A Young Man Without Magic (23 page)

“Stop!” The single word, called from the ramparts, was finally understandable, where the earlier shouting was not. The other barge was well clear, and at that moment none of the poles happened to be thudding against the walls, nothing happened to be splashing, no one was speaking. The lower walls here produced fewer echoes to obscure the sound, which more than made up for the increased distance.

“Do they mean us?” one of the bargemen asked, looking up.

“He's pointing at us,” another replied.

“. . . not a watchman!” came the cry from above.

It took a second for the words to penetrate; then five faces turned toward Anrel. The tiller and the four poles were held motionless, leaving the craft to drift gently on the calm water of the canal.

In the sudden silence, the next shout was clear: “Hold him there!”

Anrel smiled. His sword would not save him here, but his words still might.

“It's true,” he said. “I'm not a watchman. I stole this uniform I'm wearing. They were hunting for me, and the canal was the only way I could hope to escape the city, so I knocked a watchman on the head and took his clothes. I didn't kill him; I didn't hurt him any more than I had to. I tied him up, but it seems he got loose and raised the alarm.”

The bargemen exchanged uncertain glances.

“Now, the five of you have a decision to make,” Anrel said, pulling the sword halfway from its sheath. “You can fight me, five against one, and probably win, but I do have this sword, and I've studied swordsmanship, so I could probably hurt two or three of you before you take me down—maybe even kill one or two. It would be messy.”

Again, uncertain glances, a little more worried this time.

“Or you could keep poling us along, pretend you couldn't hear, until we get to a point where I can get off the barge, off the canal, and make a run for it. If you do that, why, I've no reason to hurt anyone, and when
they ask you why you let me go, you can just say you didn't know any better. Or if you think it would be more convincing, you could say I threatened you all with the sword, and demonstrated such amazing skill with a blade that you did not think your numbers would be sufficient to overcome me—I'd be happy with that, too, as it might intimidate anyone they send after me.”

“And why shouldn't we just knock you off the boat with a barge pole and leave you to drown?” the tillerman asked.

“You might be able to do that,” Anrel conceded. “Or I might dodge better than you think, and then, as I said, it would be messy. Still, I can see why you'd think it was worth a try. Bear with me for just a moment more, though, and let me tell you
why
they're hunting for me.”

The bargemen exchanged glances. “Well, boys, should we hear him out?” the tillerman asked.

“
I
say we should,” the man closest to Anrel's sword said, with a significant glance at Anrel's hand on the hilt.

“Why not?”

“As you please—I don't care.”

“All right, stranger,” the tillerman said. “Tell us why you're here.”

“Because Lord Allutar killed a friend of mine,” Anrel said. “He tore my friend's chest open with his foul sorcery. The magistrates said there was nothing I could do about it, because Lord Allutar is the landgrave of Aulix and has the right to do anything he pleases, even if it means the death of an innocent man. So I stood up on the statue of the First Emperor in Aulix Square, and I told the people of Naith the truth, and for that Lord Neriam declared me a traitor, closed the gates, and set the watch on me. I robbed no one; I harmed no one, save the man I hit over the head to get this uniform. I spoke the truth, nothing more, and for that they mean to kill me.”

The bargemen did not seem entirely convinced.

“What's going on down there?” someone called from above.

“Was that what started the fighting we heard about?” one of the bargemen asked.

“The city watch came out into Aulix Square to break up the crowd, and the crowd fought back,” Anrel explained. “I didn't ask them to, but
it seems I'm not the only one who's had his fill of sorcerers playing their games while the ordinary people of the empire starve.”

“You aren't,” one bargeman muttered.

One of the others turned to the tillerman. “We aren't watchmen,” he said. “Why should we do their work for them, then? I want to get this cargo down the river while there's still daylight!”

The tillerman looked at his four crewmen and saw general agreement. “All right, lads,” he said. “It seems we didn't hear the shouting correctly, and thought we were supposed to deliver this fellow to the lockkeeper at number four, and how were we to guess he'd jump for it and run before we got there?”

“Right you are!” a bargeman said, as the others nodded.

“Now then, sir, which side would you like to jump for and run on?” the tillerman asked.

Anrel smiled, looked up at the sky to orient himself, concluded that he couldn't tell which way would be a better route for Lume, and then said, “I'm afraid I'm not sure which would be best, so whichever would be easier for you will suit me.”

“Fair enough, sir,” the tillerman said. “You just be ready, then. I suspect they have men on the way down.”

“I'm sure they do,” Anrel agreed. “Thank you for your concern.”

“All right, lads, both sides, best speed!” the tillerman called, and all four poles swung into position. Four leather pads thumped on stone, and the barge shot forward.

Someone shouted from the ramparts, but the thumping, the rush of water, and the increasing distance rendered it unintelligible.

Moments later the walls on either side dropped down far enough that Anrel could see over them. He looked to the right, and saw figures approaching at a run across the harvested fields.

“To port, please, Master Tillerman?” he called, as he crossed to the port bow.

“Aye, sir.” The boat's path began to veer to the left.

Anrel looked ahead; the walls dropped to waist-high ahead, then leveled out, to maintain a surface for the poles to push against, while the ground beyond them sank lower. The fourth of the canal's five locks,
dropping it down another few feet closer to the level of the river, was perhaps two hundred yards away; he would need to be off the barge before it reached the gates. A waist-high barrier would not be insuperable if he could get close enough . . .

“Poles in to port, lads!” the tillerman called. “Get ready, sir!”

“Stop!” someone called from the right bank.

The tillerman grinned. “You heard the man, boys!” The poles began braking, rather than driving the craft forward.

That, Anrel saw, would make the jump much easier. “My thanks to all of you,” he said. Then, as the boat came to a near standstill mere inches from the port side, he leapt.

