“Oarsman's thirst!” cried out a voice near the stern and it was soon joined by others, forming a ragged chant. Before he could protest, Klöss was hoisted up onto shoulders and passed along the boat towards the oarsmaster, who stood with a wooden keg under his arm. Klöss was positioned level with the feet of the oarsmaster as he broached the keg and began to pour the sweet mead over his face and down his throat. Klöss drank wildly as the cheers rose up again and then, before he really knew it was happening, he was hoisted again. Once, twice and then he was airborne before crashing into the sea and under the waves.
He was met by some of the laughing crew as he hauled himself out of the harbour by way of a small flight of stone steps just in time to see the last trainee hurled overboard. He watched with a grin as they too pulled themselves out of the harbour and then they were marched into the town, still trailing seawater. The Oarsmen bundled the young trainees through the streets and the still clearing crowds, and he was manhandled through a door and down the steps of the closest tavern.
“Let's see if you can handle your drink as well as you handle an oar, my lads,” shouted the oarsmaster to a chorus of cheers. Klöss and the others were pushed unceremoniously onto benches and chairs and foamy tankards put in front of them. The ale flowed and he felt his cheeks going numb by the time the drinks were replaced with a huge platter of meat and vegetables.
The rest of the day, and a fair portion of the night, passed in a malty haze for Klöss as he was led from tavern to tavern. He found that as time went on the harsh taste of the ale seemed to mellow. Indeed the drink hardly seemed to be affecting him at all. He had always heard that drink made people act foolishly or lose control, at least that was what his father said, but he seemed to be perfectly fine. He was getting along splendidly with his new crew too, and was increasingly funny he noticed.
***
Klöss groaned as the footsteps clumped down the stone steps into the kitchen. He shuddered and attempted to bury his head deeper into his arms as he clenched his eyes tightly shut. His mouth was filled with a foul taste, and his tongue felt hard and dry where he had slept with his lips apart and apparently drooled on his sleeve. He stretched carefully, without lifting himself from the surface of the oaken table and fervently wished he could die.
“Up, boy!” his father's voice boomed. “We need to get that cart loaded and get that shop open. I have a feeling it will be a good day today. The market day always seems to bring them in.” His voice faltered and he stooped to take a closer look at Klöss, hunched over the long table.
“Did you sleep in here?” he wondered, mostly to himself. “No matter I suppose. Come on, up, up! There's daylight wasting.”
Klöss found himself dragged out of his seat and into the light as his father set about hitching the horse to the large wooden and leather cart he used to haul his new stock to the shop. The day was just dawning and the cobbles in the yard were wet and slick from the light rains of the night. He clung to the wheel of the cart with the look of someone scared they might fall, should it move or it be taken from them. His body felt as if he were wading through deep water. Nothing seemed to work quite as it should. The cart shook as it was loaded, almost but not quite in time with the thumping in his head, and the vibrations were making him feel queasy. He watched his father travel back and forth to the storehouse that filled much of the yard, his limp prominent in the cold early morning air. A pang of guilt almost prompted him to let go of the cart and help, but this was swiftly overcome by another wave of nausea.
“Get up in the front if you're not going to load boy. You're in my way,” his father grunted as he hoisted a large bundle up onto the cart.
Nodding carefully at his father's already retreating form, he made his way to the front of the cart and hauled himself up into the seat. He concentrated on wrapping his cloak tightly around him, as if to hide from the clatter of the loading cart and the weak and watery sun just beginning to peek over the slate of the rooftops that mirrored the cold grey sky.
The cart rocked as his father finally climbed aboard and with a cluck at the horse, it was soon clattering through the cobbled streets moving steadily uphill away from the harbour and towards the market square. Klöss sat huddled beside his father in silence and so heard the ringing long before the line of men came into sight.
They were dressed uniformly in black, velvet-soft looking robes, deeply cowled and tied at the waist with a bone-white length of smooth rope that had clearly never had any other use. A man at the rear held a large bell which he swung with every tenth step.
“New Dayers,” his father grunted in disgust, and edged the cart as far over to the left of the narrow street as he could. The men, for their part, did not deviate from their path or even deign to look up at the pair until they had almost passed them. The rearmost man offered a smile and nod of thanks as the line wove past them. Klöss's father nodded back curtly and then clucked the horse forward again.
“Why do you hate them so much?” the question left his lips before he had time to think.
“Who? New Dayers?” the older man asked. “Because they came along and decided things were wrong after we'd been living this way for centuries. Who are they to tell us how to live?”
It was ironic, Klöss decided. His father might hate this new religion sweeping through the Barren Isles, and Bresda in particular, because it destroyed the traditions and values he had always held dear. At the same time though, his merchant class was itself considered the lowest of professions, and held in far more contempt than this new priesthood. His father seemed to act oblivious for his part, though it was doubtful that he could be.
The morning grew steadily lighter as they made their way into the narrow alleyway behind the market square and began unloading their wares and hauling them through the back of the shop. Klöss felt his head begin to clear with a combination of the cold air and the hard work. His father, Rhaven, ran a small shop but rather than selling wares he had made himself like other tradesmen, he bought goods from others and then sold them on. As such Klöss never knew what the shop would be selling on any given day, or what wares he would have to haul to and from the cart.
