Silversion

by Rick Johnson

  “Ah, yes,” Rink laughed, “quite right, quite right. The results of commerce in Viper’s Hive can be—shall we say—unexpected.” Pulling a cord, Rink summoned a beast, covered head to toe in a loose-fitting cloak that made it impossible to see his definite form. He wore a snug steel cap with a curtain of chain-mail hanging from it, covering his face. “This is my Secretary, Mr. Lickspittle. He’ll be glad to show you the galeswabs, and if you desire, work out the purchase with you. I’m afraid I don’t leave my house these days.”

  Motioning for Coot, Bem, and Klemés to follow, the mysterious Secretary led the way out of the house. By a route filled with constant turns, Mr. Lickspittle led them toward the river. As they walked, Bem guestioned him about the boats they were to see.

  “How many beasts can a galeswab hold?” she asked.

  “Fifty beasts at the tops,” Mr. Lickspittle replied. “Twenty of that is defensive crew.”

  “Defensive crew?” she questioned.

  “Protection against Wrackshee attack,” Mr. Lickspittle said. “Mostly to run the chain-swishers—takes special training to operate those. The high gunwales are built to withstand Wrackshee boarding parties, and protect against the snugs they throw. They’re never boarded a galeswab—the chain-swishers just rip them up when they try.”

  “What’re chain-swishers?” Bem asked.

  “They’re wheels that spin heavy chains,” Mr. Lickspittle answered. “Any beast trying to climb over the gunwales, gets beat to a pulp.”

  “And that takes a crew of twenty!” Bem exploded, “on every one of those galeswabs? Why if we take forty boats, that’d add eight hundred beasts to our group! How’d we feed them? That’s outrageous!”

  “Maybe the honored beast doesn’t want our galeswabs after all?” Mr. Lickspittle asked.

  “If we like the boats,” Bem said, “we’ll run our own chain-swishers, and you can keep the extra crew."

  “That might be difficult,” Mr. Lickspittle replied. “I’m not joking when I say it takes special skill to operate the chain-swishers. I’d be heartily surprised if you have even thirty beasts capable of doing it, let alone the hundreds you’d need.”

  “Show us the boats,” Bem snapped, “then we’ll decide what’s what!”

  Moving out of the wealthy residential areas, they returned to the dirty streets and squalid buildings of Viper’s Hive. Approaching the river, the streets became even narrower, not more than twelve feet wide in places. Gradually the streets gave way to the river, and became simply flat stones leading out into the water. The wild buying and selling of the landward side of Viper’s Hive was dwarfed by the immense floating market along the riverfront. Boats were everywhere. It was like a great fair stringing at least two miles down the river.

  Approaching a gate that barred access to one of the docks, Mr. Lickspittle took out a key. Opening the gate, he directed Coot, Bem, and Klemés to enter.

  “Furburn! Come!” he called out.

  In a moment, a Squirrel appeared, muscles bulging through his lizard skin tights. Beautiful, intricate tattoos covered his shaved head.

  “Take us to the boatyard,” Mr. Lickspittle ordered.

  Boarding a boat covered by a tent, Furburn and several other beasts paddled the boat away from Viper’s Hive, heading downstream.

  “Where’s the boatyard?” Bem asked. “I thought it was in Viper’s Hive.”

  “Just a ways down the river,” Mr. Lickspittle answered. “You’ll see soon enough.”

  After about twenty minutes, rounding a large bend in the river, an immense wall of sharpened logs, twelve feet tall, came into view. Running between two bluffs along the riverbank, the wall closed off a wide connecting lake behind the wall. A single floating gate provided the only entrance.

  As they approached, sentinels strutting along the ridge of the cliffs attracted Bem’s attention. “Must be at least two dozen of ’em,” she thought. Perched on the rocks and cliffs above, as well as along the log wall, they shouted to one another, “Nodo! Nodo!”

  “What’s up?” Bem asked, eyeing the array of lances, swords, and knives glinting in the sun. “Security seems pretty tight around this place for a boatyard.”

  “There’s nothing illegal, or even irregular, about Rink’s operations,” Mr. Lickspittle replied. “It’s all in how you look at it. Those that get served on Tuesday, call those who get served on Wednesday thieves, and vice versa. Rink is above all that. He serves everyone equally.”

