A Fistful of Elven Gold

by Alex Stewart

  “They’d have had one already if it wasn’t for the goldmine in the Barrens,” Greel said. “No wonder they’re so desperate to keep it.”

  “Keep it?” Drago asked ingenuously. “Who’s going to take it away?”

  “Gorash,” Sleer said. “The one that song’s about. He’s got a lot of friends, and they’re causing all kinds of trouble up that way.” He nodded judiciously at Drago. “Which is why I wouldn’t recommend looking for work there. They’re always raiding, after the gold, or supplies, or both.”

  “I’m surprised King Stargleam puts up with it,” Drago said, some of the doubts he’d felt during his conversations with Greenleaf resurfacing. “Hasn’t he got an army for that sort of thing?”

  “He’s got soldiers,” Greel said, “but the bandits know the country. By the time word gets to the garrison, they’ve faded back into the hills. And most of the local commanders are too scared of being ambushed to send out patrols, so Gorash pretty much has the Barrens to himself.”

  “How nice for him,” Drago said, taking another drink, and deciding that he might as well finish it now he’d started.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Could do with one myself, as it happens.”

  Inevitably, more drinks followed, and the evening was well advanced by the time the two crews rose from the benches to return to their boats. To Drago’s relief the elves had left long before, as soon as they’d finished their meal. Not that he’d been expecting any further trouble, but he’d kept an eye on them anyway out of professional habit, and the conviction born of experience that it was often the unexpected that tripped you up. As they passed out of the building into the cool of the night, he glanced in the direction of the table Hannie and her friend had been sitting at, but to his complete lack of surprise there was no sign of either.

  In the usual way of indifferent ale, the flavor had seemed to improve the more he’d drunk, although he’d stopped some way short of intoxication. This was a new and strange environment, and he intended to keep his wits about him. Not all his companions had been as cautious, though, most of the goblins seeming a little unsteady on their feet even for sailors adjusting to their land legs. Clearspring, he strongly suspected, had finished the evening severely inebriated, but was too hardened a drinker to show it; her gait seemed steady enough, but Greel, who had drunk the least while appearing to keep up with the others, was walking a little too close for casual companionship, poised to step in if she stumbled and needed sudden support.

  Remaining sober hadn’t done anything to mitigate the other effects of consuming large quantities of a mildly alcoholic beverage, however, a fact he’d been reminded of almost as soon as he’d stood up, and which was growing ever more pressing as the ache in his bladder increased.

  “Where do you go for a piss around here?” he asked, glancing around in perplexity. There were no welcoming alley mouths or doorways in the immediate vicinity, and even though none of his companions could see half as well in the dark as he could, there was enough starlight in the almost cloudless sky for him to feel self-conscious about simply unbuttoning his breeks in the middle of the street.

  He glanced up at the heavens, feeling a momentary rush of vertigo. If he’d ever noticed the stars before, they’d been glimpsed through the narrow strips of sky visible between the rooftops of Fairhaven, pale and clustered in twos and threes. On the few occasions he’d been down by the estuary after dark, clouds or the famous sea fogs had obscured most of them. Now, uncountable motes of light blazed down on him, shimmering faintly, casting a pale blue glow over the scattered hamlet. For a moment he forgot everything, even his physical discomfort, lost in a haze of awestruck wonder.

  “Off the dock, mostly,” Sleer said, picking up his pace a little. “Could do with one myself, as it happens.” The lanterns strung along the edge of the wharf were clearly visible a couple of hundred yards away, and Drago picked up his pace a little. “There’s plenty of room the other side of Hathead’s boat.”

  “Not anymore,” Clearspring said, as their boot soles began to resound on the wooden decking. A mast was visible in the previously clear berth at the far end of the pilings, though the deck to which it was attached remained below eye level; heavily laden, the elven vessel was riding far lower in the water than any of the other three boats. A ladder ran down from the wharf edge, presumably left there when the crew returned.

