The Dark Ferryman

by Jenna Rhodes

  “As you will.” His eyes smiled upon her.

  She thought she saw a calculation reflected at the back of them, but she could not be sure. He would not be Vaelinar, however, if there were not.

  For the rest of their meal, she chose topics of light interest, drawing him out about his new repertoire of songs and the northern weather. They agreed that it was a dry winter, exceedingly so, and because of that, they might be wise to deal with Abayan Diort before the end of spring when it would normally be best to march an army. It seemed that it did not matter how trivial a conversation might be, it would inevitably turn to what loomed in front of them. She ate sparingly and neatly, wanting to be away from Bistane and his eyes that kept an admiring and interested gaze upon her whenever she looked up. She did not understand the sudden current of interest that thrilled through her, nor did she wish him to sense it. Perhaps she needed a tonic. She’d have to find the herbalist and have a quick word with her.

  Lara put aside her plates. She touched the back of Bistane’s hand lightly. “I’ve a chore or two before I will be taking the field in practice. Perhaps I will see you about later.”

  “That, milady queen, would be my greatest pleasure.” Bistane stood and drew her to her feet. She escaped without a look back but felt his gaze upon her.

  "Vaelinar,” declared Nutmeg. She spelled it quietly. "Vaelinar. I think it means a people who are scared of their own shadow.” The cavern echoed faintly with her voice, and the slap of water, but she heard nothing else, not even a breath. She crossed her arms defiantly over her bosom, knowing that Jeredon had to be there, that the staff had seen him go out with his cart and his chair, and that he’d gone out without her. Sunlight skittered fitfully over the mouth of the cave as clouds blew by quickly in a winter wind that seemed to be growing stronger with every gust. She should not have come after him. She knew that. He would laugh at her again, but she couldn’t not have come after him either. Raised with three older brothers, she wasn’t about to let one get an upper hand, even if that male had a Warrior Queen for a sister.

  “Perhaps it means shadow. Would you then be afraid?” His voice shivered mockingly through the hollows.

  She narrowed eyes with vision not yet accustomed to the flickering dark of the cavern. “I have fought Bolgers, raiders and Ravers. I’ve stood toe to toe with three brothers. I’ve Tolby Farbranch for a father and Lily Farbranch for a mother. Why would a shadow scare me?”

  A sigh followed her words, or perhaps it was just the waters of the pool lapping along the rim of stone. She tapped her foot impatiently.

  Jeredon emerged an arm’s length away to fold them on the stone’s edge and look up at her, his expression aggrieved. “Woman, you disrespect me.”

  “Perhaps. Even worse, you disrespect yourself.”

  He stammered a word in reply, and then shut his mouth firmly. It was a fine Vaelinar mouth, she thought, well shaped and full, not like a thin-lipped Kernan who always looked as though the harvest had been poor and lean. She sat down so that he would not have to crane his neck to look up at her. The heat of the earth below her that warmed the waters also took away the cold of the morning. A faint fog rose from the pool, wispy and insubstantial, yet hiding the true nature of the cavern.

  Finally, Jeredon said, “I do, do I?”

  “You do. You’re the heir to a Warrior Queen, not because of your blood but because she chose you for that position.”

  He slicked his hair back from his face. “You seem to overlook that heritage.”

  “Me? A Farbranch? Where, as the Dwellers love t’ say, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree?” She reached out and pinched his nose. “Lariel is no one’s fool. If she needed Osten or that Bistane or anyone else for an heir at her back, she’d put them there. She’s not stuck with you, near as I can tell. I admit I’m no Vaelinar, thank the Gods, to know how you all do things, but my ears have been filled with talk since I got here.”

  Jeredon moved out of reach. “My sister is loyal to a fault.”

  “You being the fault?” She rocked back. “I suppose she wears her armor because she’s loyal to it?”

  “No, because it may well save her life.”

  “Oh, and her judgment in that case is sound enough, is it?”

