Vern nodded agreement but said, “And if they follow?”
“Not if. When,” said Reuben. “Can’t worry about that right now. Have to do what we can until we can’t.”
They adjusted their packs, grim and determined. The urgency of the situation beat upon Reuben’s mind like a shrill and ever present tolling bell. It took all his effort to force himself to a pace that Vern could keep without overexertion. Two sunrises and part of another day away from a small defenseless town. The thought kept bouncing around his head that they would only be leading their enemy straight into Tekuda. Mind at work, his senses were at full alert as the rocky soil crunched beneath his boots. His eyes focused on surveying the ground carefully while his ears strained to hear of crashing rock or pursuit from behind.
* * *
Thud. The heavy tankard hit the table top. Jessop guffawed in his seat, well pleased with his saucy joke. His companion, the master blacksmith Targeld, did not join in. Targeld was nowhere near the size of his apprentice Vern, but his sinewy and fit figure was far more efficient pound for pound than the hulking apprentice. All the ease he felt while at his forge, however, was not on display in the home of the master of the town, where Targeld had endured innumerable bawdy stories as he had attempted to steer Jessop back to the reason for his visit.
Trying again to bring the conversation back to his belabored point, “That’s all very well and good, but what about me and mine? I’ve spent too much time already teaching that lout, against my better judgment, mind you, and here you’re going to send him away?” The man’s voice was low and calm.
Jessop carried on his chuckling to himself, far gone into his fourth drink, but his eyes still caught the strained expression on his visitor’s face. Judging the time was appropriate, Jessop took another swig, smacking his lips. Deep inside, Jessop was roaring with laughter at the wince on the blacksmith’s face. Jessop was an expert in certain ways. In high humor, he grinned at the blacksmith,“Hweeeel, you t’ink I’d really let him go away?”
The statement might as well have been a blow to the face. Targeld was visibly taken aback, almost as if he’d misjudged the last stair and stumbled. Shaking his head with a twitch, Targeld looked with newfound respect upon his face. “I did not think you would come ‘round my side without an argument,” came the frank admission.
Jessop smiled all the more widely, “Dudn’t no matter. This town would have me upp’n t’air a swingun if’n I let that bandit free.” Jessop’s words were thick with the heavy fragrance of fortified alcohol. He was barely upright now, legs stretched out and slouched with one arm resting on the table, propping his head up, his other hand loosely grasping the tankard. The blacksmith himself had a small glass in front of him, of which the level was barely below full.
“You speak truly there, I doubt it not,” said Targeld, for the first time smiling in return since he had entered the filthy kitchenette. Convinced that his errand was accomplished, he raised his glass in a gesture of gratitude to Jessop and drained it with relief. Task completed, he could be free of the wretched atmosphere of crumbs and stale beer. He wasted no time, with the word spoken that Vern would have to stay, he left as quickly as politeness would allow. He was no friend of the apprentice, but neither did he intend to lose his free labor so easily. “One more thing,” said Targeld, “is there any truth to it, the message from Entigria ‘bout this Reuben being a criminal too?”
Jessop laughed uproariously, “Pay it no mind. Probably just rumor, you know, the stuff of the washerwomen.”
Targeld laughed too, but his eyes did not sparkle. He exited the abode without further comment. The door closed behind Targeld. After the footsteps dwindled away into the night, Jessop stood up slowly, steadily. His visitor would have been surprised indeed at the straightness of his walk as he went down the hallway toward his back courtyard. Jessop opened the door softly, and made three soft clicks of his tongue. Rustling sounded in the dark, and then a bedraggled looking old man in threadbare and stained clothing stepped into the half-light of the cracked open door. “He’s gone,” Jessop said, “come on in, have a drink.” Jessop turned and headed back towards the kitchenette.
The old man stepped carefully into the hallway, closing the door behind him with care to make as little noise as possible. His movement was slow, a shuffling sort of gait. Jessop had returned to his seat at the table, waiting for the stooped figure to enter, patience enduring as his accomplice sat down with glacial speed. Jessop proffered a flask to the newcomer. The old man picked up the flask and tipped it up, finishing it off with gusto.