  “You sure?” Sleer kept his eyes fixed on the middle distance as he approached the lip of the planking, carefully not looking down at the gurgling river below. “I can’t see a boat.”

  “Me neither.” One of the goblin sailors joined him, unfastening his britches as he did so.

  “Nor me.” Drago was pretty sure this was a bad idea, but the pressure in his bladder was growing insistent, and if he didn’t relieve it now, when would he? He glanced down, seeing a polished wooden deck about six feet below his boot toes, and beyond caring about the consequences. A shadow moved to his left, and Greel joined him, unbuttoning without a further word.

  “Really not a good idea,” Clearspring said, in the tone of someone not expecting to be listened to, and who would be mildly disappointed if anyone actually did.

  “Too late,” Greel said, and it was, a sudden gush of urine pattering on the deck below, accompanied by hoots of intoxicated laughter. Drago felt a sudden surge of relief, followed almost at once by one of caution as he rearranged his dignity.

  “What the scut!” a furious voice bellowed from down below. One of the crew had evidently been left on watch, perhaps anticipating something like this. “You filthy animals!” Glancing down, Drago saw the elf running for the ladder, murder in his eye, and a long knife in his hand. Suddenly this all seemed a lot less funny. But just as the furious elf reached it, the ladder vanished, plucked out of his reach by Clearspring. “Put that back, you trait bitch!”

  “Not till you ask nicely,” Clearspring said, grinning vindictively. “Say please.”

  The other two elves were coming out onto the deck now, attracted by the commotion, grabbing improvised weapons as they came. Drago backed quietly into a deeper pool of shadow, reaching for the hilt of his sword, and considering his options. He could just withdraw, and leave them to it, but if anything happened to Clearspring he’d be stranded. On the other hand there was no telling how many more of Gorash’s agents were on his trail, and if he waded in to finish this, the inevitable gossip about his fighting skill would be bound to reach their ears sooner or later. He’d tracked enough fugitives himself to know how easy it would be to deduce his whereabouts from rumors like that.

  While he deliberated, the furious elf leapt for the edge of the dock, getting his forearms over it, and began to haul himself up, the knife still clutched in his fist.

  Sleer clenched his. “Come on then,” he bellowed. “Have a go if you think you’re hard enough.”

  “Here. Take the bloody thing if you want it that much,” Clearspring said, lunging down with the ladder, and taking the rising elf full in the face with the lowest rung. He lost his balance and fell back to the deck, with a howl, landing on his crewmates, and effectively winding all three of them. Clearspring tossed the ladder into the water. “Here. Catch.” She listened to the splash in feigned surprise. “Oops. Butterfingers.”

  Drago waited expectantly. If they had any sense the elves would back down, realizing they couldn’t get up onto the wharf now without turning their faces into footballs for the other crews, but he’d seen enough brawls to know that wasn’t likely to happen. By this point, anger and adrenalin was going to override common sense, which in his experience wasn’t all that common to begin with, and blood was going to be spilled. Preferably not by him, but his options were getting narrower by the minute . . .

  “Oi! What’s going on?” The clatter of boot heels on planking heralded the arrival of Roger, the not-quite watchman, his sword drawn, his voice heavy with the menace of a bully used to being listened to. He glanced at Clearspring, registering her presence, and hi
s tone became freighted with sarcasm. “Captain Clearspring. This is a surprise.”

  “Evening, Roger.” Either the alcohol in her system was insulating her from the full realization of just how much trouble they were potentially in, or she genuinely didn’t care. Drago would have bet on the latter, but he was acutely aware of what a terrible gambler he was, so didn’t pursue the thought. “What are you doing here?”

  “Keeping the peace. So hold yours, if you know what’s good for you.” He looked down at the elves, who were disentangling themselves to an accompaniment of profanity which even Drago, who was used to the waterfront of Fairhaven, found inventively impressive. “Who started it?”

  “They did.” The captain stepped forward dramatically and pointed to the goblins and Greel, who immediately adopted expressions of bewildered innocence that made them look twice as guilty. “They attacked our boat.”

