A Fistful of Elven Gold

by Alex Stewart

  “Not in a bathtub,” Meadowsweet grumbled. He began to move, and the boat rocked violently, shipping a couple of mugfuls of water.

  “Just stay where you are,” Drago snapped, a little more heatedly than he’d intended. “Next two on the other side.”

  Meadowsweet flushed, angry and embarrassed at being publicly upbraided by a non-elf, but had the good sense to hold his tongue.

  “That would be me,” Oaktwig said, boarding with surprising grace. The boat steadied as he settled opposite Moonshade, their knees almost touching. He glanced up at the jetty. “Miss Silverthorn?”

  “Shouldn’t she stay up there and cast off?” Moonshade asked. “She’s from Fairhaven, so she ought to be used to this.”

  “Good point,” Graymane agreed, swinging himself aboard before Ariella had a chance to argue. By this time the boat was sufficiently laden to remain reasonably steady, to the evident disappointment of the onlookers, who began to wander off. Ariella glared at his back, and began to fumble with the mooring lines. After a few moments of muffled cursing, they came loose.

  “Heads below!” She lobbed her satchel down, everyone setting the small craft rocking again as they scrambled out of its way; it landed on the planking with a resonant thud, which made the three elves from the mine wince. “And again!” A sack of about the same size followed it; this time Graymane reached out a hand and caught it neatly. A second later Ariella followed, a little more sedately, and settled herself in the bow, leaning back into it as though it were a couch.

  “Better haul the lines in before you get too comfortable,” Drago said, putting the tiller about with some effort. The sails filled, and the overladen boat began to move slowly away from the shore. “Because I’m not going over the side to free them if they snag on something.”

  Ariella glared at him for a moment, then began hauling the sodden rope aboard, coiling it inelegantly on the boards between her feet. Meadowsweet shuffled a little further away, as river water spattered on his uniform, then back to where he’d started after Moonshade elbowed him in the ribs.

  “I’ll get the other one,” Oaktwig said, reaching behind to begin hauling in the trailing stern line.

  As the boat picked up speed, joining the steady stream of vessels heading upriver, Drago glanced at Ariella uneasily. Not because she’d been irritated by being pulled up on neglecting to stow the lines properly, but because he’d momentarily registered the expression on her face before the enchantment erased it from his notice again. The charm was beginning to weaken, and their whole plan relied on her not being recognized before they reached their destination.

  He glanced at Graymane, who, engrossed in the contents of the sack, appeared not to have noticed anything untoward.

  “Bread and cheese, mostly. And a couple of bottles of wine.” Graymane nodded approval at Ariella. “Basic, but it’ll get us there. Who’s hungry?”

  “Me,” Drago said, realizing that it was true. He glanced at the open river ahead, then back to the quayside, already diminishing in the distance. The fresh air and open water were finally dispelling the last of the nausea induced by the journey on horseback, and his appetite was returning, even more so for having missed breakfast. That, at least, he could do something about. Everything else was now out of his hands.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “The sooner we’re done with this, the better I’ll like it.”

  Despite being overladen, low in the water, and uncomfortably crowded, the courier boat still made good time on its journey upstream. Drago lacked the experience of river navigation to make an accurate assessment of their speed, but it seemed to compare well with what he remembered of the Rippling Light’s capabilities, and Clearspring had boasted of that particular vessel’s exceptional handling on more than one occasion. Indeed, they overhauled several riverboats of a similar kind in the course of the afternoon, albeit slowly enough to arouse the curiosity of their crews; which meant either politely deflecting questions about their destination and business, or ignoring a flurry of jibes about their unusual appearance and fitness to be on the water, depending on whether the vessels were crewed by elves or not. This far upriver a few were even gnomish, ranging far downstream of the Delvings, although the majority were either elves on their way to the Marches, or humans, who, in the manner of their kind, seemed to be everywhere. By far the most scathing invective, and the occasional thrown object, however, came from the goblin boats, which Drago couldn’t really claim to be surprised by; after the first one he learned to steer well clear of those, and hope no one aboard had a bow.

