Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1)
Page 12
“I see,” Randall replied, and for the first time he was actually considering paying the outrageous sum, but he decided to take a walk and think it over. “I might do that,” he said eventually.
The captain shrugged. “Suit yourself, but I’m heading home for the day, so if you’re not interested now then you can come back down at dawn and we’ll see then.”
Randall knew this was just a negotiation ploy, but he just couldn’t see paying that much money for what amounted to little more than an hour’s work. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said in what he hoped was an even voice.
The captain nodded, “The Purring Kitten’s the only flophouse in town. Tell Glenda that Earl sent you.” With that, he turned back to the task of appraising Yaeli’s work.
Randall’s eyes met briefly with Yaeli’s, and Randall was once again struck by the injustice of his own people’s circumstances. Yaeli did the work of maintaining the boat, which was probably the most laborious aspect of operating the small vessel, yet he likely earned a pittance compared to the boat’s owner.
He gave Yaeli a nod, which the other man returned warily before Randall turned and made his way back for town.
The Purring Kitten was a tiny place and, if Randall was being fair, it made The Last Coin look like a palace by comparison. Still, it was clean and the proprietor, Glenda, was an agreeable, aged woman who informed him that sleeping in the common room would cost one copper coin—nearly ten percent of his remaining funds!
Before deciding whether or not he would sleep outside, Randall did order a hot meal, knowing it might be some time before he got another one.
A quarter hour after he had ordered, Glenda returned with a steaming plate of ‘River Chili’ whose ingredients were nearly unfathomable even to Randall’s superior senses of smell and taste. But it was hot, and it was actually quite flavorful when washed down with a local cider of Glenda’s own concoction.
The entire meal set him back a copper and as darkness fell outside the small inn, Randall finally resigned himself to staying indoors for the night since that, too, was an experience he would likely be denied for some time.
But before he broke down and paid her, the door opened and Yaeli stepped inside, looking around nervously until he spotted Randall. Moving with purpose, the half-elven man made his respect to Glenda after approaching the small bar.
“Good evenin’, Glenda,” he greeted.
Glenda nodded absently, “Evening, Yaeli. What can I do for you?”
“I was hopin’ ye had an iron leather-needle I could borrow—I fear breakin’ me smaller one on the Minnow’s mainsail guard,” he explained.
Glenda sighed. “Old Earl threatened to make you pay for a replacement, did he?”
Yaeli gave her a sheepish look as he nodded.
“Very well—but you bring it back before morning’s first light, you hear me? Earl’s fingers are stickier than summer gold-sap, and once he spies a thing on his boat he manufactures an entire history for it on the spot. You know what happened when I lent you those splice-needles?” she said pointedly.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank ye, ma’am,” Yaeli gushed.
Glenda gave him a reproachful look before she turned and took the stairs leading the small inn’s cellar.
“If’n ye’re still wantin’ to make the northside, might be I can help ye with that,” Yaeli said in a low, conspiratorial voice.
Randall cocked an eyebrow. “Did Earl change his mind, then?”
Yaeli shook his head. “Earl’s already tied one on fer the night; he’s not like to wake till dawn at the very least,” he explained. “But if’n ye still want to go, I could see about takin’ ye fer half what he was askin’.”
Randall narrowed his eyes slightly, but then he understood what Yaeli was offering. He wanted to take Randall across the river ‘off the books,’ as it were, and in truth the idea of helping his fellow half-elf was an intriguing prospect.
Still, half a silver coin was a little more than he thought reasonable, but before he could begin negotiations in earnest Glenda returned with the large, iron needle in her hands.
“Thank ye, Miss Glenda,” Yaeli gushed, and the woman nodded stiffly.
“I don’t know why I help you like I do, Yaeli,” she said with a dubious shake of her head.
“Ye’ve a kind heart, Glenda,” he replied quickly.
“I suppose I do…likely too kind,” she sniffed.
