And then, there was no telling who was speaking or what they were saying. Something someone had said seemed to have sparked an outrage, and men were standing and shouting at each other, everyone trying to argue his point. Through it all, the Foxglove men remained silent and watchful.
“There’s another way,” said Wick. He spoke quietly but, somehow, this hushed the rabbling madness. He was calmly eating his way though the remains of his meal, seated right at the heart of the debate. All eyes turned to Wick, and Fox smiled to himself. “Through the mines, beneath my city.”
“And where exactly are you from, boy?” asked one of the older traders, fixing Wick with a mistrusting eye.
“Doff,” said Wick proudly. “And I promise you, we can make it easily through the Beneath and get everyone home safely.”
Fox watched as a strange array of reactions played over the group’s faces. Some of them nodded to each other, clearly convinced that this would be a perfect solution. Others still looked skeptical. But many of them, almost half, went pale. They began to look nervous, or even
slightly ill.
“We’ll take our chances with the pass,” said Ellegar softly. “There is darkness in the Beneath that makes even an avalanche seem like a chance worth taking.”
“Why?” asked Terric. “What’s the Beneath?”
A flurry of anxious whispers and hisses shhhhhhed through the group. “The deepest mankind has ever traveled,” said Wick evenly, and the company hung on his every word as he continued. “It is the very soul of the mountains.
“And we do not speak of it if we can help it,” said Ellegar, with an anxious energy that made him hunch his shoulders. It was as though he expected something to spring upon him out of nowhere, and Fox recalled Farran’s talk about sea monsters: There is a rumor among sailors, that simply speaking of these terrors summons them from the very depths of the ocean. From the darkest places. And he remembered Kaldora’s warning as he’d entered the mines, urging him to travel quickly and quietly. Fox himself began to shudder as Ellegar continued, “It is full of a dark and dangerous magic that mankind can never hope to understand.”
“But it is traversable,” argued Wick. “If you walk lightly and don’t disturb the darkness, you have nothing to fear. Can you say the same for this avalanche of yours? Or the Desolata?”
A flurry of arguments began to break out again, this time much quieter than before. The afternoon began to wear on, as pros and cons and worries were bandied about. One faction of the group was demanding that they leave now and take their chances with the Beneath. Others argued that there was far too much risk. This second group was the same that began to question where Timic Foxglove had gotten his information in the first place.
Even other trade caravans and merchants began to join in the conversation, overhearing from their own tables and chiming in. Some were scheduled to head up into Sovesta themselves, and worried about the possibility of an avalanche, or else wondered if they could brave the Desolate as a larger group and rely on strength in numbers.
Finally, after more than a half hour of back and forth between the men, a fire merchant called Druacc stood and slammed his hands down on the table. He was a rail-thin man with a close-cut beard, black as coal. Fox knew him well enough from Father’s stories: unspoken leadership of the caravan was generally split between the two. Now, he spoke more to Father than anyone else, but all were listening.
“What you’re suggesting is that we abandon the cities we have left to visit, and leave now, to journey into the heart of danger, is that correct?”
Father stared him down calmly, but it was Wick who answered. “Timing is essential. Once the passes and high snows begin to melt, whole chambers of the mining trails flood. If we don’t move quickly, we’ll be just as cut off as we would be trying to navigate the Tessoc Pass in Deep Winter.”
Druacc glanced sidelong at Wick with sneering contempt on his face, and then continued to speak only to Father. “That’s weeks of fine business we’re losing. Markets we usually turn beautiful profits in. And all on what, some brat kid’s hunch?”
Fox wished more than anything that he could melt into the bench he sat on as every eye turned on him. At his side, Father tensed, but didn’t respond. He barely would have had the chance. Almost at once, Druacc continued, “Come on, Timic. We all heard the stories. You told us yourself, at the start of the season. All about how your boy said he was having visions, and tried to stop you coming. Even you admitted he was going buggy.”
