Pedestrians scattered in all directions as Zoya and Davian charged across the quay, iron shod hooves striking sparks from the flagstones. The crowd at the waterfront dissolved into screams of confusion made all the worse as baskets of live poultry were upended in a storm of feathers, squawking, and showers of dung from the panicked birds. The two sailors at the gangplank stood slack mouthed as the two fugitives came on at a gallop. Davian’s steed, the stronger of the two pushed forward and pounded up the gangway, screaming as he made the deck and sawed at the reins to halt the beast before it took him over the far side. The sailors made a half hearted grab for the gang plank as the ship continued to pull away, succeeding in dislodging one end from the pier side. The plank promptly upended and plunged into the widening gap between the ship and the quay. Zoya’s horse screamed and tried to turn, but she grimly yanked the reigns this way and that to keep it on course. The horse leaped into the air, vaulting the gap with the grace of a born steeple chaser and landing on the deck with a hollow boom. A hanging rope caught Zoya across the shoulders and pitched her from the saddle onto the deck. She landed on her back with an impact that drove the wind from her lungs and started spots across her vision. Her horse reared and came close to trampling her but one of the sailors, possessed of quicker wits than the others, snatched the beasts bridle. Screams and curses rang out deafeningly as sailors, spectators, and the soldiers trying to force their way to the ship bawled themselves hoarse trying to be heard.

 “Those soldiers will be aboard in a moment!” Davian shouted into her ear, still barely audible over the din. Zoya gasped for air and sat up, tasting blood, she reached down and grasped at a stabbing pain in her bosom, her hand emerging with a sculpted statueete she had taken from the Holding. It was in the shape of an anthropoid snail atop which a naked woman rode, the sword she held aloft red where it had driven into Zoya’s flesh. She stuffed the thing to her pocket and struggled to her feet.

 “Take me to the side,” she gasped, too low to possibly be audible, but Davian grasped her intention and dragged her to the side. One of the sailors, confusion on his face, reached out to grab her, but a sharp punch with a beaked fist from Davian dropped the man retching to the deck. Zoya reached the side as the soldiers reached they quay, separated by no more than ten feet. Embracing Saidar she wove wrist thick flows of water and the river surged upwards between the hull and the quay so violently that a spray of dank river water rained down on the deck.  The out thrust of the water shoved the ship away from the quay, opening the gap by more than forty feet in a matter of a few seconds. One of the soldiers raised something and Zoya heard Davian curse. He grabbed a wooden belaying pin and swung it. There was a crack and the pin spun from his hand, the quarrel of a crossbow bolt splitting the timber almost in two. It would have pierced her heart if he hadn’t acted her Saidar enhanced perceptions informed her. Several other crossbows raised by she dropped below the bulwark a moment before the series of musical thunks impacted the hull. A few seconds later and the strong current of the Erinn had pulled them out into the channel and the sails, ignored in the confusion by their tenders, billowed and filled. The ship began to pick up speed and with Zoya’s encouragement, the current quickened. Before the crossbowmen could reload the ship was well down river, a white bow wake foaming around her forepost.
 
“Who in the name of the black depths are you, and what in the name of the Light are you doing on my ship!?” a white bearded man with piercing blue eyes demanded. It took no great leap of logic to deduce he was the captain.
 
“You may call me Zea,” Zoya said, her voice strong despite her exhaustion and the adrenaline burning through her. “The name of my clan and my salt name are unimportant.” The Captain’s eyes bugged as if he were about to suffer a fit of apoplexy. Then his eyes took in her Sea Folk garb and he settled slightly.



“And why shouldn’t I turn this ship around and take you back right this moment?”
 
“Because you have incurred the wrath of the Highlords of Tear, but you have not yet incurred the anger of the Athan’miere,” she explained, her tone sharp but controlled.

 “Which do you imagine is a greater peril to a sailor?” she underscored. The Captain blanched slightly. Not being able to make port in Tear for a time was an inconvenience, the hostility of the sharp prowed Sea Folk rakers which might fall upon him in anywhere from Shara to the Sea of Storms would certainly prove lethal.
 
“I will of course bestow a suitable Gift of Passage, assuming this scow doesn’t take us to the Father of Storms,” she added with a twist of her lip. The Captain vacillated a moment, looked back at the furious confusion on the now distant waterfront and sighed. Then he turned to his men.

 “What’a’ya starin’ at,” he bawled at his crew, “wanna’be holdin’yer tackle when the mustachios get organized?!”