In the broad but shallow cargo area below the raised helm, the crewmen lounged in the midday sun, smoking, drinking tecan and picking at what remained of their midday meal, all but the four strangers, who huddled together in the forward corner, talking among themselves and taking turns marking the cutter’s progress.
It’s a faster ship. Millard wished they could hear his thoughts. There is no point staring back at them; they’ll catch up with this hulk whenever they please, so stop giving them reason to believe we’re up to no good!
Millard nearly succumbed to his anxiety and turned for a quick glance, but he gripped the wheel with both hands until his knuckles whitened. ‘No,’ he said aloud. ‘The moment I turn round, they’ll know they have me, the bleeding whores.’
The River Prince was like all the barges that worked the passage between central Malakasia and Pellia; she could haul three times the number of crates they could pile inside a schooner, and Captain Millard needed only one-third the draft: even at the height of the dry season, he could run the river from south of Treven all the way into Pellia with two thousand crates of summer vegetables or fifty pallets of freshly cut lumber.
The barge captains had all developed a healthy, if wary, relationship with the region’s customs and naval officers: Prince Malagon’s army needed daily shipments to stay well-fed, well-supplied and ready for immediate deployment. The barge captains didn’t skim too much off the top or forge their papers and in turn the officials looked the other way if a few extra crates of wine, beer or tobacco were unloaded at an unscheduled stop somewhere along the river. Those who ran weapons or who cheated the military simply disappeared; their ships still made the river run, but with a new captain at the helm.
Millard had dabbled a little in extra trade, but as he looked down at his new crew members nervously marking the naval cutter, he worried that he had allowed his desire for a quick score to cloud his judgment.
‘Round that next bend,’ Millard said to himself, ‘and he’ll see where I’m bound. He’ll tack off towards the centre of the river. Good rutting monks, but there’s Sal and the Black Water. You rutters know he’s got at least two crates of root in there. Go follow him for an aven or two.’ But Captain Millard didn’t need to watch to know the cutter was staying right behind him as the River Prince sailed north to the Welstar docks.
As he navigated the last turn before coming into view of the Welstar military encampment, the captain nodded to a young woman, who hustled up the creaky wooden steps and rooted around in a box beneath the binnacle. She pulled out three small banners, one yellow and green, one blue and white and one bright orange. The captain nodded.
‘Run those up, Bree,’ he ordered. The flags that flapped noisily in the brisk wind would tell the cutter that he meant to dock at Welstar and offload crates of vegetables.
‘Up in the bow with you, Bree, and keep an eye peeled for our mooring colours.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The girl scurried through the hold and up onto the bow platform. Shielding her eyes against the sun, she watched until one of the dock stewards ran up the same set of coloured pennants. ‘Three, sir,’ she shouted, pointing at the third wooden dock from the end.
The twenty-one wooden piers jutting from the wharf at Welstar were a hive of activity during any season, but on most winter runs, Millard and his crew never saw Pellia, for the army normally bought everything he carried; he expected them to take all his vegetables this time as well.
He had promised the strangers two opportunities to take in as much as they could of the Welstar Palace encampment; if the supply officer striding officiously out the dock to greet them cleaned him out today, he would see if the military needed anything hauled downriver to Pellia. If they didn’t require his services, Millard would allow the barge to drift with the current past the old palace while his crew made a few minor repairs – to what, he had no idea yet, but the River Prince was an old tub and there was always something that needed fixing. Then, once the strange foursome had enjoyed their second look at the castle and its grounds, he’d begin the arduous task of tacking back upriver to the narrows north of the Welstar docks. There, Millard would hand over the Mareks to lash on to the next available oxen team, and try to ignore the inane drivel of their driver as the River Dancer was towed upstream to the swirling, deep-water eddies above Treven.
And if his new crew members were unhappy with that arrangement, he would have them thrown overboard; that was quite sufficient risk for one journey. Millard looked forward to pocketing his silver and being done with this business for good.
As he headed the barge towards the long row of evenly spaced wooden piers Captain Millard discovered that the cutter was shadowing the River Prince into port.
‘Now why would he be coming in here after me?’ he asked the empty bridge. ‘I’ve run up my colours, is all, even a blind man can see I’m shipping winter vegetables. What’s wrong with winter vegetables?’
He barked orders and the small team of sailors scampered over mountains of wooden crates and boxes, untying tarps and loosening cargo lines. The girl, Bree, remained in the bow, a length of rope in one hand, until they were close enough for her to toss the line to the dock steward waiting near a stanchion.
The captain felt his hull bump against the wooden dock with a muted thud as the cutter closed in at flank speed. His hands trembled a little as he reached inside his tunic and withdrew his shipping papers. Something was about to happen, but he didn’t have a clue what, or why; instead, he’d behave as normal. If he went along as if everything was normal, producing his manifests, greeting the supply officer, chatting with the customs officials, the pending trouble might somehow pass them by.
When the cutter furled sheets and dropped anchor off the slip between docks three and four, Captain Millard knew his hopes were for naught: the River Prince was boxed in. He swallowed an order to cut the dock lines and break free, even though his barge could easily smash the cutter to splinters.
As a squad of soldiers approached at a quick march, the crew began to mill about nervously, looking at the captain for answers; Millard gestured for them to stand down, trying to convey reassurance: it’ll be all right. We’ll be back on the river soon.
‘Captain?’ A supply officer he recognised approached along the pier.
Millard searched for the man’s name, and replied cheerily, ‘Lieutenant Warren,’ waving his manifest again. ‘What’s happening, sir?’
The officer gave him a look that said he had no idea why the military had taken a sudden interest in the River Prince. ‘Captain, join me on the pier.’
‘What’s happening, Lieutenant?’ Millard repeated, moving warily towards the rail. ‘I’m hauling vegetables, and I’m happy to sell them right here.’
‘Join me up here, Captain, I need you to comply right away,’ the official said. ‘On orders, I am impounding the River Prince and its cargo until further notice. You and your crew will be placed under arrest.’
The soldiers lined up along the port rail, weapons drawn. Captain Millard looked back towards the river and saw two ranks of bowmen, arrows nocked, lining the cutter’s rail. There was no escape; he leaned forward and whispered, ‘You are not taking my boat, Warren.’
The lieutenant did the same, checking to be certain none of the soldiers along the pier heard him. ‘I’m sure it’s all right, sir. Please come with me. The major has been grumpy all this Moon. His foot has been bothering him again.’
Millard nodded imperceptibly, then shouted to his crew, ‘All hands, up here now. Follow me.’ He jumped ashore and started down the dock.
‘They need to relinquish their weapons, sir,’ Lieutenant Warren said, as firmly as he dared.
‘They don’t carry weapons, Lieutenant. They’re sailors.’