by James Axler
Chapter Twelve
A white mist crept off the Lantic Ocean, toward the shore. Already its first questing tendrils had reached a line of large boulders a hundred paces off the beach. The seven friends stood together on a low bluff surrounded by tall pine trees, looking down on Claggartville.
"Handsome little ville," J.B. observed.
Ryan nodded. "Looks clean." He counted the line of masts alongside the quay. "Eight sailers. Must be fishers and transports. They're burning coal in those houses. Must ship it in."
Claggartville looked as though it consisted of around seven to eight hundred houses, making it one of the largest villes that Ryan had ever encountered. Smoke poured from well over half of the chimneys, drifting their way.
The buildings were almost entirely white-framed, with red roofs. The streets looked narrow near the harbor, but wider farther up the hill. He could see the spires of two churches and a large windmill, its sails motionless in the calm of the evening.
"Several of the houses got a kind of platform on the top," Krysty said, using her amazing eyesight to scan the ville. "Rails around them, as well. Wonder what?.."
"Widows' walks, my dear," Doc replied. "The women climbed up them to spy out across the sea for some sight of a returning sail. These whalers often were away for five years at a time. It was a bleak, harsh life."
"Any those ships whaling?" Jak asked.
"I fear that I can't tell, dear boy. The old peepers see less than once they did. Perhaps Krysty can?.."
"What am I looking for, Doc?"
"Some evidence of small ovens on board where they would render the oil. Several long, narrow boats shipped aboard. Tough, seagoing vessels ready for any weather."
Krysty shook her head. "Can't see from up here, Doc. The fog's closing in on the ville. We should get down there if we want to find a bed and food."
"Best step easy. Those men with the venison might live here. Or it might be home to some relatives of the good folk of Consequence."
Ryan shook his head at the Indian's words. "Doubt that, Donfil. Hardly ever seen such a trim ville as this one. But it could be the sort of place with a heavy presence of sec men. Best we step slow and easy and avoid trouble."
* * *
"Put up blaster or I'll stick where sun never shines!"
"Cool it down, Jak," Ryan warned, fearing the confrontation was already fallen from their hands.
"You blaspheme, mutie outlander," the sec guard snarled.
"Don't know word, stinking bastard!" the boy replied, hand trembling over the holster that held his .357.
"Jak!" Ryan shouted. "Just button up the mouth and let me do the talking." He faced the angry sec man. "Boy's wild. Sorry for the way he speaks. He was orphaned when his family was taken by stickies. We rescued him."
It was a situation familiar to Ryan and to J.B. Throughout Deathlands there were all kinds of different communities. Large villes, ruled over by successful barons and an unknown number of smaller settlements, sometimes only a handful of scattered hovels. The difference between these and the villes was most often seen in their attitude to security and strangers.
The Trader and the war wags had frequently run foul of over officious sec men, many of whom were swift and evil bastards, born and reared in an atmosphere of bullying and corruption.
But the trio of sec men on the main highway into Claggartville was a little different from the usual breed.
The mist had reached the houses along the quay, twisting and turning in the alleys and courts of the town. As they drew closer it had become obvious to the seven companions that Claggartville was one of the oldest villes they'd come across. Or it had been cleverly rebuilt to give the impression that it was extremely old. The houses had gables and small leaded windows, and the streets were narrow and cribbed.
"Sec patrol," Krysty had warned, seeing the three men standing by a kind of tollgate lowered across the road. All three wore black jackets and pants, with knee-length boots of black leather, and had trimmed mustaches and long side-whiskers that practically met under their chins. Two of three wore old-fashioned stovepipe hats like the one Doc had favored for so long.
That was the general impression. But from habit Ryan's eye went to the weapons the three men were carrying.
He blinked.
At his side J.B. whispered, "Can't be real, Ryan. They're remakes. Good ones. But they gotta be remakes."
The most modern was an 1848 Colt Dragoon .44-caliber revolver. That was carried by the tallest of the three sec men. He also had an 1819 Hall .54-caliber flintlock breechloader slung across his shoulders on a worn leather strap with a polished brass buckle.
