If the others' eyes opened any farther, Ewoud feared their eyeballs would drop onto the table. Anders chuckled, then said, "No. The Great Northern Emperor doesn't really exis—"
Klaas clapped his hand over Anders' mouth and hissed, "Do not allow anyone to hear you say that, especially not men of the north. He lives, and rules, and if it has been a few years since he visited his cities, we should be grateful."
Several of the men nodded their agreement. The brewer's journeyman reached into his collar and rubbed a silver charm. "Oh yes, Maarsdam and the city gods be thanked. Do you want to be under the Duke of Guill, the one who bled the merchants so dry that the city almost collapsed? Even farmers wouldn't trade there because of the taxes and fees-so-called, and the guilds abandoned the place for three years." Half those within hearing made the horns, warding off the very thought. "Ja, thought so."
That led to stories about bad city rulers and foolish taxes, topics far safer than the emperor and his visit as far as Ewoud was concerned. He gnawed a hunk of the dark, sour bread and tried to puzzle out if Anders had been joking or serious. If serious, it might be wise to avoid dealings with him once he came into mastery. If the emperor were anything like the gods, or even as powerful as a quarter of the tales of his might, such jokes suggested very questionable judgment on Anders' part. Folly in one area might bleed into others. Or perhaps it would be wiser to wait and watch, and see if Ewoud could take advantage of his associate's stupidity? He chewed and weighed the future.
Well, no matter what it was, first he had to survive the rest of the season, then the return journey to Rhonari. The Sea Lady might favor his father, but that was no grounds for Ewoud to be optimistic about the late season passage around the Scythe.
8
Homeward Bound
"Mbwaah?"
Ewoud glanced at the giant schaef on his left. Had it just asked a question? Surely not, talking animals only existed in stories told to small children. The man walking beside the animal on the edge of the road frowned, adjusted his hat and scarf, and slowed his steps, eyes on the beast. As he walked, he leaned closer and seemed to be staring at the ovsta's harness. Without missing a stride, he set his whip into a little holder on his belt, loosened the harness one hole, then re-secured the leather strap. The ovsta shook all over and bounced a little, as if happier.
"Didn't allow for winter fleece," Ruk said. The lead teamster sniffed a little. "Snow in the air."
The sky didn't look like a snow sky to Ewoud, but neither did ovsta look like beasts of burden, either. Why had no one ever told him about schaef that pulled wagons? Probably because he'd not have believed them. That brought a question to mind. "Sir, do laupen hunt in the snow?"
"Yes. It is said that they are left overs from before the Great Cold, when mages had more power." Ruk's head turned as he studied the edge of the forest. "No creature without fur should be able to hunt in winter, but they do. If you kill one then, you'll see that the feet grow skin between the toes, behind the claws. They can run on snow. How they stay warm only Valdher knows." Ruk lowered his scarf enough to spit. "If you hear a man say that She made the laupen from men who disobeyed her and hunted out of season, ignore them and stay away from them if you are near the forest. She uses Her own creatures for Her hands, not laupen, and is quick to remind us of that."
"Thank you, sir." Valdher, the forest goddess, sounded almost as forgiving as Donwah. Were all goddesses like that? No, Ewoud reminded himself as he tried not to trip on a large rut in the road, Gember gave generously and was slow to anger, quick to forgive. At least, She was until you foreswore yourself and then insulted the gods and their priests. Better not to attract their attention in the first place, that all wise men knew.
Or the attention of angry fathers for that matter. They'd passed by the gibbets on their way out of Kehlibar. The remaining parts of Hanka's body hung from the frame in two cages, blackened and barely recognizable. "Aye, the girls' fathers claimed his manhood, both of them did, so they split his jewels, then split him," one of the teamsters said, grinning at Ewoud in a knowing way. "'Tis one thing to win a girl for a night with goods, but to use magic? Fagh," he spat. Ewoud wondered if he should feel any pity or remorse for what had befallen the journeyman. No, he'd decided, Hanka knew the rules for men and mages, and had broken them knowing the cost. The scars on Ewoud's own back did not encourage charity or sympathy, either. If Hanka and his master had not learned from what happened on the White Wave, then why should Ewoud feel sorrow for Hanka's fate? If it had been one of Ewoud's sisters Hanka had dishonored— No, the man deserved what he'd gotten and how he'd gotten it. His and his master's greed could have cost every merchant in the vlee their trading rights in Kehlibar. Maarsdam might move slowly to justice, but He would demand it. And provide it on His own if He so chose.
