the sound of his own pulse in his ears, and a whisper of some-
thing else . . .
Then a splash of water brought him to his feet with a start.
Coil appeared, clambering out of the Mermidon at the river’s
edge a dozen feet away, shedding water as he came. He was
naked. Par recovered his composure and stared at him in dis-
belief.
“Shades, you frightened me! What were you doing?”
“What does it look like I was doing?” Coil grinned. “I was
out swimming!”
What he was really doing, Par discovered after applying a bit
more pressure, was appropriating a fishing skiff owned by the
keeper of the Blue Whisker. The keeper had mentioned it to
Coil once or twice when bragging about his fishing skills. Coil
had remembered it when Par had mentioned needing a boat,
remembered as well the description of the boat shed where the
man said it was kept, and gone off to find it. He’d simply swum
up to where it was stored, snapped the lock on the shed, slipped
the mooring lines and towed it away.
‘ ‘It’s the least he owes us after the kind of business we brought
in,” he said defensively as he brushed himself dry and dressed.
Par didn’t argue the point. They needed a boat worse than
the ale house keeper, and this was probably their only chance
to find one. Assuming the Seekers were still scouring the city
for them, their only other alternative was to strike out on foot
into the Runne Mountains-an undertaking that would require
more than a week. A ride down the Mermidon was a journey of
only a few days. It wasn’t as if they were stealing the boat, after
all. He caught himself. Well, maybe it was. But they would
return it or provide proper compensation when they could.
The skiff was only a dozen feet in length, but it was equipped
with oars, fishing gear, some cooking and camping equipment,
a pair of blankets, and a canvas tarp. They boarded and pushed
off into the night, letting the current carry them out from the
shore and sweep them away.
They rode the river south for the remainder of the night, using
the oars to keep it in mid-channel, listening to the night sounds,
watching the shoreline, and trying to stay awake. As they trav-
eled, Coil offered his theory on what they should do next. It was
impossible, of course, to go back into Callahom any time in the
immediate future. The Federation would be looking for them.
It would be dangerous, in fact, to travel to any of the major
Southland cities because the Federation authorities stationed
there would be alerted as well. It was best that they simply return
to the Vale. They could still tell the stories-not right away
perhaps, but in a month or so after the Federation had stopped
looking for them. Then, later, they could travel to some of the
smaller hamlets, the more isolated communities, places the Fed-
eration seldom visited. It would all work out fine.
Par let him ramble. He was willing to bet that Coil didn’t
believe a word of it; and even if he did, there was no point in
arguing about it now.
They pulled into shore at sunrise and made camp in a grove
of shade trees at the base of a windswept bluff, sleeping until
noon, then rising to catch and eat fish. They were back on the
river by early afternoon and continued on until well after sunset.
Again they pulled into shore and made camp. It was starting to
rain, and they put up the canvas to provide shelter. They made
a small fire, pulled the blankets close, and sat silently facing the
river, watching the raindrops swell its flow and form intricate
patterns on its shimmering surface.
They spoke then for a while about how things had changed
in the Four Lands since the time of Jair Ohmsford.
Three hundred years ago, the Federation governed only the
deep Southland cities, adopting a strict policy of isolationism.
The Coalition Council provided its leadership even then, a body
of men selected by the cities as representatives to its govern-