by Greg Weisman
Then the tauren harbormaster greeted the boat and its first mate with a snorting laugh and a deep growl. “One-God, you blasphemous saltbeard! Thought I warned you never to show your face here again!”
“Ye were serious?” a smiling One-God called from above, as deckhands extended the gangway.
“At the time!”
“It’s my fault, Ridgewalker!” shouted Greydon, startling the somewhat mesmerized Aram again. “It’s not that he’s useful, but he’s so blasted entertaining!”
Ridgewalker snorted his laughter and waved a thick arm. “Come ashore then! I may kill him later, but he’ll give us a laugh or two first!”
“Stay close,” Greydon whispered to his son. Aram, belatedly remembering he was still in an unforgiving mood, bristled.
“You want to remain aboard?” his father asked.
Reluctantly, Aram shook his head.
“Then stay close.”
Aram hesitated—then nodded, following a few steps behind his father. Before descending, Greydon paused to confer with his three officers: “That storm could still make landfall, so I want to be gone by daybreak. Organize shore leave in shifts, but I want at least one officer aboard at all times.”
Makasa, already heavily armed, scowled. “Captain, one of us should be at your side at all times.”
Aram resisted the temptation to roll his eyes at Makasa’s intensity but was caught off guard when One-God agreed. “She’s right, Captain. They dinna call it Slayers’ Point in jest. I’ll stay aboard f’now, but ye keep Flintwill close.”
The ship’s third mate, Silent Joe Barker—a man of Gilneas, whom Aram knew to be afflicted with the curse of the worgen—crossed his arms as if the matter was decided and closed.
Greydon Thorne frowned—and looked as if he was resisting the temptation to roll his eyes, too. Gripping his cutlass, he was about to make it perfectly clear he required no minder. But eventually he nodded. It seemed this was a day for the Thorne men to compromise.
So Captain Thorne, flanked by Makasa and Aram, descended, followed by Meeks, Ferrar, Ribierra the boatswain, and Canton the quartermaster, carrying pallets of the gnoll jerky.
On the dock, Greydon touched his chest and then his forehead with his right hand, as a sign of respect to Harbormaster Ridgewalker. The tauren followed suit, then raised one bushy eyebrow, asking, “No One-God?”
Greydon shrugged. “Thought I’d leave him aboard for a little while. Might save his life for a few more hours, at least.”
Ridgewalker chuckled, or at least Aram assumed that the tauren’s double-snort was the equivalent of a chuckle. The harbormaster said, “Probably wise.” He looked up at the Wavestrider. “Still sailing this wreck of a ship, I see,” he said.
Resting his hand on the guard of his cutlass, Greydon smiled dangerously and said, “Don’t you talk about my lady that way, Ridgewalker. Besides, you know better. She may have a few blemishes, but she’s the finest ship on the water.”
“She inspires loyalty; I’ll say that much for the old girl.” Ridgewalker’s words were conciliatory, but he was no longer smiling and didn’t much care for Captain Thorne’s hand being on his weapon, whether in jest or not. Then he nodded toward the crewmen and their pallets. “What you selling today, Thorne?”
“Gnoll jerky.”
“Smoked gnoll? Hmm. I’ll have to try me some of that.”
Aram’s eyes bounced back and forth between Ridgewalker and his father, as the boy tried to determine if the tauren was joking. A smile crept onto Greydon’s lips. He said, “Maybe some other time. This is gnoll-made boar and codfish jerky.”
The tauren shrugged off his (perhaps feigned) disappointment with a sigh and stepped aside to allow the small contingent to pass.
“Was he kidding?” Aram whispered.
Greydon’s eyebrows waggled. “I sincerely hope so.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“But I’m not sure.”
As they walked along the dock, Aram glanced back to see Old Cobb lead the first leave shift off Wavestrider. Most, including Li and Brown, headed for what passed for an inn right on the wharf—really just a wooden lean-to with three canvas “walls.” But Cobb himself broke off, his white head disappearing into the crowd. Aram wondered where the old cook was going, then wondered when Duan Phen would get her leave—and whether he could find a way to ditch his father in order to “coincidentally” run across her ashore. This daydream was rapidly becoming more and more elaborate, until they approached the market, the sights, sounds, and smells of which commanded his immediate attention.
