The town pays little heed to the departing cadre, still fixated on its immolation.  The screams and laughter are a farewell of a sort - a directionless idiot cry: A true pirate farewell.<br/><br/>On the docks, the former Roman pirate cradles his now-dead comrade, his song died down to whispers.  The young girl on the docks' edge has gone still as clay, the river having drunk her life.  The<strong>Bachoi</strong>awaits.<br/><br/>It's time to leave.<br/><br/><strong>The Bachoi</strong>is a single-level barge, some forty feet long and twenty feet wide.  Its hold is crammed with amphorae, casks, crates and plates and lengths of tooled lumber.  Around the hold is a deck of sorts - about four feet of plank.  A pole steers the ship, and a sail will propel it.  Fastenings of iron line the barge's edge, allowing for it to be fastened to the dock - and for other cargo to be fastened to it.<br/><br/>Overall, it seems little more than a floating treasure chest.  It's a fortunate thing that Gulsehir is no more than a single day's drifting down the river, should the winds be fortunate.<br/><br/>With the fires in the air, the winds are always fortunate for ships like the Bachoi.<br/><br/>On the edge of the deck, Masina has set out a small picnic.  With the stink of the smoke no longer staining the air so totally, the mouldering reek of wine - fresh and stale - hangs about her like a rain-cloak.