by Dajala
“We would talk with Jeod, if he is free.”
“Have you an appointment?”
Roran thought the butler knew perfectly well that they did not. “Our stay in Teirm is too brief for us to arrange a proper meeting.”
“Ah, well, then I regret to say that your time would have been better spent elsewhere. My master has many matters to tend. He cannot devote himself to every group of ragged tramps that bangs on his door, asking for handouts,” said the butler. He exposed even more of his glassy teeth and began to withdraw inside.
“Wait!” cried Roran. “It’s not handouts we want; we have a business proposition for Jeod.”
The butler lifted one eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Aye, it is. Please ask him if he will hear us. We’ve traveled more leagues than you’d care to know, and it’s imperative we see Jeod today.”
“May I inquire as to the nature of your proposition?”
“It’s confidential.”
“Very well, sir,” said the butler. “I will convey your offer, but I warn you that Jeod is occupied at the moment, and I doubt he will wish to bother himself. By what name shall I announce you, sir?”
“You may call me Stronghammer.” The butler’s mouth twitched as if amused by the name, then slipped behind the door and closed it.
“If his head were any larger, ‘e couldn’t fit in the privy,” muttered Loring out the side of his mouth. Nolfavrell uttered a bark of laughter at the insult.
Birgit said, “Let’s hope the servant doesn’t imitate the master.”
A minute later, the door reopened and the butler announced, with a rather brittle expression, “Jeod has agreed to meet you in the study.” He moved to the side and gestured with one arm for them to proceed. “This way.” After they trooped into the sumptuous entryway, the butler swept past them and down a polished wood hallway to one door among many, which he opened and ushered them through.
JEOD LONG SHANKS
If Roran had known how to read, he might have been more impressed by the treasure trove of books that lined the study walls. As it was, he reserved his attention for the tall man with graying hair who stood behind an oval writing desk. The man—who Roran assumed was Jeod—looked about as tired as Roran felt. His face was lined, careworn, and sad, and when he turned toward them, a nasty scar gleamed white from his scalp to his left temple. To Roran, it bespoke steel in the man. Long and buried, perhaps, but steel nevertheless.
“Do sit,” said Jeod. “I won’t stand on ceremony in my own house.” He watched them with curious eyes as they settled in the soft leather armchairs. “May I offer you pastries and a glass of apricot brandy? I cannot talk for long, but I see you’ve been on the road for many a week, and I well remember how dusty my throat was after such journeys.”
Loring grinned. “Aye. A touch of brandy would be welcome indeed. You’re most generous, sir.”
“Only a glass of milk for my boy,” said Birgit.
“Of course, madam.” Jeod rang for the butler, delivered his instructions, then leaned back in his chair. “I am at a disadvantage. I believe you have my name, but I don’t have yours.”
“Stronghammer, at your service,” said Roran.
“Mardra, at your service,” said Birgit.
“Kell, at your service,” said Nolfavrell.
“And I’d be Wally, at your service,” finished Loring.
“And I at yours,” responded Jeod. “Now, Rolf mentioned that you wished to do business with me. It’s only fair that you know I’m in no position to buy or sell goods, nor have I gold for investing, nor proud ships to carry wool and food, gems and spices across the restless sea. What, then, can I do for you?”
Roran rested his elbows on his knees, then knitted his fingers together and stared between them as he marshaled his thoughts. A slip of the tongue could kill us here, he reminded himself. “To put it simply, sir, we represent a certain group of people who—for various reasons—must purchase a large amount of supplies with very little money. We know that your belongings will be auctioned off day after tomorrow to repay your debts, and we would like to offer a bid now on those items we need. We would have waited until the auction, but circumstances press us and we cannot tarry another two days. If we are to strike a bargain, it must be tonight or tomorrow, no later.”
“What manner of supplies do you need?” asked Jeod.
“Food and whatever else is required to outfit a ship or other vessel for a long voyage at sea.”
A spark of interest gleamed in Jeod’s weary face. “Do you have a certain ship in mind? For I know every craft that’s plied these waters in the last twenty years.”
“We’ve yet to decide.”