Jessop leaned over the table, looking at his companion, “Fixin’ to be trouble fer our new lad t’town.” He noticed how carefully the other did not react to his news. “Maybe fer me too,” Jessop added.
The other nodded slowly, “Aye. But what do you expect? I’ve watched your back for years now. But if I weren’t old, if I was still at the mines, and then this scum gets a free ticket, I’d be with them and not you.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Bolson.” Jessop looked at the greying hair of his visitor, “and neither ‘twer you. I gotta get things calmed down ‘round here. That means getting rid of Reuben and Vern both. If Aigid blesses them to get back here, I gotta send them out again. And may she take them somewhere far away.”
“Easier just to cull ‘em,” said Bolson, matter-of-factly. He gestured to the empty tankard at Jessop’s end of the table. The town leader got up and went to his cabinet, pulling out an enameled jug. Bolson watched him disappear down the hallway, heard the steps down into a cellar.
While he waited, Bolson rubbed his weary knees. He did not enjoy the more political aspects of his relationship with Jessop, but it provided him with easy access to the mayor’s supply of alcohol. Useful stuff it was, though not very expertly brewed. That didn’t matter so much to Bolson, who cared more for its ability to dull pain. He groaned a bit as his leg tensed up with the spasms that were becoming more common to him every season.
Jessop returned with the enamel vessel full to the brim with frothy liquid. “Iff’n it were just the smith’s apprentice, you’d not find me standing in the way,” he said.
The old miner nodded, “I’ve seen the other. He’s not dross then?”
Jessop’s fingers drummed on the table, “No, but he ain’t shiny either.” The staccato beat came to a stop, “Still…we’re better than that, throwing away summat useful just cause ‘tis difficult to work with.” He looked hard at the old miner.
Bolson’s brow furrowed deeply, “Like you said though, he won’t be welcome if he makes it back. He’s got to go.”
Jessop sighed heavily. Then, “You warn ‘im for me, will ya?”
“Hmm. Okay, I can live with that.” Bolson placed his now empty jug on the table. His eyes narrowed, “Reuben’ll hear from me. I’ll not tip my hat to the other, though.”
Jessop stood and grabbed the vessel. “I wouldn’t expect you to,” he said over his shoulder, as he went to refill the jug.
* * *
Two days march out into the badlands was no light jaunt to return from. Reuben and Vern had made good time, though the cost was written all over their weary frames. Whether blessed by Aigid for traveling or perhaps the fickle nature of luck by Arneph, the moon had lent enough light to continue throughout the night. What little gear they had taken with them was strewn like breadcrumbs across the wastes, each shed after its usefulness or weight had become too bothersome. Only the necessity of speed had allowed such wasteful practice for Reuben. Tekuda was within sight on the mid-morning of the second day. Tired and grimy, they slowed their pace once they reached the streets. Exhausted as he was, Vern went straight to his bunk, leaving Reuben to report their findings to Jessop alone.
Reuben had spent the last day and a half on high alert. His face was caked with sweat and dirt from the dust of their passage. His senses had dulled somewhat through long strain, yet even so new alarm bells were ringing in him. He could tell it, the game was up. Tekuda
had always been a bit of a gamble, a venture to try a new life. He could sense the feeling of pressure in the air. He couldn’t be sure though, he was very nearly asleep on his feet. Maybe that crossed-eyed miner, resting with his back against a wall, was just having a bad day; it was more than possible in the glare of the morning rays. The sunlight was harsh, piercing, but transformative. It caressed in the midst of stark beauty, the banded rock shelf that the town huddled against, and revealed in hues of pale pink and yellow, a picturesque backdrop; but Reuben felt anything but contemplative peace at the moment. Maybe that maiden at the inn, why did she turn her head as he walked past the eatery on his way to Jessop’s house? Was it because she was too smitten with his grubby attire and torn clothing? He doubted that very much indeed. No, the looks and half looks told him a story that he could guess pretty well, each person in the town was calculating.