  “Attacked it how?” Roger looked down curiously. “I can’t see any damage.”

  “They—they—” Words seemed to fail him. “It’ll take weeks to get the stink out.”

  Roger sniffed the air, and an expression of dawning comprehension bloomed across his face. “You mean they pissed on your deck.”

  “That’s all they had time to do before we challenged them. Apart from assaulting our duty watch. Look at his face!”

  “That was self-defense,” Clearspring said. “He came at me with a knife, and I had to fend him off. With a ladder.”

  “What ladder?” Roger asked. He glared at the elf. “I can see he’s still holding the knife. Which he’s about to drop, if he doesn’t want me to take him in, isn’t he?” He waited for a moment, while the blade clattered to the deck. “That’s better.” He turned back to Clearspring. “What ladder?”

  “The one in the water over there.” Greel pointed. “I’m sure they’ll be able to fish it out without too much trouble. Thing is, we all had quite a bit to drink, and, you know, nature took its course, and by the time we got back we were feeling it. There wasn’t a boat there when we left the wharf, and by the time we noticed one had put in while we were away, it was too late. So to speak.”

  “So you accidentally pissed all over a forty-foot boat none of you noticed was there.” Roger nodded judiciously, keeping his face commendably straight. “I could see how that might happen. Did you apologize to these gentlemen?”

  “We would have,” Sleer said, “but they were too upset to listen.”

  “Right. Then we have an unfortunate misunderstanding, don’t we?” Roger glanced down into the boat, at three faces clenched with silent fury, then back to the smirking visages of Clearspring, Greel and the goblins. “What I suggest is, everyone goes back to their own vessel, and stays there till the morning. Then at first light you all bugger off. Because if I have to get the magistrate involved, she’ll impound them all pending further enquiries, then take half your cargo in fines. Sound reasonable?”

  “Eminently,” Clearspring said, the careful enunciation of the severely intoxicated bleeding into her voice. “You’re a credit to the uniform, if you actually had one. And sorry about shoving you off the dock that time. I was tired and emotional.”

  “As a rat,” Roger agreed. “But no harm done. My cut of the fine came in handy, as it happens.” He turned, and led the way down the dock toward the other boats. Drago remained lurking in the shadows until he was sure the seething elves were going to stay put, and after a moment or two he followed the others.

  “So Foley’s a magistrate now?” Sleer asked. “How did that happen?”

  Roger shrugged. “How do you think? She made herself one.”

  “Right. Should have guessed.” Sleer clambered over the rail of his boat, followed by the rest of his crew, and raised a hand in farewell. “Night, Marieth. Sweet dreams.”

  “I wish.” Clearspring led the way onto the deck of her own boat, and turned to Drago. “You can have Hannie’s hammock tonight if you like. She won’t be needing it.”

  “No thanks.” Drago paused at the top of the ladder leading down into the depths of the hold. “I’ve got a bedroll with me. I’ll sleep up here, in case our friends with the floating urinal get any ideas about paying you a visit in the small hours.”

  Clearspring regarded him appraisingly for a moment, suddenly seeming a lot more sober. “I would ask what you think you could do about it if they did, but I’m not sure I want to know.” Then she turned, and disappeared into the deck cabin.

  Drago lay awake for a long time, but nothing happened, and eventually he fell asleep still marveling at the sight of the stars.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Don’t expect us to hang about afterwards.”

  Drago woke with the dawn, the first flush of sunlight casting a red glow across the deck, and felt a momentary surge of disorientation which propelled him to his feet, his hand closed around the hilt of the knife he’d kept tucked beneath the knapsack he’d been using as a pillow. Then he remembered where he was, breathed in the unwelcome draught of fresh air blowing in off the river, and sneezed.

  “You can move pretty quick when you want to,” Clearspring remarked, observing him from the doorway of the deck cabin. She had a steaming mug of something mulled in her hand, to chase away the morning chill, and the aroma tantalized Drago’s empty stomach. “I was going to give you a shake and see if you wanted one of these, but I’m glad I didn’t now.”