  When they pulled up to the gate, despite Mr. Lickspittle being with them, Klemés and Bem were searched by guards.

  “Keep your paws off me, ya varmints!” Klemés yelled, protesting at having to remove every stich of clothing. But swords won the argument, and the Wood Cow submitted. Moving within the wall, Rink’s immense boatyard and other operations took up much of the lake. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of boats of every description swung from moorings, or were being loaded with boxes, barrels, and other items.

  “Rink is a very busy, it seems,” Bem said. “You’d never guess it from his office.”

  “When there’s so much to gain—I mean, so much to do,” Mr. Lickspittle replied, “it’s sometimes not necessary to advertise. Depends on the business. Rink generally does business that doesn’t need advertising.”

  “Only businesses I ever heard of like that, are prisons and thievry,” Klemés commented, glaring at Mr. Lickspittle.

  “There, there,” Mr. Lickspittle responded with a laugh, “too much worry about Rink’s business only overheats the brain, because you’ll never figure it out.” The boat docked, and he led them up on the wharf.

  “Rest assured, Rink won’t cheat you in this,” Mr. Lickspittle assured them. “Some parts of his business run by rules different than other parts. Depends entirely on the customer. Seeing’s how you like the honest and true manner of trade, that’s what we’ll do. Now, here’s what I brought you to see.” He directed them to a long line of large boats, built in the same style. Klemés barely glanced them over before saying, “Not what we want—not as they are. Bem—we don’t want ’em that way.”

  “What’s the matter?” Mr. Lickspittle asked.

  “I’ve been on ships all my life,” the Wood Cow replied, “and been a ship’s carpenter most of that time. These here ships are built to do one thing well, but not what we need. They’re too heavy. Too bulky. If we cut them down a bit, and get rid of that mess of chain-swishers, they might serve. They’re way over-built as they are. Cut ’em down, and they might outrun the Wrackshee kayaks.”

  “Cut them down!” Mr. Lickspittle exclaimed. “Why that’s suicide!”

  “We’ll decide what’s suicide, sir,” Klemés declared. “Look, we’ve got two-thousand beasts. Those chain-swishers are fine for a merchant just trying to slip some goods past the Wrackshees, but we’ve got a different problem. With less weight and height, we can row these things! Without the crew you’ve offered, we need fewer ships. So, let’s say we put seventy beasts on one of these—most of them running an oar. I swear that no puny kayak will get anywhere near us.”

  “I’m sorry, honorable beasts, but Rink won’t hear of it,” Mr. Lickspittle began.

  “Look here, Lickspittle,” Bem said, pulling out her sword and using the point to push the Secretary’s chain-mail curtain aside. “I see your face now, and I see it’s as oily as I thought it’d be. And your eyes have that sniveling, ‘she’s-going-to-gut-me-with-her-sword’ look, if I ever saw one. Well, yes, this sword’s the real thing. And I’m a real, live, ain’t-scared-of-nothing, sea-beast. You’re a sniveling, scared, mostly-worried-about-silver, cheat or maybe fool. You can hide all you want behind that silly costume, but I can see you for what you are.”

  Putting her sword back in its scabbard, she continued, “Now that we understand each other, we’ll work out the details. I’ll pay Rink the full amount he thought he was going to get for the galeswabs, extra crew, and all that stuff. But what I’m paying for, is my beasts to use this boatyard while we remodel the
ships as Klemés directs. Rink will see to feeding us here and arrange provisions for our trip downstream. We’ll need fewer boats, and they’ll be exactly what we need.”

  In about an hour, terms of the agreement were arranged, and over the next few nights, the Musterteers quietly floated past Viper’s Hive in small groups and were admitted to the boatyard, without causing a stir.

  As he had done with the raft-building, Seems organized work teams to remodel the galeswabs, under Klemés guidance. For almost three weeks, the hammering and sawing was furious. Sawdust seemed to cover everything as the bulky, top-heavy galeswabs were transfromed into sleeker, faster, more maneuverable boats.

  Not everyone was assigned to reworking the galeswabs, however. Thinking ahead to the dangers that might await them, Klemés went to Wittover and asked, “Besides yourself, how many of our Musterteers served as Buzz-Chinkers at Tilk Duraow?”

