by Arthur Stone
“I’ve seen them come through a dozen times, at least. Not that frequently, but every now and then. After all, I noticed this school from far away, and cast my lure right in front of it. If I see more, I’ll repeat the trick. If we’re lucky, we can catch five or so.”
“Five!?” Beko squeaked, and I was afraid he’d have a heart attack.
“I don’t think we’ll have enough time for more than that. The afternoon is growing late, and they don’t swim through that often. You can help me, you know. I’ll show you what their splashes look like, and you can keep an eye out for them.”
“Even if you just catch one more, just one single garpike more, I will be truly happy. We. We will be truly happy.”
Chapter 30
Stubs the Stern
No Stat Changes
I didn’t manage to catch five of the rare fish. Only three—plus one that got away just before I got him to the raft, which dramatically plunged Beko from his ninth cloud down into utter depression. The sun was threatening to set, but the ghoul demanded we keep fishing. “One more cast,” he said. Again and again. I feared we would be spending the night out on the raft.
I was steeling myself to deny him when, suddenly, a shout rang out from the shore. “You two! On the raft! Come here, and bring that raft with you!”
I turned to see a strange man waiting on the beach. I was sure I had never seen him before. Either he was very good at hiding, or he was not a permanent resident of the trading post.
His form was stocky, nearly rectangular, and was protected by dark chain mail running nearly down to his knees. Judging by his musculature, I imagined him capable of forging metal with his bare hands. No hammer required. A massive egg-shaped helmet covered his head, exposing nothing but his face to the world. It was rough—as though a novice carpenter had carved it out of discarded wood, and with a rusting ax. His beard reached nearly all the way to his wide belt, which was chaotically covered with crooked ovals of bronze.
There he stood, clad like a knight-errant. Except for his legs. They were ridiculously thick and short. As if nature had wanted to create a giant-dwarf hybrid and had given up on how to merge them together. But this flaw did not give him the appearance of an invalid. It was funny, yes. And I doubted very much that it interfered with his agility. Even from out in the river, I could tell he would not be an easy man to defeat in a fight.
He stood more firmly than some statues I had seen.
“We have to go back right now,” Beko said unquestioningly.
“Who is that?” I began to pull up the rope attached to the huge triangular stone and toothed metal bar that together served as our anchor.
“Stubs,” Beko replied as he rushed to help.
“Never heard of him. Who is he? Important man at the trading post?”
“He’s not from the trading post at all.”
“So why do we have to obey him?”
“Otherwise he’ll take our ears. Then later, he’ll tell us we don’t need them, since we obviously never listened with them anyway.”
“So he’s a strict man.”
“What, does he look kind to you?”
“Not at all,” I admitted.
“He’s the best tracker in the Wild Wood. Gurro Stubs, they call him. After his stubby limbs. You just call him Master Gurro, okay? Otherwise he’ll... uh...”
“I get it, I get it. Otherwise he’ll take my tongue out and tell me I didn’t need that, either.”
“Exactly. Once, a dire ratwolf jumped him. Gurro just saddled the beast and rode him off. The people who saw this thought that Gurro would never return, of course —ratwolves don’t take kindly to riders. The rest of the pack was following close behind, too. So they assumed Stubs was dead. They even put together a service of some kind. People here love to do that. But then, the following morning, Gurro returned. Right here, to the First Stone. He went right to the tavern, tossed the ratwolf onto the floor, its jaw torn clean off, and asked for a glass of the strongest drink the keeper had. They gave him some of that stuff the convoys bring in. The stuff they give a teaspoonful of to cows to break up gallstones. Two spoons of that and the cows’ hooves fall off. Gurro downed the whole glass and told the innkeeper to cook up the ratwolf’s liver and other innards. As they cut up the carcass in the kitchen, they noticed that the beast had no heart. They informed Gurro that this organ would be missing from his meal. He said he knew that already. Because he had eaten the heart the day before. Eaten it raw, as he watched the life fade from the ratwolf’s eyes and the frightened pack scatter to the four corners of the earth.”
“Whoa. Tough guy indeed.”
“He does not belong to the trading post. He is his own man. But when he comes here, he has the rights to anything and everything that a local does. We need him. He’s the only man around who can walk the left shore for a week and come back undamaged—and with loot, too. The Emperor of Pain has wanted slips posted up everywhere, offering good money for Gurro’s head.”
I was so taken by this conversation that I was surprised to see the raft was nearly at its destination. A couple of good pushes off the bottom with our poles, and we were there.
We pulled the anchor ashore and approached Stubs, greeting him in unison. “Hello, Master Gurro.”
He kept his voice grim. “Hello to you, too. Which one of you is Ged, and which is the ghoul?”