One of the other men held a battered Kentucky flintlock musket in his hand, the stock resting on the ground. He also had a brace of smoothbore flintlock pistols at his belt, looking the same bore as the Hall musket.
The third man had a single pistol in his belt. It was the Harper's Ferry martial flintlock, the rare 1806 model, Ryan noticed, with the number 22 stamped on the barrel.
Apart from the Kentucky musket, all the guns looked in amazingly good condition. There were a few, a very few, original antique firearms in Deathlands. But these blasters were so good that they had to be, as J.B. had suggested, skillful remakes or rebuilds.
All three men looked to be in their mid to late thirties, and they were calm and self-possessed. Yet they showed none of the usual sec men's arrogance.
"The words of the young are as the falling of broken shards of pot," the leader of the patrol said to Ryan.
"And of less worth than the dry dirt that spills from the wheels of the dung cart," his colleague with the musket added.
"Yeah," Ryan said. "What can we do to help you folks?"
"Whither go ye and from whence? And what is your business here in Claggartville?"
The speech was old-fashioned and stiltedly formal, reminding Ryan of old books he'd read and old historical vids.
"We got us wrecked about ten miles back. Had a run-in with some muties near a ville called Consequence and..."
"Ye have been with the punished ones of Consequence and have come here?"
Ryan looked at the tallest of the trio. "Yeah. Had to chill us some and burn down a house. You know about them?"
"By the broaching of the flukes! They are sodden in evil and no man nor woman nor child goes there. It is forbidden. Ye have slain some of the blasphemous creatures, thou sayest?"
"Aye, that we did," Doc said, pushing to the front of their group. "The unbelievers perished at the hands of the righteous, for so it is truly writ, is it not?"
"Verily it is, brother." For the first time there was a visible relaxing of the tension. "Where were ye bound?"
"Out past Nantucket, but the wind rose and cast us upon the shore. We seek shelter and food from any person of charity."
"Charity, brother! Nay, thou seekest not charity here in Claggartville. But if thou and thy companions will work for thy keep?" His eyes roamed across them, settling on Jak. "Yon resembles the spawn of Satan. His hair and eyes..."
Ryan spoke, seeing that Doc was floundering. "Boy's fine, friend. Mother was scared by a blizzard when carrying him and the color white marks him. But he is honest and hardworking."
"I am," Jak agreed, lowering his eyes in what he hoped looked to be a suitably humble way.
"Have any of ye hunted the great fishes?" the third sec man asked.
Ryan glanced around. "We killed a mutie whale-shark only yesterday."
"Then you will find work in Claggartville. This place lives off the great fishes of the ocean for food, light and heat." The sec man's face assumed a pious expression. "Truly we are they who go down to the sea and occupy our business in great waters. We see the works of the Lord and all of his wonders in the deep."
"Amen to that," Doc said, attracting another approving glance from the tallest of the trio.
"All outlanders are allowed three days' free lodging and food, of the simplest. Then they must find work or they must
leave the ville."
"Seems fair," Krysty said.
The oldest of the three stared at her. "A wanton woman is as a mighty splinter in the eye of an honest man," he intoned.
"Amen," Doc muttered, flinching at the venom in Krysty's glance.
The leader spoke again. "Ye must go to the place set aside for wayfarers. It is called the Rising Flukes Inn and is run by Jedediah Rodriguez. Follow this road until ye reach Welles Street. Down until ye see Try-pot Alley. The sign hangs where none but a blind man could miss it. Ye must sign the register there with your names and the day of your arrival. Sundown three days hence is your mark."
"Thank you kindly," Ryan said. "This is a most generous and welcoming ville."
The three road guards exchanged a knowing look with one another, but said nothing.
* * *
The Rising Flukes. The sign creaked as it swung to and fro in the dark, misty air. It depicted a delicate painting of a great gray whale, leaping into the sky in a shower of silver spray, dwarfing a tiny rowboat in the sea beneath it.
Owner Jedediah Hernando Rodriguez. Under License to Purvey Ales, Spirits and Tobacco under Claggartville Ordinances.
