The Stoneholding

had launched their dangerous venture from the quay below the tavern.

Not to mention that The Cranes was a good spot in which to spark gossip and foster hearsay -- the useful rumour, for instance, that had distracted the river patrols from their normal duties. It helped too that the tavern's owner was a trusty highlander, a loyal King's man, although Frysan fervently hoped that they had covered their tracks well enough that no suspicion would later attach to him. Otherwise, like themselves, the man could find himself dangling like rotten fruit from the Hangtree's gibbet.

Frysan stirred to ease his stiffness and glanced at his broad-shouldered companion. He smiled gravely to himself. Here was Cammas, who was the brawniest jolliest soldier in Frysan's platoon of elite Life Guardsmen dressed in plain coarse-grained trousers and tunic, like one of the many watermen who ferried passengers back and forth along the Dinastor River. Catching Frysan's eye, Cammas swung the oarblades onto the gunwales for a moment and kicked at the lumpy pile of canvas at his feet, where two other comrades lay hidden.

"Ruddy hard work it is making headway with this load of fishbait even with a downstream drift."

"It's your own fault, Cammas," humoured a voice from under the canvas. "The ham-handed way you sweep them oars, you'll have sprayed half the Dinastor River aboard before we berth, and the worst of it is, we ...