On the morning that Nighteyes’ Fifty reached the Tomb, Orthus had gotten a somewhat mixed reaction from the fishermen who had saved him when he made his requests to their leader. One Thumb was amenable to dropping Orthus off at the capital – it was on the way, after all. But waiting for Orthus for very long wasn’t something he wanted to do.

“It’s the tax collectors, y’see,” One Thumb explained. “Now the one at home is my cousin, and so long as he gets his cut and a little something to wet his whistle, he looks in that big basket over yon and all he sees is trash fish. But them collectors in the capital, they’re different. They’re not my cousins, for one. For two, they’re known to go out and inspect an honest fisherman’s boat if he lingers too long. More importantly, they’re also known to inspect a dishonest fisherman’s boat, and that concerns me, yes it does. And for three, they definitely aren’t going to see trash fish if they take a peek. They’re gon’ see white crocs.”

“And tax you more?” Orthus guessed.

“Oh, no. They’ll call soldiers and guardsmen and all sorts of I don’t know what kind of people, and those people will lop off our heads faster than you can say ‘this ain’t my boat.’”

“What? Why?”

“Eh, white crocks are a little bit holy, y’see. What’s the word, Rash?”

“Sacred.”

“That’s it! They’re sacred. Sacred animals. Symbol of the river god and such.”

“But then why do you catch them?” Orthus asked.

“Well because some folks will pay lots and lots of money for ‘em, of course. Why else?”

“What for?”

“I don’t like to ask, friend. I figure it’s my business to catch ‘em and my customers’ business to pay for ‘em, and beyond that it ain’t polite to pry. But it’s my understanding that eating white croc meat will get a man, uh, standing, if you get my meaning. And folks’ll pay a lot for that, yes indeed.”

Orthus slumped down on the rock he most often used as a stool and sighed. “I understand why you wouldn’t want to linger around the capital, then. In fact, it was extremely generous of you to offer to stop there at all.”

One Thumb shrugged. “You’re a good sort. We’re good sorts. Well, we’re law-breakers and blasphemers and such, but we’re happy to help if we can.”

“You cook good,” Rash supplied, and the others nodded or grunted in agreement.

“Can I think about it on the way, and let you know what I decide when we get to the capital?” Orthus asked.

“Of course you can!” C’mon then, break camp you mangy lot. Time to get home!”

Breaking camp, Orthus observed, consisted entirely of moving the many jars of alcohol from the Rock to the boats.

~ ~ ~

In the sunset’s orange light of that same day, with sails rigged and current strong, the boats of the kind, blaspheming fishermen had made very good time downriver. One Thumb had informed him that it would take three days, perhaps less, to reach the capital. Three days for Orthus to decide what his course of action should be.

The simplest, safest course for him was simply to continue on with his new friends to their village. Myra was its name. Orthus had never heard of it, but then there were hundreds of small villages in the delta that no one had ever heard of, many because they didn’t even have a name. The delta was a good place for a man to get lost in – something that One Thumb had circumspectly pointed out to him early in their association. He did not know if he would like to become a fisherman. He had never been anything but a servant, and while he was used to long hours of toil, the toil he knew was of the indoor variety, for the most part. And many of his skills would be utterly useless in a place like Myra. Would a fishing village have any need for someone who could read and write? Who knew the proper dress and accoutrements for nearly every public occasion, from appearing in a court of law to appearing before the royal court? He thought not.

But he could cook, and he could sew, and those were at least useful skills, if very patently the skills of a slave. He knew a little of the healing arts. Probably more than anyone in a small fishing village was likely to, at least. Orthus thought he could find or make a place for himself, at least to the extent that he would not be a burden on anyone.

Or, he could risk all chance of safety by going to the capital, seeking out Anomus’s family, and informing them of his death, and its cause. If the ip Garmas hadn’t already been sanctioned for Anomus’s blasphemy, that was. Orthus knew it was possible that they had. The emperor might well have had all Anomus’s lands and wealth confiscated, or… worse. The worship of old gods would definitely taint Anomus’s entire family, if it had been made public. But the emperor would be free to take harsher measures against the ip Garma family, due to the fact that its head had been a blasphemer. More consequential measures.

More fatal measures.

If Anomus’s wife and daughter still alive and healthy, then they might, too, wish to disappear. But then, if they had not been charged, if they had not been informed of the reason for Anomus’s death, would it not be better for them to go on with their lives accepting whatever reason they had been given by the imperial court for Anomus’s death?

Orthus internal agonizing was interrupted by One Thumb’s weighty hand on his shoulder.

“You’re thinking heavy thoughts, friend Orthus,” the fisherman observed.

Orthus smiled weakly in reply. “Is it so obvious?”

“Oh, yes. The hand-wringing is the giveaway. That’s why I keep a cup of something to drink in mine, most often. We’re in a worrisome business, you see. And being worried is worse than being a little drunk. Or a lot drunk.”

“But doesn’t being drunk so often make, uh, doing what you do more dangerous?”

