by Jean Rabe
Boliver came up, slogging toward the three of them, eyeing Direfang. He caught on quickly; he knew the human tongue, having learned it by listening in Steel Town, as Direfang had.
“Direfang, the wizard and the skull man cannot be trusted to go into that town.” Boliver drew in a deep breath and looked to the shore, where Saro-Saro was still huddled with his clansmen. “The wizard and the skull man will escape from us and-”
Mudwort tapped Boliver on the arm. “The wizard- Grallik-will return, Boliver. I know this. He has his reasons to return.” She looked hard at Grallik, who nodded.
“I promise to return,” Grallik said.
“The wizard has to come back,” Mudwort added softly to Boliver, “because the wizard wants to learn stone magic.”
Boliver raised an eyebrow, still looking dubious.
“The skull man will stay here with us,” Direfang commanded. “Only the wizard goes. Another reason for him to return, loyalty to his friend.” He glanced at Mudwort, seeking some approval of his strategy.
“Already told you, Direfang,” she huffed. “The wizard will come back. The wizard will arrange passage and lots of food.” She touched her ragged tunic. “And clothes, Grallik. Passage and food and clothes. Make sure that you bring a lot of clothes.”
“These blue gems will buy those things.” He gently shook the pouches.
“Yes, clothes,” Horace agreed. He had silently joined them, the priest’s bare chest glistening. The water on his face had dried, leaving behind traces of salty white powder. “I should be the one who goes into the town, you know. I am more familiar with ships and sailors-and with contracts. I am certain-”
“But the wizard is willing to go,” Direfang said. “And he has the best reasons to return. Mudwort believes that.”
“Indeed,” Grallik said. He drew his head back and watched a V of birds flying east toward the mountains. “I will go right away. Perhaps I will be able to return by this evening,” Grallik said. “If I have managed to find suitable ships by then.”
Direfang growled. “Need those ships right away, wizard.”
Grallik shook his head. “I said I would bring the ships to you, but I don’t think that’s a wise thing to do in daylight. First I’ll make the arrangements.” His gaze swept over the many goblins who still bobbed in the shallows. “Too many ships on the sea then, too many eyes in that port. You will have to trust my judgment.”
Direfang snorted but said nothing.
“Meanwhile,” suggested Horace, following Grallik’s eyes, “perhaps we should retreat to the cover of trees.”
Boliver spoke up harshly. “No. Leave the goblins in the sea while the Gray Robe is gone. Leave them in as long as they can stand it, Foreman Direfang. Until their skin looks withered like prunes and they can’t feel their toes. Let us hope the water washes away the plague. But they are happy now. Let them be happy. Leave them in until ships come this way and force them to hide.”
“Yes, happy goblins,” said Mudwort, who was already tired of their tedious discussion. “That is good.”
Direfang nodded, looking over toward Saro-Saro, who still refused to enter the water. He was closer at that time and couldn’t help but notice that the goblin had a black spot on the underside of one arm, and a bump was forming on his neck.
GRALLIK’S DAY IN PORT
Grallik weathered the hostile stares of Saro-Saro’s clan as he headed to the shore and turned west, toward the town in the distance. As he approached, he could see that the town was larger than he first thought, built on a low hill and apparently sectioned into estates. The harbor was extensive, and so many dozens of masts stood out against the sky that Grallik did not try to count all the ships.
He was pleased for the opportunity to leave the smelly, noisy horde of goblins behind for a while. That was his first taste of freedom since joining Direfang’s army.
He pulled off his boots and walked barefoot in the sand. His sore feet still ached and were riddled with blisters that he doubted would ever fully heal. After half a mile he threw the well-worn boots into the sea. The uncut gems in the pouches would buy him the best boots in the town-would buy him anything.
He couldn’t help but smile.
Another man, even Horace no doubt, would have absconded with the gems and booked passage on a ship, fled the damnable goblins, whose number seemed to multiply at every turn, leaving them all behind, stranded at the mouth of the river. Horace might even believe that Zeboim had gifted him with the gems and freedom. But Mudwort was right. She knew Grallik would return, hoping she would share her magic. And because Direfang trusted Mudwort, the wizard had been given the task and allowed that blissful time alone.
