XIV
AFTER a brief rest, the two young Tusco slaves resumed their rowing, in long, slow strokes. Watching them, Gamwyn saw they must be brother and sister, and not much older than he. He could see them looking at him, but they didn’t seem unfriendly, only desperate.
Finally, he said, “My name is Gamwyn. I am a Pelbar from the city of Threerivers. I am going to the South Ocean to find a shell.”
“Threerivers?” said the boy.
“Yes. Do you know it?”
“Heard of it.” Gamwyn felt he drawled out his speech, slurring across the consonants.
“I am Artess,” the girl said. “This is Reo. My brother. We are twins.”
“Where are you from?” Gamwyn saw their hesitation. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ask. You don’t sound like Siveri.”
“We had been living at Murkal, with the Alats, until we escaped. But then we were captured by the Hightower Tusco. We’ve been there a full half year. This is the Alat boat we escaped in.”
“Ah. I see you handle it well.”
“A lot easier goin’ downriver.”
“Murkal. Can we get by it? I, I mean is it like the Tusco?”
Artess sighed, resting on her oars. “In some ways it’s better, in some worse.”
“No. Not worse.”
“Maybe. Trickier. Yeah. We can get by it. We’d already decided ta go downriver if we ever got the chance. You goin’ all the way ta the South Ocean? We’ll go along together, huh, Reo?”
“Yeah. But we have to get by Murkal. That’s got me worried.”
“Do they enslave like the Tusco?” Gamwyn asked.
“Not exactly. They might as well. They just keep yah in debt.”
“In debt? What do you mean?”
“Yah work yur wazzooobee off, and it still costs yah more ta live than yah get out of it. The investors. They get it all.”
Gamwyn was silent. Another problem society. “Do they have a Nicfad?”
“No. Only a military. I’m pretty sure we could slip by there at night,” said Artess. “We’ll pick a dark one and slide by down the west shore sill tangled in with some brush.”
“How far off are they?”
“A good ways. Not much to worry about now but the Nicfad.”
“I think they’ve got problems of their own,” said Gamwyn. “Give somebody a really big problem and they tend to ignore small ones like us.”
Reo chuckled. “I’m gettin’ hungry,” he said. “You fish?”
Gamwyn looked startled. They looked at him, expectantly. All at once he felt a great relief. They needed help. His help. They wouldn’t betray him while he was of use.
“Yes,” he said. “We’ve got no line right now. Let’s find a good brushy island, and I’ll make some traps.”
During the next days, as the leaves filled out on the trees, Gamwyn and his two new friends drifted south into warmer country, at last seeing strange, gray beards hanging from the trees and larger flocks of egrets, some reddish tinged, winging around the river.
He fished and taught the others, using traps and weirs, and dug ankleroot when the floodwaters subsided. He would have loved to strip, as Reo did, completely unconscious of his sister’s presence, but he did tear off his Tusco slave clothes and spent most of his time in a small length of it, pinned like a diaper.
One evening, as they sat by their fire eating catfish, Artess said “Gamwyn. Yah know what we are?”
“No. You don’t have to tell me.”
“Tantal. We’re Tantal.”
Gamwyn sat up. “What?”
“Yah know where we were born?”
“No.”
“Threerivers. Where you were.”
Gamwyn stood and backed up. He was confused.
“Sit down, Gamwyn. We were from the survivors of the invasion. After we lost at Northwall, we were sent downriver. Mama was heavy with us, and she stopped at Threerivers where we were born. That’s what she told us.”
“What? How did you get down here?”
“We were sent on. Our ship seemed too big for the Tusco to attack, and they let us go on—they wouldn’t have if they’d known how undermanned it was. The Alats were friendly. They took us all in, ‘for a rest.’ But then we all went into debt, and those that are still alive are still there. Working.”
“Your mother?”
“She died. Then we stole this boat and left. But the Tusco caught us.”
“We were trying to get back to Threerivers,” said Reo. “We were born there, so we thought they might take us in.”
“They would have. But you wouldn’t have had it easy, Reo. You’re a boy. Boys have it tough, and men.”
“Doesn’t anybody know how to make things good for everybody?”
As they continued downriver, Gamwyn was troubled by a recurring dream in which the whirling tornado smashed through the Tusco tower again and again, sending people and pieces of the structure flying. Sometimes the tornado became the shell in his mind, then a river eddy, a twist of rope, a spiral of climbing vine, the curl of a fern fiddle-head, the three-tiered loops of the Protector’s hair, the curve of the main staircase at Threerivers, all whirling, shifting, and mixing, all smashing through the tower, spraying it out on the gale-wild air.