Which turned Ewoud's thoughts back to the road. They'd be able to take a boat once they passed Tanperhead. That was, if the weather did not turn too cold, if they did not linger on the road, if the contracted boats had arrived, if the water remained high enough in the river... No wonder his father preferred sea and land to river travel. Or did he? Ewoud could not recall, although he did have a clear memory for his father's reaction when Antil Webeker had tried to persuade him to go back south of the Moahne River. His mother had shooed the apprentices out of the ground level of the wares-house, leaving Bastian, Ewoud, and the journeymen staring as Tycho's face turned crimson, then white, and he began shaking. Then he'd started using very interesting words to quietly explain to Webeker where he could take that proposal, what anatomically difficult thing he could do with it and a fish, and what dire fate awaited the next man, woman, or great-hauler to propose such a thing under Tycho's own roof. Tycho had added a few choice words that neither of his sons had heard before and that apparently came from the south, including one that had led to Gerta grabbing his brother, dragging him to the pump, and washing Bastian's mouth with leather-soap for using it a few days later. Ewoud hadn't known that his mother was that strong.
A finger of cold wind stung Ewoud's cheeks and he pulled his scarf higher. The sky seemed darker, and more yellow. "Butter-sky, snow-sky," one of the teamsters had said. Ewoud didn't want to think about what heavy, wet snow would do to the road. He'd encountered boot-sucking mud once already and that was more than enough, thank you.
By the time they reached a safe camping place, the wind's claws tore every bit of exposed skin. Snow swirled around, biting bits of ice that found any gap the wind missed. Only the ovsta seemed comfortable, or at least not so miserable. Ewoud envied their heavy wool coats, although he did not fancy trading places with them.
"No, this is a warning storm," Omer told Meester Vansluit. "Sneelah, the great white lady, sends one before She declares winter truly begun. Men have a moon at the most to finish their business before She takes command of the north. It is said that She and Torvall exchange mastery of the world, and that one day She will send her snows south again as happened in the Great Cold." He shrugged, broad shoulders moving his heavy fleece-on hide coat up and down. The coat had to weigh at least five gaalrud, Ewoud knew. No smaller man could carry that much weight. "I do not plan to inquire of Her plans."
"No," Vansluit agreed. "The gods do as they will, and we are better off not asking their reasons why."
According to Ewoud's father, the gods made their reasons perfectly clear, uncomfortably clear. Ewoud kept his thoughts to himself and concentrated on oh so gently nursing the tiny fire. It had gone out twice already, so he nudged a few dry needle-leaves into it. As it devoured the offering, he eased a twig or two in, mindful to keep his back between the flames and the wind. More twigs followed, and with some trepidation he added a stick. The fire staggered, then caught the wood, and he slid more sticks into the stone-marked fire ring.
Whump! Ewoud jumped back, shielding his eyes from flying embers and ash as someone dropped a log-sized chunk of wood onto the flames. "Hurry it up, boy."
"Damn it, now I have to start again," Ewoud
snarled. He found a bit of still glowing stick and touched more dry needles to it, then a few twigs.
A hand grabbed him by the collar and started dragging him away from his task. "What did you say, boy?" The ovsta-herder tried to shake Ewoud.
"I said dropping the wood scattered the fire and I'm having to start for a third time." Ewoud twisted free and returned to feeding bits of tinder to the small flames. He wanted to punch the fool, but fire meant life and heat.
A booted foot swung into his view and he ducked away, dodging the kick. "City-born bastard. Real men know how to make a fire on the first try, boy."
"Skinny, get that lit. Chun, leave it. Are the beasts night penned?" Omer sounded angry.