It seemed to be mainly foodstuffs today and he spent the better part of half an hour hauling hams and cheeses from the cart and arranging them to his father's satisfaction on the hooks and counters.
“Ought to be a big crowd today I think,” Rhaven said, settling down behind the counter on a wooden stool and stretching out his left leg with a pained grimace.
Klöss ignored him. His head was still not right. Everything felt too bright and too loud. He reached under the counter and drew out a large earthenware bottle, drinking slowly and deliberately in long swallows.
“Slow down there now,” called his father. “That has to last us all day you know?”
Klöss wandered over to the front door and looked around at the square as he felt the water begin to work on his dehydrated body. Other merchants and tradesmen were hard at work, setting up stalls and stands. From where he stood leaning against the door frame he could see half a dozen different traders selling everything from knives and weapons to jewellery and clothing.
The problem was that his father didn't actually make anything himself, Klöss decided. There had always been tradespeople of course - rope-makers and sail-makers, shipwrights and blacksmiths. These were all fine and acceptable. Merchant traders didn't really make anything though. They bought from one and sold to another, selling only the act of exchange and the convenience of finding most things in one shop or stall. Anyone who wanted the item badly enough could go and find the tradesman who'd made it to buy it from. Merchant traders were little better than thieves Klöss had decided.
It was not a unique opinion and he knew it. As the merchant class grew, a steady resentment had grown alongside it. Not enough to prevent people from bringing their custom, but enough to lend the merchant a reputation as a swindler at best and a common thief at worst.
The problem was roote
d in laziness, Klöss was convinced. People liked the convenience of not having to go to a half dozen different stalls and shops to find their goods. Farmers and tradespeople liked being able to sell two or three cartloads of goods to one person rather than sitting around each market day trying to sell their wares to the public.
He could forgive his father much of it. He had little choice, given his leg. He could hardly become an apprentice and learn a proper trade at his age. He watched sourly as his father sold a loaf of bread and a hunk of ham to a young mother, her children hanging onto her legs through her thick woollen skirts. He ground his teeth together and watched her hand over almost half again what they had paid the farmer for it.
He looked up at the woman's eyes as his father wrapped the food. She was young, little more than twenty summers and, judging by her clothes and the lost look in her eyes, she could barely afford the expense. She was probably raising the small ones alone by the looks of her. The market had filled now and a sea of people made their way past him. He nearly didn't see the hand slip around the front of the woman's dress, gently taking the weight of her purse with one finger, while slicing the strings with a deft flick of the wrist He was so stunned by what he was seeing, that the purse was gone before he could rouse himself.
His cry of “Thief!” was lost in the noise of the market but both his father's and the woman's heads whipped round as he shot from his seat, over the counter, and into the crowd after the face he had caught the barest glimpse of.
Klöss raced after the figure barely four yards ahead of him, as they both weaved in and out of the crowd. The thief was slight, with dirty blonde hair and a nondescript brown cloak. He was also as quick as a weasel. Klöss charged after him, just managing to keep pace in his heavy boots. Whilst the thief might be slight, Klöss was tall for his age and his long legs carried him swiftly through the crowd, though his broad shoulders meant he had to duck and weave more. Thankfully he suffered little of the awkwardness one often finds in boys his age and he ran confidently over the cobbles, still shouting at the top of his lungs.
The crowds were working against him, and he saw the thief making ground as he fought his way through bustling market-goers. Men and women turned and gawked at him as he pushed and shoved his way through.
Hesk was a small city, but it was the largest in the Barren Isles and as the capital of the nation of islands, it made up for in population what it lacked in sheer size. The buildings were close packed and tall with sections often hanging out over the streets. Alleyways snaked throughout the city intersecting with roads and streets and forming a network all their own. Whilst Klöss might only be a few yards behind the thief, he knew full well that if he did not catch him swiftly, or if he lost sight of him, then it would be simple for him to duck into an alley, and once he did that he would be gone. The alleys formed their own rabbit warren and it was not anywhere a man with a purse or one who valued his life would go needlessly.
As he ran he yelled again into the crowd to stop the thief, but they wasted precious seconds turning and looking at him open-mouthed whilst the slight blonde figure slipped past them. Finally his shouting paid off, and he saw an older man in a plain woollen vest manage to grab and catch hold of the thief's cloak, jerking him to a halt. He closed quickly, and was within feet when the thief kicked savagely at the man's shins and tore free once more.
The brown-cloaked figure flung himself at a fishmonger's stall, shoving a barrel over and vaulting over the table. Klöss darted around a fat man laden down with packages. He dashed back behind the thief and then his feet flew skyward as the barrel-load of eels spread further across the cobbles, coiling and wriggling as they searched for seawater.
Cursing and spluttering Klöss climbed back to his feet and raced after the flash of brown as it disappeared into a nearby alleyway. He caught the edge of the building and swung around the corner into a sudden silence.