Then he spotted it, just past where the woman who had turned away from his gaze had stood, a poster with his name on it in big, bold letters. He sighed. The game was up in more than one way then, these folks were calculating risk, profit, and whether or not they wanted to be known to the rest as the one that turned in the renegade. They were not stupid, after all, a person coming into a bunch of cash would have unexpected supplicators. And although self-serving, the townsfolk adhered to a loose collection of rules and social norms. Why give this person up to some city lord that had put a bounty on his head? The long-sighted among them rebelled at helping Entigria at all, not when it did so very little when they asked for aid. Others were weighing odds, two would have a better chance of bringing the man in alive, the bounty was higher that way. Seems the city didn’t just want him dead, they wanted him alive and pinned under their scrutiny. Traveling had not been gentle to him, he looked a rough customer. Maybe best to grab a mate, surround him in some corner. But that would mean less profit, maybe not enough to quit this place. And you’d want to, after the rest knew that you didn’t have the outpost as your allegiance.
Reuben stood in the town square, alone but for the old geezer that always sat there, the sun having long ago given up on trying to penetrate the thick and permanently browned skin. Old Bolson, he’d never had enough to leave, so he did odd jobs. When the rheumatism wasn’t too bad, he could still potter around and do a bit of pick work. He was nice to have around, full of old jokes and funny stories. Everyone liked him, a sort of mascot. Bolson had no need of money, not like the rest did. He knew his part would play out here in Tekuda. So in the meantime he waited, hanging around. He sat underneath a small sapling that had managed to grow in the square, watching the torn-clothed man walk up to him.
“Well then, Bolson, nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?” said Reuben. The man only smiled his slow lopsided grin. “Seems I’ve become mighty interesting to everyone around here all of a sudden.”
Bolson nodded, eyes not even squinting in the harsh glare. Those cloudy orbs probably couldn’t tell him from someone just dressed in his clothes, but there was nothing wrong with his ears or his memory. His raspy, hoarse voice reached Reuben’s ears with the same nonchalance that was part of the old man’s demeanor, “That ya are there, sonny.” He had a small paring knife and an apple, which he was cutting into slivers and munching with relish. “Looks to be that you might be very interesting indeed. How about you have a seat and tell old Bolson a tale?”
Reuben wanted urgently to reach Jessop, but he knew he needed to pass this next test or he’d never even make it to the leader. He sat on the earth next to him, grubby pack on the ground nearby.
“That’s good of you sonny, best to take a rest now and again,” said Bolson.
“You old duffer, I bet you’re the one behind all this,” he said it jokingly, but really he would not have been surprised at anything by this point. It seemed that everything he had thought was true now had an asterisk by it.
“Well now, could be. Could very well be that after all. But it mayhap be that it’s not.” The old man was still smiling that odd sideways grin as he whittled away at the apple. “Mayhap be that a man finds hisself on the run, maybe his past catches up with him when he don’t want it to.” A particularly stubborn portion of the core caught the blade for a moment. With a grunt, Bolson pushed his knife through, “Could be a time when that man has to face it.”
“And this man,” Reuben said, “Would that, as you say, just happen to be me?”
“Oh, maybe. But that’s the tale we all have, them of us that live our years on the fringe. Sometimes that day never comes, and then that man’d be the worse for it. But I say it’s a happy day when youse get the chance, striking gold it is, to change the course of your fortune.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Reuben. “Say, since we’re speaking all friendly-like, where would that man find a drink without worrying if the liquid will reach his stomach?” Reuben was hoping the old one would catch on, maybe point him in the direction of anyone friendly to him still.
“Always practical, the man with a past. But you’d be in a bag if you went on the rag in this town now I’d say,” said Bolson, with knowing look at Reuben.
“Poetic,” said Reuben glumly. So Bolson was giving him a hint, things were bad enough here for him that he’d have to figure out his next move quickly. He felt weariness weighing him down, and anger. He was careful not to show it, but the frustration of all the toil he had done in the last few days to protect a group of people that saw him as an enemy was galling. A flask appeared in his vision, Reuben looked with surprise at Bolson.