Jeod accepted that without question. “I understand now why you thought to come to me, but I fear you labor under a misapprehension.” He spread his gray hands, indicating the room. “Everything you see here no longer belongs to me, but to my creditors. I have no authority to sell my possessions, and if I did so without permission, I would likely be imprisoned for cheating my creditors out of the money I owe them.”
He paused as Rolf backed into the study, carrying a large silver tray dotted with pastries, cut-crystal goblets, a glass of milk, and a decanter of brandy. The butler placed the tray on a padded footstool and then proceeded to serve the refreshments. Roran took his goblet and sipped the mellow brandy, wondering how soon courtesy would allow the four of them to excuse themselves and resume their quest.
When Rolf left the room, Jeod drained his goblet with a single draught, then said, “I may be of no use to you, but I do know a number of people in my profession who might…might… be able to help. If you can give me a bit more detail about what you want to buy, then I’d have a better idea of who to recommend.”
Roran saw no harm in that, so he began to recite a list of items the villagershad to have, things they might need, and things they wanted but would never be able to afford unless fortune smiled greatly upon them. Now and then Birgit or Loring mentioned something Roran had forgotten—like lamp oil—and Jeod would glance at them for a moment before returning his hooded gaze to Roran, where it remained with growing intensity. Jeod’s interest concerned Roran; it was as if the merchant knew, or suspected, what he was hiding.
“It seems to me,” said Jeod at the completion of Roran’s inventory, “that this would be enough provisions to transport several hundred people to Feinster or Aroughs… or beyond. Admittedly, I’ve been rather occupied for the past few weeks, but I’ve heard of no such host in this area, nor can I imagine where one might have come from.”
His face blank, Roran met Jeod’s stare and said nothing. On the inside, he seethed with self-contempt for allowing Jeod to amass enough information to reach that conclusion.
Jeod shrugged. “Well, be as it may, that’s your own concern. I’d suggest that you see Galton on Market Street about your food and old Hamill by the docks for all else. They’re both honest men and will treat you true and fair.” Reaching over, he plucked a pastry from the tray, took a bite, and then, when he finished chewing, asked Nolfavrell, “So, young Kell, have you enjoyed your stay in Teirm?”
“Yes, sir,” said Nolfavrell, and grinned. “I’ve never seen anything quite so large, sir.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, sir. I—”
Feeling that they were in dangerous territory, Roran interrupted: “I’m curious, sir, as to the nature of the shop next to your house. It seems odd to have such a humble store among all these grand buildings.”
For the first time, a smile, if only a small one, brightened Jeod’s expression, erasing years from his appearance. “Well, it was owned by a woman who was a bit odd herself: Angela the herbalist, one of the best healers I’ve ever met. She tended that store for twenty-some years and then, only a few months ago, up and sold it and left for parts unknown.” He sighed. “It’s a pity, for she made an interesting neighbor.”
“That’s who Gertrude wanted to meet, isn’t it?” asked Nolfa
vrell, and looked up at his mother.
Roran suppressed a snarl and flashed a warning glance strong enough to make Nolfavrell quail in his chair. The name would mean nothing to Jeod, but unless Nolfavrell guarded his tongue better, he was liable to blurt out something far more damaging. Time to go, thought Roran. He put down his goblet.
It was then that he saw the namedid mean something to Jeod. The merchant’s eyes widened with surprise, and he gripped the arms of his chair until the tips of his fingers turned bone white. “It can’t be!” Jeod focused on Roran, studying his face as if trying to see past the beard, and then breathed, “Roran… Roran Garrowsson.”
AN UNEXPECTED ALLY
Roran had already pulled his hammer from his belt and was halfway out of the chair when he heard his father’s name. It was the only thing that kept him from leaping across the room and knocking Jeod unconscious. How does he know who Garrow is? Beside him, Loring and Birgit jumped to their feet, drawing knives from within their sleeves, and even Nolfavrell readied himself to fight with a dagger in hand.
“Itis Roran, isn’t it?” Jeod asked quietly. He showed no alarm at their weapons.
“How did you guess?”
