“I don’t want to be a farmer’s wife,” she said, sipping from his cup. “You aren’t the only one who likes a little freedom. I make my own rules here. Quaid doesn’t steal my money and lets me do as I please.”
“Yes, Quaid is a good man, and I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m beginning to notice how glad you are,” she said flirtatiously.
“Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not, I’m just good at what I do. I can tell how many drinks a man needs to get up the courage to pay my price.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, it is. And you only need one more drink,” she said, getting back to her feet. “Once you see that Marsdyn’s men are carried out, you’ll want to take me to my room.”
“It’s more comfortable,” he said.
“Of course it is, and the company is better, too.”
She went to refill her pitcher of mead. Lorik watched as she moved among the other patrons. She refilled a mug here and there, never coming too close to the men the other wenches were flirting with. Pazel had recovered on his own, although he still coughed as he helped Oky up and supported the injured man as they hobbled out of the tavern. Lorik watched them go and wondered how long it would take before the stranger joined Marsdyn’s gang. Lorik didn’t care for the Riders and didn’t pay them for protection. He didn’t keep goods, just equipment, and he could take care of himself. His horses were Shire horses, used for pulling heavy wagons. They were too slow for outlaws and too heavy to make it through the Marshlands unless you knew the firm paths. He knew how to stay out of trouble in Hassell Point and how to defend himself if he couldn’t. His preferred weapon was a traditional longbow, but he carried a small axe on his belt which he could easily use in a close fight.
Lorik was larger than most of the inhabitants of Hassell Point. He was used to loading and unloading his wagons, which was simply a necessary part of moving materials through the Marshlands. Depending on the rainfall, certain paths could grow soft, and he would be forced to remove some of his cargo, sometimes all of the cargo, so that his wagon wouldn’t bog down. He wasn’t a hulking specimen like Pazel or Oky, but he was stronger than he looked. His father had been a teamster, but once Lorik had gotten old enough he turned the business over to his son. Lorik’s mother had passed away several years ago and his father soon after that. Since then, Lorik had been on his own. He was a solitary person and didn’t mind being alone. He made a comfortable living hauling cargo, mostly large sacks of rice, through the Marshlands and returning with trade goods.
His team wasn’t as fast as sailing around to Quelton Bay, but it was safer. The pirates who frequented Hassell Point had no qualms about raiding the ships that sailed between the Point and other cities. He also charged much less than the trade ships and would take his payment from the money earned when he sold the rice at market. It was an occupation that kept him busy, and he enjoyed his life, although there were times when he wondered if there was something missing. He tried not to dwell on such thoughts, but long periods of being alone gave him plenty of time for introspection.
“I’m done drinking,” he said to Vera when she came back around.
“Ooo, does that mean what I think it means?” she teased.
He smiled. It wasn’t a broad grin, and his face certainly showed no cheerfulness, but she recognized it for what it was. He stood up and followed her through a small door that led to a set of rooms. In the back was a large room with plush furnishings. When Vera opened the door, she jumped back in surprise.
“Damn it, Grayson!” she shouted. “What are you doing here?”
The man in the chair had silver hair, but his face was smooth and wrinkle free. He was clean-shaven, and although he wore riding pants and the leather vest that marked him as a Rider, he also wore a silk shirt with flowing sleeves that tied at the wrists. He had no visible weapons, but he had a long, narrow dagger inside his vest and another in the leg of his right boot.
“What’s he doing here?” Grayson said.
“That’s none of your business,” Vera said. “You can’t just come into my rooms whenever you want to.”
“Who’s to stop me?” he said, his slate-colored eyes never leaving Lorik’s face.
Lorik didn’t speak. Seeing another man with Vera was hard, but he wasn’t naïve: he knew she got paid to spend time with men. That didn’t bother him over much; it was the possessive way Grayson spoke to her that really got under Lorik’s skin. He didn’t like the Riders, but he saw them as a necessary evil. They were outlaws, but they were familiar outlaws who occasionally helped the people of Hassell Point. Of course, that didn’t mean Lorik was happy about realizing they spent time with Vera.
“Grayson, leave,” she told him. “Now is not a good time.”
“And why is that? You like being with a filthy mud walker?”
Lorik’s anger ticked up a notch. He was not generally bothered by insults, but being called a mud walker, a derogatory term to describe people who lived or worked in the marshes, by a man who lived like a parasite off the hard work of those same people, was more than he could stomach.
“She said leave,” Lorik said. “I’d listen to her.”
Grayson stood up, his hand resting lightly on his stomach. In most people it would have been an innocent gesture, but Lorik knew the man was armed. He guessed correctly that the weapon was in the man’s vest.
“Vera,” Grayson said angrily. “Send him away.”
“Why don’t we both leave?” said Lorik, trying to calm the outlaw down.
“No,” said Vera angrily.
Lorik wasn’t sure if she wanted him to stay, or if she simply resented the loss of revenue if they both left.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Grayson said.
“Go have a drink, Grayson,” Vera urged. “You’ll still have time to visit me.”
Both men stared at each other, Grayson’s hand inching toward his vest.