“I really should leave them all,” he mused. “Forget the magic the little red goblin casts. Live like a prince.” But he knew he would do as he had promised. Magic meant more to him than the gems. And the magic that Mudwort practiced was priceless.
“Where did that goblin get all of these gems?” Reorx’s Cradle, of course, he realized, thinking it over. No one in Steel Town possessed such valuables. And she had more. Grallik had seen the two other pouches at her waist. “That little monster has a fortune.”
Away from the goblins, the air smelled better; it was salt-tinged from the sea and redolent of fish. The sea air was such a welcome change that Grallik breathed as deeply as he could.
The early sky was empty of clouds and growing bluer as the sun peeked farther over the horizon. The breeze was faint and came from the west, bringing with it a hint of baking bread. The wizard’s stomach rumbled.
“New boots,” he said. “A warm meal and wine. New clothes and … clothes …”
He examined his threadbare undertunic, which was stained, ripped, and bloody. His hair was matted and filthy, and the stubble on his face was thick. If, looking like that, he approached any shopkeeper in whatever passed for the town’s merchant district, if he sought out any ship’s captain, any sane person would think him a beggar. If he presented even a single gem to buy something, they would most certainly declare him a thief, call the watch, and throw him in a dungeon. They would confiscate the fortune he carried.
“A raggedy, raggedy man I am,” he said, almost merrily, thinking over the problem. “Whatever to do about it?”
He skirted the waterfront and slipped down an alley between a rickety tavern and a bait shop. He hugged the wall and waited, his mind whirling. He smelled garbage; enough of it was piled outside the tavern’s side door. But he also smelled cinnamon, and he scanned the street beyond and spotted a bakery. Again his stomach growled. It hadn’t taken him long to walk there, and it was still so early that not many people were walking around. Behind him, toward the dock, sailors and fishermen had begun working on their boats, and smaller ships were putting out to sea. But toward the heart of the city, people were just waking up-or still slept.
Grallik waited.
Minutes later a merchant strolled past the corner where he was crouched, and the wizard was quick to act.
“Good sir!” Grallik remained tucked in the alley but reached out a hand and motioned to the stranger.
The merchant stopped and stared, made a move to keep going, then held his place when he saw Grallik hold up something that caught the light.
“I’ll part with this gem for some coins, good sir.”
The merchant edged closer, gazing down the street to his right and left, then looking back toward Grallik and peering behind him to make sure no one else hid, waiting in the alley.
“I’ve need of some coins, good sir.” Grallik didn’t have to work very hard to get an edge of desperation in his voice. “Help me out. I beg you.”
The merchant’s eyes gleamed. Greed, Grallik recognized. Finally, the man came close, and Grallik handed him one of the smaller gemstones.
“How did you come by this?” The merchant stared. “A sapphire.”
“Yes, it is a sapphire. I’ve more.” Grallik stepped deeper into the alley where the shadows were especially
thick.
The merchant hesitated only a moment then followed Grallik. A few minutes later, Grallik was donning the merchant’s jacket and trousers and shoving the man’s singed body behind the mound of tavern refuse in the alley. Flies, momentarily disturbed, were quick to swarm anew. Grallik put on the merchant’s boots, finding them tight and hurtful. He clutched the man’s coin pouch and jangled it.
“A fairly wealthy man, were you?” The jacket was of fine material, yet it was old; the same for the trousers. “You should have spent some of your coin on clothes.” Grallik adjusted the shirt and closed the jacket over a burned patch on the chest; Grallik had been forced to aim his fire spell at the man’s heart. He looked inside the pouch. “My, my. This will certainly do. You wouldn’t spend your coins on clothes, but I will.” The merchant had a cap, so Grallik put it on and tucked his filthy hair up and under.
Making sure the man’s body was reasonably well concealed, Grallik stepped out on the street and looked around for a clothier’s. The outfit wouldn’t suit him for very long; someone might recognize it as belonging to the now-deceased merchant. However, it was better to walk around in than his ruined undertunic.
