The Four Forges

by Jenna Rhodes

  It smelled faintly of cherry-and-apple scented smoke, and a bit of rum, and he took up a rocking chair near the open door, settling comfortably into it. After patting a few pockets, he found his pouch and began to pack his pipe, listening to the talk about rain and some fungus on the grain crops unless they got a lot of sun soon, and the fine pelts from the cold winter trapping. More talk of Raver sightings to the far far northwest, and grumblings about the trade road taxes which, someone else pointed out quickly, helped maintain the local militias filled the air much as the smoke. He knew the Tanners, and Crofts, and Sweetbrooks, and the Barrels, but not all who sat within, most of them Dwellers, but a few Kernans also, and a tall fellow in the corner all wrapped in a gray cloak, his battered boots shoved out in front of him as though he’d gone to sleep in his easy chair. Tolby sat back after lighting his pipe, easy talk floating about him like the soft blue-gray clouds of smoke.

  Nutmeg stood on one foot and then the other, watching her mother browse slowly through lengths of fabric as she ran her hands carefully over them, noting the warp and weft and dye as well as the thread count and content and all the many things that went into the yard goods. Although she appreciated such things normally, she had other things on her mind, Grace could tell, and she lagged back behind both as she could feel Nutmeg’s patience simmering. Grateful she could finally stand tall and straighten her back, she found a corner where she was not likely to be seen, dark robes gathered about her. Underneath, Lily had let her dress for the festival and she gazed wistfully for a moment at the soft greens and blues of her skirt. Nutmeg cleared her throat and shot her a look. She wondered what bee buzzed in her sister’s bonnet now. Grace glanced out the shop window. The town bustled with people and activities, with swap fairs and dancing, music, horse meets, all sorts of fascinating things. The wonder of it tiptoed through her being. Folk she had to look up to, instead of down at, slender folk, sturdy folk, folk with skin the color of soot, and gold, and tanned like old leather. Even a Bolger strode by without a word or stare, though she shrank back farther into the corner at that. Garner and Hosmer told her Bolgers were like any people, some good, some bad. They fought among themselves, tribal wars, and just as many were good folk as raiders, leastwise near the cities. She hardly knew what to make of it, the scene more colorful than the Autumn fair she’d been to, once. The window looked out on a world Rivergrace could barely imagine. Then she lowered her eyes quickly, lest someone passing by on the street could look into her face and see her most un-Dweller-like eyes.

  Impatiently, Nutmeg shoved a bolt back onto its rack and then whirled about to tug on her mother’s sleeve. “May we go get a fruit drink?”

  “Why, of course. Don’t wander too far though, all right, and . . .” Lily looked over at Grace briefly. “Mind your manners.”

  The corner of Grace’s mouth twitched slightly. Mind Grace, she meant. Mind that no one notices the Stranger blood in her or calls her elven. Mind that she walked hunched over and shuffling, her pretty clothes smothered. She stifled a sigh as Lily dropped a few coins in Nutmeg’s hand, and her sister swept by her like a wind in full storm fury, swirling Grace out of the shop in her wake.

  Breathlessly, Nutmeg commanded, “Stay close and keep quiet!” as she pulled them both into an alley and ducked down the back street. She found a crack between mud-and-stone walls, and headed in sideways, still in firm control of Grace’s arm. “This way.” Wriggling carefully, she made her way between shops, then found a door in an unlikely spot, cracked it open, and crept in. In a storeroom full of barrels, kegs, crates, and bales smelling of toback, both went to their knees in the shadows till Nutmeg found the corner she wanted, and motioned Grace to look.

  Through a spidery-thin crack, she could see the interior of the smoking parlor, its faint aroma wafting up her nose as she pressed her face to the wood. Nutmeg lay on her stomach so she could peer out the crack beneath Grace as they spied on the mysterious world of her father and his friends.

  Tolby exchanged a few opinions about the breeding of sheep and goats and pigs, mildly expressed, but taken as authority. Yet he merely smiled and clamped his teeth tighter about his pipe stem when Croft, a hunched-over and rather unpleasant and seedy-looking fellow, asked for his recipe to making decent cider, and the room lapsed into momentary silence after Tolby’s irritated grunt.

