“If you don’t have it,” another Water Pole interjected with a cunning grin, seeing Reynevan looking abashed and rummaging in his pouch, “I’ll buy the horse off you. For five… Very well, let it be six skojeces. Twelve groschen. Leaves you with just enough for the trip. And as the horse is no longer yours, you won’t have to pay to transport it. Clear profit.”

“This horse,” observed Reynevan, “is worth at least five grzywna.”

“That horse isn’t worth shit,” observed the Pole acutely, “because you can’t ride it to where you’re headed. So, what’ll it be? Selling?”

“If you throw in another three skojeces for the saddle and harness.”

“One skojec.”

“Two.”

“Done.”

Horse and money changed owners. Reynevan bade farewell to the grey by patting its neck and stroking its mane, sniffing a little as he said goodbye to a friend and companion in misfortune. He grabbed a rope and jumped on board. The sailor unhitched the painter from a stake. The punt shuddered and slowly joined the current. On the jetty, the Water Poles examined the grey’s leg and argued about nothing.

The punt sailed downstream. Towards Oława. The Odra’s grey water lapped and foamed against the sides.

“M’lord.”

“What?” Reynevan started and rubbed his eyes. “What is it, skipper?”

“Oława’s ahead of us!”

A punt sailing with the current and making no stops can cover the five miles from the mouth of the Stobrawa to Oława in less than ten hours. The punt’s skipper had much business to conduct at many stops along the way, and Reynevan spent a day and a half and two nights on the punt instead of ten hours. He had few complaints, however, as he was reasonably safe, travelling comfortably, resting, sleeping well and eating his fill. He even managed to converse a little with the skipper.

Although the Water Pole didn’t give his name or ask for Reynevan’s, he was essentially a friendly, easy-going person, simple but by no means stupid, somewhat taciturn but never brusque or rude. The punt weaved between river islands and shoals, calling at jetties now on the left bank, now on the right. The four-man crew were rushed off their feet and the skipper swore and drove them on. The Water Pole’s wife, a woman considerably younger than her husband, steered with a steady hand. In order not to abuse their kindness, Reynevan did his best not to stare at her sturdy thighs, visible beneath her rolled-up skirt, and to look away when her shirt clung to breasts worthy of Venus during manoeuvres with the steering oar.