Jeff had never encountered such a thing in his twenty-eight years. Zimma had not only apologized, but also given her soul into his hands. Frozen by the moment and lack of even a vague precedent, his tongue was locked in place. Zimma prepared herself as the silence dragged on. It had been too much to hope for.
“I...I find myself consumed by such feelings that they threaten to tear me asunder. God, Zimma. You are...I mean.... Yes, with all my heart. I forgive you. But, you see, I think I.... No! I don’t think, I know that I…know that I love you.”
Zimma watched emotions chase each other across Jeff’s face, read the intent of his fractured syntax; understood the meaning. His final words sent her spirit soaring into the heavens.
“Oh, my love.”
They came together in one step, bodies molding to one another in a way that knew no hard edges. Their lips met in the first kiss. Long-frustrated emotion found the bridge and rushed between two hearts. It was not a crushing embrace, rather one of true passion that had found release.
When they separated, Zimma looked into his eyes as if seeing him for the first time. She placed a finger on his lips, perhaps to document what had passed between them. Kissing her finger, Jeff wrapped Zimma in his arms. Words had no place in what they were feeling, and they swayed back and forth to the lift and surge of the ship.
They spent the rest of the day holding hands and creating dreams. Jeff’s mind had only been waiting for the opportunity to acknowledge what his heart had been promoting for a long time—he loved Zimma without exclusion or doubt. By evening he wasn’t sure he would be able to leave her when they arrived at Astholf.
“Zimma, I find my feelings so deeply engaged that I stand in awe. Somehow the word love is not strong enough, complete enough. Yet everything has occurred so quickly, been so life and death centered. How many days do we have to really acquaint ourselves with one another before we must separate?”
“We have this time.”
Zimma kissed him slowly and thoroughly, exploring every contour of his lips. “You are mine, Jeffrey. It is so wonderful to say that.” She lay her check on his chest. “Yet it is a time of war. I understand that you must leave me for the while, but let us not tarnish the moment with misgivings or doubt. We must grasp that which is possible, not squander joy in anticipation of loss.”
Later, as they watched the sun slip below the horizon and turn the water to gold, they shared another kiss; let themselves be consumed by the kiss and each other.
That evening the captain announced they would arrive at Astholf the following afternoon if the breeze held. Jeff and Carl were worried about Belstan. One day to port and still no word. It was a great relief when he approached them with a determined stride.
“You have caused me great distress, young man. Never has my desire to turn a few linta waged such a savage war with my determination to stay alive. It is late, and such serious matters as trade and profit are better discussed at an earlier hour. Rogelf and I will confer with you and Carl tomorrow morning to share our minds on this matter.”
True to his word, it was only mid-morning when they were summoned from the main hatchway by an imperious crooking of Belstan’s finger. The three of them, Jeff, Zimma and Carl, had been having a wonderful gabfest. Zimma shooed them away.
“May the gods preserve you!” She said it with a laugh, but the men were not reassured.
They met in the captain’s cabin. Belstan’s expression was intense, and his eyes bored into Jeff’s.
“Rogelf and I have discussed at great length the part we might play in the supply effort for Rugen. What you have suggested is, to our minds, impossible.”
Jeff felt the world spin and was grateful he was sitting down. As Belstan obviously had more to say, he fought back the strong urge to immediately object. Belstan rolled out the inevitable map and waved them over to look on.
“Astholf by itself is nothing. Its strength lies first in its association with Khorgan, and second, with Rugen. It is naught but a pathway for raw material flowing south, and for finished objects flowing north. The great majority of this by way of Lake Ligura. Astholf would have been, has been, the main link in trade with Rugen.
“I must ask you, young men, how long will Astholf’s ships remain unmolested on the lake? How long will Khorgan’s gates be open to Astholf trade no matter the means of transportation? We believe, perhaps, six weeks. Another six weeks and a Salchek fleet will be tying up at Astholf’s piers.” Belstan shook his head as he continued to examine the map. “The North has always posed obstacles to trade. You are correct, young Jeff. Rugen does sit near many treasures. But look you where it sits.”
