by Alex Stewart
“Is that it?” he asked, spotting an exceptionally large building a little way farther down the street, from which lamplight was leaking around the first-floor shutters. Unlike most, it had a second story, the glazed windows of which were curtained, and mostly lit.
Hannie shook her head. “That’s the store,” she said. “You want anything around here, that’s where you go.”
Greel nodded, indicating a sign which read Foley’s Emporium in large, ornate letters, and added “Dry Goods. Hardware. Boots and Haberdashery” in smaller ones underneath. “They don’t cheat you much,” he agreed, “and there isn’t anywhere else anyway.”
“Can’t think of anything I need,” Drago said, and Clearspring smiled mirthlessly.
“Then you must be unusually contented,” she said, turning a corner. “Just down here.”
Their destination was immediately obvious, a large, single-story building, of clapboard construction, from which the hum of conversation was audible even at this distance. There was no sign above it; clearly everyone was expected to know it was there, and what they’d find inside. Light was spilling out into the street, through a large gap in the longer wall, above which a tarpaulin had been tied back out of the way; if the place ever closed, which Drago doubted, or the weather grew inclement, it could be let down to cover the gap, or extended into an awning to create more room.
“Would Foley own this as well, by any chance?” Drago asked, and Greel nodded.
“This, and the warehouse by the docks. Who do you think pays Roger and his mates?”
“I wasn’t thinking about that,” Drago said, which was true; any community like this would have a Foley-shaped hole at its center, and someone would have filled it, as surely as water ran downhill. He didn’t see any reason to care who that was.
“Come on, then,” Clearspring said, leading the way inside.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Remind me not to say anything nice about your hair.”
Drago hung back a little as they entered the building, letting the taller elf and humans screen him while he got the measure of the place. As he’d expected, most of the clientele were human, and presumably local, seated on benches at the long tables running the length of the room, spooning down food from wooden plates. The majority were plainly dressed in home-sewn garments, the more prosperous easily distinguished by their store-bought clothes. Nearly everyone, men and women alike, wore sturdy britches, and leather vests were popular among those who could afford or make them; from the burrs and scraps of twig adhering to garments and hair, Drago inferred that they worked in the woods, felling timber for construction materials and the charcoal fires. The charcoal burners themselves were easy to pick out, from the grey ash ingrained in their clothing and skin, and the odor of woodsmoke which clung about them. Most kept to themselves, at one end of the table nearest the entrance, although a few were laughing and joking with friends and relatives among the villagers. Not all the locals would be here, of course, many of those eating and drinking would have wives or husbands waiting in one of the huts they’d passed, but Drago was willing to bet that the vast majority would be in here several times a week.
The most noticeable exception was a small group of goblins seated about halfway down the farthest table, laughing and talking among themselves, and with their immediate neighbors. Both groups were dressed like Clearspring and her deckhands, and only a few seconds of listening to their chatter was enough to confirm Drago’s immediate guess that these were the crews of the two boats they’d found already tied up at the wharf on their arrival.
“Look who’s here!” The goblin skipper glanced in their direction, and waved a hand in greeting. “Marieth!”
“Sleer.” Clearspring nodded at him as affably as an elf could be expected to manage, and turned her head a little to meet the gaze of his human counterpart. “Hathead.”
The man nodded back, a little curtly. “Clearspring.”
“What’s the matter with him?” Drago asked, keeping his voice low.
Hannie shrugged. “Nothing. Sore loser. He’ll get over it.”
“We beat him to a contract last year,” Greel amplified. “Told the shipper we could get it to Fairhaven a day earlier than he could.”
“And did you?” Drago asked.
“Nearly. I told you, the Light’s a fast boat. But it didn’t matter anyway.”
“Skipper just changed the date on the paperwork,” Hannie added, oblivious to a glare from Clearspring. A young man was rising from a nearby bench, and her attention was entirely on him.
“Hannie!”
“Clem!”
The young man swept her into an enthusiastic embrace which momentarily staggered her, his voice rising with surprise and delight. “When did you blow in?”
“Just got here.” She regained her balance, and indicated the serving counter at the far end of the room. “Wanted something to eat.”
“Got plenty of that over here.” He urged her in the direction of the table, where a few of his friends were clustered around a substantial meal. After a token show of reluctance she followed him, with a backward grin at her shipmates. “How long are you here for?”
“Just for the night.” Her grin widened, and her arm went round his waist for a moment, before heading south to collect a handful of buttock. “So let’s not waste it, eh?”
“And that’s the last we’ll see of her before dawn,” Greel said, following Clearspring to the far end of the room, where she was already making a selection from the food on offer.
Drago strode after him, conscious of standing out among so many humans, and determined not to show his unease. “She must be happy about that,” he said, keeping his voice conversational, and glancing casually around. No one was taking more than a passing interest in his presence, so far as he could see, but after his experiences in the back alleys of Fairhaven he wasn’t about to trust to that. “Putting in where her sweetheart lives. Especially as it wasn’t planned.”
Greel laughed. “I don’t think she even knows what a sweetheart is. She’s got a lad like that in every settlement on both banks, and at least three on the go in Fairhaven.”