His gait felt stilted because the boots were so tight. He shuffled past a small district of stone and wood buildings, only a few of them two stories tall. Some were residences; most were businesses, marking the place as a thriving port town. The town seemed to offer a little of everything, and Grallik’s next stop was a public bath, where he used the first of the merchant’s coins. It wouldn’t do to bring out any of the precious sapphires there; just one would have paid for a thousand baths.
He slipped into the warm copper tub and washed the salt and dirt and dried sweat off, allowing his mind to drift for several long minutes as a young woman added perfumed oils and began to cut his hair. He’d enjoyed no such bath in years. He’d been afforded few luxuries in Steel Town, nor in his previous post. Though, in his days with the black-robed wizards, he’d enjoyed plenty of costly unnecessary extravagances.
The woman was speaking to him in a low, musical, pleasant voice, but he paid no attention. Instead, he thought about the red-skinned goblin and her promise to teach him her peculiar earth magic. He had no doubt she would live up to her end of the bargain … provided he could help lead the goblin horde to the Qualinesti Forest.
“So long I’ve been from home,” he murmured.
“Pardon, sir?”
He stared at her. She was not as young as he first thought, a little plump, and her nose was crooked. Her eyes seemed too small for her face, but it was a sweet, kind face. And her hair was a dull shade of brown that had been cut too short for his liking.
“A shave too.”
She was quick to comply, briefly staring at the scars on the left side of his face as she worked, noticing the scars on his left arm and side as well. His beard had grown unevenly because of all of the scars, and he imagined he looked vile to her.
“You’re half-elf, sir.” She was trying to make polite conversation, though his scars worried her. “Where are you from?”
He wondered if he should answer honestly. “Steel Town,” he said after a few moments. “Iverton.”
“I’ve never heard of that place, sir.”
“And no one will ever hear of it again,” he said softly.
He closed his eyes and felt the razor continue to move slowly across his cheeks. He ought to purchase a shaving kit-two because Horace would also be pleased to be given one. Grallik decided he would not allow himself to look so unkempt ever again.
He refrained from purchasing the woman’s company for anything else, though he was sorely tempted. Perhaps, if there was time later, he would return to that soothing bath house. Perhaps there would even be a more comely and younger woman available.
His next stop was at the finest tailor shop in that part of town, one whose windows displayed completed garments. It had been too many years since Grallik had felt soft, new fabric against his fire-scarred skin. With a dozen coins, he purchased a padded linen shirt with brown trim at the elbows and down the front. The shirt fit too loosely, and the tailor offered to take it in. Grallik had spotted nothing in the shop small enough for his gaunt frame.
“I will grow into it,” he mused softly, “when I eat properly again.” The breeches were green and stopped at mid-calf, inches above the tops of his too-tight boots. The hoodlike hat he purchased helped to conceal his facial scars and matched the breeches. “Can you refer me to a cobbler? The best in town?”
The tailor was quick to give Grallik directions, and the wizard purchased two more outfits before leaving. He burned his purloined clothes in another alley and replaced the stolen boots at the cobbler’s. The new ones were soft leather, dyed a brown so dark that they looked nearly black. They laced up to his knees, where he could tuck his breeches in. He bought a pair of comfortable slippers, three pairs of leather gloves, and a backpack to carry his other clothes, the gloves, and the slippers.
The only thing left before finding passage for the goblins was to fill his stomach.
“The finest place to dine in this neighborhood, please,” he told the cobbler.
The recommendation was nearby.
Only minutes later, fruit preserves and fresh cheese were sitting in a polished oak bowl in front of him. Grallik had asked for the table farthest from the door so he could watch the rest of the establishment and inspect all the customers as they arrived. The aroma of the place was intoxicating- from the polishing cream used on the walnut furniture, to the scented candles, to the fruit, to the many delights simmering in the kitchen.
Breakfast was being served, but another dozen coins convinced the cook to whip up more substantial fare. His first course was smoked fish on toast rounds. That was followed by roasted turnips, an onion tart, and sauteed cabbage. He had to wait quite some time for the salomene-the rare, twice-cooked fish in a light sauce, complemented by saffron rice and tiny sausages. His feast ended with sugared pears, wafers, and grape juice.