  “Probably wouldn’t have ended well,” Drago agreed, returning the knife to its scabbard inside his boot, and bending down to roll up his blanket. “But I wouldn’t say no.”

  “Thought not.” Clearspring strolled over and handed him a second mug. “I take it you didn’t have to fend off any visitors after all.”

  “No,” Drago said. He looked around, but the Rippling Light was the only boat still left at the wharf. Half a dozen sails were already visible out on the river, but if any of them belonged to Hathead, Sleer or the elves they were too far away to be sure. “Any chance of some breakfast?”

  “Every chance.” Greel stuck his head out of the galley. “Pancakes all right with you?”

  Drago nodded, leaning on the rail. The river curved away ahead of them, trees lining the banks almost as far as he could see, before petering out into the same monotonous heathland he’d seen so much of the previous day. Smoke rose in several places along the banks, where other crews who’d simply moored for the night were preparing their own breakfasts, or the charcoal burners were plying their trade. “Pancakes are fine.”

  “Good. Cause that’s all I’ve got.” Greel grinned, and disappeared again. Drago sipped the drink Clearspring had given him, warming his hands around the mug, feeling curiously at ease despite the silence and the lack of people pressing close around him. The flavor was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant, with a spicy aftertaste; he could feel every swallow warming its way down to his stomach, from where it radiated out through the rest of his body.

  “Morning!” A cheery hail from the dockside drew his attention shoreward, where Hannie was approaching. The settlement seemed more pleasant in daylight, the rising sun playing against the buildings, and highlighting the splashes of color in the makeshift gardens. Those closest to the eastern tree line were still in shade, dappled by the shifting blotches of sunshine which managed to wriggle their way through the obstructing leaves. The early risers, which seemed to be most of the villagers, were beginning to emerge from their houses, heading toward the woods with tools and bags, and for the first time Drago saw children among them, running and chattering with the careless abandon of those for whom the afternoon seems like a lifetime away.

  “What time do you call this?” Clearspring demanded, as Hannie clambered over the rail. “You should have been back at first light.”

  “Well, I had to say goodbye properly, didn’t I?” Hannie said, with a distinctly self-satisfied grin. “That’s just manners. Anyway, Greel’s still cooking.” The grin widened. “Lucky that. I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

  “He can
cook just as well while we’re under way,” Clearspring said testily. “Get those mooring lines unhitched, and help me with the sail.” She strode off to hoist it, while Hannie got to work, whistling cheerfully under her breath.

  The next few days settled into a routine Drago almost began to find comfortable. As the landscape on the banks gradually changed from monotonous heathland interspersed with progressively larger clumps of woodland to sprawling forests separated by dwindling stretches of moor, life aboard the boat acquired a rhythm that was almost soothing. A good deal of his time was spent trailing the fishing line in the water, while the Rippling Light’s crew attended to more urgent matters, and although he never quite felt as proficient as he would have liked, Drago began to take a quiet pride in the steady supply of fish he began to bring aboard. As Greel had warned him, the size of the catch was never predictable, but, somehow, that made it even more satisfying.

  In the quieter moments of their passage one or more of the crew would generally find time to chat with him, asking about life in Fairhaven with evidently genuine curiosity: how the people there could stand the crowding and the stench, how many foreigners he’d met from overseas, if the wizards there really were as skillful and learned as rumor had it. To which he answered with vague generalities, the occasional joke he then had to explain, and a faint sense of unease that so much he’d always taken for granted didn’t really make much sense when you looked at it too closely. But then he supposed most people felt like that. The one topic he was careful to deflect, a fact he was sure hadn’t gone unnoticed, was anything touching on how he earned a living. Clearspring had evidently inferred that it was something on the fringes of the law, which he supposed was technically true, and he made certain he said or did nothing to disabuse her of the notion.