Father glanced quickly at Fox, with an apology in his eyes that said they’d talk about it later. But even so, Fox found himself inching away from Father on their bench. He took a shaky breath, then stood and turned to look at the men, keeping Father out of his eyesight. Just behind Wick, he could see the familiar, ghostly figure of Farran, always silently watching.
“It’s true,” Fox said, with more assurance than he felt. “The information is mine, and I am even more sure now than I was before the caravan left, that it cannot return the way it came.”
“And how are you sure?” spoke up one of the other traders, a younger man who had only married into the valley last year. “How do you know?”
“The same way I knew when the caravan would be coming home last season, or exactly when it will begin to snow,” said Fox. “It’s the same part of me that makes my tracking flawless. No doubt my father has told you stories of some of my better attributes, not just my tantrums.”
At this, many of the traders began to nod in agreement or glance knowingly at Father. They had, indeed, heard about the Foxglove son and his enormous talent. Many who had been looking skeptical before now started to watch Fox as though they might actually believe him. With a surge of confidence, Fox went on.
“Those who have traveled with me know, there’s not a storm or a change in the weather I can’t feel coming. Call it instinct if you like, but I’m standing here as living proof. I found you on the Merchant’s Highway. And I’m here to bring you home!”
Once he was finished, Fox wasn’t quite sure how to excuse himself from the conversation again. He wanted to sit, but it felt like a weak ending to his speech. So instead, he continued to stand and stare at them all, making many of them squirm in a visible discomfort that echoed his own.
Finally, Druacc spoke once more. “Men,” he said evenly, “you have heard both arguments. You may choose to travel home with the Foxgloves, through dangers we have never faced, and lose valuable time earning our families’ keep. Or, you may stay behind with me. And I will lead you home by the roads that have never failed us.” He took a swig from his drink and then set it down on the table once more — not quite slamming it, but hard enough to make a statement. Then he bowed himself sardonically away from the table, saying, “Do as you will, men. I’ll see you at market.”
As he left, Father addressed the men once more. “My company leaves at dawn. We meet here as the Nightmarket closes. I hope — I pray that you join me, my friends.”
The group began to disperse, many looking wary, all looking thoughtful. Ellegar stayed behind, nursing his own drink and scrutinizing Fox with a closed, unreadable expression on his lined face. Even as the Foxgloves and Wick left, going to pack their things and prepare for departure, Ellegar remained in his seat. Fox could see him every time he passed the window in his room, and there the man sat all through the afternoon.
✽ ✽ ✽
Dawn came painfully slowly. Fox lay awake all night, restless and completely incapable of sleeping. He tried for a handful of hours, tossing and turning while trying not to wake Wick at the other end of the bed. Outside, he could hear the discordant melody of the Nightmarket. Hawking cries of the vendors mingled with music from a dozen different performers and the drunken songs of just as many taverns.
Eventually, Fox gave up on sleep and pulled out his journal once more. He flipped it open to the glowing, familiar map of Doff, and traced its many lines with his fingertips. He let himself sink into the dream-like state
that let his mind wander through the faraway paths as easily as if he were really there.
The little village was aglow with rivers of ore and the clear, almost painfully bright ocean of stars above. A hint of spring was in the air, and a handful of particularly stubborn mountain flowers had begun to creep up here and there. Fox had no destination in mind, he simply meandered through the village like a breeze. He sat like a shadow in the public house and watched drinking contests and card games; he visited the eborils in their stone nests and watched them soar in the moonlight; he sat in the open window of Kaldora’s workshop, and listened to her haggle on prices and take orders for specialty candles; he lay outside the entrance to the mines and listened to the rhythmic chiming that accompanied the art of harvesting ore.
It was the hint of dawn bleeding into the mountain light that made Fox flee back into his own body. When he awoke in Florint, it was still fully dark, but he knew morning was just around the corner. He shook Wick awake and the two gathered their things, already packed from the night before, and headed downstairs.
