Then again, maybe they had no plan at all, and were only trailing us as spies. Either way, the frustration lay in not knowing — and more than that, in their inescapable presence. Just because our adversaries posed no great threat while we were on open water, that didn’t mean we could risk their getting too near, let alone ignore them.
I did my best, however, and tried to lose myself as well as I could in the routine of the days. There was something hypnotic in watching the water slide by, the ever-present mountains drifting past. On their farther, Castovalian side, those mountains rose in gentle, wooded hills that softened their stark outlines; here, they presented their backs to us, a rugged wall of stone that jutted and receded like the fortifications of some gargantuan city. Every so often there would be a beach of grit and pebbles, its edges smudged by the driving surf, and even more rarely a narrow cove of white sand, with knotty trees eking out a slim existence on its crevassed slopes, but for the most part there were only the cliffs, climbing in layers and topped with jagged pinnacles that scratched the sky.
The boats were fast, surprisingly so for their size. They were also unlike anything I’d seen, very different from the craft that plied the inland waters of the Casto Mara or for that matter the skiffs that fished from the eastern ports of Goya Mica and Goya Pinenta. They were high in the stern and bow, and also higher at the sides than the river boats I was used to. Within, a half dozen thwarts made room for twelve men to row in tandem, six to either side — and row we did, for the wind was strictly against us, an unsteady billowing that brought spatters of rain from a dull, iron-grey sky.
It soon became apparent that someone at some time had made the judgement to sacrifice royal comfort for royal safety, for there was no shelter on board. A complex arrangement of hooks and pegs in the stern suggested some way to rig a canopy, where presumably Panchetto could have lazed and watched others labour on his behalf; however a quick search of the holds had revealed nothing that could be hung there. At least there was water, and food as well — all of the dried or salted variety and much of that past the point of being edible, but enough to complement our supplies in an emergency.
We worked the oars in shifts, through the day and night. No one was spared, not me and not Estrada, not even Saltlick, though it took an hour’s hard work to balance the other rowers enough that he didn’t send us curving off route, and it was clear that the effort caused him pain. I’d found myself worrying more and more about him; for while Estrada and Navare had managed to get the bolt out and wrap his leg, fresh blood continued to splotch the bandage and he still strained to stand. It wasn’t like Saltlick, who normally recovered from injuries the way others did from hangovers.
All of it — worry for Saltlick, the unsheltered cold of the nights, the shifts of hard labour, the lack of decent food and the ever-present menace of our shadows from the Palace Guard — worked to drag at my already miserable humour. By the second day I could hardly bring myself to speak to anyone, and the fact that everyone on board was too busy to notice only aggravated me more. By the third day, I knew my mood could sink no lower, and that there were only two things likely to relieve it: reaching our destination or a good fight. Given that we still had a day or more of travel before us, it was clear which was more likely.
As for a suitable sparring partner, there could be only one choice. I couldn’t bring myself to torment Saltlick, the guardsmen had done nothing to incur my ire and Mounteban’s buccaneers were too frightening for me to so much as go near them. No, there was only one person I had good reason to vent my anger at: the woman who’d led me to be on this accursed boat in the first place, who had driven me into danger after danger since the instant I’d set eyes on her.
All that was missing was the opportunity. Estrada had slipped into her mayoral persona from the moment we’d set out, conferring with Navare, tending to Saltlick, acting as go-between for the guardsmen and buccaneers — who were urgently in need of one — and generally behaving like the interfering termagant she was. She’d hardly spoken more than a word to me and when she had, my abrupt answers had discouraged her from trying again.
I’d thought we might get through the rest of the journey that way, and if the prospect added to my irritation, I was also a little glad. I’d taken by then to fantasising about how I’d wait until we landed and then disappear at the least opportune moment, or of twenty other ways I could make it clear that I’d been an unwilling passenger, practically a kidnappee. Better that, I’d decided, than a slanging match I might conceivably come out the worse from.
I should have realised Estrada was too much the busybody to leave the decision in my hands.
It was late in the third evening, the waters fading from the colour of dried blood to the purple of stale wine. Sick to death of our resident cook’s culinary efforts, which had yet to extend much beyond hard biscuit, dried olives and salt meat, I’d ended up leaving a good proportion of my meal, for all that my stomach was growling. In frustration, I pushed my bowl away and it tipped over, spilling its miserable contents.
I pondered trying to clean the mess, decided it hardly warranted the effort. When I looked up, Estrada was standing over me, swaying in time with the boat’s motion. “What’s wrong with you Damasco?” she said. “I’ve never seen you turn away food unless you were actually poisoned.”
I glowered at my overturned bowl. “Whatever I’m turning away, I’d hardly call it food.”
“You’re eating just as well as anyone aboard, and doing less work for it than most.” Estrada sighed, ran a hand through tangled hair. “I know you didn’t want to come along, but…”
“But what?” I cut her off. “You had no right to drag me into this mess!”
“Well if you’d kept your fingers to yourself,” she said, “we wouldn’t have had half the Palace Guard after us, and perhaps we could have cleared a way into the barracks for you.”
“And if you had minded your own damn business,” I spat, “the Castoval wouldn’t be about to be wiped off the map by its own king.”
Her eyes went wide — with shock, resentment or both. “That’s absurd, Damasco. Is that really the best you can do?”
I’d already said more than I meant to; what was there to do now but press on? “You know, Estrada,” I said, “since you decided to make nice with Mounteban, I’ve been thinking over something he told us. I never took it seriously at the time, and I never took it seriously when we were trying to kick him out of Altapasaeda, but now that we’re all the best of friends I’ve been giving it a little more consideration. Just why did you feel the need to start a fight with Moaradrid anyway? It was Panchessa he wanted a war with, not us.”
Whatever I thought I’d seen in her expression, the anger had altogether burned it away now. “You think I should have left Moaradrid to make a bloodbath of Ans Pasaeda? Hurt more innocent people and then, sooner or later, come back and do the same to the entire Castoval? You think I should have let him make murdering slaves of the giants?”
I jabbed a finger towards Saltlick. “And you’re so much better? Remind me why Saltlick isn’t leading his people home right now, like you promised him he would be. What I think is, you started a war you don’t know how to finish. I think we wouldn’t be worrying about the King hanging us in the streets if you’d just let Moaradrid do what needed to be done.”
Her hand came up at that, and I thought for a moment she’d strike me. Then she let it drop, and her voice was quiet as she said, “What’s this about, Damasco? I mean, really? What is it you think I’ve done to you?”
It was the last question I wanted to answer just then, and I fought to think of a way out of it. Yet even as it did, the words were frothing inside me, bubbling up like a geyser, and there was nothing I could do to keep them down. “What did you do? I trusted you, damn it! You and Alvantes… the great and noble heroes of the Castoval! I thought… I was actually starting to believe it might mean something. We topple Mounteban, peace is restored, everyone’s happy. Now look at this mess! Even if we survive, what good’s ever going to come out of any of this?”