“You better make that first strike count,” said Lorik, drawing the small axe that hung from his belt. “If you don’t, I’ll carve you up and feed you to the eels.”
“You really think you can threaten me?” Grayson said.
“It’s not a threat, just a statement of fact.”
“You’re a dead man, teamster.”
“Not by you,” Lorik smirked. “I don’t think you’re man enough without a gang behind you.”
“I’ll cut out your heart!” Grayson screamed.
Lorik didn’t answer. He simply pushed Vera against the wall of the narrow hallway with a gentle nudge. She didn’t resist.
“You’re nothing but a clumsy, old wagon driver. You sleep in the mud like a pig.”
“We talking or killing?” Lorik said in an icy tone that wasn’t wasted on Grayson.
The Rider was angry, but he was also afraid. He wasn’t used to direct conflict and preferred to stab his enemies in the back.
“I’m going to kill you,” Grayson said, trying to keep his voice from trembling and failing. “Vera, I’ll leave, but you better make sure this fool has a good time. It’ll be his last.”
Grayson stalked between them, his face blushing with shame. Lorik watched until the outlaw left the narrow hallway. Then he turned to Vera, who looked worried.
“I’m sorry if I’m getting you in trouble,” he said. “I could leave.”
“No, I don’t want you to leave,” she said. “Besides, he’s probably waiting in the tavern for you. Let him have a few drinks and cool down. He’ll forget he’s angry soon enough, although I don’t see why you have to goad them so.”
“I didn’t goad him,” Lorik said. “He’s a bully. I called his bluff. It’s no different from when we were kids. You remember that farmer’s boy who started picking on you in essentials school after your folks died?”
“His name was Rufus,” Vera said, leading Lorik into the room.
She pulled him into a padded chair and began massaging his shoulders.
“Yes, Rufus. I
had forgotten that. He was a bully, and there’s only one way to deal with people like that.”
“I remember he was several years older than you, and you broke his nose,” she said.
“He shouldn’t have been picking on you.”
“My point is you push back too hard. You should try using words instead of fighting. You’re a better person than that, Lorik.”
“I used words,” he said.
“No, you used threats.”
“I used what was necessary.”
“I could have talked him out of the room, and you wouldn’t have to worry about getting a knife in your back.”
He pulled her around the chair and onto his lap, his arms holding her close and feeling the slight tremble in her body through the thin fabric of her dress.
“I’m not the one who’s worried,” he told her gently.
She kissed him. It wasn’t passionate as much as familiar. She knew she didn’t have to pretend with Lorik; she had known him too long. They were good friends and he was a good customer. In a different time or different place, that might have seemed almost perverse, but in Hassell Point it was a comfort.
“Thank you,” she said in a sad voice. “There’s not many men who would fight for my honor, not anymore.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Lorik said, smiling up at her.
“I think maybe it’s time I leave the Point,” she said. “When I’m ready, will you take me?”
“Of course I will.”
“I’ll be leaving this life behind me,” she said, her voice a little nervous. “You understand?”
“I understand and I approve,” he said.
“You’re a mystery, Lorik.”
“Not really, I’m just a simple man.”
“There’s nothing simple about you.”
It was his turn to smile. “Still, I don’t have any secrets from you, Vera. You know that.”
“Yes, I know that,” she said, and kissed him again.
Chapter 3
Marsdyn led Stone out into the street. Hassell Point was not a major trade center. Everything was built around the harbor and most of the inhabitants were temporary visitors, sailors, pirates, or outlaws. The town had been created to ship rice from the Marshlands northwest to Quelton Bay on the border between Ortis and Falxis. From there the grain tax, which equaled half of the rice harvested, could be sent to Yorick Shire, where the Earl of Yorick, the official Lord of the Marshlands, lived. The rest could be taken and sold wherever the price was highest.
Traveling overland through the marshes was difficult for those who knew the way, and almost always impossible for those who didn’t. As long as the tax was paid to the Earl on time, the Marshlands were left to fend for themselves. This made Hassell Point especially attractive to those with occupations that put them on the wrong side of the King’s law. There were inns, taverns, gaming houses, bath houses, and bordellos all along the waterfront. There was one main street, paved with bricks made from marsh mud, that ran around the harbor on the landward side of the waterfront establishments. The town wrapped around the harbor so that it was shaped like a horseshoe. On the landward side of the main street were craftsmen: leather workers, tailors, blacksmiths, and bakers. There was of course a fishmonger, although eels made up most of his trade. There were warehouses to store goods that weren’t ready for market, mostly stolen goods, but occasionally there were legitimate wares. There was one church, but the priest had died, and now the small building was being used by Marsdyn and the other Riders.
The church was divided into two sections. What had once been the gathering place for worshipers was now a stable for the Riders’ horses. The other half of the building had been a dormitory for priests and missionaries, but now it served as the living quarters and gathering place of the Riders. Marsdyn waited while Stone untied his horse from the post in front of the tavern. The animal was covered in mud all the way to its withers.
“Looks like you came through the marshes,” Marsdyn said.
“Is it that obvious?” Stone said.
“Looks like you were in a hurry, too.”