The Nightmarket was beginning to clear. Traders and waresmen and traveling merchants were packing up their wares and heading off for some much-needed rest. Lanterns were doused, and the chimneys in every inn and tavern began to smoke, filled with the scent of early breakfast preparations. And in the dining yard at the Pocket Frog, beneath the still-lit lantern tree, a small company of men had begun to assemble. Many of them hailed from Thicca Valley, but here and there Fox spotted a face that was unfamiliar. They came with their bags and carts and pack animals, and milled about in the pre-dawn.
Fox counted almost twenty men in total, with even more heading their way, and caught Father’s eye with a grin. Father returned the smile briefly before returning his attention to the gathered crowd and starting to arrange everyone in ranks to make the travel easier. Then, as lastminute preparations were being made, a group of merchants fresh from the Nightmarket passed them by, and Fox looked up to see Druacc at the head of a sizable party.
They said nothing to each other, but Druacc’s sneer said it all — that he was sure they were all fools, and he would be perfectly content not to travel with such people anymore. But Fox’s eyes slid past Druacc’s and fell on the man some paces behind him. Terric, looking exhausted from trading in the market all night. Fox recalled how eagerly the fire merchant and his young wife had reunited last season, when the caravan finally came home. Steeling himself, Fox stepped forward to address Terric.
“And what should I tell your wife when you don’t make it home?” he asked casually.
Terric stared at him, a tired uncertainty in his eyes.
“Ignore the little whelp, Terric,” said Druacc, but Fox ignored him and continued to hold Terric’s gaze.
“Five suitors fighting for her that year,” Fox said, “and she only wanted you. I watched her cry all winter, that first season you were gone. She’s a woman lost without you. So, what shall I tell her? That you didn’t care enough to come home safely?”
“Stop it!” growled Terric suddenly. “Don’t you think I want to go home to her, more than anything?” He rubbed his face vigorously, out of exhaustion or frustration, Fox could not tell. “I want nothing more than to go to her and hold her, and never have to leave her side again! But
—” Here, he glanced about nervously and lowered his voice. “The way people speak about the Beneath ... Everyone who knows of it is terrified! How can I — ”
“Terric, I’ve been there! A boy! And I survived it!”
“And then there’s all the money we’d be losing! We can barely scrape by as it is, without sacrificing weeks worth of markets and ...”
“And think on how hard it’ll be for her to survive on her own,” said Fox evenly. “The choice is yours, but before you go with Druacc, instruct me what to tell her.” He knew he was being cruel, and unfairly playing on Terric’s emotions. But Fox had already made enough widows for one lifetime — he was not going to let this man’s fear add to his ledger.
Behind him, Father’s caravan was preparing to leave. Terric seemed torn, glancing uncertainly between Fox and Druacc. Then, finally, he said to Druacc, “I’m sorry, but if there’s any chance he’s right about this ...” And then he grabbed Fox by the shoulders and said, “Make sure they wait for me! Please! I’ll run and get my things now and ... just, wait for me!” And then he was gone, running out through the streets to whatever inn he’d found space at.
Druacc raised one dark eyebrow at Fox, something slightly more respectful than a sneer on his face now. “Big words for such a little man,” he said smoothly. “And when you’ve been devoured by the soul of the mountain, what shall I tell your mother then?”
And with that, he was gone. Not long after, Terric came racing back, haversack thrown haphazardly over his shoulders and still lacing his vest as he went. He fell into line with the rest of the caravan, and grinned broadly at Fox. Fox laughed and gave him a companionable wave.
Then, he took his own place at the head of the group, with Father and Wick by his sides. They headed out of Florint, back the way that Fox’s group had come mere days before.
Dawn was fully upon them as they broke free of the city gates, and the open path lay before them. Here, the group halted for the briefest moment as Fox waited for Father to take the lead. But Father shook his head, and gestured with open arms at the Merchant’s Highway. “This journey is yours,” he said softly. “Lead on, and we will follow.”