Yaeli wrapped the needle in his shirt and nodded respectfully to Glenda, then to Randall before leaving the building.
“If you plan to stay, it’s a copper,” Glenda said shortly, “and if not, I’m closing up for the night.”
Randall was torn, but he decided to take a chance on negotiating a better price with Yaeli. “I really just needed the hot meal. My thanks, Citizen,” he said.
Glenda shrugged indifferently. “It’s a clear enough night, in any case,” she said, and Randall collected his supplies and left the inn.
Making his way back to the riverbank Randall quickly ran into Yaeli, who was waiting around the first corner.
“Ye still like to cross the Snake, I take it?” Yaeli asked, looking nervously from side to side.
Randall nodded slowly. “I do,” he agreed, “but your half-silver price is a bit steep. Why wouldn’t I just wait until the next full load and cross for a single copper?”
Yaeli snorted before stopping himself short. “Look, we can dance all night but I’ve little time to wait for ye to make a decision,” he said shortly, and Randall was surprised at the man’s brazenness. Randall had only known himself (and perhaps Yordan) as the only half-Ghaevlians who would speak in such a way to a ‘Federation citizen.’ “The cap’n tied a good one on naught but an hour hence, and he’s like to remain in a stupor ‘til I wake him at dawn as is customary. Should I fail to do so, he’ll suspect and I’ll be takin’ his whip to me back.”
Randall winced. He had never felt a whip against his flesh personally, but he had seen the scars and the looks on the faces of those who had at the mere mention of such punishment. “I can’t pay a half silver,” he said dejectedly. “I could go a quarter, and no more.”
Yaeli scoffed as he glanced down the dark, empty frontage road. “That be three coppers at the goin’ rate,” he muttered. “I can’na do it fer less than four—and ye only get such a deal seein’ as ol’ Dyna deserves a quiet passin’ from this life and I aim to help her in that regard,” he pointed an accusing finger at Randall.
Randall had actually thought the going exchange between copper and silver to be ten to one; Yaeli believed it to be twelve to one. Either way, Randall viewed it as good news since his single silver piece would go just a little bit further if the other man was correct.
Randall nodded. “Four coppers it is,” he agreed, “to be paid on the far shore.”
Yaeli shrugged his shoulders. “Ye pay me ‘fore ye step off the boat, and we’ve no problems. Best we be to it; the night breeze is a fickle thing, and I’ll not be draggin’ the boat a mile up the riverbank come mornin’ if I’ve anything to say on the matter.”
Randall handed Yaeli his three coppers and the other man mimed doffing his cap in acknowledgment.
The small, raft-like vessel was just a few feet from the riverbank and Yaeli let out some line on his stern anchor as he maneuvered the craft next to the mud-and-rocky shore with a long, narrow pole. Randall leapt from the raft and landed deftly on a jagged rock protruding a few feet out of the water.
“A good jump,” Yaeli observed with equal parts appreciation and barely-concealed scorn. Clearly he had been hoping to see a Federation citizen take a late-night bath, and Randall silently cursed himself for making the jump—such a leap, with his amount of luggage, would have been a very difficult thing for a pureblood human.
“I thank you, Yaeli,” Randall said after his feet once again had dirt beneath them. He briefly considered offering the Ghaevlian ‘Starry nights and bright mornings,’ but decided against doing so since the la
st thing he wanted was to attract attention.
Yaeli wordlessly maneuvered his craft back out into the water where, after collecting the anchor, he re-set the sail and began the journey back to Murkwater.
Randall looked across the Snake River and could barely see the faint lights of Murkwater through the evening fog. The rainy season had just arrived, but Three Rivers and its surroundings had never experienced overly harsh winters during his lifetime.
But he knew that the closer he got to the mountains that were his destination, the more extreme the weather was likely to become. He knew he had no choice, however. He had nowhere else to turn and even though he had no idea what to expect when he arrived, he intuitively felt that his best chance was in following the image depicted on the medallion Lorie had safeguarded for him as a gift from his long-dead mother.