One thumb considered the hand that had given rise to his name. He nodded. “It does, friend. That it does. But if I weren’t drunk, would I be able to do what I do at all? There’s a question I’d prefer not to know the answer to.” One Thumb smiled, and Orthus gave him a weak grin in response. Then Tumi gave a low whistle from the boat’s prow, and One Thumb was suddenly all business. He stood carefully and made his way forward to see what Tumi had spotted, barely rocking their narrow vessel as he went.

After a moment, One Thumb let out a low whistle, then ordered the sail lowered and the oars run out.

“What is it?” asked Orthus.

“It’s the imperial barge. Pull for the west bank, you scrofulous things.” One Thumb signaled the second boat to do the same as the crewmen heeded his order.

“The emperor?” Orthus exclaimed. Even he knew that when the emperor sailed the river, all other traffic cleared way, on pain of death.

“Don’t know who’s on it. Don’t want to know who’s on it. When the eagle flies, us mice do hide, yeah? We don’t count feathers. That said, it looks like we’ll be going nowhere for a while, so drinking is in order. Hand me that jar, would you?”

“Why?”

“Because drinking is always in order when there’s nothing else to do!”

“No, I mean why will we be here for a while?”

“Because the same wind and current that are speeding us towards hearth and home and disapproving, disappointed, hard-faced wives are making it difficult for that golden eyesore to go wherever it is going. Look closely.”

Orthus did, and saw that the imperial barge, as well as the numerous ships that trailed it, were being towed upriver by what must have been hundreds of oxen plodding along the far bank.

“They’ll be a while passing us, unless the wind shifts soon. Which it won’t.” One Thumb unstopped the jar and took a hefty swig.

“You could help us row first, you know,” Tumi told him.

“I could,” acknowledge One Thumb. “But then I’d have to wait to drink. Rowing and drinking is tricky. You’re liable to spill. But you’ll learn, young Tumi. You’ll learn.”

Orthus listened to the banter of the fishermen with half an ear. His focus was on the imperial procession. For he had noticed something: Amidst all the shining gold, there was another kind of glare that intermittently caught his eye as the barge was rocked by wave and tow rope. The glare of sun on glass, rather than gold.

“They’re moving the Concubine,” he said.

“What’s that, friend?” One Thumb asked.

“It’s not the emperor. Or maybe it’s the emperor too, but they’re taking the Concubine to the Tomb!”

“Eh, that’s good I suppose,” One Thumb replied, clearly disinterested. “Shouldn’t have left her out in the sun all those years anyway, if you ask me. It always seemed disrespectful. Don’t go telling the emperor I said that, though.”

Orthus barely heard him. His mind was working feverishly. If they were still going to inter the Concubine in the Tomb, then either they had chosen not to make Anomus’s heresy public knowledge, or… or… they didn’t know about Anomus’s heresy. They’d killed him and all the workmen for some other reason. In either case, it seemed very unlikely that the ip Garmas were in any sort of danger. Which meant that he had no reason to risk his freedom or his life to warn them. If they had been told a lie about Anomus’s death, then he would let them believe it. It kept them safe.

For the first time in what seemed like years, Orthus felt the weight of worry slip from his shoulders. He smiled, turned away from the imperial procession, and plucked the jar of alcohol from One Thumb’s hands. One thumb had made deep inroads into its contents, but Orthus, never much of a drinker, managed to empty it before he lowered it.

One Thumb regarded him with a raised eyebrow for a moment, and then turned to Tumi. “You see? Our friend doesn’t even know which end of an oar to hold, but he still knows what’s important!”

~ ~ ~

Across the water, Greatest of Two Hundred Little Tooth stood at the starboard side of the imperial barge, staring intently at the two fishing boats that had dropped sail and were now rowing hard for the west bank of the river. The distance was great, for the Great River was wide, and the light did not favor clear sight. But Little Tooth was almost certain he had recognized one of the faces aboard the lead boat.

He had spent a decade watching over the ten thousand workers. He had come to know all their faces. He would not have sworn he could recognize all of them instantly, but most of them, yes. But the face he had seen – or believed he had seen – did not belong to one of the workers. It had been the face of Anomus ip Garma’s personal servant.

The Architect had been the only one laboring on the Tomb to be allowed any contact with the outside world, and so the Eternal Guard had taken some extra measures to ensure that neither he nor his servant attempted to leave, especially in the period after the architect’s son had perished. They had also been ordered never to interfere with or in any way upset the architect, and so their surveillance had been by necessity at arm’s length. Neither had tried to leave, but the fact remained that Little Tooth knew the slave’s face well.

And now he was almost certain he had seen it aboard the distant fishing boat. Almost.

If he had survived the execution of the Tomb’s workers, he could carry the tale. And if he carried the tale, it would mean, at a minimum, the death of every Eternal Guardsman above the rank of Greatest of Five who had participated. He knew his emperor’s mind, and methods.

He signaled for his second, Acacia, who appeared by his side almost instantaneously.

“Note the two fishing boats on the far bank,” he signed.

“Yes, Greatest.”

“Once the sun is set, take a lighter with ten men and kill all aboard. Do not attract attention when you depart. Let none escape. Do not return until it is done. Do not speak of what you are to do, or what you have done once you have done it.”

Acacia bowed his head and brought his fist to his chin, and then went to do Little Tooth’s bidding.