“I might have been,” Stone said. “Would it make a difference if I was?”
“Not to me it wouldn’t. Of course, if you made it through, others might think they can do it, too.”
“I doubt it,” Stone said. “I find most of the Earl’s troops are easily put off by hardship.”
“The Earl’s men, eh?”
Stone didn’t reply. He felt he had given the local gang leader enough information. The Riders were really just a band of thieves who had learned to extort the locals rather than steal goods that they would have to resell. All the local craftsmen and farmers paid the Riders protection money, either in coin or in trade. The establishments along the waterfront had their own bouncers and guards, although they would sometimes hire the Riders if they were short on manpower.
The sailors and pirates who passed through Hassell Point understood the way things worked. There was no law other than the Riders. Marsdyn had enough men that he could enforce whatever rules he decided to impose. It was predictable system. The Riders frequented the local taverns, inns, and cafes. They knew who was in the harbor or in the town at all times. They made rounds through the waterfront establishments, too, but never stayed too long. They preferred to drink where they were known and respected.
“How long you planning on sticking around?” Marsdyn asked as they approached the old church.
“Not sure,” Stone said. “I’m not much of a planner.”
“I understand,” said Marsdyn, leading Stone into the makeshift stable. “There’s nothing like the freedom of living day to day. I respect that.”
Stone had been studying the outlaw leader as they walked along. Marsdyn was tall, with broad shoulders and a slightly protruding gut. He was an older man, well into his forties, in a part of the world where living past fifty was rare. The Marshlands were hostile to those who didn’t know and respect the land. Disease often killed people in their prime years. The water wasn’t clean to drink in most places, and mosquitoes bred in the stagnant waters.
Still, Marsdyn was obviously a deadly man, even though he was getting older. He had sharp eyes that seemed to take in everything around him. He had big, bony hands, and despite his age, he moved with the grace and veiled power of a big cat. He wore the vest and riding pants just like the other Riders in his gang, but he also wore a golden torc around his neck. His arms were bare, revealing thick muscle and crooked, swollen veins that ran up and down his arms. His sash was made of silk from Osla, and he kept his long hair tied back in a thick braid. His beard was trimmed so that it stood out from his chin and angled back toward his jaws, where it was cut shorter.
“Come on over and have a look around,” Marsdyn said, after Stone had his horse settled into one of the stalls.
The old church dormitory looked like a tavern. There was a short bar at one end of the room. Several men in their riding vests were asleep on some of the furniture. There was a long wooden table that occupied one side of the long room, and groups of padded chairs took up the other half. There were women sleeping beside the Riders. Most were obviously wenches, their scant clothing revealing more than it covered.
“Some of us keep long hours,” Marsdyn said, waving to the men in the room. “We’re the last free people in the Five Kingdoms. We don’t bow down to some lord or king. We do what we want, when we want. We live each day to the fullest. How about a drink?”
“Sure,” Stone said.
Marsdyn went over the bar and pulled out a ceramic jug, sealed with a plug of soft wax. He pulled out the wax and poured two fist-sized cups of saka.
“This is the good stuff,” he said, raising his cup.
Stone watched his host drink the strong rice liquor. Then he took a sniff of the astringent brew. The aroma burned his nose, but he tipped back the cup and swallowed as quickly as possible. The drink burned its way down to his stomach and then spread its heat through his
arms and legs.
“Nice, eh?” Marsdyn asked.
“Not bad,” Stone said.
“Stone... That's an interesting name. Where you’d get it?”
“The old man that raised me. He said I had a head like a rock. The name just stuck.”
Marsdyn nodded and carried the jug over to a group of furniture where there was only one woman sleeping. He used his boot to push her off the padded chair.
“What?” she said, not sure what was happening.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful and let everyone know I want them here?” Marsdyn said.
“Okay,” she agreed, tugging at her wrinkled tunic to see that she was covered adequately before getting up.
“Have a seat,” Marsdyn said to Stone, gesturing to an empty chair. “Care for a refill?”
“Not yet,” Stone said, as he studied his surroundings.
“I have to admit, you showed some skill in the tavern. You didn’t even break any furniture.”
“I was expecting trouble, so I was ready to handle it.”
“You handle yourself well.”
Stone merely nodded in acknowledgement.
“Tell me what you’re doing in the Point.”
“I told you, I needed a place to lay low for a while.”
“You have me intrigued,” said Marsdyn. “I love a good story of lawlessness.”
Stone was in no mood to spin a yarn for the gang leader. He’d come to Hassell Point out of necessity, but that had been his plan all along. He was an outsider, and he knew that if he wanted to stay, he needed to find a place to belong. He just wasn’t sure that he wanted his place to be with a group of outlaws. He’d done what he had to do in the past, both to survive and to exact justice. Those deeds had led him outside of the law, but he had hopes of finding a legitimate place where his skills, other than killing people, could shine.
He was saved from having to answer when a big man with cold, dead eyes approached Marsdyn. He ignored Stone completely.
“We have a problem,” he said in monotone voice.
“Tell me,” Marsdyn said.
“A group of pirates are looking for your friend. A large group of pirates.”
The Man With No Hands Page 24