He had slightly misjudged the height, the distance, and how much the barge would give beneath him; he slammed his left knee into the stone, and his boots splashed into the canal, but his upper body draped itself across the top of the wall and he was able to quickly drag himself up and over. He tumbled to the ground, landing on the black earth of a recently harvested hay field, then untangled himself and got to his feet.

The barge was gliding smoothly onward, toward lock number four; half a dozen men, most of them in the uniforms of Naith's city watch, were running toward the far side of the canal, shouting incoherently. More men were standing atop the distant city wall; if they were still shouting Anrel could not hear it from so far away.

The canal was not a true barrier; his pursuers could cross it easily at the lock. Anrel saw he had no time to waste and began running, with no destination in mind but simply trying to put more distance between himself and his foes.

He passed a line of trees on the far side of the hay field, and paused long enough to glance back and catch his breath.

His pursuers were at the lock, but had not yet crossed the canal, so far as he could see. The barge he had ridden was also at the lock, and some argument appeared to be taking place. Anrel did not stop to try to interpret that, but began running again, a little less desperately, across the next field.

Off to his right he could see a farmhouse, and a road and river beyond; to his left the hill sloped up to Naith's city walls. Ahead were
more fields, more farmhouses, and a patch of woods; he headed for the trees, hoping to get out of sight.

Once he reached the grove he turned right, toward the river; he knew he had to cross the water somewhere if he was to get to Lume. He was fairly certain that this was the Raish, and that if he followed it far enough upstream he would find himself back in Alzur, which would not do at all. If he could find a way across, though, and then get to the Galdin River, he could follow that upstream all the way to the capital.

As he walked quickly through the trees he straightened his belt, made sure the sword was securely in place, then brushed dust and hay from his stolen jacket. His boots were drying quickly; they had only dabbled in the canal briefly.

He debated whether to stay in the stolen watchman's coat or change back into his own. A watchman would not ordinarily be seen outside the walls of Naith, but might be all the more intimidating because of that very fact.

On the other hand, if the word spread quickly that someone was abroad in stolen watchman's garb, there could be little question that he was that man. In a brown coat and traveler's hat he might match the description of the escaped traitor, but there would be room for doubt.

Perhaps he might contrive a compromise. He reached up and pulled the watchman's cap from his head and tossed it aside, then swung his rucksack around and fished out his broad-brimmed hat, all without stopping.

The velvet coat was more distinctive than the hat, so he left that in the pack for now, but he slid the watchman's jacket off, and drew the dagger from his boot. He had to slow his pace somewhat, but he kept walking as he first cut the epaulets from the jacket's shoulders, and then pried the white panels from the lapels, leaving blue broadcloth. He cast aside the bits he had removed.

It was still recognizably a watchman's jacket if one looked closely, but it was no longer so obvious. He pulled the garment back on, and hurried on, emerging from the woods onto the riverside road.

A farmhouse stood by the road just ahead on the left, a smaller structure on the right, between the road and the river; Anrel was mildly wary
of passing between them, but saw no sensible alternative. He looked at the smaller building as he passed, then stopped in his tracks as he realized what it was.

It was a boat house.

That was hardly surprising, really, but he had somehow not expected it. He had not been thinking clearly; the need to escape pursuit had driven much of his usual common sense from his head. Now, though, the boat-house presented an obvious opportunity. He quickly circled around until he found a door.

It was locked, but that was no real obstacle for a desperate man with a dagger and a good pair of boots; he kicked the door hard enough to loosen the lock, then used the knife to pry it open the rest of the way.

The dim, damp interior held two small boats—a flat-bottomed skiff, suitable for fishing in the shallows or gathering frogs along the bank, and a somewhat sturdier rowboat.

Anrel smiled as he sheathed his dagger; then he hurried to the rowboat. It was heavier than it looked, and he was unable to lift it, but he did manage to drag it to the edge of the boat house floor and heave it over the side.

There were two pairs of oars resting on the tie beams overhead; he slid one set down and lowered them into the boat, then climbed in after them. A few minutes later he was rowing out onto the Raish, and discovering that working the oars was more difficult than it looked, and required the use of muscles from which he did not generally demand much. Still, he was able to keep his craft moving and under control, which was all he required. He turned the little boat's prow to starboard, heading downstream toward the confluence of the Raish and the Galdin, ignoring the few other boats in the area—most of which were barges bound to or from Naith.

He had an uncomfortable moment when a search party came hurrying along the road along the riverbank not more than a hundred yards away, but while they saw him, they did not recognize him in his traveler's hat and altered jacket.

One man did pause to stare at him, and Anrel released one oar long enough to wave cheerily. He was fairly sure they would not expect a
desperate fugitive to do anything like that. They would also not expect such a fugitive to head downstream, back toward the canal mouth and Naith, rather than fleeing farther upstream, toward Alzur. It seemed unlikely that they would identify this boatman as their quarry.

Besides, even if they did realize who he was, they would need to find a boat of their own to come after him, and if he saw that happening he would pull as hard as he could for the far shore and resort to his feet once again. He wondered whether he should have disabled the skiff when he had the chance, but decided he had been right not to bother—it would have wasted time, and would have left evidence that he was not just an innocent man who happened to be on the river when the city guards were searching for an escaped traitor.

After the first party let him go by, each subsequent patrolling guardsman seemed that much less menacing, that much less likely to raise the alarm and send pursuit onto the river—after all, if the man in the rowboat was anyone suspicious, wouldn't the others upstream have stopped him?

So Anrel was able to row calmly past the canal mouth, past barges heading into Naith, and out onto the Galdin, where he turned his little boat upstream and rowed as hard as he could, trying to cover as much distance as possible while the light lasted.