Randall absently patted the rucksack, at the bottom of which he had secured that same medallion within its box, and set out to seek his destiny.
Chapter IX: One Small Mistake
Midday, 16-12-5-659
“Stupid, ridiculous, short-sighted city boy,” he berated himself as he trudged through the now-muddy, lightly wooded area well north of the Snake River’s shores. “I mean honestly, how could I forget to buy a water skin?!” he growled in frustration.
It had been four days since he had made his way north of the Snake’s shores, but only a few hours had passed in the journey before he had realized his folly. Ghaevlian/human hybrids required considerably more water than their pureblood human cousins, nearly twice on average, and Randall had always needed considerably more than most ‘half-elves.’
Thankfully it was early in the rainy season, and each of his four mornings on the road he had been blessed with a downpour sufficient for him to quench his thirst, but he knew that he was now completely at the mercy of The Lady of Tears, whose eternal sorrow poured down from the heavens to give flow to the rivers and body to each of the nine seas.
After the third day, Randall had decided to wear the sword across his back since carrying it under his arm was awkward and more than a little cumbersome. He had fallen twice to the slick, clay-like mud of the rolling hills and would likely have kept his balance were it not for the heavy weapon he carried beneath his arm.
So he made his way through the lightly wooded, at times swampy, area as the sun’s first rays came streaming down from its early morning crescent. He had earlier checked his painted mask to ensure that it was still intact. The rain seemed to not affect its integrity very much, but after three days it began to flake away so he had re-applied the pigments as needed.
As he came to the crest of yet another mud-slick hill, he saw a small collection of buildings below. They were ramshackle and scattered, but there were clearly people living within evidenced by the smoke rising from a pair of the small shacks’ mud chimneys. Randall decided to skirt the small group of buildings rather than risk being discovered for what he really was.
After half an hour the group of buildings was out of sight and he breathed a short sigh of relief. He knew he would need to interact with people and act the part of a Federation citizen, but Randall did not think that this was the time to do so.
The terrain became even more swamp-like, to the point that he briefly considered removing his shoes to preserve them in spite of his incredibly sensitive feet. His Ghaevlian blood made infections highly unlikely, especially from a more-or-less naturally occurring environment like this one, but if he happened upon someone without his shoes on they would instantly become suspicious. Swamp infections killed humans regularly, or at the very least cost them the injured limb if they could not afford the requisite alchemical or magical assistance.
As he nearly lost a shoe to a muddy, foul-smelling sinkhole, he pulled himself onto firmer ground to re-fasten his footwear when he felt his scalp go numb.
Randall looked around and his hand went to the hilt of the sword, almost unbidden by him, but he was too concerned with identifying the source of his premonition to think on it.
Catching barely a hint of motion from the corner of his eye, Randall turned to see a huge, shaggy-looking creature leap from a nearby tree with its teeth bared as it landed on top of him.
Randall’s hands instinctively went to defend his head and neck just in time to intercept the heavy, horrifically smelly creature’s teeth, which sank into his forearm eliciting a scream of pain and surprise.
Feeling the weight of the creature pressing down on him, Randall cried out as the thing wrenched its head from side to side. He had seen dogs do the same thing when fighting, and he felt his own blood drip down onto his face.
Reaching frantically for something—anything—to bludgeon the creature with, he tried to draw the sword free from its scabbard but was unable to do so. The smelly, hairy creature’s sharp claws began to tear at his tunic and score painful wounds across his abdomen.
The best he was able to find was a short piece of log, which the fingers of his good hand closed on just as the hairy creature released his injured limb and reared up with its back arched severely.
It was in that moment that Randall saw what the creature was—or at least what it resembled. From its long, pink tail up to its beady eyes—which were at least as large as Randall’s own—it looked like nothing so much as a common rat.
Everything about the creature appeared identical to the rodents he had grown up around in Three Rivers—except for its unusual size, of course.