Flayers’ Point was an old skinning camp that had evolved into a busy but isolated trading post for the locals of Desolace and the rare trader who knew enough to come ashore—despite the fact that the destination wasn’t on any map. Aram’s twelve-year-old eyes opened wide with wonder at every sight they drank in. Here, some humans and a few dwarves from the one other ship milled about. Three green, pointy-eared goblins ran past his waistline, skittering through the crowd like children, but bickering among themselves (in what he assumed was the goblin tongue) like cantankerous old men. A single female elf, tall and fundamentally graceful, glided past them, taking Aram’s breath away and momentarily pushing all thoughts of Duan Phen from his head. Her light gray eyes signaled she was a high elf—a fact Aram only knew due to his father’s training, which was in turn a fact he was reluctant to admit to himself.
Mostly, however, the marketplace was filled with tauren, quilboar, and the occasional centaur. Excepting Ridgewalker, it was the first time Aram had seen any member of these races in person, let alone up close. Initially, all seemed brutish and dangerous—if not downright insane—but though his father never spoke a word to him, Aram could hear Greydon’s voice in his mind, reminding him to look closer.
The centaur were vaguely human-shaped from the waist up and all wild horse from the waist down, with bony protrusions and growths marring every visage. They took up the most space, and there were more than a few times Aram feared for the survival of his toes. But the four-legged creatures had a muscular grace and a keen awareness of their massive bodies. Aram watched a tremendous male with body paint of henna and thick dried mud navigate the thin aisle between one stall piled high with clay pots and another with tomatoes stacked in delicate pyramids. Not one pot was brushed. Not one tomato bruised.
There were tauren everywhere, but what struck Aram in the moment was how different they all were from one another. In his imagination, the bull-men had all been one and the same creature. But there was so much variation: horn size and shape, fur color and length, snout thickness and nostril width, even basic height and weight. No, this was not a race of identical Ridgewalkers. No two tauren were any more alike than Old Cobb was like Makasa. Aram knew this observation should have been obvious, but it was a revelation.
Some of the tauren were using horned kodo beasts as pack animals. And again, Aram was forced to admit to himself that he only recognized the beasts as kodos thanks to his father’s training, which also taught him that even the largest of these kodos were juveniles, as a full-grown adult war-mount would take up as much space as two or three centaur abreast.
Fierce creatures all, to Aram the fiercest seemed to be the quilboar. Certainly, the boar-men had the most intimidating visages, all snout and tusk. And by far they made the most noise. Grumbling and grunting constantly in low guttural tones as they marched past. Bellowing if they didn’t like the price of an axe. Belching and farting like it was their birthright. Occasionally, squealing like pigs for no apparent reason at all. But even these monsters required a second look. Most had decorated their tusks with war paint in intricate patterns. One had even used gold filigree. Others laughed deeply between belches, making their protruding bellies rumble and bounce above their belts or loincloths in a way that made anyone within earshot grin, Aram not excepted.
Friendly with everyone and always offering up a ready smile, Greydon nevertheless remained constantly on alert. (M
akasa did the same—minus the smile.) For as exotic and fascinating as it all was, one still had to stay on one’s guard. There was no love lost between the three species. They shouted and cursed at one another, and like clockwork erupted into brawls every five minutes. Once, Greydon seized hold of Aram’s arm and tugged him violently left—saving the boy from being flattened when the uppercut of a red-furred tauren lifted a coal-black quilboar off his feet and sent him crashing down on his back in the mud exactly where Aram had been standing.
Aram tried to say thank you, but no sound came out of his mouth. His father didn’t seem to mind or notice. (Though Aram was sure Makasa’s scowl indicated she minded on her captain’s behalf.) Aram began studying his father, began watching Greydon Thorne work the crowd, greeting everyone as individuals—and many by name—even though a solid majority barely spoke the Common tongue.