  “Forty,” Wittover said quickly, “two shifts each day, twenty Buzz-Chinkers to a shift.”

  “That’s more than I’d have quessed,” Klemés replied.

  “Nothing disrupted work more on the Granite Hulks than Buzzers,” Wittover answered. “So they had to be kept away from the stone-cutters.”

  “Do you think you could train them to defend our boats against Wrackshees?” Klemés said.

  “Easy,” Wittover replied, “they can hit anything with a proper ’rang—hard part is getting enough ’rangs for the job.”

  “Could you make them?” the Wood Cow asked.

  Wittover thought silently for a moment, then said, “I’d need the right wood—heavy, dense, and hard. Can’t make proper ’rangs from soft or light wood.”

  “Take your pick of anything we discard as we cut-down the galeswabs,” Klemés said. “The hulls of these things are oak—that should do the job.”

  Wittover smiled. “The first ’rang I ever had was oak—yes, that’ll do just fine.”

  While other teams worked on modifying the boats, Wittover’s team made dozens of boomerangs and learned to use them.

  “We’ve got it down,” Wittover told Klemés one morning. “We’re ready to go with the ’rangs.”

  “Perfect!” Klemés replied.

  In consultation with Bem, as plans were made to depart, ’rang throwers were assigned to each boat, with five ’rangs per thrower.

  “That’s not very many ’rangs,” Wittover commented, “but it’s enough. I’m confident that every one will find its mark—none will be wasted.”

  “I’ve seen your beasts practicing,” Klemés said. “It’s impressive. You’ve got a good team, and I’m sure we’re in good hands, so far as that goes. But I’m also fitting the boasts with fishnet hoods. We’re hanging a double layer of fishnet, A-frame style, over the deck. We’ll keep it rolled up at the center, but if we’re attacked, drop it fast. It should be loose enough to hang up any snugs they throw at us—can’t afford even a nick from those nasties.”

  “Yes, I know,” Whittover replied soberly. “I was once with a supply train that got ambushed by Wrackshees. My buddy was hit by a snug in the arm. He was so angry he just broke the thing off as we ran, trying to escape. We did manage to get away, but the blood flowed out green from his wound, and within an hour he was too weak to stand. I found a hiding place for us, and nursed him for two days. It was no use—thirst just ate him up, and he shriveled up like a dried pea. As his body wasted away, his eyes seemed to bulge way out from his face, although they didn’t get any larger.” He gave Klemés a grim look, “Yes, as you say, we can’t afford even a nick from those nasties.”

  “The ’rang throwers will be most in danger,” Klemés remarked. “You’ll be able to see through the netting, and be protected when you’re ducked down. But when you stand up to throw a ’rang, you’ll be a prime target.”

  “Well, that’s about what it’s like here,” Wittover replied with a thin smile. “We’re kind of hunkered down in this boatyard here, protected for the time being. But it won’t be long before we have to stand up and let fly, so to speak.”

  “Yes,” Klemés agreed. “And take whatever comes at us.”

  While the Musterteers had found temporary safe haven, the movement of so many beasts, and their being holed up in Rink’s boatyard, did not pass unnoticed. As certain as the sun rises in the east, a place like Viper’s Hive always has ears and eyes on the lookout for a tasty morsel. About the time the last of the Musterteers tied up their rafts in the boatyard, a breathless messenger delivered news to the Wrackshee Bozz holding sway over the lands downriver. Two-thousand beasts were preparing to run the river through his territory. “Excellent!” he smiled, licking his lips with delight. “Let them come to me. The unluckiest of days awaits them.”

  The Bucky-Round Starts Up

  After picking up his pack and bittering cursing Colonel Snart, ThunderUp took only a few steps before the ground sank way beneath him.

  “AYYYY!” Sucked downward, as if into quicksand, in moments, he was completely submerged in a cascade of dirt, rocks, and sand sliding deep underground.

  “AAAYYY! NO! NO! NOOOO!” Soon smashing against hard rock, gasping and choking, the Badger struggled to breathe in the fog of dust surrounding him. Sand and dirt continued to spill over him until he has sitting half-covered. The hollow sound of the falling dirt and rock told him he was in some kind of an open space, but in the absolute dark, he couldn’t see. For a few moments, he sat in the dusty darkness, struggling to breathe. Finding it harder and harder to get a breath without breaking into a coughing fit, he tore a piece of cloth from his loosely-knit shirt and covered his face with it. The makeshift filter helped his breath come easier, and he was able to pay more attention to his surroundings.

