just before dawn?” said Donovan.
Teodorq nodded. “Makes sense, boss.”
They took turns sleeping, but when it came her turn, Méarana could not sleep. She curled up in her bag and closed her eyes, but sleep was not there.
Or she thought it was not, for the next she knew, Donovan was shaking her shoulder. He held a finger to his lip. “They’re coming.”
“How many?”
“Three stayed behind. I don’t think they like this, but don’t see how they can stop it.” He opened the back flap of the tent. “Teddy, Paulie, you’ll go out the front. Billy and I will go out the back and flank them.”
Debly Sofwari said, “What am I to do?”
“Do you have a weapon?”
He nodded.
“Do you know how to use it?”
He nodded again.
“Then use it.”
“I’ve…But I’ve only ever shot ver
min. In fieldwork.”
Donovan nodded. “Good. Just bigger vermin here.” He started out the back, then turned. “Try not to shoot your friends.”
Teodorq pulled out his “nine” and chambered a round. Paulie looked at him. “You ain’t gonna use your sword?”
“Why should I?”
Méarana was watching through the grill in the tent flap. “They’ve reached the fire. They found Sloofy. He’s untied. Look lively. They know we know.”
Realizing that surprise had been lost, the boatmen shouted and came at the tent in a rush. Teddy and Paulie burst out the front, the latter swinging his broadsword while Teddy went to one knee and braced his hand. He fired once, twice. A man fell. Paulie sliced the arm off a second. One bowled into Méarana and drove her to the ground. Her knife shot out and she stabbed him four times, rapidly, in the gut. He rolled off, groaning and clutching himself, and Sofwari stepped over and fried his brains with a dazer. The others scuttled back. This opened them to fire from Billy and Donovan, who had taken a position behind some rocks on the left. Another man dropped. Two more clutched parts of their bodies and staggered.
Then the boatmen retreated out of range and rummaged in their boats. Teodorq turned to Paulie. “That can’t be good.”
It wasn’t. Boatmen going up the Twisted River sometimes had to hunt for their dinner, and a compound hunting bow had considerable range and penetration. They were arguing among themselves. Some were pointing to the boats. Méarana supposed these wanted simply to leave. The others, perhaps transported by rage, strung bows with grim concentration. They called out to the three men who had stood aside; but these replied by signs that they wanted nothing to do with the treachery.
“Come on,” said Sofwari, taking her by the arm. “Behind the rocks with Donovan.” As they retreated toward the shelf in the cliffside, Djamos paused at each man down and stilled his cries with a swipe of a curved knife blade across the throat.
“Not that one,” called Billy. “I made a promise.”
The Gorgeous pack trader looked down at the bleeding Sloofy. “You are a fool of a downriverman. You should have joined the starmen.”
Up Jim River Page 35