Greydon effortlessly understood every language spoken. He even responded with a few words and phrases in Taur-ahe. And he knew all the forms. As he had with Ridgewalker, Greydon gestured to his heart and head for each tauren. But to the centaur they encountered, he slapped a fist hard against his chest, and to the quilboar he snorted loudly. These were the traditional greetings of the various peoples of this region, which—once again—Aram knew from his father’s lessons on the deck of the Wavestrider. In fact, Aram was surprised by how much he knew, how much he had absorbed despite the fact that he had consistently been such an unwilling scholar.
As usual, his admiration for the clever and learned captain battled his disdain for the father who had abandoned his family—with no clear resolution to this inner conflict in sight.
Most of the stalls were manned by females, tauren or quilboar. Greydon raised a hand to stop his crewmen in front of a double-size covered booth where a female tauren—seemingly twice as wide as she was tall and with fur that ranged from an earthy red down by her shanks to something almost akin to the color of blood near her horns—haggled with an ancient gray centaur male.
“No,” she said in a low rumble. “Not enough.”
“Always enough before,” replied the affronted centaur. He had two asymmetrical bony growths emerging from his forehead and left cheek.
“Before over. Not enough now.”
Neither held out any goods or coin that Aram could see. In fact, as Aram glanced over the tauren’s wide stall, he saw no goods visible anywhere.
The centaur backed up a few steps—then advanced the same distance. He reared slightly on his hind legs and stamped down with his forehooves, saying, “Before same as now. Enough always enough.”
“Three more rawhide shields make enough enough.”
He seemed taken aback. Then he stroked his long gray beard.
As if in response, she stroked her short red beard and repeated, “Three more would make enough enough.”
He continued stroking his long gray beard in silence.
Finally, he slapped his left fist against his right pectoral.
She responded by touching her ample chest and ample forehead.
He turned and departed. Nothing else—not words, not shields, not gold, not a single copper—was exchanged.
Greydon stepped forward then and made his own double gesture of respect. “Lady Bloodhorn,” he said.
Can a tauren blush? Though such a thing was never covered in his lessons, Aram began to think it possible, as the huge creature became practically coquettish before the smile of Captain Greydon Thorne. She actually giggled as she waved off his compliment, saying, “Calling Bloodhorn a lady. Such a bale-shoveler you are, Captain.”
He laughed a snorting, taurenesque laugh. “Bale-shoveler? You know how to wound me, you do.”
She snorted back. Then, placing her hands on the stall, she leaned forward and whispered, “Whatcha bring me, Captain Shoveler?”
“Gnoll jerky,” he whispered back. “Nineteen packets boar. Twenty codfish.”
She licked her lips and stroked her short beard. “Whatcha lookin’ for?” she asked.
He leaned in again and whispered, “I don’t suppose you have what I’m really looking for.”
“Whadda ya think?” she replied.
Aram watched his father step back and—for some reason—check his compass. As usual, his expression quickly turned to disappointment. And as usual, that expression quickly vanished from his face.
“No,” he said.
“No,” she confirmed. “What’s yer second choice, man?”
“Nineteen gold coins, twenty silver …” He grinned. “And three rawhide shields.”
Her eyes opened very wide. Then she leaned her head back and laughed loudly. But her mirth didn’t last. She leaned forward again and whispered, “Whatsa saltbeard gonna do with rawhide shields?”
“What’s a lady to do with that much jerky? Eat it?”
“Sell it!” she roared, laughing again.
“Exactly,” he said with a smile. “Sell or trade. That’s the game, milady. Do we have a deal?”
“Deal,” she said, touching heart and head to seal the deal.
“Deal,” he confirmed with the same.
Aram stepped aside to allow the men forward with the pallets. But Greydon departed without another word, Makasa at his arm. The men followed, taking the pallets with them. Aram had to run to catch up.
A light rain began to fall. Greydon glanced upward and frowned, and Aram knew just enough of sailing to realize his father was worried the shower was a harbinger of the storm.
Their procession finally stopped beneath a high pavilion, where the races mingled and conversed around low wooden tables. Greydon took a packet each of boar and cod and opened them on a table. He turned to Aram and said, “Get comfortable. We’ll be here awhile.”