“Because Brom brought Eragon here, and you look like your cousin. When I saw your poster with Eragon’s, I realized that the Empire must have tried to capture you and that you had escaped. Although,” Jeod’s gaze drifted to the other three, “in all my imaginings, I never suspected that you took the rest of Carvahall with you.”
Stunned, Roran dropped back into his chair and placed the hammer across his knees, ready for use. “Eragon was here?”
“Aye. And Saphira too.”
“Saphira?”
Again, surprise crossed Jeod’s face. “You don’t know, then?”
“Know what?”
Jeod considered him for a long minute. “I think the time has come to drop our pretenses, Roran Garrowsson, and talk openly and without deception. I can answer many of the questions you must have—such as why the Empire is pursuing you—but in return, I need to know the reason you came to Teirm… thereal reason.”
“An‘ why should we trust you, Longshanks?” demanded Loring. “You could be working for Galbatorix, you could.”
“I was Brom’s friend for over twenty years, before he was a storyteller in Carvahall,” said Jeod, “and I did my best to help him and Eragon when they were under my roof. But since neither of them are here to vouch for me, I place my life in your hands, to do with as you wish. I could shout for help, but I won’t. Nor will I fight you. All I ask is that you tell me your story and hear my own. Then you can decide for yourself what course of action is proper. You’re in no immediate danger, so what harm is there in talking?”
Birgit caught Roran’s eye with a flick of her chin. “He could just be trying to save his hide.”
“Maybe,” replied Roran, “but we have to find out whatever it is he knows.” Hooking an arm underneath his chair, he dragged it across the room, placed the back of the chair against the door, and then sat in it, so that no one could burst in and catch them unawares. He jabbed his hammer at Jeod. “All right. You want to talk? Then let us talk, you and I.”
“It would be best if you go first.”
“If I do, and we’re not satisfied by your answers afterward, we’ll have to kill you,” warned Roran.
Jeod folded his arms. “So be it.”
Despite himself, Roran was impressed by the merchant’s fortitude; Jeod appeared unconcerned by his fate, if a bit grim about the mouth. “So be it,” Roran echoed.
Roran had relived the events since the Ra’zac’s arrival in Carvahall often enough, but never before had he described them in detail to another person. As he did, it struck him how much had happened to him and the other villagers in such a short time and how easy it had been for the Empire to destroy their lives in Palancar Valley. Resuscitating old terrors was painful for Roran, but he at least had the pleasure of seeing Jeod exhibit unfeigned astonishment as he heard about how the villagers had rousted the soldiers and Ra’zac from their camp, the siege of Carvahall thereafter, Sloan’s treachery, Katrina’s kidnapping, how Roran had convinced the villagers to flee, and the hardships of their journey to Teirm.
“By the Lost Kings!” exclaimed Jeod. “That’s the most extraordinary tale. Extraordinary! To think you’ve managed to thwart Galbatorix and that right now the entire village of Carvahall is hiding outside one of the Empire’s largest cities and the king doesn’t even know it…” He shook his head with admiration.
“Aye, that’s our position,” growled Loring, “and it’s precarious at best, so you’d better explain well and good why we shouldrisk letting you live.”
“It places me in as much—”
Jeod stopped as someone rattled the latch behind Roran’s chair, trying to open the door, followed by pounding on the oak planks. In the hallway, a woman cried, “Jeod! Let me in, Jeod! You can’t hide in that cave of yours.”
“May I?” murmured Jeod.
Roran clicked his fingers at Nolfavrell, and the boy tossed his dagger to Roran, who slipped around the writing desk and pressed the flat of the blade against Jeod’s throat. “Make her leave.”
Raising his voice, Jeod said, “I can’t talk now; I’m in the middle of a meeting.”
“Liar! You don’t have any business. You’re bankrupt! Come out and face me, you coward! Are you a man or not that you won’t even look your wife in the eye?” She paused for a second, as if expecting a response, then her screeches increased in volume: “Coward! You’re a gutless rat, a filthy, yellow-bellied sheep-biter without the common sense to run a meat stall, much less a shipping company. My father would have never lost so much money!”
