Wooden beams creaked as the dark waves were turned white against the shove of the Sunset. Spray climbed the height of the prow occasionally. Between the morning’s rain and the seafoam churned airborne, Aralim’s long hair was wet against his scalp. He watched the cat, sitting near the ship’s mast to avoid getting the same soak. Aralim’s lantern shutter kept the staff’s flame dry and cast a blue glow from his shoulder to his earlobe.
Dullah lavished the water, salty though it was, cooling her skin by lowering her arms over the rail. Devran merely stood beside her, watching quietly the approach of their next harbour. Barnacle, pink and yellow, clung to the wharfs, and only a weathered wooden walk was visible above. Varravar received them with a strange bitterness—the salty droplets on their lips, the pods clustered on the landing, the dreary, low-hanging clouds, the miserable looks of the dock workers, the distant wail of dying man, and the eerie whispering of the painted women at the mouth of each street.
The hubbub drew a strange attention from the cat. The tom climbed a crate, scratching the wet planks as he scampered to the rail and watched the wharf tilting from their tide-lapped position. Those wide eyes, that eager meow… Aralim rose to his feet to watch.
Dullah tried to catch the reed cat’s black-tipped tail, crying out as the feline dropped easily onto the docks. A man carrying a crate jumped, swayed aside to avoid the landing hunter, and nearly ended up in the sea before reclaiming his balance. “Aralim!” Dullah called out, pointing.
While the cat padded along the dock, staring up at the Walker and his friends, the Flying Sunset’s crew scrambled to grab a plank for Aralim to walk. But they were too slow, and Aralim wasn’t going to chase anyway. The reed cat turned its haunches toward the docking galleon and walked into the tall grass to the left of the dock.
Aralim watched him go. The tomcat hadn’t realized what he was signing up for on the ship, it seemed, for the weeks without solid land. He didn’t have the courage or determination of Miresh, to set out to see for months to find her way on the Path. Aralim sighed as he lost track of the reed cat.
“How long will we be in Varravar?” Grendar asked, as the proper gangplank was set down upon the wharf.
Aralim shrugged. “That depends on when a river vessel is leaving. We’ll ask about it first.” He had originally planned on following Devran’s advice, but the well-travelled writer had only been north of Varravar once and offered none. He only said that it would be wiser to voyage on the same river craft from embarkation to destination, rather than switching boats at each town along the way.
Grendar turned to the other guards and gave them a nod. Carrak and Lerela led the way down the plank, after the ship’s other passengers had disembarked. Dullah waved Devran ahead of her and gave Aralim a glare as she passed in front of him. He wasn’t certain what she was mad about.
The riverfront was as busy as its adjacent harbour. They skirted most of the city proper, but got a taste of old stone buildings mixed with newer wooden ones, and of a grim, to-the-task populace. A dozen ships were loading with supplies or trade cargo along the broad river Toringa. They approached one enormous rowboat and stopped a crewman to ask for help.
“We’re leaving for the Eye of Maga before the hour’s up,” the man said, frowning. His skin was speckled by wide, dried out pores and tissue damage from many days of rough seafaring. “Apologies my friends. You might be able to find one again later this week, but I’m not certain when. You could always hire a fisher or other boater to take you along.”
“This boat would be best, but we haven’t bought supplies yet,” Aralim told the crewman. Someone wandering through the riverfront bumped into him and his staff nearly struck the sailor’s shoulder. “Will you hold long enough for us to travel to the market and back?”
“Best hurry,” the crewman said. “I’ll tell the Captain there’s more coming along.”
They found a market in the large city quite quickly, led by throngs of people both wealthy and poor. In the distance, Aralim could see a handful of four- and five-storey towers, and big, wide-winged estates, but they didn’t have time to go sightseeing. As they scattered along a lane between market stalls, Aralim and his iron-armoured men were stopped by a man in a muddy black robe. He bowed, shakily and introduced himself. “I’m a Priest of Varravar, the proper rulers of this city,” he said. “I see your equipment… do you hail from Numa’nakres, milord?”
“Yes,” Aralim said. “We’re travelling toward Maga next.”
The man nodded and smiled. “Please, I must ask for your help. The Priests that have ruled Varravar for centuries have been deposed by men and women of great strength, fiends and foul spirits. I know a group such as yourselves could not best them, but my brother was locked in the catacombs and wastes away in there. Please, help me.”
“Unfortunately, our ship leaves within the hour. So, we lack the time to travel the catacombs,” Aralim told him, frowning. “If we miss our boat and remain in the city, I shall come find you to speak again.”
The man followed Aralim a few steps more, lowering his small hood to reveal a bald and bruised head. “I can offer what coin I have to cover your travel expenses if you should stay in Varravar…”
“I stand by what I said,” Aralim replied. The over-throwers he had mentioned sounded intriguing, but there wasn’t time and the Walker wasn’t keen on remaining in Varravar for potentially more than a week for the next ship’s departure. “Perhaps I’ll speak with you later.”
The group finished their bartering as quickly as possible, filling a sack with preserved meat, fresh loaves of bread, and an assortment of jungle fruit. The river boat they had asked after remained tied to its dock as they approached, though a man was standing on the dock with a rope in hand, waiting impatiently.
Dullah paused, before approaching the vessel and looked back into the town. When Aralim approached her side, she spoke quietly. “I was really hoping you’d find that cat—he was really clever.”
“Yes, it’s too bad,” Aralim said. “But I suppose he wasn’t the right cat after all.”
Dullah blinked. “What?” she asked, but was given no option but to follow the Walker toward the enormous rowboat.
As they climbed aboard, assisted by grinning sailors, the captain clapped his hands and stood up from a three-legged stool near the tiller. He glanced at one of the sailors, the man who had spoken with Aralim and his friends earlier. “Damn, I’ll pay you once we’re underway,” he said, before turning toward Aralim again. “I told him he was full of shit. An entourage of a white man, a flounce, a wizard in an orange robe, and four iron-clad guards…”
Another crewman approached their group, his shirtless torso covered in ringlets of dark hair. He began to collect a fee for their passage, while Devran muttered incredulously under his breath, “A flounce?”
“Imagine if we had had the cat,” Aralim said, leaning toward Dullah’s side. She started to laugh, while the Walker smirked.
Aralim took a step toward the stern. He smiled to the Captain, a Raderan man with a square torso and bold black lines down each arm, like he had bones on the outside. “How much did you bet?” Aralim asked.
“Only as much as it would cost for one or two of you. Didn’t want to be out all my earnings, if I was wrong.” He grabbed hold of the tiller as the boat was shoved off from the dock. The first sailor they’d spoken to was helping Devran and the guards move their supplies into a stuffed cargo hold under the rowboat’s deck. The Captain offered his free hand and Aralim clasped it. “I’m Captain Ruk’nor.”
“Nice to meet you, Ruk’nor. I’m Aralim,” he introduced. “I hope we didn’t hold you back too long.”
“Not at all,” the loud man replied. “I hope our voyage is as swift and smooth as your arrival on board.”
“Upriver voyages seldom are swift, but I look forward to being impressed,” Aralim replied. I’m just happy if no one tries to kill me this time, he thought.