“He’s Ged,” Beko replied, pointing at me—but surprised that the great tracker was unable to, or declined to, tell a ghoul by sight.
“Ah, so you think I’m dumb enough to not notice the difference between a ghoul and a weakling?” Gurro barked. “Are you patronizing me, kid? Is your tongue just as malformed as the rest of you?”
“N-n-no.”
Gurro stared at him for a moment, then clapped his shoulder. “Oh come on, I’m kidding. Don’t look so sour. I’m not here for you—you can go wherever you want. I need you,” Gurro pointed at Ged. “We have important things to discuss.”
“Alright,” I nodded. “Beko, while Master Gurro and I are talking, you get the Carps and Romris. We need to bring the catch in before dark.”
The ghoul took off, at the speed of a motorcyclist. He clearly did not enjoy the company of the tracker.
Stubs pointed at our raft. “Did you make that yourselves?”
“No, Romris made it.”
“Since when did Romris do another man a favor?”
“He didn’t. I paid him, in squares.”
“So you’re rich.”
“Not yet, but we’re on our way.”
The man chuckled. “When did you get this raft?”
“Just yesterday. Today was our first try fishing from it.”
“I see you caught a lot.”
“It’s been a good day, yes.”
“Now, that raft with the dead men—you found it?”
I shook my head. “Not quite found. Noticed.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I saw it when it was floating down the river.”
“Pushed towards the shore?”
I shook my head again. “No, someone set it sailing in the middle of the river. The currents here run in such a way that the raft was pulled to the right. It would have passed the Stone right there,” I pointed.
“So you know how the river’s currents work.”
“It’s not that difficult.”
“Please do share. Tell me how the raft was launched and what happened after you found—that is, noticed it. Plus any other suspicions or observations you might have.”
“I don’t know how it was launched. I suspect that whoever did that had a boat. Maybe the kind of lightweight boat that is often manufactured of treebark out past Redriver. I also think they released the boat about a mile away from here. Beyond that, I’ve seen a couple of places where eddies snag driftwood, driving it into the left bank or down the left river fork. Down where the river takes a serious bend. Whoever launched this raft knew these things. They figured that, if they released the raft furthe
r downriver, it would float down the middle of the river, unhindered by eddies. But they actually don’t know the river very well. This sandbar continues underwater here, covered by shallow water. It sits in the current like a knife left in a kill. In fact, it cuts in so hard that it sends everything sprawling. If you examine the very end of the beach here, you can see there is no garbage, no tree branches, no stray roots or plants floating about. All of it is directed out from there, in random directions.”
“What makes you think this sandbar continues underwater?”
“I’ve been fishing there, and the water is crystal clear. You can see far down. And when the waters run low, as I’ve been told, part of that underwater stretch becomes exposed to the air. I have fishing talents, too. They help me understand what’s happening in the river.”
“Talents? You don’t look like a fisherman. You do look like an imperial, though.”
“Can imperials not be fishermen?”
“I suppose. They’re all sharks. It’s rare to see a man with eyes as bright as yours who’s not a shark.”
“I was born in the north. I’ve always said that. I’ve lived here all my life.”
“Uh-huh. So you’ve been trained in fishing.”
“A little.”
“But you’re not stupid. Fishermen are, in general, simple people. Not the smartest. When life is so easy, our brains get used to not thinking. But you must always keep thinking, or your mind will wither. Yours has not withered yet. Still, the look of you... you’re too well groomed. If we were near the border, the guards would take you for an imperial spy and hang you. You don’t look like a local.”
“I just know how to take care of myself, and I’m naturally intelligent. And handsome,” I answered modestly.
Gurro chuckled. “I think you mean impudent. That pale-face told you a dozen nasty things about me, I’m sure. Yet you have the balls to joke.”
“He didn’t say anything nasty. All good things.”
“Such as?”
“He said you were quite kind to the ratwolves. Killed one with your bare hands, just so he wouldn’t feel too much pain. Tore off his jaw and pulled out his heart. His pack retreated at the sight of your merciful action, tails respectfully drooped between their legs.”
Stubs shook his head. “You speak well enough. I suppose you can keep your tongue. Did he tell you my nickname?”
“Would you have, in his place?”
Gurro frowned. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have kept it to myself. Alright, so you think that the people who did this don’t know the river very well.”
“Right. But they did want to keep their distance. They did not want to be seen by the guards.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“It would have been an unnecessary complication. Otherwise, they could have simply hooked their boat to the raft, dragged it here, right up to the shore, and sailed safely back. Of course, perhaps they only had a tiny raft or something similar, and not a boat at all. Or, they could have taken the raft out themselves and then swam back to shore. I doubt that, however. Too many kotes in these waters during this time of year, and the bigger ones can bite right through to the bone.”