  Honeyfoot, in the corner, pink-faced and gray-browed, his thin, snow-white hair in a frazzle about his head, made a cracking noise in his jaws, then grunted mildly before venturing a thought. “How about a tale or two? I’ve had enough of farm and ranch talk.” He sat, not with pipe in hand, but a sack of candies which he popped into his mouth one at a time, sucking on their sweetness and crunching now and then with a contented smile on his round face.

  “Grousing ’bout them tolls reminds me of the time Bregan Oxfort took on the Dark Ferryman at the River Nylara.” Tanned and wiry, the miller Sweetbrook rolled a toback leaf on his leg, making a zigar for himself, with strong hands and arms that had turned many a mill rock when the river ran low. There’d always been Sweetbrooks at the mill and he was known as the young Sweetbrook and would be until his father passed. Then he would be old Sweetbrook and his son the younger. If he had a first name of his own, Tolby had never heard it. His dark hair was plaited back and clipped tightly at the nape of his neck, but his vest shone of gold-threaded cloth, and his trousers were piped in gold as well, showing his worth.

  “Tell it, then.” Tiym Panner stifled a yawn, his beringed fingers wrapped about a mug, his own outfit resplendent with a trader’s wealth from his shoes (not boots) to the cap atop his head. “That’s a tale I’ve not heard in a while.”

  “Well known it is, but still never to be understood,” Sweetbrook countered. “Before the Strangers came, the Nylara, great river that she is, rushed through Ginton Valley bringing both blessing and curse, as any great river does. So it is with a Dweller’s life. Sun can be too much and not enough, earth rock-hard or quicksand-soft, fire to burn us or protect us.

  “The Nylara has a wide, stony bed, sharp and difficult to traverse, yet her broad waters must be crossed to tie together our peoples and provinces. At the flats of Ginton is the best place to cross her if it is to be attempted at all, and there are songs and stories of the tragedy of trying it. The clever Kernans tried to build a bridge cross’t, to no avail. The arrogant Galdarkans said they could cross the Nylara wherever they pleased, but they could not find a better fording place. So the Nylara ran wild.”

  “Aye,” mumbled Clem Barrel around a chaw of toback stuffed in his gums. “My granduncle drownded there.”

  A murmur of agreement ran around the room, and Sweetbrook waited for it to die out before going on. He laced his fingers behind his head as he sat back, his pipe dwindling in the smoking bowl balanced on his knee, smoke trailing up in a thin, silvery wisp. “Now the waters of Nylara defied all the attempts to build a bridge. Nothing could be done but rebuild ferry docks over and over once they were flooded out, and begin again, and the ferries themselves were chancy to take but better than nothing. If not over the river, then it would be close to a month’s travel to find a way to cross it, where she narrows steep and swift through the mountains, even then the weather oft closing it off. You can see why the Nylara was cursed many a time.”

  “Yet there is no doubt in anyone’s mind that the Nylara is second only to the Andredia in th’ beauty of her waters—fresh, clean, and good—even through those scorching lands which carry water rarely. She is far more needed and cherished than cursed, and we must live with the ways and will of her. Then the Strangers came.”

  Grace could not contain a tiny shiver that ran through her as the words passed through the walls and into her hearing, carried on scented toback smoke. Nutmeg slid a hand up and patted her wrist, as quiet as a mouse with only a tiny rustle of her clothes. The closeness of her sister helped diminish her worry a little, and then the warmth disappeared as Nutmeg crouched even closer to their peephole. She’d missed a few sent
ences, but Sweetbrook’s gestures caught her eye and she bent nearer the crack.

  “Disadvantages even to them, keeping their strength at bay in the north. The elves wanted a way clear to deal with all the lands as they would. It is said the Gods treat with the Vaelinars, even though they do not bow to them, and powers are given to the elves beyond our abilities. The Kernans might argue that, but the Gods have turned their faces from them for the sins of the Magi, so who is to say? It must be true, for they built a ferry across the Nylara that even the forces of the river cannot deter. It is a Dark Ferryman who handles the rudder, but flood and drought have never stayed him. We took the ferry cautious at first, then the traders saw their own advantage in using it, and it became commonplace, although the mysterious shadowy figure exacts a toll from each and every passenger before crossing. Only once was the Ferryman halted in his chore.