Humans, goblins, dwarves, centaur, tauren, and quilboar stopped by the table to sample the jerky. And, in fact, one gnoll’s smoked meat was a treasure of a kind to the centaur, tauren, and quilboar of Flayers’ Point. Some of them responded with near rapture at the taste. And do quilboar eat boar jerky? Some do, actually. But, as foretold, mostly they take the codfish.
No coin was exchanged, and—with the exception of one gray-blue quilboar, who tried to sneak another strip of cod and got a poke in the ribs from Makasa’s harpoon for his trouble—no individual took more than one piece each.
By this time, Aram had taken out his sketchbook and pencil and was sketching their customers as quickly as he could. It helped that the jerky was so blasted chewy. Those sampling tended to linger as they gnashed, making them wonderful subjects for his art. He had drawn three different centaur, one dwarf, two quilboar, and two tauren before Makasa even thought to growl, “You better not be putting me in that blasted book.”
“I promise I won’t sketch you unless you ask me to,” he replied mechanically. He was trying to draw the high elf from memory but was far from satisfied with the result.
Leaving the sketch unfinished, he turned the page and started sketching the muddy black quilboar who was currently chewing his way through a strip of cod. He tried to capture the way the creature’s dark fur lay across his chest, the woven ochre lines drawn onto his tusks, the burly musculature of his shoulders. By the time the quilboar had finished and moved off, Aram was quite pleased with the result. Drawing from memory was never as satisfying to Aramar Thorne as having his subject right in front of him.
When the quilboar left, Aram glanced up to find a new subject. He spotted Old Cobb a dozen yards off, talking in the rain with some man. They were too far away for Aram to hear what they were saying, and the man—who had his back to the pavilion—was wearing a hooded cloak that hid everything about him beyond his broad-shouldered build and six feet in height. Aram, vaguely curious, watched Cobb and the man shake hands—the man wore leather gloves—and he thought he saw something glint in the cook’s fist right after. The man then slipped away into the crowd and out of sight, as Jonas Cobb approached.
“How’s biznus, Cap’n?” said Cobb in a tone more cheerful than Aram had ev
er heard the old man use before.
“We don’t talk business here,” Greydon said. “But I’m not complaining.”
Second Mate Flintwill spoke sternly. “Would have thought to find you in a tavern by this time, Cobb. Your leave shift must be almost over.”
“Heading for a little nip now, girl.” He held up a silver coin. “Won this at cards, and it’s burnin’ a hole in m’pocket. See you all aboard ship.” Cobb actually did a little dance in place, winked at Aram, and left without another word.
The boatswain, Johnson Ribierra, grumbled, “I’m guessing he had a little nip or twelve while he was at the Hearthstone board. You ever see that codger skip a jig like that before?”
Canton, Meeks, and Ferrar all stated they hadn’t.
Aram wondered about that coin. It seemed to him that Cobb had gotten it from the hooded man, though perhaps the man had lost it to Cobb gambling and was only now paying his debt. Still, Aram was on the verge of mentioning what he’d seen to Makasa when Greydon sat down beside him, asking, “Do you understand?”
Aram turned toward his father. Greydon waved an arm to include their table, the pavilion, and by extension the whole trading post and their part in it.
Aram nodded hesitantly. “I think so. They sample our wares here and go to Bloodhorn to place their orders. Not sure where or when the money gets exchanged, though. And I don’t understand why the whole thing’s made to be so complicated.”
“Because Bloodhorn is no peddler or mere trader. She’s a … facilitator, a level above the rest.”
“Then why the double-size booth in the marketplace? What’s the point of a big empty stall?”
“You tell me.”
“Uh … bigger’s better? It signals her importance?”
Greydon nodded. “And why no goods to show?”
Aram thought about this one. “Because her stock in trade … is trade itself.”
“Exactly. Good.”
Aram smiled, pleased by the praise. Then he remembered who was offering it and his expression darkened. He lowered his head.
Greydon noticed and sighed. “There were reasons,” he said.
