The High King's Tomb
Page 49
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Even the docks felt abandoned. Smaller boats were pulled up on the bank and turned over for the season, and along the shore, river sloops were on dry dock. Some cogs bobbed at the end of the town pier, but they were few compared to the confusion and congestion the summer trading season brought.
The ferry was tied up where the street met water. It wasn’t more than a barge with rails, large enough to carry horse-drawn wagons and carriages. It was propelled by oars, for a line and pulley system one might find on a smaller river was impractical due to the Grandgent’s breadth and the mast height of the vessels that needed to pass through the ferry crossing.
Karigan rang a brass bell that hung from a post beside the ferry and four burly, grubby rivermen emerged from the nearest tavern. These were the oarsmen. An older fellow with gray whiskers and a pipe sauntered out behind them, no doubt the ferry master.
“Weeell,” he drawled, “a pair o’ king’s men if my eyes don’ deceive me.”
Karigan wanted to tell him that, yes, his eyes did in fact deceive him, but she learned to restrain her sarcasm when on duty. At least most of the time. Now she had the added pressure of setting a good example of Rider comportment for Fergal.
“We require passage across the river,” she said.
“O’ course ye do,” he replied, taking his own time to amble up to her. “Two ’orses and two men. That’ll be a silver each.”
An internal struggle erupted within Karigan as she attempted to quell her outrage at such an appalling price. What was needed here was a bridge and not this thievery. Her merchant’s instinct took hold, and much to her own satisfaction, and to the ferry master’s astonishment, she backed him down to two coppers.
“You shouldn’t be wrongly charging the king’s servants,” she admonished him. “It’s people like you who take advantage and drive up taxes. The king shall hear of it.” It was a bit more heated than she intended, and not that perfect show of comportment she was trying to model for Fergal, but the ferry master blanched in a pleasing manner.
“Sorry, sir, sorry. Don’ tell the king! I swear I won’ overcharge his men again!”
Sir? Karigan sighed.
The deal was struck and the ramp drawn down so the Riders could lead their mounts aboard. Condor loaded with no problem, having had his share of ferry crossings through his career. Sunny, however, was less sure and balked. She had to look the contraption over carefully before she allowed Fergal to lead her on board. Karigan was impressed by how he remained calm and patient with her, and even patted her neck and offered her praise once she stood solidly on board. He was learning, though she could not say he had warmed up to the mare, and she sensed his good care of her was inspired more by duty than affection. Once Sunny was loaded, he turned his attention back to the river, and fidgeted as they waited for the oarsmen to shove off.
In some places the river was half a mile wide, but in the far north where it originated, born of ice and snow in a jagged line of mountains, the river ran narrow, wild, and white, cascading down the landscape in unnavigable rapids, birthing other rivers that spread across the land like branching veins. Few adventurers traveled that far north for the land was icy and harsh and no one lived there. As the river flowed into Sacoridia, first through Adolind Province, it calmed and widened, though the spring melt created some fast-moving rapids. Here at the Rivertown crossing, the river was wide and comparatively placid.
The oarsmen took up their stations starboard and port, and the ferry master dropped his rudder and tiller into place. With strong, long strokes of the oars, they began the crossing. The northwest wind pushed at the ferry and curdled the surface of the river, but the ferry master leaning on the tiller kept them on course. Poor Sunny braced her legs to stand steady, the whites of her eyes showing.
As the ferry pulled out farther into the river, they left behind a shore littered with rank river weed and fish floating belly up in the shallows among snarled strands of netting and broken barrel staves. Rotten vegetables and refuse added to the stink of dead fish, and a boot was caught in the ribs of an abandoned dory. There was smashed crockery and tangled fishing gear stuck in the mud. The scene, Karigan thought, could belong to any busy harbor town.
The wind lifted spray from the oars in upstroke, which slapped her cheek in icy splashes.
“So’s it true the king has got hisself a woman?” the ferry master asked.
Karigan blinked, then almost laughed. It was the first time she had heard the betrothal referred to in such a way. “King Zachary has contracted to marry Lord-Governor Coutre’s daughter.”
“Aye, contracted. Whore games of the nobles that is.”
“Best to watch how you speak of our king and future queen,” Karigan warned, though she thought of it in much the same way.
“Well, that’s fine,” the ferry master said, puffing on his pipe. “Time the old boy took a wife.”
Karigan lifted her eyebrows. Old boy? King Zachary? She didn’t know whether to be perturbed or to laugh. King Zachary was older than she by twelve years, but “old boy”? She glanced at Fergal to see how he was taking the conversation, but he was leaning over the port rail, staring into the river’s depths as the ferrymen dipped and pulled on their oars in a hypnotic rhythm, the oarlocks groaning with each stroke.