The herder subsided. "Yes, sir, they are." Ewoud glanced up in time to see the herder give him a look of pure poison. What had he done? Well, if he didn't get the fire started and large enough, he'd have freezing to death to worry about. Ewoud added more sticks from the pile, encouraging the flames toward the chunks of wood the herder had left. Ewoud didn't stop until he had a decent fire. Only after larger sticks caught and the fire acted stable did Ewoud ease another large chunk of wood into the flams' maw. Then he sat back on his heels, back still to the wind, and watched.
"That'll do." Ewoud eased out of the way as three men set wood down, upwind of the fire pit. One of them said, "No cones of any kind. The veshla must have eaten them all."
"Or Omer prayed to the Forest Lady to have the veshla and squirrels hide them so on one could add a popping cone to the fire." The teamsters spoke of the gods more easily than did the merchants. Again, Ewoud wondered why, and again, stayed quiet. Besides, the wind in the trees made more than sufficient sound, whistling and almost moaning. The ovsta grumbled among themselves, a basso beneath the sounds of men preparing camp. At least the ovsta blocked the wind from the sleeping area, although the smell... Which was worse, rotting oil fish in summer, or ovsta passing wind? Ewoud considered the question as he finished his chores, found his assigned sleeping place, and then got some food. In the grand run of things, it did not matter. The ovsta were as Yoorst had made them, smelly or not. And they didn't glare at him the way Meester Dogald and Chun had and did.
Dogald had made good on his threat to send papers of claim back with the others. He'd be overwintering at the vlee, and Ewoud felt sorry for the men and women trapped there with him. Meester Haakom had not acted overly concerned about Dogald's threats, and Ewoud had decided not to fret about them either. How could he, Ewoud, be guilty of causing Hanka to choose to break the laws? It had made as much sense as that crazy fishwife who threatened another woman for making her ignore her fish so that they spoiled before she could sell them. "If you didn't act like a lightskirt I'd not have had to scold you and my fish would have sold faster!" Ewoud left the fire and got some more food. No point in worrying about what waited in the future when the caravan had more than sufficient to keep them on edge now.
"Ow." Painfully bright sun shone against Ewoud's eyelids the next morning, and he waited for a few breaths, then opened them the tiniest bit. White fire stung and he closed them again. The light remained bright, the air bitter cold, and he heard men and beasts alike grumbling and muttering. Metal chimed and wood protested. Ewoud wondered for a few heart beats if he could burrow into one of the barrels of furs for the rest of the trip. Someone would probably notice, and as tight-packed as the pelts had been arranged, well, no. Alas. He really wished his father had sent him with sufficient funds to buy some furs for his own use and have a real winter coat made. "Wishing doesn't bring fishing," he reminded himself and rolled out of his blankets.
Using part of his scarf to cover his eyes helped with the glare, but not much. The less-experienced traders gave thanks when clouds muted the sun. Even the air glittered, and Ewoud half-expected to find the fire frozen as well, like the carved saka he'd caught a glimpse of before the apprentices packed it. The cold gave the ovsta new life and the men labored to keep up with the frisky beasts. He wasn't the only one near collapse from exhaustion when they reached the inn outside of Tanperhead.
"Ah, that's rather larger than when we passed this way in spring," Ewoud allowed the next morning.
Meester Vansluit chuckled. "Just a tiny bit larger, yes." The river covered where the docks had been, and no one with a pooz-worth of brains would be wading in with a fishing net. "And there are our boats."
"Um, they look... flat, sir."
"That's because they are log-rafts with boat-tops on them." Vansluit pointed a crooked finger at the closest hull. "That wood is worth almost as much as a barrel of furs per log. More, possibly, since they weren't able to float as much wood down in early summer and there's probably dearth in the cities and towns."
That reminded Ewoud... "Sir, have you heard how much beeswax is per gaalrud this season?"
The trader turned to face him. Vansluit had enormous eyes compared to his nose and mouth, making him resemble the dolls small children played with. "A half-vlaat per gaalrud. Not as much as four years ago, but still respectable."
"Very respectable, thank you, sir." A half-vlaat per gaalrud? And that was before the chandlers made it into candles. A little bit of Ewoud felt sorry for the people in the south who had to spend so much on light now. The rest of him calculated the profits based on the early-season prices his father had shown him and wondered if fish oil could ship in winter and if so how.
"We start loading now, so go join the others," Vansluit ordered.