Roran winced as the insults continued. I can’t restrain Jeod if she goes on much longer.
“Be still, woman!” commanded Jeod, and silence ensued. “Our fortunes might be about to change for the better if you but have the sense to restrain your tongue and not rail on like a fishmonger’s wife.”
Her answer was cold: “I shall wait upon your pleasure in the dining room, dear husband, and unless you choose to attend me by the evening meal and explain yourself, then I shall leave this accursed house, never to return.” The sound of her footsteps retreated into the distance.
When he was sure that she was gone, Roran lifted the dagger from Jeod’s neck and returned the weapon to Nolfavrell before reseating himself in the chair pushed against the door.
Jeod rubbed his neck and then, with a wry expression, said, “If we don’t reach an understanding, you had better kill me; it’d be easier than explaining to Helen that I shouted at her for naught.”
“You have my sympathy, Longshanks,” said Loring.
“It’s not her fault… not really. She just doesn’t understand why so much misfortune has befallen us.” Jeod sighed. “Perhaps it’s my fault for not daring to tell her.”
“Tell her what?” piped Nolfavrell.
“That I’m an agent for the Varden.” Jeod paused at their dumbfounded expressions. “Perhaps I should start from the beginning. Roran, have you heard rumors in the past few months of the existence of a new Rider who opposes Galbatorix?”
“Mutterings here and there, yes, but nothing I’d give credence to.”
Jeod hesitated. “I don’t know how else to say this, Roran… but thereis a new Rider in Alagaësia, and it’s your cousin, Eragon. The stone he found in the Spine was actually a dragon egg I helped the Varden steal from Galbatorix years ago. The dragon hatched for Eragon and he named her Saphira. That is why the Ra’zac first came to Palancar Valley. They returned because Eragon has become a formidable enemy of the Empire and Galbatorix hoped that by capturing you, they could bring Eragon to bay.”
Roran threw back his head and howled with laughter until tears gathered at the corners of his eyes and his stomach hurt from the convulsions. Loring, Birgit, and Nolfavrell looked at him with something akin to fear, but Roran cared not for their opinions. He laug
hed at the absurdity of Jeod’s assertion. He laughed at the terrible possibility that Jeod had told the truth.
Taking rasping breaths, Roran gradually returned to normal, despite an occasional outburst of humorless chuckles. He wiped his face on his sleeve and then regarded Jeod, a hard smile upon his lips. “It fits the facts; I’ll give you that. But so do a half dozen other explanations I’ve thought of.”
Birgit said, “If Eragon’s stone was a dragon egg, then where did it come from?”
“Ah,” replied Jeod, “now there’s an affair I’m well acquainted with…”
Comfortable in his chair, Roran listened with disbelief as Jeod spun a fantastic story of how Brom—grumpy old Brom!—had once been a Rider and had supposedly helped establish the Varden, how Jeod had discovered a secret passageway into Urû‘baen, how the Varden arranged to filch the last three dragon eggs from Galbatorix, and how only one egg was saved after Brom fought and killed Morzan of the Forsworn. As if that were not preposterous enough, Jeod went on to describe an agreement between the Varden, dwarves, and elves that the egg should be ferried between Du Weldenvarden and the Beor Mountains, which was why the egg and its couriers were near the edge of the great forest when they were ambushed by a Shade.
A Shade—ha!thought Roran.
Skeptical as he was, Roran attended with redoubled interest when Jeod began to talk of Eragon finding the egg and raising the dragon Saphira in the forest by Garrow’s farm. Roran had been occupied at the time—preparing to leave for Dempton’s mill in Therinsford—but he remembered how distracted Eragon had been, how he spent every moment he could outdoors, doing who knows what…
As Jeod explained how and why Garrow died, rage filled Roran that Eragon had dared keep the dragon secret when it so obviously put everyone in danger. It’s his fault my father died!
“What was he thinking?” burst out Roran.
He hated how Jeod looked at him with calm understanding. “I doubt Eragon knew himself. Riders and their dragons are bound together so closely, it’s often hard to differentiate one from the other. Eragon could have no more harmed Saphira than he could have sawed off his own leg.”