He would awaken sweating and groaning and have to bathe his face in river water to calm himself. What had happened to Daw? To her mother? To the rest? Was it worth it, this trip? Was it his fault? Would they and the people of High Tower have taken shelter if they hadn’t been so intent on chopping off his foot? And what of the curse he called down on them? He had done it to scare them, as in the old story of Conn, but he shouted out the words fiercely, hoping they were true. No. Aven would never answer a curse. Aven blessed men but did not curse them. Still, people had been hurt—and killed. He was sure of it, though he had seen none but the Nicfad who chased him.
Finally, as he woke, he found Artess holding his shoulders. He struggled briefly, but she leaned down to him and put her cheek by his, whispering, “It’s all right, Gamwyn. Don’ worry. It’s the tornado, isn’ it. Let it go. Yah didn’ cause it. It just came.” She kissed his forehead. He could see her in the moonlight as a, glowing circlet of hair around a dark head. He never replied, but she sat holding his hand for a long time in the dark.
In the morning, she looked at him. “Yah all right?” she asked.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“We’re gettin’ near Murkal now, yah know. We’ll have ta go slow. They have fast boats and slow. This is a slow one. We want to wait for the moon to grow old.”
Gamwyn had sensed that they were nearing the city because of Reo, who found continual reasons for hiding out on islands, holing up, striking westward, resting, or fishing. But the moon was waning, and the dark nights were coming. They had to be in position to glide by at night. Soon they took to traveling at night only, and eventually passed what Artess called the “upriver docks” one night late.
They found a brushy island and waited out the next day, seeing two boats of fishermen checking set nets as they hid. That evening the weather turned rainy, and they knew their chance to make the last few ayas past Murkal had come.
They neared the city late. Through the misty rain, Gamwyn could see it looming dark on the east bank. “There. See?” Artess whispered. “In front is the parade ground. The main gate is flanked by guard bastions. See that thing sticking up?”
“With the three levels?”
“Yeah. That’s the Godswagon house that the priests guard.”
“Godswagon?”
“Yeah. They think they’re favored, and when God comes back, he’ll ride in some ancient thing they have up there.”
“Quiet,” said Reo.
“It’s all right. We’re almost by it now.” She paused, then added, “Look. The fishing dock is out in the stream. Let’s stop and see if there’s a knife or two.”
“No, Art. Please. No.” Reo’s voice trembled. But she expertly steered the boat to the float. The three reached out to it silently. A man lay on it, snoring slightly. Artess stepped lightly onto the float and crawled across it like a spider. The man stirred and smacked his lips, then settled back to sleep.
Artess came back and whispered, “Here. Two knives. There’s some rope, too.”
Reo whimpered, but she had turned away. The man yawned and sat up. Reo let go of the float and let the boat glide downstream. Gamwyn was furious, but when he took hold of the boy’s shoulders, he felt him trembling violently. He had to slip into the rower’s seat and turn the boat upstream, all without making noise. But as he did, he heard a slight hiss, and Artess came gliding along in a long, slim craft, a larger version of the Pelbar arrowboat, it seemed.
“It’s all right. He’s drunk. Sleeping in the rain,” she whispered. “Come on. Let’s trade boats. We’ll really run away in this one.”
“What about the other?”
“Let it drift. They won’t recognize it for a long enough time if it hangs up and they get it. They all look alike.”
They drifted together a good half ayas, then transferred all their gear to the new craft. One paddle lay in it. They also took the two long oars, and all three began to dig into the river in deep strokes, paddling silently and steadily for the rest of the night. They never looked back, and no one followed.
Finally, near dawn, Reo said, “Who was that?”
“The fisherguildsman. Drunk as a slug.”
Reo laughed nervously. “We goin’ ta hide today?”
“No,” said Gamwyn. “Let’s just keep going. One person with the paddle. Taking turns. Any more people down here?”
“None to the Atherers, near the South Ocean. They won’t hurt us.”
“Who would have believed that a river could be this long, even the Heart?” said Gamwyn.
“As I gather, there’s plenty of it left,” said Artess. They looked ahead, as the dawn flared into day, and the broad river seemed to flow on forever.