Ghelel found the raft trip down the Idryn not nearly the ordeal she feared. In fact, it proved rather pleasant, what with the non-appearance of Molk. After the third day she relaxed into her role of pampered sightseer, served by her maid-in-waiting – only one servant? she'd chided Amaron – in a tent on her own river barge.

She spent the days watching the treed shore pass, the distant rolling hills of the Seti plain, grassed but dotted with copses of trees. Seti outriders escorted the convoy from the north shore, yelling and yipping as they thundered past. Among them swooped the fetishes and pennants of the various soldier societies: wolf, dog, plains lion and jackal.

It seemed to her that, as promised by Choss, the fleet moved with preternatural speed. A foaming wake actually curled from the bow of her barge. She had not spent much time around water, but even she knew that was unnatural. On the rafts around her Talian and allied soldiery talked and laughed. Fires burned in upturned shields and metal braziers to cook meals as the convoy did not once pull in to stop, even at night. Through the day soldiers, male and female, stripped down to linen tunics and loincloths and dived in, splashing and washing, and, hidden away on a few sheltered raft-sides, held on tight and made love in the warm water.

On the seventh day they reached the falls. The great legendary falls of the Idryn. Broke Earth Falls. Ghelel had never been to it before. Soldiers and boatmen manoeuvred her raft to the shore and a tent was raised. For the meantime she continued to play along with her role as figurehead of the ‘Talian League’. She spent the day and night heavily guarded, but with a view of the falls and the equally amazing spectacle of the great convoy of rafts being unloaded, disassembled and carted down the trader road around the falls to be reassembled downstream. A masterpiece of logistical and administrative organization to which she supposed they owed Choss's decades of experience.

In the morning she was carried by palanquin down to her awaiting raft for the rest of the river trip, which she understood to be the matter of only a few more days.

The second evening on the river after that she was beginning to worry. She understood that they were supposed to leave the flotilla before they reached Heng; and Heng was close now. Very close. What had happened to this fellow Molk? Had he deserted? Part of her was glad to be rid of him. Another part was concerned; the man knew too much. When she entered her tent that night she found him sitting in her folding camp chair, his legs out before him.

‘I'll thank you to ask permission to enter next time.’

‘That would work against sneakin’ about, m'Lady.’ He leaned aside to spit but she jabbed a finger-

‘No! Don't you dare!’

Mouth full, the man searched helplessly about. He picked up a crystal goblet and discharged a stream of dark red saliva that curled viscid in its depths. He set it back on to the table.

‘Gods, man!’ She picked up the goblet by the stem, opened the tent flap, and tossed it out into the dark.

He scratched his tangled black hair. ‘Well, one way to clean the tableware, I suppose. Surprised you have any left.’

‘What do you want?’

He fingered the white silk tablecloth. ‘Thought you'd be pleased. Time to slip away.’ He raised his arms to gesture about the tent. ‘You do want to leave all this behind, don't you?’

‘Well, yes. I do. Just not with you.’

He stood, sighing. ‘Well, life's just one vile chore after another, isn't it? Least that's what / think.’

Ghelel eyed the rumpled greasy fellow. What was that supposed to mean? She looked him up and down again – he seemed dressed appropriately in his dirty quilted jacket, mud-spattered trousers and sandals. But what of her white dress? Not what Amaron had in mind, surely. She waved to her clothes. ‘Do I go out as this?’

The man appeared ready to give one response but caught himself, swallowing and grimacing. ‘No, m'Lady. Strip.’

‘I'm sorry?’

‘Strip down to your royal undies.’

She was still for a good few minutes, almost asked, what for? but managed to quell that – no sense giving the man any more openings. ‘Where's Heroul?’

‘She's keepin’ watch.’

‘I need her help.’

‘Nope. What she don't know she can't tell.’

‘Fine.’ Ghelel took a knife from the table, reached behind to her back and slit the lacing. His face flat, Molk turned away to open one of the broad wood travelling chests.

‘Looking for the silverware?’

Rummaging, he didn't answer. Ghelel stripped down to a silk shirt and shorts.

‘Here we go!’ Molk pulled a heavy canvas bag from deep within the chest.

‘What's that?’

‘Your gear. Armour, weapons ‘n’ suchlike.’

‘I see. Won't that sink?’

Molk hefted the bag. ‘Yeah. We'll have a moment or two.’

‘We?’

He gave her a sideways, wall-eyed look. ‘Can't you swim?’

‘No.’

‘Sweet Hood on his Bony Horse! I was told you were raised a regular tomboy ‘n’ such.’

‘Well, had I known I'd be jumping off rafts I'd have corrected the deficit!’

Wincing, Molk raised a hand. ‘OK, OK! Quiet, please, your ladyship. OK. I'll manage.’

‘Fine.’

‘Now, we just slip off the back, right? Think you can manage that?’

‘I can't swim at all.’

Shoulders slumping even further in his slouch, Molk rolled his eyes to the tent ceiling. ‘Gods. I'll find something for you to hold on to. OK?’

‘If you don't want me to drown, you'll have to.’

‘I'll find something,’ he grumbled as he pulled the bag to the rear of the tent.

Spluttering, flailing, Ghelel attempted to contain the panic that had risen to clench her chest like the hand of a possessing demon the instant she let go of the barge. Never had she known such helplessness and fear. She gripped the broad upturned pot so tightly to her she was afraid she might shatter it. The wake of the barge sent her spinning; the dark shores bobbed in her vision in a sickening way. Just hold on to this, Molk had told her, and the next raft will come to you. Grab hold!

She almost laughed aloud thinking of the chance of her releasing one hand from the only thing keeping her alive. Where was the man, Hood take him! Taken straight to the bottom? Thinking of the bottom brought to mind images of the gigantic whiskered fish, chodren they're called, larger than any man, which the soldiers had been pulling from the Idryn. Ate anything that moved, she'd heard.

The panic was rising near to the point where she could call out for help any moment. She kicked frantically to try to turn around. Or was she already turned around? Who could tell amid the darkness, the splashing grey-green waves? Something loomed, large and, from her vantage up to her chin in the river, impossibly tall above her: the cut timbers of a raft as they emerged from the dark. Come to her? It was about to plough over her!

As the timbers neared, Ghelel threw up one hand to grab hold. She banged her head, her body and legs being sucked under. The object that had supported her across the gap of open river was pulled away and run over, tumbling – an upturned chamberpot. Ha! Very funny, Molk.

She held for a time, washed by the churning waves, gathered her strength. After this she managed to pull herself up then sat, trailed her legs in water that felt warm now that the cold night air brushed her. Eventually, her breathing returned to normal. Movement, and a dripping wet Molk sat next to her and pulled the bag on to his lap. ‘Have a good dip, Captain?’

Ghelel blinked at the man. Captain? ‘Oh, yes. Thank you, Molk.’ Lower, she murmured, ‘I was almost killed. And that's Captain Alil.’