  These interludes aside, the journey proceeded smoothly and easily, apart from Meadowsweet’s incessant complaints about the lack of leg room, Moonshade’s frequently expressed irritation with his “infantile whining,” and Oaktwig’s visibly waning patience with both of his subordinates. Ariella and Graymane kept quiet, on the whole, only speaking when one of them had something germane to say, which generally related to the steadily dwindling supply of foodstuffs, and Drago had even less inclination for idle conversation than he had the time and energy. After an entire afternoon of leaning into the tiller, or hauling it laboriously toward him, his back and shoulders ached as though they’d been trampled by a troll, and his neck felt as though it had been riveted straight to the top of his spine.

  “We should put in for the night soon,” Oaktwig said, as the light grayed around them, and a faint chill began to permeate the air. The sun hadn’t quite set yet, but had already disappeared behind the ever-thickening forest lining the banks, the trees becoming taller and wider with every passing mile. “Otherwise it’ll be too dark to find a landing place.”

  “Not for me,” Drago said. He could still see perfectly clearly, and would be able to do so even after night fell in earnest. “How much longer to reach Sylvandale?” There were scattered lights along both banks, indicating either the presence of settlements or boats which had already moored for the night; mostly the latter, although without the benefit of his low-light vision, none of the others could be certain of that.

  “That pompous oaf back at the quay said we’d be there by dawn,” Oaktwig said. He shifted uncomfortably. “Though I’m not sure I can sit still for that long.”

  “He was factoring in an overnight stop,” Graymane said, “or at least a comfort break or two along the way. This boat’s faster than a regular cargo vessel.”

  “Not that much faster while it’s as overloaded as this,” Meadowsweet put in, “and I vote for a comfort break at least. We can’t get much further anyway; it’ll be completely dark soon.”

  “Which is where having a gnome at the tiller comes in handy,” Graymane said. He glanced at Drago. “Can you keep going all night?”

  “If I have to,” Drago said. He wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea, but he could certainly see well enough to keep the boat moving for as long as the wind lasted. “Do we want to get there before daybreak?”

  “Yes,” Ariella said. “The fewer people around when we arrive, the better.” Not to mention the advantage the darkness would give her if the spell concealing her identity had worn off by the time they arrived. Gorash had been confident that it would last for long enough, but he wasn’t exactly an expert in thaumaturgy, and whoever had created the charm in the first place hadn’t been around to ask.

  “Then I’ll put in briefly a little after nightfall,” Drago said, ignoring the suppressed groan from Meadowsweet. If the elf thought sitting still for another hour or so was bad enough, he should try hauling on a tiller intended for a user twice his own size for half the day. “Wait until there’s no chance of being spotted by anyone ashore.” Which he couldn’t entirely guarantee, of course, but if he chose a stretch of riverbank well away from any obvious habitation or moored vessels, the risk would be a small one.

  “That would be best,” Graymane agreed, with another glance at Drago which didn’t quite manage to conceal his concern. “But can you last that long? You’re looking all in.”

  “I
’ll be fine,” Drago said. “Bit of food and a quick nap, and I’ll be raring to go.”

  But Graymane didn’t seem to believe him, which was fair enough, because Drago didn’t really believe it either.

  In the end it was his own fatigue which impelled him to steer the boat in toward the shore, rather than the increasingly frequent grumbling of the elves. Everyone was getting cold, tired, and short-tempered by this time, and more than ready to feel dirt under their feet again.

  “Get the rond anchor out,” he told Ariella, who merely shrugged in response.

  “I would, if I had a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “Big metal spike, tied to a rope. Should be in one of the lockers you’re sitting on. Make the other end fast to the boat, and stick the spike in the bank when we reach it. Can you manage that?”

  “I could if I could see anything,” Ariella said testily, but began rummaging in the locker by her feet nevertheless. After a few moments of groping she found the anchor, and began making the rope fast, as instructed.