The rat snapped down with its long, vicious-looking teeth aiming once again for his face, and Randall only barely managed to bring the chunk of wood up between himself and the massive rodent before its savage incisors ended his life.
Squealing in obvious frustration, the giant rat jerked and twisted its head violently from side to side—as it had done with his still-bleeding arm—and tore the small log from Randall’s grip.
But Randall managed to scramble backward as the rodent extricated the chunk of half-rotten wood from its teeth, which it had no sooner done than Randall regained his feet and reached up for the sword strapped to his back.
The blade came free and for a moment he hoped against hope that whatever force had possessed him weeks earlier in the dark alley would do so again to save him from the oversized vermin.
But there was no tingling sensation, or numbing jolt, as he gripped the loosely-wrapped weapon’s grip tightly in his hands. Only now, holding the weapon before him as he was, could he appreciate the sheer weight of the sword. He had no martial training, but he had always thought of himself as in good physical condition—as he hoped his many ‘lady friends’ would attest—but this weapon felt like it weighed at least double what it should have. It was all he could do to keep the tip up as he did his best to present what he thought to be a defensive posture.
The rodent flattened its body slightly against the ground and emitted a deep, grating sound somewhere between a hiss and a rattle, and Randall knew it was preparing to strike. How he knew this he had no clue, but he likely had one chance to defend himself from it, and one chance only.
The rat arched its back suddenly and the rattling hiss it had been making intensified and shifted until it was an ear-piercing squeal. Randall barely managed to maintain his haphazard posture as the urge to cover his ears was nearly overpowering.
Then the rodent leapt toward him, and through nothing but his quick, unthinking reactions (quick even for a half-elf) he ducked and rolled forward beneath the creature’s hairy, foul-smelling body. He avoided the rodent’s teeth and claws, but the creature’s whip-like tail snapped into the side of his head as he rolled onto the boggy ground. He felt that part of his skull erupt in pain—a pain which was not altogether unlike what the Senatorial Guard had inflicted on his mailed gauntlet.
Having absolutely no idea how to proceed—and with a weapon in his hands that he knew he had no business wielding—Randall screamed at the rat as it quickly turned back toward him. The rodent had clearly landed far more deftly than he had himself.
Having already swung the blade over his head a few times, Randall had built up just enough momentum with the oddly heavy weapon that he was able to bring it down on the massive vermin before it closed distance with him.
The blade sliced through the creature’s left shoulder while it was in mid-air, and like a razor through lard it sliced cleanly through the muscle, sinew and bone before the creature’s momentum carried it through the arc of the enchanted sword. He nearly avoided its bulky form as he ducked to the side, but Randall felt its hindquarters crash into his body at the last instant.
Fortunately, Randall was standing directly before a large section of boggy marsh and was therefore essentially unharmed from the impact with the ground. Unfortunately, it took him more than a minute of struggling against the dead weight of the gigantic, twitching rat to escape its slowly sinking weight. During that time he lost his grip on the sword, and it slipped through the watery muck and disappeared into the swamp.
Gasping for air and flailing for all he was worth, Randall launched as much of his upper body out of the foul-smelling—and even fouler-tasting—swamp muck as he could. He was rewarded with clean, fresh air for a brief moment before he once again sank down into the dark, murky bog.
The large rodent had nearly disappeared beneath the muck’s surface by the time Randall was able to draw a second breath, and his hands failed to find purchase on solid ground as he continued to flail unthinkingly in a desperate attempt to regain his footing on something. But the edge of the boggy hole was too soft and thick for his hands to penetrate, and despite his best efforts they merely slid off or through the sponge-like material.
He felt his foot erupt in a sharp pain as he kicked about wildly, and in a moment of clarity he realized he had kicked the sword’s blade. Knowing he had precious few moments of consciousness from the way his lungs burned and the numbness he felt in his extremities, he reached down in an attempt to grasp the weapon, careful as he could be not to grasp its sharp edge as he did so.