Belstan pointed at Rugen’s location on the map. “Nowhere! The city is in the middle of this land but close to nothing. It has poor roads when any exist at all. Close by are nearly impenetrable forests and mountains inhabited by warlike peoples. Without Astholf and Khorgan to link with, it is hopeless.” Face impassive, Belstan sat down and folded his arms.
After an interval of silence, Jeff quietly said, “Without a reliable source of trade, resistance to the Salchek is doomed to stalemate at first, then defeat. When last they invaded, this land was freed only by the happenstance of their voluntary withdrawal. I believe it foolhardy to once again rely on the intervention of providence. I will not pretend to be aloof from your decision, for it is crushing. Yet in spite of that decision the defense of this land remains a duty that cannot be denied or assigned. What must be done, Carl and I will venture to do. Without your help if necessary, but with sadness.” Jeff gazed evenly into Belstan’s eyes. “Do you, then, counsel despair?”
Belstan’s expression was unreadable. For minute after silent minute, he studied Jeff and Carl. Rogelf gave the impression that he was not listening. Instead, he appeared to be examining the cabin floor as if searching for defects in workmanship. Belstan pursed his lips and nodded slowly.
“The substance of your question is basic to this affair and to life. Despair is the resort of fools and the weak. As I said, we have thought deeply on this matter and,” waving a finger at Jeff and Carl, “on you both. We are finished in the South not only because of what happened at Tradertown, but by choice.”
“Belstan and I understand trade,” Rogelf broke in smoothly, “and in doing so have come to some understanding of people as well. Without people of value, nothing of consequence may ever be accomplished. We have both, Belstan and I, come to feel a deep respect for you, Jeefry, and a growing respect for you, Carl.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Belstan said with firm authority. “Words that lead to action and accomplishment.”
One step removed from the interaction’s intense emotion, Carl had been watching the traders closely and more objectively than Jeff. These guys are good, he thought admiringly. What a team. Yes! Rogelf’s turn!
“Events surrounding the Salchek invasion will likely spin themselves out over the balance of our two lives and a large portion of yours before the outcome is known. What has passed between us today has been necessary so we may decide on a course of action. I am satisfied.” Rogelf turned to Belstan with eyebrows raised in silent query.
Totally mystified, Jeff looked to Carl for insight but only got a supportive wink.
Belstan’s face broke into a huge smile. “As am I. Despair is for dogs! Rogelf and I will assemble all that remains to us in Astholf and journey to Rugen in caravan as soon as it may be arranged.”
Jeff was stunned by what seemed a complete turnabout. He glanced at Carl and got another wink. Looking down, he shook his head and laughed wryly.
“You two are something else. Now that’s what I call teamwork.”
“Even though our ploy was necessary, I apologize for abusing your trust,” Belstan replied, and patted Jeff on the shoulder. “We had to be sure of your steadfastness of purpose. What lies ahead will be no easy thing.” Belstan rubbed his hands together. “But such a challenge! To be the ones who open large-scale trade with the North!”
Jeff was feeli
ng very sober and did not respond. It was unsettling to realize that Belstan and Rogelf’s decision had crystallized only after grilling him. One immature reaction such as an angry retort might have tipped the scales the other way. So much hanging on a few words, he thought, and I didn’t have a clue! Thank God I didn’t blow it.
Shortly, Belstan once again had them clustered around the map. “Here is what must be done. As you have implied, Rugen must become the center not the end point of trade routes.” Belstan’s finger moved around the map.
“For many years to come, Rugen’s prosperity will lie not to the south in Astholf, Khorgan and Borgo, but in establishing trade routes to Torsberg and the island of Skene in the east.” His finger skipped to the west coast. “Here lies real hope—Jutenberg and Ruun, and to the north, Trunstad and Hochberg.”
