Once through the gate, Horst pulled Roran to the side of the street and growled in his ear, “That was a fool thing to do, making up something as ridiculous as that. Cracking the glaze! Do you want a fight? We can’t—” He stopped as Gertrude plucked at his sleeve.
“Look,” murmured the healer.
To the left of the entrance stood a six-foot-wide message board with a narrow shingle roof to protect the yellowing parchment underneath. Half the board was devoted to official notices and proclamations. On the other half hung a block of posters displaying sketches of various criminals. Foremost among them was a drawing of Roran without a beard.
Startled, Roran glanced around to make sure that no one in the street was close enough to compare his face to the illustration, then devoted his attention to the poster. He had expected the Empire to pursue them, but it was still a shock to encounter proof of it. Galbatorix must be expending an enormous amount of resources trying to catch us. When they were in the Spine, it was easy to forget that the outside world existed. I bet posters of me are nailed up throughout the Empire. He grinned, glad that he had stopped shaving and that he and the others had agreed to use false names while in Narda.
A reward was inked at the bottom of the poster. Garrow never taught Roran and Eragon to read, but he did teach them their figures because, as he said, “You have to know how much you own, what it’s worth, and what you’re paid for it so you don’t get rooked by some two-faced knave.” Thus, Roran could see that the Empire had offered ten thousand crowns for him, enough to live in comfort for several decades. In a perverse way, the size of the reward pleased him, giving him a sense of importance.
Then his gaze drifted to the next poster in line.
It was Eragon.
Roran’s gut clenched as if he had been struck, and for a few seconds he forgot to breathe.
He’s alive!
After his initial relief subsided, Roran felt his old anger about Eragon’s role in Garrow’s death and the destruction of their farm take its place, accompanied by a burning desire to know why the Empire was hunting Eragon. It must have something to do with that blue stone and the Ra’zac’s first visit to Carvahall. Once again, Roran wondered what kind of fiendish machinations he and the rest of Carvahall had become entangled in.
Instead of a reward, Eragon’s poster bore two lines of runes. “What crime is he accused of?” Roran asked Gertrude.
The skin around Gertrude’s eyes wrinkled as she squinted at the board. “Treason, the both of you. It says Galbatorix will bestow an earldom on whoever captures Eragon, but that those who try should take care because he’s extremely dangerous.”
Roran blinked with astonishment. Eragon? It seemed inconceivable until Roran considered how he himself had changed in the past few weeks. The same blood runs in our veins. Who knows, Eragon may have accomplished as much or more than I have since he left.
In a low voice, Baldor said, “If killing Galbatorix’s men and defying the Ra’zac only earns you ten thousand crowns — large as that is — what makes you worth an earldom?”
“Buggering the king himself,” suggested Larne.
“That’s enough of that,” said Horst. “Guard your tongue better, Baldor, or we’ll end up in irons. And, Roran, don’t draw attention to yourself again. With a reward like that, people are bound to be watching strangers for anyone who matches your description.” Running a hand through his hair, Horst pulled up his belt and said, “Right. We all have jobs to do. Return here at noon to report on your progress.”
With that their party split into three. Darmmen, Larne, and Hamund set out together to purchase food for the villagers, both to meet present needs and to sustain them through the next stage of their journey. Gertrude — as she had told the guard — went to replenish her stock of herbs, unguents, and tinctures. And Roran, Horst, and Baldor headed down the sloping streets to the docks, where they hoped to charter a ship that could transport the villagers to Surda or, at the very least, Teirm.
When they reached the weathered boardwalk that covered the beach, Roran halted and stared out at the ocean, which was gray from low clouds and dotted with whitecaps from erratic wind. He had never imagined that the horizon could be so perfectly flat. The hollow boom of water knocking against the piles beneath his feet made it feel as if he stood upon the surface of a huge drum. The odor of fish — fresh, gutted, and rotting — overwhelmed every other smell.
Glancing from Roran to Baldor, who was likewise entranced, Horst said, “Quite a sight, isn’t it?”
“Aye,” said Roran.
“Makes you feel rather small, doesn’t it?”
“Aye,” said Baldor.
Horst nodded. “I remember when I first saw the ocean, it had a similar effect on me.”
“When was that?” asked Roran. In addition to the flocks of seagulls whirling over the cove, he noticed an odd type of bird perched upon the piers. The animal had an ungainly body with a striped beak that it kept tucked against its breast like a pompous old man, a white head and neck, and a sooty torso. One of the birds lifted its beak, revealing a leathery pouch underneath.
“Bartram, the smith who came before me,” said Horst, “died when I was fifteen, a year before the end of my apprenticeship. I had to find a smith who was willing to finish another man’s work, so I traveled to Ceunon, which is built along the North Sea. There I met Kelton, a vile old man but good at what he did. He agreed to teach me.” Horst laughed. “By the time we were done, I wasn’t sure if I should thank him or curse him.”
“Thank him, I should think,” said Baldor. “You never would have married Mother otherwise.”
Roran scowled as he studied the waterfront. “There aren’t many ships,” he observed. Two craft were berthed at the south end of the port and a third at the opposite side with nothing but fishing boats and dinghies in between. Of the southern pair, one had a broken mast. Roran had no experience with ships but, to him, none of the vessels appeared large enough to carry almost three hundred passengers.
Going from one ship to the next, Roran, Horst, and Baldor soon discovered that they were all otherwise engaged. It would take a month or more to repair the ship with the broken mast. The vessel beside it, the Waverunner, was rigged with leather sails and was about to venture north to the treacherous islands where the Seithr plant grew. And the Albatross, the last ship, had just arrived from distant Feinster and was getting its seams recaulked before departing with its cargo of wool.
A dockworker laughed at Horst’s questions. “You’re too late and too early at the same time. Most of the spring ships came and left two, three weeks ago. An’ another month, the nor’westers will start gusting, an’ then the seal and walrus hunters will return and we’ll get ships from Teirm and the rest of the Empire to take the hides, meat, and oil. Then you might have a chance of hiring a captain with an empty hold. Meanwhile, we don’t see much more traffic than this.”
Desperate, Roran asked, “Is there no other way to get goods from here to Teirm? It doesn’t have to be fast or comfortable.”
“Well,” said the man, hefting the box on his shoulder, “if it doesn’t have to be fast an’ you’re only going to Teirm, then you might try Clovis over there.” He pointed to a line of sheds that floated between two piers where boats could be stored. “He owns some barges that he ships grain on in the fall. The rest of the year, Clovis fishes for a living, like most everybody in Narda.” Then he frowned. “What kind of goods do you have? The sheep have already been shorn, an’ no crops are in as of yet.”