“So long as she’s back at sunup, I don’t care if she’s got them taking turns.” Clearspring turned away from the counter, holding a wooden bowl of pottage, and a wooden spoon to eat it with. “What are you having?”
“The same,” Drago said, to save time. He was hungry, and couldn’t see much of what was on the counter without jumping up to look anyway, which he was damned if he was going to do. Apart from being undignified, it would attract too much attention.
“Bread and cheese,” Greel said, pointing to something out of Drago’s eye line, “and something to wash it down.” He glanced at Drago. “Best ale on the lower reaches, they do here.”
“That we do,” the man behind the counter agreed cheerfully, handing Greel a tray, on which the food and drinks were balanced. To Drago’s immense lack of surprise, it, the bowl, Greel’s trencher, and the ale mugs were all made of wood. “That’ll be six shillings and eightpence.”
“He’s paying,” Clearspring said, with a glance down at Drago, and began scanning the room for somewhere to sit. Drago sighed, pulled out his purse, and began to count out the change.
“Marieth! Over here!” Sleer gestured an invitation. Captain Hathead and his crew had evidently finished their meal, and were getting up to go. “Plenty of room!”
“Isn’t that handy?” Greel asked, with a trace of sarcasm. Clearly the lingering animosity between the two crews wasn’t entirely one-sided. Nevertheless, he waved a cheery farewell as the human sailors filed out, which a couple of them, somewhat sheepishly, returned. He lowered his voice as they made their way over to the vacated bench. “I was lying about the ale, by the way. Tastes like troll piss. But the hicks here are proud of it, and a bit of flattery usually means more food for your money.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Drago clambered up onto the bench, which, as he’d expec
ted, was too low and too far from the table for him to eat comfortably sitting down. After a moment he raised his knees and knelt on the narrow plank; which wasn’t exactly comfortable either, but better than having to reach up and across for every spoonful. He took a cautious sip of the ale, and found it wasn’t quite as bad as Greel had intimated, even though it wouldn’t have passed muster in any but the cheapest of taverns back in Fairhaven.
“Taken on a new deckhand, have you?” Sleer asked Clearspring after a moment, with a glance at Drago, as the elf plied her spoon in silence.
She shook her head. “Passenger. On his way upriver.”
“Long way to the mountains,” Sleer said, making the obvious deduction. The Geltwash started in the spinal range at the heart of the continent, meandering almost a thousand miles to the sea, and the vast majority of gnomes lived in the city-sized delvings which riddled the highest peaks. He turned to Drago. “And you’re dressed like a city boy. Heading home, or out to see the ancestral halls?”
“Neither,” Drago said, choosing his words carefully. He had no objection to lying in principle, but in practice it was always better to shade the truth if he could. It was harder to get tripped up that way. “I heard there was work for gnomes in the Barrens.”
“Did you now?” Sleer nodded, his voice still affable, but his posture betraying a sudden inner tension.
Drago shrugged, busying himself with the pottage, which wasn’t nearly as bad as the ale, as if he hadn’t noticed the goblin captain’s change in demeanor. “Tell you the truth, things were getting a bit iffy where I was. Pissed off the wrong people, if you know what I mean. I just grabbed the first ride out of town I could get.”
“Well, it’s not like we haven’t all been there.” Sleer glanced meaningfully at Clearspring, who deliberately failed to react. “But if I were you I’d bypass the Barrens. Keep heading upstream until you’re well past the Marches altogether. Go see those halls.”
“Maybe I will,” Drago said. He knew a veiled warning when he heard one, and this particular specimen had pretty much danced a striptease.
“Good lad.” Sleer glanced up, and nudged Clearspring. “Friends of yours?”
“No.” She followed his eye line, to where a trio of elves had just walked in. They were dressed like sailors too, though they carried themselves like aristocrats surrounded by peasants, and Drago remembered the sail he’d seen in the distance as they left the wharf. Evidently he’d been wrong about the skipper’s intention to push on through the night. “Never seen them before.”
“Marchers, though,” Sleer said. He turned to his crew, with a smile almost devoid of humor. “Let’s remind them of home.” He cleared his throat and began to sing, the other goblins joining in with gusto. “Oh Gorash is a reiver bold, he leads a gallant band, who fight for truth and justice, and to free our stolen land . . .”
The elves stopped moving, conferred quietly among themselves for a moment, then walked to the counter to order food, ostentatiously ignoring the rest of the song. To Drago’s quiet surprise, several of the humans in the immediate vicinity joined in enthusiastically with the chorus. Evidently the ballad was popular even this far from the Sylvan Marches.
“Who’s that about, then?” Drago asked, as the song came to an end. “I haven’t heard it in Fairhaven.”
“I don’t suppose you have,” Sleer conceded. “Too wrapped up in your own concerns. But you’ll hear it a lot on the river, ’specially higher up. Gorash is—”
“A murdering bandit.” The elves had drifted over to the table, and stood looming over it, in a manner Clement Wethers would undoubtedly have approved of, plates and mugs in their hands. “Who’ll be caught and hanged as he deserves.” Their captain, easily distinguished by the intricate embroidery on his vest, bowed formally to Clearspring. “Are these people bothering you, madam?”