The alleyway was filled with filth. The stench of fish and rotten rubbish filled the air. If Klöss hadn't seen the thief dash into it he would have sworn no man had stepped foot into the stinking place in some months. Empty doorways to long-since abandoned houses gaped open, and the sides of the street were piled high with rotting refuse. The alley revealed a side of Hesk that Klöss knew little about but now was not the time to ponder it. A scraping sound followed by a muffled curse spurred him to action and he moved carefully down the alleyway trying to avoid both making noise and the worst of the filth. Klöss was prepared to deal with the stink of the eel slime he had over his clothing but there were things on the floor that he couldn't identify and didn't want to.
The alley twisted and turned and he was soon far from the sounds of the street. A soft scrape from behind warned him and he hurled himself to one side as the makeshift club came crashing down where he had stood. He rolled and then climbed to his feet, backing away to give himself some distance as the brown-cloaked figure raised the club again and came after him. The cloak's hood was raised and Klöss caught nothing but wisp of blonde hair and a smooth face as he jumped back to avoid the blow.
With a sudden lunge he grasped the cudgel as it hit the end of its swing and twisted it away from the figure. Rather than being shocked however, the thief simply let go and stamped out at his knee savagely. Klöss hit the ground hard and the thief knelt swiftly on his chest and he felt the blade pressed to his throat.
“What do you want with me rich boy?” hissed the thief in a soft voice.
“You're a girl!” Klöss said in shock as he caught a clear look at her face beneath the hood.
“A girl who has you pinned like a rabbit, with my blade at your throat. Now tell me, rich boy, why do you chase me?” she said smiling coldly.
“The purse. It belonged to that woman,” Klöss replied.
“What of it? Now it belongs to me.”
“You stole it,” Klöss said, a strange combination of wonder and disgust in his voice.
“My my, aren't we the little innocent?” she laughed with a throaty chuckle. “Yes, I stole it, and since we are here, what do you have on you?” Klöss's eyes widened as he caught her meaning and her smile grew as she watched him understand. Her free hand snaked over his body and he gasped at the touch. He might be in the middle of being robbed, but he was still a fourteen-year-old boy with the hormones to match.
“Didn't think being robbed would be so enjoyable, did you rich boy?” She grinned as she found his purse. Coming to his senses he waited until her eyes shot down to examine it and then he struck. Twisting sideways and back away from the blade he bucked with his hips and rolled, quickly, positioning himself on top of the girl with her arms pinned above her head.
“Now who's the little rabbit?” he smiled. Now that he had her pinned he could get his first good look at her. Shoulder-length blonde hair framed a pale and delicate face, but it was the eyes that caught Klöss. They shone. Deep blue and flashing with anger and frustration, as she thrashed and bucked beneath him. Klöss lost all thoughts of retribution as he gazed down at her. The flicker of her eyes was the only hint of warning he had before something slammed into the back of his head and he collapsed into blackness atop her.
***
He awoke in a murky darkness with the cold smell of damp and mildew filling his nose. His head ached with that intense throb that only comes from a blow to the skull and his eyes felt gritty. He could see little in the gloom other than the dirty stone floor he lay upon, and the faint suggestion of walls. The floor was covered in damp, musty smelling straw and he could hear water dripping somewhere. As he grew more alert, he became aware of the faint sounds of the street filtering down through the stone. He tried to reach up to his head and discovered his hands were bound and tied loosely to his feet behind him. Panic found him and he thrashed on the floor wildly trying to free his hands, but the rope, whilst rough, seemed to be sound and knotted well.
“Help!” he called experimentally and was rewarded with the sound of a door opening behind him. Candlelight softly filled the r
oom and the slight figure of the girl approached him, dropping to one knee two or three feet from him.
“How do you feel?” she asked in hushed tones.
“How do you think I feel?” he croaked at her, his dry throat making his voice rasp. “Like I've been clubbed in the head.”
“I'm sorry about that. They are very protective of me.”
“They?”
She twisted her body, turning towards the door and beckoned at the doorway behind her. A small crowd of children approached warily. They looked to range in age from four to roughly nine and were all filthy, dressed in little more than rags and with pale skin, too long from the sun. The youngest ones looked at him curiously, the eldest glared with open animosity. They looked like so many lost ghosts as they clustered close to the girl, half for protection and half to protect her. Klöss pitied the man who ever hurt this girl. Her pack of half-feral street kids would be on them in moments.
“Seth here saw you when you had me pinned and thought you were hurting me.” She motioned to the largest boy who stared at him with hate-filled eyes.
“Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I should have just let you rob me,” Klöss's voice dripped sarcasm.
“You should have, rich boy. Not everyone is as forgiving as me. The next time you chase someone into an alley you'll probably end up dead.”
Klöss ignored that. “So what now? You have me trussed up like a pig here.”
“Only because I didn't want you waking up and scaring the children. I don't want them hurt.”
“It looks like they can take care of themselves well enough,” he replied, nodding towards the eldest children who still carried broken chair legs to serve as improvised cudgels and clubs.
The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set Page 9