  “There’s a difference between me and her mail.”

  “Aye, and that difference is, you’re thicker. She ought to be wearing you about instead!”

  Jeredon gave a long blink, then his face twisted to one side, and then he began to laugh despite his efforts to hold it back. Finally, he covered his face with his hands and muttered, “I should know better. Isn’t there a proverb or something about arguing with a Dweller?”

  “You’d be meaning the one about the farmer and the great stone in his pasture. He tried a brace of ponies to pull it out, but it wouldn’t budge. So he went to the village and borrowed a team of those great long-horned steers the traders use on their caravans, and they pulled and pulled, but the stone wouldn’t budge. So the farmer thought about it a bit and decided the stone needed convincing. He was a young lad, the farmer, and the land was new to the plow and to his family, being part of a bride price. That huge bit of rock ruined all his plans for plowing and planting and harvesting. So, he went out to have a talk with it about moving to one side or maybe becoming part of the new house’s great room wall or such, but the stone wouldn’t answer him. He sat and argued with it for the better part of the day, then went home when it was dark, determined not to give up. Sure enough, come the dawn, he was back in the pasture arguing with that stubborn bit of granite.”

  Jeredon made a smothered sound that she couldn’t quite decipher. Nutmeg raised her eyebrow but continued on. “Well, that newly married farmer was even more obstinate. He went out every day to argue with the rock. Soon the weather began to turn a bit and it became clear to all those who knew farmin’ that the time to get the crops in was nearly past. They urged him to simply plow around the rock and get on with it. Even his wife’s father looked a bit gruffly at him, but he would not give up. And then, one morning after three long, hard weeks of arguing, he rose and trudged down to his pasture. ‘See here,’ he says to the rock. ‘You may be made of stone, but I am made of Dweller stock and I’ll be here arguing with you until the sun turns blue.’ At that, the stone gave out a great, rending groan and split in two, and then again and again and again, till there was nothing left of it but a heap of gravel. So, the farmer kept his word by taking the gravel and putting it into the foundation and wall of his home’s great room once the spring planting was finished.” Nutmeg took a deep breath. “You’ll be meaning that story?”

  Jeredon made a strangled sound before managing, “Yes, that’s the one. If not that one, another just like it.”

  “You’re sure? Because it might have been the tale about why the Bolgers grew tusks—”

  “No. No, no, I’m sure that’s it.”

  “You thick-headed dunce. There is no tale about why the Bolgers grew tusks, they were born like that from the beginning!” Nutmeg leaned over, hand outstretched to give Jeredon a thorough dunking, but he ducked away quickly and she overbalanced to find herself falling into the water with a loud splash. She bobbed up quickly like an apple in a barrel, spluttering a bit for breath.

  “Now that’s what comes around for trying to manhandle a poor, defenseless cripple.”

  Her dress floated about her like a colorful cloud as she began to tread water. Her hands nimble, she unfastened it and pulled it off, tossing it onto the bank she had so recently occupied. It took a bit more doing to pull her boots off and toss them over as well, and by the time she had, her hair had come out of the twist she’d so carefully put it into that morning and cascaded down onto her shoulders.

  “I will,” Jeredon offered, “get you a new pair of boots. Those are likely to be ruined.”

  “A new pair would be welcome. Those were getting to be a bit thin at the sole, due no doubt to traipsing around after you and your sort on your adventures
.”

  “My sort? What happened to all the praise you were beginning to heap on me?”

  “Changed my mind. You’re a lout, and a great one at that.”

  Jeredon pulled back. “Now I’m thickheaded?”

  “And you’re not? So tell me this, Jeredon Eladar. You rolled down here in your chair all nice and independent, tipped it over, and slipped into the water—but of the two of us bobbing around all cozy in here now, which one of us is going to be getting back out without help?”

  “Well, I. That is. Hmmmm.”