“That’s true. Any swim in the river is a scary prospect.”
“Anyway, anyone could have done this, especially one of our own, and then blame the Emperor of Pain.”
Gurro gave me a strange look, then turned and roared as he left. “Keep a lid on it, kid. And grow an eye in the back of your head, or at least look over your shoulder regularly. Otherwise, you’ll take an arrow to the back before long.”
As he left, I pondered. The man clearly knew more about this place than just his tracking arts. There were things that happened here, in the trading post and nearby it, that could pose dangers to me. I had to find out what. But how, when I inhabited the body of a child? Only Beko would share any information with me. I thought that it would probably not be too hard to bring people like the Carps into my circle. But what use would they be? Adults would not communicate with me as equals.
The age of majority here was about sixteen. That was the age of full inheritance, the age of marriage, and so on, everywhere across the North. I still had a long way to go, not that I was in a hurry.
Three years is a lot of time for someone who can, in a few days, accomplish as much as a normal native can do in a month. I was growing fast. I would emerge from these years a predator the likes of which the world had never seen. If I was allowed to do it.
If those years were quiet enough. So Gurro’s hints about something amiss in the trading post and the surrounding territory were alarming. He had not been the first to drop such hints.
Chapter 31
Ash Warms Up
No Stat Changes
The innkeeper stared at the fish thoughtfully. “A garpike.”
“Right,” I agreed. “We didn’t clean them, since we don’t know how that’s done. They carry valuable caviar inside—perhaps there’s some trick to cleaning them so as not to ruin it. We’re willing to do it, but we need somebody to show us how. Who knows how?”
“Them?” asked Jadiro.
“What?”
“You said you ‘didn’t clean them.’ That means you have more than one,” the innkeeper explained calmly and patiently.
“Right. We caught three. Should I get the other two? Beko’s got them, out on the porch.”
Jadiro turned and barked, “Tarko! The boys have brought us some fish, out on the porch. Help bring them in, quick! And you—” he turned to me—”you wait here. I’ll take care of this, and you can watch.”
Jadiro cut and cleaned the fish right in the main dining hall, as several lovers of beer who were somehow already back from the mine watched with interest. I didn’t see anything too complicated about the process. As long as you held the knife by the blade, firmly and close to its tip. The fish’s belly was malleable, and positioning your fingers allowed you to cut to an exact depth. Its dissected flesh split apart and revealed its insides, undamaged by the cut. Then, its large gallbladder and two sacs of caviar were easy to separate out. Both were valuable, but the innkeeper’s treatment of them showed that, yes, the caviar was much more so. He seized them greedily, yet cautiously. After depositing the goods into bowls, he asked, “Can I have the fish carcasses?”
“Are they valuable?”
“They’re just regular fish, but they are tastier than kote. Almost like beef, but without the fat.”
“Okay, take them. But give us a solid portion of the fish to try for dinner tonight.”
“I’ll do that. We need to wait to deal with the caviar. I’m sending Tarko to get the treasurer—I don’t handle this sort of thing on my own.”
That was the moment when I realized that we had something genuinely special. No matter how many kotes we dragged in, there was no such fuss made about them.
I had only seen the treasurer, never spoken to him. He had no reason to speak to an urchin like me—well, not until that day. In five minutes, Mr. Kucho arrived at the inn, and full of interest. He had even brought his very own scale, with which to weigh the goods.
Ignoring the gallbladders, he weighed the caviar sacs one at a time, weighed them together, and then declared, “Five guild pounds, six ounces, and eight grams. A total of two thousand, one hundred, and eighty-eight grams. Intact sacs, and so valued at full price. That is, one Blackriver treasury instrument per five grams. In total, 437 instruments.” Kucho turned to the innkeeper. “Salt the sacs in rags—you know the procedure. And you—” he turned to me. “You may collect the treasury instruments from me for the caviar. Everything else, you may collect from Jadiro.”
As I watched the treasurer, I ran calculations in my head. Sadly the going price was less than one square per caviar egg, but it was still a good sum. Nearly 450 squares from these three fish. Plus the carcasses and the gallbladder would fetch something. A small portion of this payday would repay my debts. The rest would not only afford Beko and me some clo
thes, but much more besides.
We could move to a new standard of living, above our current place in a dusty basement. I saw the miners’ eyes bulging. We had just earned more than they could on a hard day. Hell, we had earned more than they could dream of on a hard day. They were the local elites. For hours, miners disappeared into the darkness to mine ore, risking cave-ins and encounters with monsters who were unable to digest ore, but very able to digest miners. Others roamed the forests, placing traps throughout in order to catch beasts filled with spices. Being outdoors was better than being underground, all else being equal—but this was the Wild Wood. All else was not equal. It was rare to see any of these workers die a natural death.