Grallik staggered from the inn, stuffed and sated. His stomach had so shrunken while in the company of the goblins that he was not used to eating so much. On his way to the docks, he stopped in another alley and leaned against a wall and pressed his hands against his stomach. He fought to keep the rich meal down.
“Horace could have shared it with me. He would have enjoyed it.” Grallik moaned. “Too bad he couldn’t have joined me on this little adventure.” Yet the priest might have objected to killing the merchant for his clothes and coins and for putting personal needs-the bath and the meal- ahead of the main job: seeking passage for the goblins. Grallik thought Horace evinced too many scruples for a Dark Knight. But then, thinking it over, again he wondered whether the priest might have gotten it in his head to bolt with the gems, knightly honor notwithstanding.
Grallik chuckled to himself, despite his stomach discomfort. “We’re not Dark Knights any longer, though the goblins still think us such. We’re hardly men anymore.” Grallik and Horace had left the Knighthood when they left Steel Town. They’d left scruples behind.
They’d left everything.
Grallik looked toward the wharf. It was late morning, he guessed, by the length of the shadows. He couldn’t spot the sun from his position. But when he looked up and stared around, he spied gulls circling, their cries mingled with the sounds coming from the docks-ships creaking against timbers, sailors shouting, the clomping of boots against the planks and decks.
The odors of fish and shrimp were strong, and while they were not unpleasant, they made his eyes water. That, coupled with his struggling stomach, was too much. Grallik finally stopped resisting and bent over behind a crate of refuse, retching until he felt better. His throat burned and his mouth was filled with a horrid taste, and he was annoyed with himself to have wasted such a fine meal.
“But there will be at least one more fine meal before I leave,” he vowed. And it would not be fish; he had a taste for beef, which he hadn’t eaten for a long,
long time. Yes, he’d return to that inn or, more likely, another on recommendation. He wasn’t about to go back to the goblins without having dined well a second time, as he didn’t know when he would ever get such an opportunity again.
Grallik swallowed repeatedly in an attempt to get the sour taste out of his mouth. It helped only a little. He brushed at the front of his new shirt and adjusted it at the waist so the folds were more even. Then he headed down toward the wharves.
The gulls were more plentiful as he drew closer, and they acted braver. They dipped down to snatch crumbs from the street that ran parallel to the shore, and they waddled behind passersby, squawking for treats. Pelicans were perched atop timbers and on the roof of one of the bait shops. All over were barrels of fish being off-loaded from boats just arriving. And every place Grallik looked, he saw men working on sails and rigging, painting trim, and hurrying from ships to the shore and back again.
Grallik felt almost dizzy, drinking it all in. He’d been in port towns only a few times, and those were in years long past. He’d not been so interested in the ships then; he’d preferred the inland for his Dark Knight postings. So he’d never really paid attention before to the activities along the docks. It was a blur of sound and color, and he simply stood and gaped for a time.
If the red-skinned goblin were looking in on him-as he well knew she could do with her seeing spells-he hoped she was watching him right then. He had needed a bath and clothes and something to eat. Then she would see him going about the business of transporting Direfang’s followers to the Qualinesti Forest.
Grallik had few fond memories of his former home, and he had never expected to return there. But Mudwort sought something in those woods, and whatever interested her interested him. He steepled his fingers and looked from one ship to the next.
Now there was an amazing vessel! The largest in port, it bore four masts with blue pennants flying from the top of each one. There were three crow’s nests, with men atop each of them, even though it looked as though the ship were not leaving anytime soon. Grallik walked along a plank sidewalk so he could better see the ship. The Mercy Corvan, it was called, and along the top at the back were ornate carvings of horses pulling a man riding in a chariot. The carved man was dressed in a flowing robe; his left shoulder and arm were exposed. Birds with human faces were perched on his arm, all expertly rendered and painted garishly. There were windows rather than portholes, and the glass gleamed like diamonds in the bright sun.