  “Is that an answer?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Do that.” And Nutmeg rolled over in the water, her ivory chemise molding to her body as she did so, kicked her legs free, and headed for the shallow part of the pool where she could climb easiest onto the bank. “I do hope you find an answer before you wither completely up.”

  “Or turn into gravel.” He grabbed her by the ankle.

  He hadn’t lost any of his strength, really, she thought as he pulled her to his side, or the handsome looks of his face except for the white pinched marks around his mouth when the pain bothered him overmuch. And now, with his hair slicked back, she could see the fine points of his ears, and the carved delicacy of his cheekbones in a face that was nonetheless very masculine.

  “Now you’re looking at me like that,” Jeredon said quietly.

  She stared at him, at eyes that carried no color in the cavern but of the darkness of the water, pooled deep and dark and true. “I cannot help it,” she answered.

  “But you have to. There is no place for you at my side.”

  “Only if you wish it that way.”

  “Nutmeg . . .” and Jeredon suddenly buried his hand in her hair and drew her to him, and then covered her mouth with his, in a long soft kiss that brought her to a moan as she answered it. She wrapped her arms about his neck and curved her body to his, feeling his strength and his need. He broke away long enough to protest, “I cannot feel this way.”

  “But you do, and it proves you are healing, and you are still a man.” And she kissed him then, as hot and desperately as he had kissed her, and he stopped arguing with her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  BREGAN FOUND HIS father still at his estates though it was well after the breakfasting hour. He was neither surprised nor delighted to do so, but had accepted the likelihood. In the same trend, he did not seem to overly interested in haste about turning over his empire to Bregan. It had not failed to occur to Bregan that he might have to succeed in the way that not failed to occur to Bregan that he might have to succeed in the way that Willard did from his sire, Ruman Oxfort, in a hostile takeover.

  He was five days late in arriving for their appointment and knew that their meeting would be even more difficult than usual. He swung down from his horse, feeling the leg brace take the weight of his leg easily as he did so, pondering whether takeovers were a family tradition or simply a way of proving that one was, indeed, old enough and strong enough to be the successor. It didn’t seem the sort of thing he could discuss with his father. Not if he wished to have any legs at all left to stand upon.

  A stable lad ran out to take care of his horse as soon as he stood free. Her freckled face beamed as she stroked the creature’s neck and led him off. She wore trousers like the other lads, and he was not sure how his father had managed to be so equitable in his hiring. Perhaps he hadn’t even noticed the new lad was a female. He stripped his gloves off, slapping them against his trousers before tucking them away. He did not relish this meeting.

  Willard heard his steps upon the tiled flooring as soon as he entered, and recognized the cadence from the normal stride and the braced one, movement that he couldn’t disguise even if he tried. His voice boomed through the wing of the estate. “Bregan! Is that you?”

  “And no one else, Father.”

  “High time! High time indeed. It’s been five days since I sent you to Temple Row. Come here and explain.”

  He followed the thunderous voice into his father’s study. Books and scrolls were thrown everywhere, the window shutters stood wide open to the gray fog of the day, and a smell of toback lingered in the air. His father sat, feet up, vest unbuttoned and his dark eyes sparkling sharp, like those of a rapacious bird looking for scraps. His boots lay next to the ottoman, and his stockings looked as though he’d been walking around in them all morning, a damp leaf pressed to the bottom of his right foot.

  Bregan looked about for a place to sit, found a chair under a small mountain of scrolls, and then decided to sit on the edge of his father’s desk, the cleanest spot available. “Temple Row,” he began, but Willard Oxfort launched into a speech of his own.

  “A revelatory mess that is. Gods listening, readying to talk to us! Bah. Too late now to head that off at the pass, so we’ll simply have to deal with it. Make arrangements to meet with the leading clergy in the towns and villages, bribe them off. I’ll have a small surtax placed on the goods to offset the costs, but it’s going to hit us in our purses. Better now than later, though. This kind of thing can be quite difficult to deal with, especially with the Galdarkans and Vaelinars rattling their sabers. The people will be looking for fear and miracles, don’t you think? Well-placed bribes all around should take the wind out of their sails, although there will be a dirt preacher or two who won’t listen. The Kobrir will have to deal with them.” Willard took a deep breath and Bregan took the plunge.