The harsh wind blew down the river and nearly carried off the ferry master’s cap. He caught it in time and pulled it down securely over his head. The craft shuddered against the blast and more spray washed over the starboard side. Karigan shivered and stood in the lee of Condor to cut the wind.
The ferry was tied up where the street met water. It wasn’t more than a barge with rails, large enough to carry horse-drawn wagons and carriages. It was propelled by oars, for a line and pulley system one might find on a smaller river was impractical due to the Grandgent’s breadth and the mast height of the vessels that needed to pass through the ferry crossing.
Karigan rang a brass bell that hung from a post beside the ferry and four burly, grubby rivermen emerged from the nearest tavern. These were the oarsmen. An older fellow with gray whiskers and a pipe sauntered out behind them, no doubt the ferry master.
“Weeell,” he drawled, “a pair o’ king’s men if my eyes don’ deceive me.”
Karigan wanted to tell him that, yes, his eyes did in fact deceive him, but she learned to restrain her sarcasm when on duty. At least most of the time. Now she had the added pressure of setting a good example of Rider comportment for Fergal.
“We require passage across the river,” she said.
“O’ course ye do,” he replied, taking his own time to amble up to her. “Two ’orses and two men. That’ll be a silver each.”
An internal struggle erupted within Karigan as she attempted to quell her outrage at such an appalling price. What was needed here was a bridge and not this thievery. Her merchant’s instinct took hold, and much to her own satisfaction, and to the ferry master’s astonishment, she backed him down to two coppers.
“You shouldn’t be wrongly charging the king’s servants,” she admonished him. “It’s people like you who take advantage and drive up taxes. The king shall hear of it.” It was a bit more heated than she intended, and not that perfect show of comportment she was trying to model for Fergal, but the ferry master blanched in a pleasing manner.
“Sorry, sir, sorry. Don’ tell the king! I swear I won’ overcharge his men again!”
Sir? Karigan sighed.
The deal was struck and the ramp drawn down so the Riders could lead their mounts aboard. Condor loaded with no problem, having had his share of ferry crossings through his career. Sunny, however, was less sure and balked. She had to look the contraption over carefully before she allowed Fergal to lead her on board. Karigan was impressed by how he remained calm and patient with her, and even patted her neck and offered her praise once she stood solidly on board. He was learning, though she could not say he had warmed up to the mare, and she sensed his good care of her was inspired more by duty than affection. Once Sunny was loaded, he turned his attention back to the river, and fidgeted as they waited for the oarsmen to shove off.
In some places the river was half a mile wide, but in the far north where it originated, born of ice and snow in a jagged line of mountains, the river ran narrow, wild, and white, cascading down the landscape in unnavigable rapids, birthing other rivers that spread across the land like branching veins. Few adventurers traveled that far north for the land was icy and harsh and no one lived there. As the river flowed into Sacoridia, first through Adolind Province, it calmed and widened, though the spring melt created some fast-moving rapids. Here at the Rivertown crossing, the river was wide and comparatively placid.
The oarsmen took up their stations starboard and port, and the ferry master dropped his rudder and tiller into place. With strong, long strokes of the oars, they began the crossing. The northwest wind pushed at the ferry and curdled the surface of the river, but the ferry master leaning on the tiller kept them on course. Poor Sunny braced her legs to stand steady, the whites of her eyes showing.
As the ferry pulled out farther into the river, they left behind a shore littered with rank river weed and fish floating belly up in the shallows among snarled strands of netting and broken barrel staves. Rotten vegetables and refuse added to the stink of dead fish, and a boot was caught in the ribs of an abandoned dory. There was smashed crockery and tangled fishing gear stuck in the mud. The scene, Karigan thought, could belong to any busy harbor town.
The wind lifted spray from the oars in upstroke, which slapped her cheek in icy splashes.
“So’s it true the king has got hisself a woman?” the ferry master asked.
Karigan blinked, then almost laughed. It was the first time she had heard the betrothal referred to in such a way. “King Zachary has contracted to marry Lord-Governor Coutre’s daughter.”
“Aye, contracted. Whore games of the nobles that is.”
“Best to watch how you speak of our king and future queen,” Karigan warned, though she thought of it in much the same way.
“Well, that’s fine,” the ferry master said, puffing on his pipe. “Time the old boy took a wife.”
Karigan lifted her eyebrows. Old boy? King Zachary? She didn’t know whether to be perturbed or to laugh. King Zachary was older than she by twelve years, but “old boy”? She glanced at Fergal to see how he was taking the conversation, but he was leaning over the port rail, staring into the river’s depths as the ferrymen dipped and pulled on their oars in a hypnotic rhythm, the oarlocks groaning with each stroke.
The harsh wind blew down the river and nearly carried off the ferry master’s cap. He caught it in time and pulled it down securely over his head. The craft shuddered against the blast and more spray washed over the starboard side. Karigan shivered and stood in the lee of Condor to cut the wind.