  Drago nodded approval, even though she would barely be able to make out the movement of his head by now. “Good job,” he said. “Stand by.” The boat was heading straight into the bank, a little faster than he would have liked, but not enough to damage it when it hit. Bushes were growing out over the water, which would afford them a little extra concealment, and he trimmed the tiller a fraction to strike the bank at a more oblique angle. “Everyone duck.” He wouldn’t have to, of course, but most of the elves were still a few inches taller than him, even sitting down. They all complied, although a couple of muttered profanities indicated that someone hadn’t been quick enough, and he glanced up to see Meadowsweet brushing a handful of leaves from his hair. Twigs and branches began rustling against the mast. “Any moment . . . Now!”

  The boat jolted, Ariella jammed the spike hard into the muddy bank, and the boat came to rest, swinging round as the current pushed it broadside on to the shore. Drago jumped out, and stamped the aft line anchor firmly into the ground. He stretched gratefully, feeling his muscles crack.

  “About time,” Meadowsweet said, scrambling ashore as soon as Graymane and Oaktwig were out of the way, and vanishing into the bushes. The others dispersed a little more slowly, leaving Drago to take care of his own needs without interruption, although since none of them could see much further than their own noses, he didn’t really know why they bothered. Keeping track of their whereabouts by the rustling, crackling, and occasional eruption of profanity, he returned to the boat for his rucksack and extricated the bedroll. Now he’d stopped concentrating on piloting the boat, exhaustion had him firmly in its grip.

  “You should eat something first,” Graymane said, kindling a small fire as he spoke; more for the light it afforded, Drago thought, than because it would provide much warmth. Glancing around, he noted with approval that the elf had placed the fire where a clump of trees would conceal it from anyone still out on the river, although he could see no running lights on the water; nor, to be honest, had he expected to. He’d seen very few boats sailing through the night while he’d been aboard the Rippling Light, and most of those had been too intent on delivering perishable cargoes to take any notice of what was going on along the shoreline in any case. But it never hurt to be cautious; they hadn’t been showing any lights at all, conscious of the need to be inconspicuous, and there might be other boats abroad whose business made them equally wary of being visible.

  “Thanks.” Drago took the proffered food and ate mechanically, the flavor of the hard bread and past-its-best cheese barely registering; which, for a gnome, was a sign that something was seriously amiss. He must have been even more tired than he thought. “Wake me in an hour.” That wouldn’t be much, but a lot better than no rest at all.

  “Will do,” Graymane assured him, glancing up as Ariella appeared, refastening her breeks. “That’ll should get us to the palace comfortably before dawn.”

  “Good.” Ariella crouched down at the fire, warming her hands. “The sooner we’re done with this, the better I’ll like it.” She glanced round, and lowered her voice. None of the rustling in the bushes seemed particularly close, but sound carried in the silence of the night. “Any idea who it is yet?”

  Graymane shrugged. “Could be any of them. Oaktwig’s not that likely, he could have betrayed you and Gorash at any time, or simply led his troops to the camp. But he might be playing the long game. Could be either of the others, but if I had to pick, I’d go for Moonshade. She’s the brighter of the two, and a lot more cagey. Says a lot less than she thinks.”

  Ariella shook her head. “That’s why I reckon it’s Meadowsweet. Playing the fool’s worked for Oaktwig. Maybe he’s had the same idea.”

  Both elves looked at Drago, but before he could reply, he interrupted himself with a jaw-cracking yawn. Once it had passed, he shook his head. “Haven’t a clue. Too knackered to think about it.” He rolled himself up in his blanket and was asleep almost at once, dimly aware as he dozed off that the others were emerging from the bushes.

  That prompted some dreams, which he forgot as soon as he woke, but which left him with a faint and nagging suspicion that he was missing something important.