  “Not necessary, I’ve dealt with it.”

  “You’ll have to—what? What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been busy these past few days.”

  “Too busy to come speak with me, that I know. Busy at what?”

  Bregan tapped his hand to his ear. “It’s a godsend, a bloody gold mine, Father. I’ve got contracts with potters along our routes, the wheels spinning and the ovens fired up. We’re going to be the leading suppliers of relics. Listening niches, small idols, offering bowls and basins, you name it, whatever might please the Gods in whatever small way, we’re going to sell it to them. Don’t head this off, embrace it!”

  “Embrace it? What in tree’s blood are you talking about?”

  “This trend comes up every few decades. The people hunger to be heard, to be spoken to, as they were centuries ago. Having had it once, they want it back again.”

  Willard chopped at the air with his hand. “The Gods cut us off. You can’t gamble good capital on their capricious whims.”

  “I’m not gambling on them, Father, I’m gambling on the people. We’ve made money off their whims since time began.”

  Willard narrowed his gaze. “And when the Gods fail to speak?”

  “Put the blame where the blame lies, then. The Gods alone are responsible for their conduct. We will have done everything possible to court their attention. We will have been sanctimonious and flattering and eager and respectful.” Bregan spread his hands. “What more can they ask of us? We will have given it our all, and you must never forget, Father, that the Gods act in their own time. What passes as a year or even a decade to us might only be a breath in their world. We shall also sell patience.”

  Willard sat back in his chair, dropping his feet from his settee to the floor, and his sharp gaze mellowed a bit as he thought. Bregan leaned forward from his perch. Willard’s fingers moved, and he knew his father was counting subconsciously.

  Their eyes met again. Willard said quietly, “There could be money in this.”

  “Fountains of it. And, for a time at least, unnoticed by the Vaelinars and anyone else of note. I can funnel it away as I please.”

  “To what end?”

  “I’ll be hiring more caravan guards. Vastly more.”

  “And . . .”

  “We’ll have our own army, Father. An army that will stand when the Vaelinars and Galdarkans have cut each other to bloody ribbons. An army that will stand forth to protect our trade routes and Ways as well as our people as needed.”

  Willard grunted. “You may have t
o. We can’t trust Quendius.”

  “I was meant to be a dead man.”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps he had indeed arranged a treaty of sorts with them, and you were sent in good faith by him. Either way, you would have suited his purpose. You alive, with trade goods to seal the bargain, or you dead, to whet their appetite for conquering these lands.”

  Bregan looked at his father. The man had an exterior that showed nothing, ever, unless he willed it, and the look on his father’s face now held no more awareness of anything other than the simple act of having finished putting his boots on. “If it is the Raymy . . .”

  “All the more reason for the Gods to lean close once again. It will be seen as one of the signs of their returning to us, if we play it right.”

  “If not . . .”

  “There will be panic in the streets, and the coast will be stripped. I suggest we secure warehouses inland, well fortified and stocked. Food as well as religious relics will become our mainstay. Do it quietly, though, no sense tipping our hand.”

  “Buying grain stores will alert attention.”

  “I trust you can handle it.” Willard surged to his feet. “Can’t you?”

  Bregan slid off the desk. “Of course.”

  “Good, then. I’ve meetings to attend, and I’ll keep my ear out for stir-rings, as well. You’ve enough coin for these investments?”

  “I do.”

  “All right, then. Spend your seed money, and I’ll reimburse you off the books.”

  “So, if anyone notices, they will think your trader son has taken the bit in his teeth and gone bolting his own way.”

  “Unsanctioned trading and investing, yes. If they think I back you, they will either give us competition we do not want, or they will trip the panic before we’re ready. Either way will cost us money.”