  As the clatter of falling rocks tapered off, a persistent whirring and ticking caught his attention. Clank-whirrrr—tick—tick—tick—clank-whirrrr. And as background to this mechanical sound, he could make out the unmistakeable noise of rushing water! The sounds raised his spirits. Could other beasts be nearby? Pushing aside the dirt and rocks piled on him, he groped inside his pack for another candle. Finding two candles remaining, he lit one with shaking paws. In the flickering light, he saw there was room to stand and carefully rose to his feet. Tying the cloth firmly across his face, he moved slowly, groping his way in the direction of the sound. As he moved, the oppressive burnt and moldy odor of the foam was everywhere, although he saw no actively expanding foam in his immediate area. Leaving the rubble slide behind, he found that the ground became more level, and timbers supported the chamber he was in.

  “An abandoned mine shaft,” he thought, his mind struggling between hope and despair. “Maybe I can find a way out from here—or maybe I’m just walking around in my grave.” The thought had barely flashed through his mind when there was a tremendous crash behind him. A thunderous rush of air spewed clouds of dust over him. His candle went out, and he was again plunged into absolute darkness. Pulling the face cloth close over his nose and mouth, he hunkered down, waiting.

  There was no doubt what had happened. The collapse that pulled ThunderUp underground had finished its work. The mine shaft where he had been sitting minutes ago, was now buried under tons of rock. Although the collapse had not reached the part of the shaft where he was now sitting, he knew it might do so at any moment. In addition, his makeshift breathing filter would soon be clogged with dust and useless. He had to push on quickly.

  Clank-whirrrr—tick. Lighting his candle once more, the Badger continued following the odd mechanical sound. The candle light, reduced to a dull glow in the swirling dust, was barely showed the way a few feet ahead. By cautiously moving a few feet, then pausing to listen before moving another few feet, he gradually made his way along the mine shaft. The murky dust began to disperse as he moved, and he could see farther ahead. The whirring and ticking also became louder, as did the sound of splashing water.

  Walking on, the sounds became louder until he noticed movement just at the edge of his candle’s circle of light. Venturing
forward, a vast mechanical graveyard came into view. As far as his eye could penetrate into the gloom, he could see immense timber frames, hung with giant chains, massive gears, and buckets. Abandoned pipes, timbers, and wooden scaffolding extended in all directions. Rotten-looking platforms and ladders stood in perhaps two feet of murky water. There were also a couple of old mine wagons.

  Moving closer, he caught sight of two long lines of small buckets, suspended on lighter-weight chains, one passing off into the darkness down a side shaft, the other returning from the same shaft, in an endless parade. Water splashing out of a pipe fell onto a waterwheel, turning gears to move the bucket-chain. Gears of the waterwheel clank-whirred, and the chains moved on their way with a methodical tick-tick-tick.

  Moving as close to the machinery as possible without plunging into the knee-deep water that filled every low spot, ThunderUp peered into the darkness. His light, however, was too feeble to follow the buckets’ progress more than a little way. They disappeared into the darkness, and emerged from it, with no way to tell how far the bucket chain ran or what purpose it had. Except for the waterwheel and bucket-chain, the rest of the machinery was silent, rusty, and unused.

  ThunderUp realized he must now be dozens of feet below the surface. How long might it take to find an exit—if one could be found? Deciding that his first priority should be a better light source than his diminishing supply of candles, he began collecting pieces of broken timbers.

  Although these were plentiful, he found they were also difficult to light. Long underground, they were too damp to ignite with a candle flame. “Maybe a small fire will dry the wood enough to burn,” he thought. Smashing some of the broken timbers into splinters, he piled the pieces in hopes of making a small fire. He was about to tear a piece of cloth from his shirt to use as kindling, when he suddenly heard voices.

  “Sounds like we’re ’bout there,” one voice said.

  “None too soon,” another voice answered. “My feet are so wet n’ raw, I’m not sure I can walk back out o’ here.”