  “Willard Oxfort is Merchant King. He has braved fire and flood, wind and ice, raiders and pestilence to bring us goods. If he has profited—and some say mightily—by his efforts, who can deny that time and again, he has risked all? Still, the Dark Ferryman chafed at him. The toll, he felt, was an extortion of the Vaelinars. What right had they to make a profit off the wild waters of the Nylara? And so he complains to his son, time and again, as they cross the Nylara on their many excursions. His son is a dutiful son and guards the trader convoy while learning his father’s business.

  “They came upon the southern shore of the Nylara, and out of the morning mists, the Dark Ferryman appeared, leaning on the rudder of his vessel. He beckoned for them to come aboard, and took the coins from Willard Oxfort with scarcely a notice, all bone and shadow covered with robes. Who can say within that cowled hood if eyes really watch or not? Yet he seems to know exactly what toll each passenger should pay.” Sweetbrook paused, and a shiver went round the room from all those who’d encountered the spectral figure.

  “On the other side, and waiting for three more crossings for his entire caravan to be boated, Willard grew angrier by the moment. Good profit wasted instead of turning to more investment, extortion paid to Strangers, who knows exactly what ran through the trader’s mind? We only know that he complained loudly to his son and when the last caravan had been landed and the convoy started north again, Bregan reined his horse about, drawing his sword.

  “Bregan had a reputation then as an outstanding swordsman. He more than guarded his father’s and others’ convoys, he was known as one of the best in all the provinces. Quick yet strong, with a keen eye and steady temper, his fame alone kept many a bandit away. Young then, he decided to rid his father of his tormentor, and he drew down on the Ferryman who stood and merely waited as if blind to the attack.

  “On the first pass, he cut the coin purse from the black leather belt twisted about the Ferryman’s figure. On the second pass, even as the Ferryman raised his staff to parry, he cut the specter in half, his sword passing through dark shadows that exploded in a burst of black fire and sparks with the very stink of hell itself. The fiery blast threw Bregan to the ground, and when he finally stood, nothing remained of the Ferryman.”

  A tobacco leaf could have fallen to the floor and been heard for the stillness in the smoking parlor. Sweetbrook looked around. He pulled his pipe up, relit it, and took a long, deep draft from it before laying it down again.

  “His sword had melted away to nothing. His entire side, from foot to scalp, blackened and numb, Bregan staggered up. He picked up the coin purse and handed it to his father, the Dark Ferryman vanquished.”

  The tall figure in the corner unwound, standing straight, his cloak falling from his body in a cascade of silken folds, his very movement stopping the miller in mid-breath. His gaze raked the room, his angular face cast in the planes of Vaelinarran beauty, his pewter hair swept back into a long braid, his pointed ears plain as could be. “Tell the story properly or do not tell it at all,” he suggested, drawing his cloak back about his shoulders gracefully. He pointed at Tolby. “I hear you know the truth of it.” With that, the man swept out of the room, only the bang of the door at his heels to tell he’d even been there at all.

  Tolby’s eyebrows rose high enough to set up a ladder of wrinkles across his forehead as Sweetbrook traded looks with him. The miller nodded. “Tell it, then, if you know it,” he said, his voice a little unsteady.

  Tolby looked thoughtful before nodding back. “As there is more than one way to skin a stinkdog, there is more than one way to tell a tale, sometimes. This is one that takes place in our lifetime, and so the telling of it has wound round and round about, as slyly as the bed of the River Silverwing.”

  “True enough,” muttered Honeyfoot, as he shifted his weight, candy bag rattling and crumpling in his hold. “More’n one way to hitch a wagon, I always say.”

  “And who would be knowin’ more than you who canna get it right the first time?” came a shout from a corner Grace could not see, laughter following it and chasing away the tension she’d felt in the room.

