But they couldn't, for the society of the waves and currents was an insular one with its own patois, mores, and traditions, interdependent with the world ashore, yet separate in many respects. People claimed that some watermen lived and died without ever setting foot on solid ground, and although Shamur suspected that was an exaggeration, she was certain no landsman could prowl the floating city without attracting many a speculative eye.
A husky woman wrapped in an oilcloth mantle emerged from the barea's cabin. "Good evening," said Thamalon.
"Evening," she replied. "What do you want?"
"We're looking for someone," Shamur said. "We don't know his name, but he's thin, has a black beard, and is about as tall as my friend here. Wears a gold ring in his lower lip, has fish scales tattooed on his hands and throat, and carries a brace of short swords. Do you know him?"
The bargewoman's eyes narrowed. "What do you want him for?"
"There was a boating accident," Thamalon said. It was the story he and Shamur had agreed upon. "My master's daughter would have drowned if this fellow hadn't happened to be passing by on another vessel and fished her out of the drink. Lord Baerent wants to reward him, and if you help us find him, there are a few fivestars in it for you as well."
The bargewoman shook her head. "I don't know the man."
"Well, thank you anyway," Thamalon sighed. "We'll walk on through, then."
The nobles asked their questions on all the vessels tied up at the dock, then moved on to those farther offshore. As they made their way through the floating city, Thamalon was affable when addressing the watermen and taciturn otherwise.
Shamur hadn't much minded his sullenness all afternoon, but now, perhaps because he'd finally relaxed for just a moment, it grated on her. At last, as they walked from the bow to the stern of an old trawler, with nets and setlines hanging on every side, she said, "I truly don't blame you for separating me from the things I loved. I realize it was my choice to don the mask I wore."
"Yes, it was," he answered, "but I believe you blame me nonetheless. Why else would you grow so cold?"
"You had your doxies to console you," she said, then winced at the venom in her voice. "I'm sorry. I didn't begin this conversation to find an excuse for a quarrel. Perhaps, unjust as it was, I did resent you to some extent, simply because I was so unhappy."
"Unhappy in your life of luxury and privilege." "It wasn't what I wanted!"
"Apparently not." They reached the rear of the vessel, and he called down to the sleek, narrow passenger skiff moored underneath, to the family of rowers taking their ease on the seats. "Ahoy!"
The nobles inquired about for another hour, still meeting with no success. Shamur became increasingly convinced that they must already have spoken to someone who knew their quarry, but that suspicious individual had been loath to give up a fellow waterman to a pair of outsiders.
Eventually, as they crossed the deck of a barge that had yet to unload its cargo of bins of iron ore, Thamalon said, "I could wish that you'd played your role with greater skill."
Shamur eyed him quizzically. "I did my best." "And I must admit, you hoodwinked everyone, but still, when I think about it now, your impersonation was less than impeccable. At first, you did seem like the sweet, gladsome girl I loved. You had to until after the wedding, I suppose. But soon enough, you petrified into the stiff, imperious creature you are now, as your grand-niece never would have done."
She shrugged. "I suppose I felt that if I couldn't be the rogue anymore, I might as well be the most dignified noblewoman Selgaunt has ever seen. It certainly kept me from slipping up and revealing any hint of the old Shamur."
"To my mind, it's almost as if you were punishing yourself for abandoning the life you cherished by making sure you'd be as lonely and divorced from your true nature as possible."
She frowned, not liking his conjecture but unable to dismiss it out of hand. She was still mulling it over when he grabbed her by the shoulder. "Look!" he said, pointing.
She peered ahead and saw two figures talking on the deck of a gaily painted galley, the kind that pleasure seekers chartered for an outing on the bay. Beneath the mast, illuminated by the glow of a yellow lantern, huddled a tattooed boy and the man she and Thamalon were seeking. She surmised that one of the watermen to whom they'd spoken had indeed been acquainted with the bravo, and had dispatched the youth to warn him.
"Let's go," she murmured, and at that moment, the bully peered out across the expanse of gently bobbing decks that separated them, spotted them, and bolted, vanishing over the opposite side of the galley.
Shamur's eyes took in the lay of the land, or whatever you called it when you were out on an aggregation of boats. "Circle that way," she said, pointing. "Cut him off if he makes for the docks." Should the rogue succeed in reaching the shore, he could lose himself in the teeming streets beyond.
Evidently Thamalon understood her concern, for he set off as she'd bade him without question, leaving her with her longer legs to pursue their prey directly. Springing into motion, her cape streaming out behind her and her scabbard bumping at her hip, she began the chase.
She discovered at once how tricky it was to scramble or leap headlong from one deck to the next, particularly when the two surfaces were at different heights above the water, just as she realized that, although she knew how to swim, a slip and a fall into the frigid bay could easily kill her. She knew she mustn't slow down, else the man with the ring in his lip would elude her.
She leaped over a six-foot expanse of open water, caught hold of the pleasure galley's rail, and started to scramble aboard. Her own momentum nearly carried her onto the point of the boat hook that the lad whom she'd spotted moments before was tentatively poking at her face.
She clung to her perch with one hand and grabbed the tool with the other, ripped it from her assailant's grasp, and tossed it into the water.
"Scat!" she roared, and the boy flinched back, giving her room to vault onto the deck and race to the other side. To her relief, the bully was still visible in full flight several boats away. Leaping to the next vessel in line, she continued the pursuit.
It soon became apparent that the lad with the boat hook wasn't the only waterman who wanted to hinder her. When she bounded onto an old hulk that some entrepreneur had converted into a floating tavern, where fish filets were grilling on wrought-iron braziers, several of the patrons surged forward to attack her. She snatched out her broadsword, dropped the man in the lead with a cut to the thigh, sent another reeling with a gashed arm, and the rest faltered. She ran at them, slashing wildly, and they gave way, though that wasn't the end of the harassment. Topers who hadn't been bold enough to attempt to lay hands on her pelted her with crockery, tankards, and even hunks of bread.
Thereafter, she ran with her sword in hand, and no one attacked her face to face. Some of the watermen tried their best to hinder her in other ways.
As she dashed from the bow to the stern of a skipjack, silently cursing the clutter on the deck, the boom suddenly spun around. It would have swept her into the water had she not instantly dropped flat.
Onboard another barge, she heard a creak, looked around, and spotted the arm of a crane pivoting to drop a net full of crates on her head. She put on a burst of speed, and the boxes crashed down behind her. The crane operator cursed.
Frequently she suffered a stinging bombardment of belaying pins, fishing tackle, and any other missiles the watermen found ready to hand.