On the way down into the heart of the ville the seven friends had seen very few of the local people. Doors had slammed shut and shutters closed. Draperies had twitched, and they'd seen faces shadowed behind the small windows. Most of the homes showed the golden glow of oil lamps burning in their front rooms.
"What's smell?" Jak asked, wrinkling his nose. "Like lots dead fish."
Doc answered him. "This is a whaling town, lad. Seems likely that after the great bombing of the holocaust this is one of the places largely spared. It's in a deep hollow with hills all around it, only open toward the boundless ocean. No gas or electricity. No factories for work. So they turn to what they must have done here back in the mid-1800s — hunting the whale."
"You eat whales, Doc?" Lori asked.
"Me personally, or... Yes, you can. You boil them down for their oil. An awful lot of uses for the whale. In my time they were hunted damnably near to extinction. Only the wars saved them. Probably more out there now than ever before. And quite right, too."
The oak door of the inn had a top window made from the dark green bottoms of wine bottles. As soon as Ryan pushed the door open they all heard a great rush of talk and laughter. The smell of beer, cigars and sweat hung in the air, and for a moment they hesitated out in the darkness of Try-pot Alley.
"Wast thou born in a barn, stranger?" came a bellowing voice. "Come thou in or stay thou out and be damned to thee. But close the perditional door lest we all freeze to death."
Ryan led the way inside the saloon, peering through the fug of smoke that filled the place. He saw it had a low, beamed ceiling, stained and dirty. There was a bar at the far end, and a dozen or more tables scattered around the single room. In the farther corner, under a lattice window, was a jangling, out-of-tune piano, being hammered by a stout black man. A skinny woman in a head scarf was leaning on his shoulder, singing an old sea song.
"...of Liverpool that saddens me, it's my sweetheart that I must leave..." She broke off as she saw the seven strangers filing in. "Ware outlanders!" she yelled. "Jed! Outlanders for yer trade!"
The noise faded and every head turned their way. Ryan was conscious of dark sweaters and work pants; knee boots and beards; eyes turning toward them; stillness; pint mugs frozen, halfway to mouths; playing cards checked an inch from the scarred surface of the round tables.
"Hi. Told to ask for Jedediah Rodriguez. Sec men told us."
The sailor nearest hitched a thumb behind him, pointing to the bar. Ryan looked across the silent saloon.
"Rodriguez?"
"Me, outlanders. Come and sign the sweat-swilling register to keep them quaking sons of sec men happy. Don't rock the boat is my saying, friends. Come and have a drink on the Rising Flukes."
Jedediah Hernando Rodriguez leaned his hand on the top of the bar and grinned across at them, waving them over. The talk began to spring up again, in whispers, gradually swelling louder. The cards resumed and there was the chink of glasses on tables. The woman began singing, more quietly.
Ryan and the six companions lined up at the bar, the locals moving out of their way.
A large blue book had appeared, with a copper inkwell and a quill pen. "Jed Rodriguez welcomes you and asks you to name your poison. Put your monikers down here first."
"Monikers?" Donfil asked.
"Thy names, my tall Indian friend. It's a harpooneer thou art, or I miss my guess. Art thou kin to the Flathead tribes?"
"No. Mescalero Apache."
"And a tall one at that. They'll scarcely fit thee in a whaleboat, brother."
The innkeeper was a strange-looking man. His skin was sallow and unhealthy, stretched tight across the bones of his skull. Though he looked around thirty years of age, there was no trace of any beard on his chin. His eyes were dark brown, like limpid pools, under lashes as long as any gaudy whore's. His hair was cut neatly and curled, with some sort of scented grease on it. He was wearing a shirt of purple satin, open to the waist, showing a golden necklace and a medallion. His hands were long and slender, nearly every finger sporting a jeweled ring. Ryan noticed that he wore an ornate inlaid derringer in his belt and a long stiletto with a silver hilt.
The date on the register was the first day of October. The ink was still fresh, at the top of a clean page. Ryan was curious and turned to the previous page. It carried only one name and the ville of Portland. The date was April 17.
Rodriguez smirked. "We don't get many outlanders here, friend."