  Tolby grinned about his pipe stem, waiting till all grew hushed again. “As I have heard it, the elves did not bring the Ferryman out of their own desire to conquer the road north and south, as has often been said. Instead, it was the people of Ginton who went to them and asked for their help to somehow bless the ferries which crossed it daily and oft dashed to pieces on the rocky shores. Being a people close to the Gods, it had been thought that they could bring safety to the ferries and their operators. Instead, the Vaelinars brought their own magic to the river, their own ferry and their own ferryman. It did not happen in a day or a year or even a ten span of years. They studied the river long before they finally built a ferry to their satisfaction. They lost their own lives on the Nylara learning its flood and neap tides, so many bloods stain those docks. When it was done, they explained that they could not bless a mortal being, hence the Dark Ferryman existed to bring the boat safely back and forth. The toll they exacted would be used to maintain waiting docks at either side, and so forth. From traders they exacted more, because of the weight and wear and tear on the ferry. So the Dark Ferryman crosses the Nylara, come hell or high water.

  “ ’Tis true Oxfort chafed at the tolls like a pack animal with harness sores. He likes the Vaelinars not at all. On that day, he had his coins ready, although still he argued with the spectral figure over what he intended to pay. The shadow, saying but little, insisted on his exact toll. In disgust, Oxfort dropped the coins in his hand and loaded the first caravans and had them ferried over. The second and third load went the same, with Oxforts on the north shore awaiting the last of their convoy. It was then the Dark Ferryman stood adamantly, refusing to bring the rest of the caravans over.

  “Oxfort turned crimson with fury. He shouted at the implacable figure, which finally put out its spectral hand and rained counterfeit coins from its fingers, brightly painted slugs, upon the ground. Oxfort had not seen fit to pay his toll honestly. Humiliated in front of his drivers and guards, he threw the last of his gold crowns at the Ferryman and rode off, not waiting to see if his convoy would be transported. It was, in the Ferryman’s own good time.

  “Meanwhile, Bregan stewed at the smear on his family’s name. Never mind that it had been an impetuous act on his father’s part, and who can blame him in a way, for having to give up hard-earned money to an unfeeling shadow. With a yell, he charged the Ferryman who parried with his staff, and a dire warning. ‘Touch me not or the sins of the father will fall on the son,’ it told him. Embarrassed at being foisted off like an inexperienced youth, Bregan growled and charged again. Yet a second time the Ferryman neatly parried the blade and nearly sent Bregan backward off the ass of his steed. The third time, Bregan did not fail.

  “He paid dearly for his father’s and his own vanity. The Ferryman vanished and did not return for a span of years, and only after much entreaty by the folk of Ginton, after mortal ferries could not stand up to the willful Nylara. As for whether this is true or not ...” Tolby paused. “I can only say that I was one of
the young guardsmen riding in hire of that convoy.”

  Grace let out her breath, but had no longer to marvel at the tale, for Nutmeg began to scramble backward out of the storage room corner, pulling and tugging on her skirt. They hastily made it back to the yardage shop and milliner’s, praising the joys of a drink they had not had, leaving Rivergrace even thirstier than before. If Lily noticed the faint aroma of toback on them, she did not say so.

  Chapter Sixteen

  HOSMER HUNG ON the side of the corral, boots planted firmly and elbows hooked over the top rail, watching the horses and ponies milling about, their coats still shaggy and dense from the winter, their hooves freshly trimmed for the herding to market, their eyes rolling at the strangeness of many people about them. He wore the longcoat of the Silverwing militia, a homespun tailored coat, dyed the dark crimson of the tart winterberry, with a knotted kerchief about his left upper arm. Keldan jumped up to perch on the rail, laughing when a wild-eyed pony trotted past to nip at his boots, and Garner scaled the fence by his older brother.

  “Thought we were going to eat first.”

  “Not yet.” Hosmer stared intently across the pens.

  “Know what you’re looking for?”

  “Pretty much. Short croup, good legs and hooves, large eye. Nothing fancy, just a good post road mount.” Hosmer ticked off the features that would mean stamina and a good riding gait, agility and intelligence. Almost any horse he looked at in this corral would ride smoother than his wagon horse, no fault or virtue of either, one could not blame a horse for doing what it was bred to do. It wouldn’t hurt to have one whose trot didn’t feel like it would send his spine jolting through his skull either. Banner was a good horse, but he’d grown too old to do the kind of work Hosmer needed. He’d be retired back down to pulling the wagons and carts, or carrying Grace and Nutmeg around.