  “It’s all right.” Drago shrugged Graymane’s hand from his shoulder. “I’m awake.” The forest was silent, with the preternatural stillness of the pre-dawn, and he frowned, trying to cling to the rapidly evanescing thought which had come to him in the night.

  “We should go,” Ariella said, and he staggered to his feet, wrapping the blanket around himself against the chill.

  “Right.” It was no good. The thought had disappeared completely. All he could remember was something about his wedding, over a decade before, and that was an image which tended to figure in his dreams whenever he was involved in something he suspected wasn’t likely to end well. Perhaps if he concentrated on something else it would return unprompted, but somehow he doubted that. He turned reluctantly toward the boat. “All aboard then. Try not to fall in.” Which was less of a joke than he’d intended.

  “It’s all right for you,” Meadowsweet grumbled, the short rest apparently having done very little to improve his temper. “You can see what you’re doing.” He scrambled in nevertheless, with enough bumping about to have attracted the attention of everyone within a mile of the clearing: fortunately, Drago suspected, that only meant the six of them. Moonshade followed, pointedly sitting opposite her fellow captain this time, then Oaktwig boarded as well.

  “You next,” Drago said to Graymane, who nodded, and complied, deferring to the gnome’s greater expertise with water craft. He turned to Ariella. “Take the bowline. Sit in the same place as before.”

  He’d been expecting some argument, but she simply moved to comply, yanking the spike from the soggy turf and clambering back over the gunwale without a word. The boat bobbed, and the bow began to drift outward into the current. Throwing his kit into the boat, Drago pulled the second anchor out, and resumed his post by the tiller.

  “The wind’s dropped,” Graymane said, as the sail flapped forlornly for a moment before reluctantly beginning to fill. “Can we still make it in time?”

  “We should,” Drago said, reluctant to commit himself. The elves might think him an expert, and compared to them he was, but his skills were rudimentary at best. “It’ll be stronger further out, and the breeze should freshen by a bit before dawn.” To his unspoken relief, the first part of his prediction turned out to be true. The second might have as well, for all he knew; but he never got the chance to put the matter to the test. After little more than another hour of scudding across the dark and silent water, a faint nimbus of light appeared up ahead, seeping through the trees where the river curved round to the left.

  “That’s it,” Ariella said, her voice a strange amalgamation of determination and resignation. “The lights of Sylvandale.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “And if she doesn’t, I will.”

  Drago hadn’
t really thought about what Sylvandale would look like when he eventually got there; if anything, he supposed, he’d been expecting something like Fairhaven, though a bit more compact and probably a bit cleaner. The reality was completely different, so much so that it took him a while to assimilate what he was actually seeing.

  The trees along both banks of the river had grown steadily in stature as their journey had progressed; now many of them were a couple of hundred feet or more in height, and several yards in girth. Drago had seen nothing like them before, and had been duly impressed. Now a grove of several dozen, taller and wider even than these, appeared on both sides of the river, leaning out across it until their branches met high over the water. Jetties and quays, many of them occupied by riverboats, nestled among roots a yard thick, or pushed out into the water on pilings.

  At first, Drago thought these, and the scattering of timber buildings he could see between the forest giants, constituted the bulk of the town, and was mildly disappointed; then his eyes were drawn upward, by scores of flickering lights that at first he’d mistaken for fireflies, and the penny dropped. He’d been fooled by the vast scale of the trees into shrinking them in his mind’s eye to the stature of normal ones: the lights were lanterns and sconces, flaring in the night, illuminating buildings and walkways clustered against the trunks and nestling among the branches. The whole town was higher than it was wide, a bewildering array of interlocking levels and courtyards within and around the trees. Here and there trunks had been hollowed out or tunneled through, so it was hard to tell where artifice ended and living wood began.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” Ariella asked, with a hint of proprietorial pride.

  Drago nodded, aware that he was gawping like a peasant fresh off the boat in Fairhaven, and not caring. It wasn’t like any of the elves could see him anyway. He shrugged. “Seen one city, seen them all,” he said, aware that he wasn’t fooling anyone.