better shape than your head,” he motioned to the slice across Marco’s scalp and temple.
“If my head was better, I wouldn’t be here in the first place,” Marco lamely tried to joke, then walked in silence through the city streets behind his guide. He looked around; his arms and legs were unbound – he could run.
But he wore a black uniform in a city where there were no other such uniforms walking freely. He could perhaps quickly find clothes to change into, but he had no place to run to, no place in this city of people who spoke a different language. He wouldn’t get very far at all, and there would be consequences to pay when he was eventually caught, he realized.
So he kept walking, and only a few minutes later he reached the harbor front, a crowded set of piers that each had multiple vessels moored against their stone and wood.
“Here,” the guard who was leading him pointed to a large pile of crates and barrels. “Move that onto that ship. Find someone on board who can tell you where everything goes. They’ll,” he pointed to a pair of guards in green uniforms that stood very nearby watching the pile of belongings, “ keep an eye on you. Just stay here when you’re done and we’ll take care of you.”
He didn’t think it was likely he’d be done anytime soon, Marco estimated sourly as he looked at the daunting pile of materiel. He bent and lifted the first crate, then carried it up the gangplank. A glance over his shoulder showed that the two guards who were supposed to watch him were in fact doing so.
“This belongs to the prince’s party,” Marco spoke to the first officer he saw on the deck, a man who appeared to be in a hurry and wanting to pass by him quickly. “Where should I leave it?”
“You can throw it into the harbor for all that I care,” the man spoke crisply, as he slowed down while passing Marco.
“Take it down to one of the starboard cabins,” he directed after a further moment of consideration, then resumed his pace and left Marco little better informed than he had been before. Marco looked to find the stairs that led to the deck below, and he proceeded to carry the crate down, hunched low to fit in the uncomfortably short space of the compressed level as he stopped a sailor to ask where the starboard cabins were.
With directions to the other side of the ship, Marco stumbled through the dim passageways, then selected a cabin at random and sat the box down on the floor in the cramped, narrow space. He placed his own pack and sword in the cabin as well, to keep them out of his way as he worked.
He wended his way back to the deck, then back to the pile of freight . That’s one done , he thought to himself with resignation as he looked at the daunting amount of belongings that sat waiting to be carried. His right hand felt slightly uncomfortable, as though the muscles under the skin were tightening up, on the verge of a cramp; he stared at the hand as he flexed it, but felt nothing get better or worse. Marco sighed, then picked up another crate, and carried it to the same cabin.
He repeated the journey several times during the next two hours, relocating bundles and boxes and sacks to the variety of cabins along the narrow passageway of the ship’s upper deck. As he returned to the pile of waiting goods, a pile that had shrunk to a quarter of its original size, he recognized a group of noble men and women approaching, the same group that he had seen taking the vow of non-combat earlier in the day. Some of the men wore uniforms, and the other men, including the one who he was told was the prince, wore fine clothing instead. There were only a pair of perfunctory guards with them wearing the green of their conquerors.
“Boy,” one of the noblemen shouted, “haven’t you finished that job yet? What have you been doing all day?”
“Argen, leave him alone,” one of the officers said mildly. “He’s already lost a war for
“If my head was better, I wouldn’t be here in the first place,” Marco lamely tried to joke, then walked in silence through the city streets behind his guide. He looked around; his arms and legs were unbound – he could run.
But he wore a black uniform in a city where there were no other such uniforms walking freely. He could perhaps quickly find clothes to change into, but he had no place to run to, no place in this city of people who spoke a different language. He wouldn’t get very far at all, and there would be consequences to pay when he was eventually caught, he realized.
So he kept walking, and only a few minutes later he reached the harbor front, a crowded set of piers that each had multiple vessels moored against their stone and wood.
“Here,” the guard who was leading him pointed to a large pile of crates and barrels. “Move that onto that ship. Find someone on board who can tell you where everything goes. They’ll,” he pointed to a pair of guards in green uniforms that stood very nearby watching the pile of belongings, “ keep an eye on you. Just stay here when you’re done and we’ll take care of you.”
He didn’t think it was likely he’d be done anytime soon, Marco estimated sourly as he looked at the daunting pile of materiel. He bent and lifted the first crate, then carried it up the gangplank. A glance over his shoulder showed that the two guards who were supposed to watch him were in fact doing so.
“This belongs to the prince’s party,” Marco spoke to the first officer he saw on the deck, a man who appeared to be in a hurry and wanting to pass by him quickly. “Where should I leave it?”
“You can throw it into the harbor for all that I care,” the man spoke crisply, as he slowed down while passing Marco.
“Take it down to one of the starboard cabins,” he directed after a further moment of consideration, then resumed his pace and left Marco little better informed than he had been before. Marco looked to find the stairs that led to the deck below, and he proceeded to carry the crate down, hunched low to fit in the uncomfortably short space of the compressed level as he stopped a sailor to ask where the starboard cabins were.
With directions to the other side of the ship, Marco stumbled through the dim passageways, then selected a cabin at random and sat the box down on the floor in the cramped, narrow space. He placed his own pack and sword in the cabin as well, to keep them out of his way as he worked.
He wended his way back to the deck, then back to the pile of freight . That’s one done , he thought to himself with resignation as he looked at the daunting amount of belongings that sat waiting to be carried. His right hand felt slightly uncomfortable, as though the muscles under the skin were tightening up, on the verge of a cramp; he stared at the hand as he flexed it, but felt nothing get better or worse. Marco sighed, then picked up another crate, and carried it to the same cabin.
He repeated the journey several times during the next two hours, relocating bundles and boxes and sacks to the variety of cabins along the narrow passageway of the ship’s upper deck. As he returned to the pile of waiting goods, a pile that had shrunk to a quarter of its original size, he recognized a group of noble men and women approaching, the same group that he had seen taking the vow of non-combat earlier in the day. Some of the men wore uniforms, and the other men, including the one who he was told was the prince, wore fine clothing instead. There were only a pair of perfunctory guards with them wearing the green of their conquerors.
“Boy,” one of the noblemen shouted, “haven’t you finished that job yet? What have you been doing all day?”
“Argen, leave him alone,” one of the officers said mildly. “He’s already lost a war for
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