Rogelf continued the train of thought. “These designs will consume perhaps five years’ labor. The challenge Rugen must first meet is surviving the siege that is nearly assured. The supplies we bring will be of value. It is our intention to convert the greater portion of our holdings to products a city under siege will find useful.”
Impressed by the scope of the traders’ imagination and ambition, Jeff was also aware of the risks they were willing to assume with no promise other than their faith in him and, to an extent, in Carl. That made him uneasy, knowing in his head if not in his heart that he could easily wind up dead in some northern forest.
“In return for all that is proposed and risked, you must be given a charter by the city of Rugen to develop and control these trade routes. You must also be given ironclad guarantees. This will be my first task upon arrival at Rugen.”
Belstan and Rogelf were pleased by Jeff’s proposal. A planning session ensued and continued for the rest of the day. The first and only really important debate centered on the small matter of survival for the next year or two. The meeting broke up when they received a message that the ship would be tying up at Astholf within the hour.
One look at Astholf while they were tying up and it became apparent that it was a smaller clone of Rugen. Anxious citizens eager to hear the latest information greeted the Tounae’s crew when they disembarked. Ostfel’s arrival, it seemed, had stirred up a hornet’s nest.
Jeff and Carl hit the streets early the next day under the guidance of Golfin, one of Rogelf’s employees. The few items of clothing that Carl had picked up in Khorgan would never stand up to hard use. Astholf was a frontier city, and purchasing rugged clothing fit for the trail posed no problem. However, they had no luck at all finding a sword that was both well made and suitable to Carl’s tall frame.
“I think it’s a lost cause, Jeff. Maybe I can find something in Rugen.”
“Not likely. The swords I’ve seen there are no better. Wish I‘d picked up a sword while in Tradertown. The only positive thing I have to say about the Arzaks is that they know how to forge good steel.”
Golfin suddenly snapped his fingers. “Thank you, Jeffrey. Perhaps there is yet hope.”
Wearing a grin of anticipation, he led them to a seedy shop in a back alley. On the way Golfin explained that the proprietor, a small-time weapons dealer, was deeply in debt to Rogelf and had been dodging payment for some time. More importantly, it was nearly certain he had Arzak dealings through his wife’s family. The proprietor winced when they entered.
“All right, Golfin, what will it take to settle.”
Golfin smiled toothily and watched Bortog sweat for a few moments before saying, “That’s not why we’re here. These gentlemen wish to look at swords, good swords and,” waving his arm to include everything visible, “not this refuse.”
Brightening at the prospect of making a profit instead of having his feet put to the fire, Bortog disappeared into the back of his shop. After a period of dimly perceived activity he returned with an armful of weapons.
“These swords, gentle sirs, are of the finest quality but were forged in Arzak. I would be most appreciative if that fact did not become generally known.”
With a sense of relief, Jeff and Carl sorted through a wide selection of weapons that were equal in quality to Saafir’s collection in Tradertown. Carl eventually gravitated to a rapier that fit his hand as if made for him. Stepping outside, Jeff and Carl traded a few passes to test the rapier’s balance and length. Both were close to perfect, the action a lot of fun. Although accustomed to a foil, Carl took to the rapier like an old friend.
While Bortog fitted him with a sword harness, Carl picked up and set down a slim poniard so often that Jeff handed it to him for dessert. For his last encore, Golfin guided them to a stable in search of a horse for Carl. It happened to be the one Cynic was quartered in, and Jeff enlisted his help.
It was dark inside the stable so they moved to a corral and inspected horse after horse as they were led by. Cynic rejected each with contemptuous snorts and acid criticism. After a dozen or so had passed, he suddenly shot his head in front of Jeff and brought his teeth together with a sharp clack only inches from the horse trader’s arm.
“Gods and demons!” Fishko did a respectable standing broad jump away from Cynic.
“My horse does not respect many two-legs. In this instance, I agree with him completely. You have shown us nothing but wind-broken crow-bait, and most of them lame to boot.”
Fingering the haft of his sword, Jeff stared at Fishko until the oily fellow shifted his eyes and feet.