And so, with two dozen men trailing behind him, Fox followed the wind: the caravan was going home.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Darkness
Bartrum stayed with us for quite awhile,” said Father. He and Fox were grooming Cobb that evening as the group stopped to make camp. While they worked, Fox had asked about his colorful friend, worried that he hadn’t been among the caravan. “But when we arrived at Athilior, it turned out there was an opening at the university. A professor of ... something useless I’ve already forgotten.” He chuckled to himself and began to work a comb through a stubborn set of tangles in Cobb’s mane. “So, he said his goodbyes, and I can only assume he’s doing well.”
Fox sighed and scratched Cobb fondly behind the ears. “I had hoped to see him,” he admitted. “Maybe someday, I’ll call upon him in Athilior.”
“Perhaps next year,” suggested Father. “The caravan always pays a visit, it’s a thriving trade city.”
“I remember the stories,” said Fox, and then he fell silent, pretending to be focused on his attentions to the pony. But in actuality, he simply wanted to avoid carrying on that trail of conversation.
In the distance, he thought he could hear the echo of Shavid songs on the wind. But whether they were from Radda’s company or the players back in Florint, he could not say. The music spoke of promises, adventure, and a new life. A life that was so close, Fox could almost taste it. A life that he was ashamed to want.
Trapping was a steady business. It was a luxury trade, bringing finer things to the valley than mere firestones and ore. Father had never left his wife and son wanting for the comforts and necessities of life. Without Fox to carry on the family business, what would happen to the valley? Or his family? It was a thought Fox couldn’t quite bring himself to dwell on, and so he tried to put it to the back of his mind, as he had been doing for months now. He kept up a steady stream of meaningless conversation with Father, and turned in early. He lay on top of his bedroll, staring up at the cloudless night sky and enjoying the spring breeze. Around him, the air was filled with the light snores of men who had already fallen asleep, the low hum of talk from those who hadn’t, and the comfortable shuffling of animals settling in for the night.
It was a good life, being a waresman. A difficult life, perhaps, but rewarding. Fox had grown up wanting nothing more than to join his father on the caravan. And now, surrounded by that very dream, Fox was not so certain. A life on the Merchant’s Highway was all very well and good. But a life on every highway
... a life with every sea and city and marketplace ...
Fox hummed along quietly to a familiar Shavid tune that he could hear fluttering on the wind, and rolled over onto his stomach, smooshing his makeshift cloak pillow into a more comfortable position beneath him. He didn’t have to think about it now. He had a long journey ahead, and for the time being he would simply celebrate the fact that he was bringing his father, and many others, home safely. And he would revel in the joy of his first — and possibly last — caravan.
✽ ✽ ✽
Between both of the Foxglove men and Wick, the company had little time to rest. Fox led the way with Wick often several lengths behind him in the ranks, and Father brought up the rear. Between the three, they drove the company hard. They ate on the move, and often slept under the stars instead of taking the time to set up a proper camp. The spring rains seemed to have finally cleared away, and the weather was fair and peaceful, making tents thankfully unnecessary. But even with the pace, the company was a lively group. They filled the air with raucous songs and bawdy jokes. Every market they passed should have been a reminder of the trade they were losing, but instead the men seemed to see each missed bazaar as one less barrier between themselves and home.
Fox was often alone at the head of the group, with the nearest rank of men several dozen paces behind him. But the wind was his constant companion, fetching him smells and snatches of conversation like a pup with a stick. He could hear the men talking about everything from reuniting with their wives and wagering on the genders of children that had been born while they were away, to arguments about which marketplaces deserved to be skipped next year.
And, far more often than he would have liked, Fox overheard talk about himself. Whispers about just how the Foxglove boy knew what he did, and how he’d always seemed a bit strange. The men began to watch him more closely at every turn; Fox could feel their eyes on him, and it reminded him all too much of how everyone in Thicca Valley had watched him after the attack of the Desolata.
Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1) Page 40