Damn! The blasted thing would have to be on the far side of the jetty, necessitating a hazardous trip across an open space. Tarnal sighed. Well, nobody had said that this was going to be easy. Divesting himself once again of his cloak and then the rest of his clothing, including his boots and sword, he rolled them into a bundle and thrust them safely between the roots of a tree, high up the bank where the earth was dry. Shivering a little in the cool spring wind, he looked doubtfully again at the stretch of open space along the railing, and wished he could have waited until after dark. But Vannor had warned him that many of the merchants kept huge and savage dogs, which were let loose when dusk closed in, to roam the grounds by night. No—risky though it was, the boat would have to be stolen during the daylight hours, or not at all.
Silent and stealthy as an otter, the Nightrunner slipped from the bank and into the river, clad only in a loincloth and a slender lock pick that he carried fastened to a thong about his neck. Swimming underwater, he let the current take him down along the iron-fenced bank until he saw the shadowy wooden piles of the jetty through the murky water. There he surfaced, gasping but safely sheltered from hostile eyes, to take a few deep breaths before diving down again to complete his swim toward the boathouse.
Due to the unexpected swiftness of the current, Tarnal all but overshot his mark. At the very last minute, he spotted the iron bars of the water gates, and shot out a hand to grab one, practically drowning himself in the process. Finally he managed to get his other hand to the bars and hauled himself up until his head was out of the water. Clinging to the gate for dear life, he hung there choking, spitting out water, and trying desperately to muffle the noise of his coughing and spluttering. At last he got his breath back, and rubbed his head against his arm to push the dripping hair out of his eyes.
Peering through the bars into the gloom within the boat-house, Tarnal spat out a vicious and heartfelt curse. After all his efforts, this blasted place was empty too! Groaning, he sank back into the water to the full reach of his aching arms. Now he would have to swim all the way back again, and return damp and weary to the sewer in the chill of evening. And how could he break the news to the others—especially Zanna—that he had failed them? Worse still, how would they manage to get Vannor and Hebba all the way to Wyvernesse now?
For a long, hopeless moment, Tarnal simply hung there, resting his head on his arms and lacking the heart to go on, though the freezing water was rapidly sucking the last of the energy from his body. The sun was sinking toward evening now, slanting low through the trees and turning the river into a rippling path of beaten copper. His spirit darkened with defeat, the Nightrunner was oblivious to the lambent beauty of the evening, but common sense finally triumphed over his black mood, and told him he’d better get out of the water—and fast. As he raised his head, he noticed that the sunlight on the water was now striking a dappled reflection right into the boathouse. Tarnal blinked, incredulous, simply unable to believe the evidence of his eyes. There, on the walkway at the very back of the building, was a rowing boat laid upside down on trestles, freshly caulked and painted while it had been taken out of the water for winter, and waiting to be launched.
“Thank you, gods—oh, thank you!” the Nightrunner whispered aloud. Almost weeping with relief, he reached up to pick the sturdy padlock that held the chained gates shut. More than once he had cause to be thankful that his burglar’s tool was fastened to the thong, as it slipped again and again from his numb fingers until he was swearing with frustration. Eventually, however, his perseverance was rewarded. The chain and lock fell with a soft splash into the water, and the gates swung open on oiled and soundless hinges.
Single-handed, it was a struggle to get the boat into the water, but Tarnal worked with desperate haste. Dusk was falling now, and the dogs would be out at any minute. Even though they could not get into the boathouse from the land side, they would certainly know that he was there. Once he had the little craft afloat, with its oars inside it, he looked around and found a coil of rope and an old tarpaulin, both of which would come in handy. Perhaps, using one of the oars, they could even jury-rig a little sail when they reached the open sea…
His weariness forgotten in the surge of hope renewed, Tarnal sculled quietly out of the boathouse in the gathering twilight. Once he reached the concealing shelter of the trees on the other side of the jetty, he ran the boat aground and moored it securely before scrambling up the bank to grope for his clothes. Getting into the warm, dry garments was a luxury akin to ecstasy. It gave him the final reserve of strength he needed to row back upriver to await his friends.
For Zanna, cold and uncomfortable on the slippery walkway of the damp and stinking sewer, the hours stretched on and on in an endless agony of waiting. Though after a time she was both thirsty and hungry, and Hebba had plenty of food packed in her basket, the mere idea of eating in this foul and filthy place was enough to make her gorge rise. Frantic as she was with worry over the dangers of her father’s journey through the perilous night streets, and the risks that Tarnal was running trying to steal a boat in broad daylight, Hebba’s doom-laden whining soon drove her to distraction. Eventually, she decided that the only way to shut the wretched woman up was to pretend to go to sleep.
“Hebba—I’m sorry, but I can’t keep my eyes open any longer,” she interrupted the older woman’s complaints. “You should try to get some rest, too—we’ve a long night ahead of us.” Yawning hugely for the benefit of the cook, she snuggled as best she could into her cloak, and pillowed her head on her arms. Almost as soon as she closed her eyes, her late night and early rising had turned pretense into reality.
Zanna was jerked awake by the clutch of Hebba’s fingers, digging bruisingly into her arm in the darkness. Gods, she thought fuzzily. How long have I slept?
“Listen,” Hebba hissed. Zanna could feel her trembling violently. “There’s someone coming!”
Now that she was properly awake, the girl could hear the sound of dragging footsteps coming from above. “It’ll only be Dad and the others—I hope,” she tried to reassure herself—but nevertheless, she drew the knife that Tarnal had left with her, glad that the darkness masked her actions from Hebba. The woman was scared enough already. Farther down the tunnel, she heard the tortured scrape of the grating being shifted. “Zanna—it’s us!” a hoarse voice whispered—and suddenly she felt unutterably foolish for letting herself become infected by Hebba’s fears. “Dad,” she whispered joyfully, “we’re just along the walkway.”
“Light the lantern, love, will you? We daren’t risk a light up here, and we can’t see a bloody thing—especially not the ladder! It’s blacker than Miathan’s heart inside these blasted tunnels, and I can’t climb down one-handed in the dark.”
Even with the aid of the light, and the assistance of Benziorn below him and Yanis above, Vannor still had a difficult time getting down the ladder. In the end he gave it up and dropped the last few feet, cursing as the impact jolted the bound stump of his arm. Zanna noticed that he was wearing the leather gauntlets that they had prepared for him, the right one bound securely in place and stuffed to the fingertips with rags. They had been Benziorn’s idea—to help protect Vannor’s injury from the infections that proliferated in the sewers, and to disguise from any prying eyes the fact that he lacked a hand. If word of such a man should get back to the Magefolk, the consequences would be dire indeed.