"But you have a triple patrol on the highway every day?"
"Sec men are for the risk of muties. Don't rock the boat is what I always say. Let's have your names and then I'll serve ye all a quart of the best ale and a pie of good whale meat and some taties to go with it."
They entered their names, Ryan taking the lead. In the column marked Ville, Ryan wrote Richmond, Virginia. The others followed, all giving the same ville's name. Rodriguez looked at their names curiously.
"What's your trade, friends? Women are cooks, I'll warrant. Cabin boy with red eyes, and the old'll be... Be what?"
"I'm a teacher, Mr. Rodriguez," Doc replied.
"Could find work here. But Mr. Dix and Mr. Cawdor. What might ye be? Mercies? Hired blasters? That's the cut of your jib as I spies it."
Ryan leaned across the bar and touched the man very gently on the cheek with the tip of his index finger. "What we do, friend, falls into the field of our business. Do you understand me? Good. Then serve us your food and beer, and show us where we're to sleep. That and no more."
The barkeep didn't speak for a moment. Then he brushed away Ryan's hand. "I've seen outlanders come to Claggartville, and I've seen them go. Go in many a different way, Mr. Cawdor. Keep thine own council, but step careful when thou goest from light into shadow. If thou takest my meaning. Now I'll fetch ye the food you're entitled to."
* * *
J.B. inhaled the cigar smoke, admiring the way the tip glowed brightly. "Been many a long day since I've enjoyed a smoke. The food was good and the beer better. We've been in many a worse place, Ryan, haven't we?"
"Yeah," Ryan said, stifling a belch. "Shouldn't have had a third helping of that pie. But I could manage another quart of beer. Anyone else?"
Everyone else had eaten and drunk enough. At Ryan's wave, the landlord bustled over to them, bringing another of the foaming mugs of the local brew. He placed it carefully in front of Ryan.
"Like to see your rooms now?" he asked.
"Sure."
"And on the morrow ye can set off to find yourself some work."
Ryan nodded. "See what's to do around the ville."
One of the men at a table near the window heard the conversation and called out something, but none of them could catch it.
"What was that?" Ryan asked.
Rodriguez smiled lopsidedly. "Japhet said Captain
Quadde was seeking extra crew for the next whaling voyage. Replace those lost last time. Might be something there for you, Mr. Cawdor."
There was a burst of ribald laughter from all around the taproom of the Rising Flukes at his suggestion. Ryan wondered why, wondered who this Captain Quadde might be. But he dismissed the name from his mind, as he knew he was never likely to make the acquaintance of the gentleman. They wouldn't be in Claggartvilie long enough for that.
"And so to bed betimes," the landlord said.
Chapter Thirteen
The room was tucked under the eaves of the old house, with angled beams and tiny dormer windows. At its peak the ceiling sloped just high enough for both Jak and J.B. to stand upright, but none of the others could avoid bumping their heads. Donfil had to stoop so low that his knuckles almost trailed on the wide floorboards.
There were ten beds in the room. Single trundle beds, narrow and hard. The room had the cold, damp feel of not having been occupied for a long time. Which, from the evidence of the register down in the bar, it probably hadn't.
Ryan opened one of the windows, pushing hard, for it was stiff, the hinges rusted. It finally squeaked back and he was able to look out over Claggartvilie, toward the harbor a block or two away.
The fog had settled down over the lower streets, courts and alleys, finding a level around the middle of the second-floor windows. For Ryan, a whole floor higher, it was an odd sight. The white mist writhing and undulating below him, like a living blanket, with the roofs of houses poking up like the prows of old, wrecked vessels, their chimneys smoking. There were lights to be seen, sometimes through the fog, like a host of drowned carriages. And voices, muffled, and the ringing of heels on cobblestones.
Just visible in the moonlight was the forest of masts, spars and delicate rigging of the ships moored alongside the quays.
"Anything to see, lover?" Krysty asked, leaning on his shoulder,
"Sailers. Always wondered what it must be like to go out in a small wooden water wag, right out of sight of land for days and weeks." He laughed. "Not that I ever want to find out."
