Lora of Two Worlds

Royal Envoy Augustus von Klein signed the execution writ. His task in Lohenheim was done. Lord Legard had arranged for the Lohenheim garrison to serve as his escort, von Klein didn’t care either way.

The Yorvik marcher duke’s seat was in Yorvik city, hence the common name.

From Lohenheim, the water route ran north through Heyford, Weybrook, and Highmarch to Yorvik. The land route passed through Zarren, Greyhollow March, and Yewin.

The land route went through the domain of the Duke of Greyhollow March, notoriously savage and lawless. The crown was powerless to curb him and looked the other way.

So when Alvin suggested the longer water route, von Klein nodded eagerly: I’m here to deliver a warrant, not to die.

Spring rain came unbidden. On the morning of departure, a fine drizzle had begun before dawn. ”Great men meet wind and rain on the road”, among the travelers, someone was secretly pleased.

At dawn, five canal boats, bow to stern, lay at the Lohenheim dock. Legard and the Count, both in rain cloaks, came to see them off. The Lord Regent frowned:

”General, why all mid-sized boats? It’s only silk and grain for a gift. Four boatloads?”

The Count looked surprised: ”Lord Regent, it’s been a while since you managed canal boats, hasn’t it? March is low water. Only small and mid-sized craft are allowed. Overload and you’ll feel the rod.”

Legard cursed inwardly: Mister Law-and-Order? More boats, more chances of ambush on the road. Enjoy that, won’t you?

The canal was narrow. The worst fear was a mid-river ambush. Less cargo, fewer boats was better, even if you had to overload, you could always put more men on the towline.

In slanting rain, polemen and guards in rain cloaks filed past the two elders. The Count’s eyes caught a figure in the line, that gait...

His heart stumbled.

Before he could look again, the line had gone down the dock steps.

Presently, Roland in leather armor came to report: ”Lord Envoy, the boats are ready. We can depart.”

Von Klein bade the two farewell and boarded the one passenger boat in the fleet. As the boats pulled away from the dock, everyone breathed out.

Canal boats came in passenger, cargo, and pleasure types. Cargo boats were large, mid, and small. By law, canal traffic was strictly regulated, a sunken or capsized boat could block the channel for days.

So downstream or upstream, high water or low, all determined which boats you could use.

Yesterday, when Roland had gone to the Crown Granary with the King’s gift list to check items, he’d specifically requested oversized crates. He’d told the granary clerk:

”Yorvik is the back of beyond. The officials there want the common people to see how much the King cares. What’s inside the crates, the people don’t know. But how big the crates are, how many there’re, that’s the face the King gives the lord warden.”

”Makes sense! Good thing it’s Lord Roland doing the checking. If this trip earns a commendation, don’t forget your friend.”

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

”Of course, of course.”

Big crates meant the mid-sized boats couldn’t hold many each. So two extra boats. Official vessels, no one quibbled.

On the last cargo boat, Leon, with two wisps of mustache, and Roland stood at the stern. The trees and houses of the banks slid past, seeing them off.

”Five boats. Forty guards. Forty polemen, most of them soldiers in disguise. Seventy men, total. We need to be careful on the road.”

”Father wanted us to bring more. But the quota is full, any more and we won’t pass the posting-house inspections. On this boat, apart from the boatman, even the cook is our man. Meat and grain are plentiful. Look ”

Roland pointed at several ropes trailing from the stern into the water, laughing:

”Chickens, ducks, meat, all sealed in jars and kept cold in the river. The other boats don’t have this luxury.”

Cargo boats were rough for sleeping. Even Leon shared a hold with grain sacks. But after a month locked in a wheelchair, Leon could walk freely about the deck, and his mood was excellent.

The canal entered the River Loene. The current quickened. The boatman came aft:

”Lord Roland, the canal meets the river for only a short stretch, but the water gets choppy. Best come inside, it’s rough out here.”

Both the north and south canal had short sections that entered larger rivers. By law, river craft and canal craft were different, different hull shapes for different waters.

”Leon, you take the bow cabin. I’ll go to the stern and see about supper.”

After this river stretch, they’d reach the Bridgeford Ferry. There they’d stop for inspection, queue for the crossing, and by then it’d be evening, time for the cook to fire up the galley.

Roland grabbed the cabin wall, swaying, and ducked into the stern compartment.

”Urp...”

Roland looked. In the corner of the stern hold, a small man was vomiting. The smell was immediately indescribable.

He pushed open the small window shutter and frowned: ”What are you, a seasick woman? You’re the cook and you can’t handle a boat?”

The man’s clothes marked him as the boat’s cook. He was sitting, without any shame, on a sack of grain. Roland barked:

”Clean up your mess. And get off the grain sack, do you expect people to eat that?”

The cook hung his head, shuffled to his feet. He stepped over the puddle, a wave struck, the boat lurched, and he stumbled into Roland’s arms.

Roland was gripping the doorframe. He could only watch the man crash into him.

”Hey! ... Hey? It’s you!”

The figure looked up, pitiful: ”I’ve been seasick for ages. Don’t yell at me...”

”You... you’re a chicken feather on a flagpole, all plume and no pole! The nerve of you, sneaking on board!”

Roland saw the green face, the tangled hair, his sister. Half-angry, half-amused, he freed one arm and put it around her shoulder to steady her:

”How are you? Better? I’ll find you something for the nausea.”

”Motion sickness pills? No thanks.” Lora thought of the sleeping draught from old tales, and the human-meat pies that went with them. Though the active ingredient was the same stuff in modern motion-sickness pills.

Roland sat her down on a stack of grain sacks:

”Talk. Why did you stow away? Did you think we’re on a pleasure cruise?”

”Ah... I’ve just never been to Yorvik and wanted to see it! I knew you wouldn’t let me come, so I snuck on. Dear brother, you’re the best brother in the whole world. You wouldn’t throw me in the river, right?”

Two sentences of distraction and the nausea had eased. As the boat steadied, Lora bounced back to life.

”No. At Bridgeford Ferry, off you go.”

”Nooo...”

”Who’s your accomplice?”

”Don’t put me off the boat... brother...”

”Who? Norton? If he’s not out in five seconds, I’ll have Father throw him out of the house.”

”It’s not Norton... Roland, I know you love Lora best. If you leave her at Bridgeford, what if slavers grab her? Lock her in a dark room, one meal a day, chained up, forced to bear children for some pig...”

Roland’s scalp prickled. He cut in: ”Nonsense. Broad daylight, where would that happen?”

”I’ll stay and cook for you. I promise not to wander off.”

”...”

”Oh, brother, we never have time to talk at home. Now we’ve got time on the boat. Let me teach you a thing or two about military strategy.” Lora swayed, grinning.

She knew her brother loved strategy and formations. He fancied himself a scholar-general. Say ”strategy” and he’d bite.

Roland laughed: ”You? Teach me strategy? I’ve been studying the Stratagems since I was seven. Where did you learn strategy?”

”In a dream, an old man with a white beard taught me. What, you don’t want to learn?”

”A dream?”

Roland hesitated. Because his sister’s dreams... had a track record.

Besides, they were a day out from Lohenheim, already in Heyford territory. If he put her off and something happened...

”All right. You stay.”

”Hehe. So... my two accomplices, can they stay too?”