"Yes, sir."
The trip downstream passed far faster than the trudge up to Kehlibar. Ewoud and the other merchants spent most of it sitting in the middle of the flat boats, staying out of the way of the sailors. Keeping the top-heavy craft in the middle of the river and even in rough water or wind required experience, as the flotilla-master informed everyone loudly and with great vigor. Laupen could not swim, and Ewoud almost didn't mind the cold wind that swept the boats north. "No wind so hot as a north wind nor one so cold as a southerly," the man guiding the boat stated. Ewoud tucked himself down in the middle of some bales and barrels, as out of the wind as possible, and napped. Sleep came easily. The sun kept him warm, so long as he was out of the wind.
They reached the coast in two days. Ewoud found himself in the crane once more, along with a boy who moaned and complained until one of the older men slapped him so hard the fool's jaw jammed to the side. "Shut it and work." One of the others helped ease the jaw back into place, and the boy wept silently for the rest of their shift. His face had swollen and Ewoud wondered if he could talk after the dislocation and relocation. The man who'd assisted with resetting the jaw spoke to the crane-supervisor, and the boy slunk away with his pay in his hand. That was fair—he'd labored hard and had earned a shift's wage, once he quit whining.
After all the goods had been stowed and the merchants had settled any accounts outstanding, Ewoud visited the small shrine of Donwah near the harbor. He made a donation, then wended his way along the busy port to the koog Great Fir. His father owned a tenth of the ship, and had arranged Ewoud's return on the ship.
"Greetings to the ship," Ewoud called up the ramp from the dock.
"Greetings to the land," a voice called back.
"Permission to come aboard, Lady willing?"
"Permission granted, Lady be praised." Ewoud trudged up the steep wooden way, turned around without dropping his bundles or his staff, climbed down a short ladder, and boarded the Great Fir.
A dour man studied him and his bundles. "You are your father's son."
Tycho had warned Ewoud about Captain Deelman Garoostra's sunny disposition and cheerful outlook on the world. "He makes me look optimistic and happy," Ewoud's father had said. "Nothing ever goes right, and if it does, something dreadful lurks just past the next wave."
Ewoud bowed, almost falling over when one bag shifted. "Thank you, sir."
"Go stow your—Donwah have mercy, Yoorst be praised what is that?" Ewoud looked over his shoulder to see a north man walking down the harbor.
Beside him paced the largest cat Ewoud had ever seen, her shoulder level with the man's thigh. The white beast wore a green collar but no lead or chain.
"I don't know, sir, but I don't want to see the mice she hunts." Ewoud couldn't imagine his mother's reaction to that large of a cat in the wares-house.
"Ney, no man would." The sailor stared for a moment longer, then turned his attention back to the ship.
Ewoud went below the main deck and stowed his things.
"Hold on!" Ewoud couldn't do much else as Great Fir rose, then plunged into a trough. The hull creaked counterpoint to the wind's howls. Side to side the koog rolled as well, flopping back and forth. None of the merchants had left their bunks for a day and a night, and just the idea of food made Ewoud's guts churn as much as the waves outside the hull foamed and tossed. He dug his fingers deeper into the wood and prayed to Maarsrodi and Donwah.
Spoing. Oh no, Ewoud whispered. No, please Sea Lady have mercy... Rumblerumblerumble Thud! Something rolled back and forth. One of the ropes had broken. No, please no. "Ewoud, come with me," Vansluit commanded. The master eased out of his bunk and crept on all fours as the ship swung and heaved. "Come!"
What could they do? Ewoud flopped out of his own bunk—another shelf. He was tired of sleeping on shelves—and crawled as well. The master found a mage-light and murmured to it, summoning a white-blue glow, then lowering it down the hatch's view-hole to the lower hold and peering down. "Only one barrel, thanks be. We need to secure it before it shakes something else loose."
The two of them opened the hatch and eased down the ladder. The barrel had stopped moving for the moment, and they put their shoulders to it, working it back to its fellows. The deck shifted under them, then dropped a little. Thanks be the barrels had been stacked on end or the whole mass would have begun shifting. "Right." The master hooked the mage light to one of the hull supports. "Brace your back against it and hold it while I get another rope."
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