“But if you’d trust to luck, I’ve some gut buster on me that’d curl even your coarse hair.” He caught Reuben’s look, “Oh, don’t worry about ol’ Bolson, too bothersome to remember about poison. With my mem’ry the way so ‘tis these days, I’d go and off meself on accident. ‘Sides, that’d be a terrible waste of me own stock,” Bolson chuckled.
Reuben took the proffered flask. Sniffing it made his eyes water. Did this old man really brew this on his own, and then sit alone to sip on it under the sun? And he managed that without the top of his head floating away? He decided to chance it, if he was going to die anyway, he’d rather it be because he trusted an old man than stabbed in an alley. The fiery liquid poured down his throat. “Gods, that’s foul,” he sputtered, trying not to cough up the liquor.
The old man clapped his knee, snickering, “Aye, that’s the stuff, make ya stand up straight in t’morning.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Reuben said, passing back the flask.
The old man tipped it up, a considerable amount of amber fluid gone in a quick flip. The man smacked his lips appreciatively before stowing the flask in his ratty vest pocket. Reuben got up from his seat, thanking the old man for what might be his last conversation with a friendly face. The air of the town still felt suspicious and wary. It seemed that the nice chat with the town mascot was not going to be enough by itself to assuage their distrust or their opportunistic ways. Reuben decided the best option would be to walk boldly towards Jessop, feigning a strength he knew his tired body did not have. Only terror had lent enough power to propel him onward, far beyond when Vern and Reuben both had needed to rest. He wondered whether to envy Vern right now, at least he was probably asleep by now. But he couldn’t leave a note for him, not even ask Bolson to tell Vern if he survived where Reuben had gone to. Not that he knew anyway. His only plan was to tell Jessop about the impending enemy arrival and then, if the town was going to come after him, he would simply be the first of the refugees to flee. He couldn’t let Bolson take on any more risk than he already had by welcoming him to sit and passing him his flask. That old man was a legend in the town, and his brew even more so. He felt honored to have shared that time, and glad that he had at least one person on his side left in a world gone mad.
* * *
Bolson watched Jessop fill another mug for him. The frothy brew came to a head, suds spilling over onto the table. He was back at the leader’s house, well into the evening of a long day; the town
had been in an uproar since the return of Vern and Reuben. For the first time, Bolson saw a real concern in his benefactor’s eyes. Tekuda had always been rough around the edges, people desperate enough to live out in the badlands, or turn to banditry. Today, though, had been the strongest test of Jessop’s erratic leadership, barely stopping his townsfolk from lynching Vern and holding Reuben as prisoner for the ransom on his head. After Bolson’s mug was full, Jessop poured one for himself. They sat at the table neither looking at the other or talking, just resting. Even Bolson was feeling the effects of the tension that flowed through the town.
Jessop’s thoughts were scattered between the events of the day. Reuben was confined to his bunk room for now. He had the cook of the common house watching over him. He wondered whether or not to just turn him over to the miners. Somehow that didn’t seem right, not after what he had done for the town. And what was worse, from the hurried conversation that he had had with Reuben before the mob came, their little town was in grave danger from the outside. Jessop had prevented the town from tearing itself apart from the inside, but did it matter?
Jessop went to take another sip and cursed as it sloshed onto his shirt. Sighing, he put down the mug. The beginnings of a plan were forming in his mind. Looking over at Bolson, who had not even chuckled at the spilled drink, Jessop said, “Got another little errand for ye.”
“Issat so?” said the old miner. Bolson was not at all surprised and his tone of voice showed it.
Jessop wiped his shirt as he spoke, “So ‘tis. Go round te the smithy. Neath that codger’s anvil is a hollow in the floor. Bring me the box that’s there. Do it this evening.”
“And the smith hisself? What’ll he say then, wit’ me a poking around his shop, a goin’ through his stuff so bold?” asked Bolson.
Jessop replied, “He won’t notice. He’ll be here, a ponderrin’ wit’ me what’s to be done with Vern.”
Litany of Wrath Page 12