“Either produce
horses worthy of the name or you will receive no business from ourselves or anyone we are associated with.”
Cursing under his breath, Fishko spat a brown stream and lead them to an adjacent corral. He waved a hand at the horses inside the corral.
“Now don’t go gettin’ hasty. This yere bunch is good horseflesh.”
“Right.” Jeff unlatched the corral gate.
“Horse-brother, would you be so kind? If there are any that meet your standards, cut them out so we may view them closer.”
“With pleasure, horse-brother.” Cynic trotted into the corral.
Fishko looked on with slack-jawed amazement as Cynic chased, intimidated or provoked every horse in the corral. He settled on two and herded them over so Jeff could get a look.
“Good work, horse-brother. They both appear sound. Which do you prefer?”
Cynic snorted and whuffled a bit before sending a sleek chestnut closer. “His spirit is good, and I believe he will display courage on a long run.”
“We’ll take that one.”
“But that is my personal horse!”
“Do you wish to make a sale, or do we search out another stable?”
Fishko writhed, spat, kicked at the dirt and cursed. “He ain’t cheap.”
Astholf was less than half the size of Rugen, and the number of shops within its walls limited in proportion. Not surprisingly, there were also fewer shops that dealt in quality products. Zimma and Rogelf wandered through a number of food stalls and groceries but found none that were acceptable. Hope was fading late in the day when she found a grocery that had promise. The building was nicely painted and the walkway in front swept clear of debris.
Entering, Zimma nodded at the sight of youngsters fanning flies away from neat stacks of cheese, dangling rows of summer sausage, and symmetrical piles of fresh produce. Picking up a fruit the size of a grapefruit but blue in color, she found it and others in the display to be almost ripe and not bruised.
“This shop will do, Father. I am so relieved!”
Rogelf found nothing to criticize in the store and just nodded. They wandered the aisles, Zimma plucking items from various displays as they went until the wicker basket she had brought along was filled.
The store’s proprietor didn’t recognize them, an uncommon occurrence in Astholf, and they chatted while Rogelf paid the tab. It proved such a pleasant experience that Zimma would have talked longer, but she could feel that time was running out.
Arm in arm, they strolled toward the warehouse. Zimma was so happy tha
t every so often she skipped a few steps. Rogelf had not seen Zimma skip since she was a young girl and looked away to conceal his emotion.
It was a soft summer evening and neither of them was in a hurry to see it end. Zimma could not remember the last time she had gone anywhere with her father and felt a stab of remorse. It had been such a delightful afternoon. Squeezing Rogelf’s arm, she turned her head to smile at him.
“Thank you for accompanying me, Father. It has been so wonderful having you all to myself that I am reminded of the years when I did not consider such an opportunity worthy of my presence or time.”
Rogelf examined his daughter’s face while reviewing those heart-wrenching years during which he had helplessly watched her slip away. He patted her hand.
“We are now reunited, my Zimma. Let us never again find ourselves viewing one another across such an abyss.”
“It shall never be. I shall never permit it to happen, Father. I cannot find words to express what I have learned of myself through meeting Jeffrey. He is so far within my heart, has filled its every nook to such completion.”
“And yet, are you completely sure? As your father I must ask this question. I love Jeefrey as my son and will deny him nothing, including your hand. Yet he is not of our people this land or very world. We know little of his homeland, but what I have heard of it is most disturbing. While he is a courageous, well-thought and honest young man, Zimma, I also perceive he has been deeply wounded. Such wounds of the heart often prevent or subvert true attachment.” Rogelf veered to the side of the walkway and stopped.
“I am familiar with many aspects of your nature, Zimma, for they were also present in your mother. Do you understand that, for you, after this night, there is no turning back? That you will be forever tied to and share Jeefrey’s destiny? That you will be so tied even though, as an outlander, he might well fail to comprehend and thus fully respect such a binding? In full knowledge of his origins, do you willingly and freely accept this?”
Exile to the Stars (The Alarai Chronicles) Page 27