“No.” Clearspring chased the last of her food around the bowl, without looking up. “They’re my friends.”
“I see.” The elf clearly didn’t. “Perhaps if your crew aren’t here—”
“We are,” Greel said, standing slowly, and extending a hand. “Some of us, anyway. But thank you for your concern.”
“I see.” The elf captain glanced from Greel to Clearspring, then to Drago, refusing to take the human’s proffered hand. Then he nodded curtly to Clearspring, his lip curling in clear disdain. “My apologies for the intrusion, madam. I’ll leave you to your . . . friends. No doubt you find them more to your liking.”
“No doubt I do,” Clearspring agreed evenly, in the kind of calm, reasonable tone which, in Drago’s experience, generally preceded someone drawing a knife. He let his hand drift a little closer to the hilt of his sword, without making it obvious, but none of the elves seemed to notice. They were already turning away, heading toward a bench being vacated by a group of charcoal burners.
“Typical trait,” one of them said, in a voice clearly intended to be overheard, and Clearspring’s fist bunched. She gathered herself to rise, but before she could move, Greel’s hands were on her shoulders, exerting gentle downward pressure. After a moment she went with it, relaxing a little, but her jaw remained clenched.
“Typical twat,” Sleer said, unleashing a chorus of raucous laughter from the goblins and Greel. After a moment, Clearspring’s mouth relaxed into a tight smile.
“If I asked what that was all about, would I regret it?” Drago inquired, trying to sound as though he was still more interested in the contents of his bowl.
“Long story,” Clearspring said, draining her ale mug, and looking faintly disappointed to find the bottom of it so soon. “Let’s just say I don’t like the way things are going back home, or the people who do.”
“That thing he said sounded like an insult.” Drago pushed his own, almost full, mug across to her. Not much of a loss, and the gesture might get her talking. Sure enough, she picked it up, took a thoughtful gulp, and replaced it with a nod of thanks.
“It was, to him. I think of it more as a compliment.”
“You were still ready to punch his lights out,” Drago said. “Remind me not to say anything nice about your hair.”
“It wasn’t the words, it was the intention,” Clearspring said. “Trait’s the short version for a phrase these people use. ‘Traitor to the race.’ Which is how they regard anyone who treats a non-elf as an equal.”
“Nope.” Drago chased the last of his pottage around the bowl, and licked the spoon. “You’ve lost me.” He tried to picture Fairhaven if any of the people living there had the same attitude, and failed dismally. Even the snottiest elves would cheerfully do business with anyone regardless of race, and probably knew several non-elves socially in the bargain. The whole place would just fall apart, otherwise.
“That’s because you’re a Fairhavener,” Greel said. “You’re used to being somewhere lots of different people live together. In the Marches, it’s pretty much all elves, and that breeds a certain attitude. As you saw.”
“And it’s always been like that,” Sleer added. “There are some with a more open-minded attitude,” he smiled at Clearspring, “but it doesn’t pay for them to make it too obvious.”
“No. That it doesn’t.” She finished Drago’s drink and looked round hopefully, but one of the goblin sailors was already heading back to the table with a trayful of replacements. “When the old king died and his daughter took over, things looked like getting better. She expanded trade, encouraged travel and visitors, even tried talking to the goblins in the Barrens about their grievances.”
“Then she vanished,” Drago said. He grinned at the expressions of surprise suddenly directed at him. “We’ve heard that much in Fairhaven, at least.”
“Then she vanished,” Clearspring agreed. “And her idiot brother took over. And things went back to normal, if not worse.”
“Sounds like you’d had enough,” Drago said.
“More than enough. So I scraped the money I needed to buy the Light together, and the only time I ever set
foot in the Marches now is if somebody pays me to. And even then only long enough to find a fresh cargo.”
“Probably best,” Sleer said. “And at least the brokers will talk to you. Try being a goblin and getting a reasonable deal out of them.” He shrugged. “It’s getting so bad half the skippers on the river won’t even put in there anymore.”
“Tell me about it.” Clearspring seized on the newly arrived ale gratefully. One appeared in front of Drago too, and he took it with a nod of thanks, more to appear sociable than because he wanted it. Then again, free beer was free beer, and it was probably worth the price he’d paid. “Last time I was there I had to leave Hannie and Greel below decks until the deal was done.”
Greel chuckled. “Worth it for the expressions on their faces when they realized you had a human crew.” He turned to Drago to explain. “Most of them’ll only trust their cargoes to an elvish boat.”
“And more fool them,” Sleer opined. “Cutting their own throats, they are.” The prospect didn’t seem to be distressing him unduly.
“How’s that?” Drago asked. He was certainly getting a lot of new information, even if it wasn’t entirely clear how it all fitted together yet, or if it would help him to find Gorash.
“Because there aren’t enough boats on the Geltwash with entirely elven crews,” Clearspring explained. Drago noticed she used the common name for the river instead of calling it the Silverroad, like most elves did. “They’re throttling their own economy.” She took another gulp of her ale. “And serve them right. They’re about due for a smack in the face from the reality club.”