When we arrived there, Paplov again showed his letter, this time to the Stout attendant, who happened to be the innkeeper. He was a round-faced and pleasant looking man, seemingly content to be in the thick of midlife. He stood behind a high desk.
“Lord Mayor Otis’ aide dropped by this morning to reserve our best room,” he said. “It has a balcony overlooking the market square. There will be dancing and entertainment later tonight. We have a performing troupe in from Dennington – theatre and songs.”
“Very nice,” said Paplov, pretending to be thrilled.
The innkeeper’s hands soon were busy gathering paperwork and a quill as he chatted on. Motioning to an inkwell on the desk, he handed Paplov the quill and then the paper. “Please make your mark at the bottom so I can validate your attendance with the mayor, Councillor Lenokin.”
“Thank you kindly,” Paplov replied. He carefully studied what he was signing, and only then returned the paper with his mark.
“Streets are a little quiet this evening,” said Paplov.
“Yessum. Been quiet for days. As soon as it starts getting dark, most everyone packs up – ever since the incident on the Outland Trail. Not tonight though!”
Paplov raised an eyebrow. “Incident?”
“Haven’t you heard?” said the innkeeper. “The whole town’s talking about it. One of many lately – a bad batch of low-life bandits from the Outlands, I say. And that’s not all. Merchants and other travelers raided just outside of town, and traders raided inside town walls just the day before last, right out there under my nose, at dusk.” He pointed to a window overlooking the square. “Unbelievable.” He shook his head.
The innkeeper leaned forward on the desk, rested his chin on his hands, and stared out of the window. He looked as though he were about to speak, but no words came out.
“And the incident?” said Paplov.
The innkeeper look confused for a moment, then straightened up and slapped his forehead.
“Oh yes, pardon me,” he said. “I got sidetracked. There hasn’t been a lot of outsider traffic since a few days ago. Three, no four, or two. Two days. Mostly just locals about town. It’s making for a slow start to the season.”
“I see,” said Paplov as he took the keys handed to him.
“One for each of you,” said the innkeeper.
For a moment, the two just stared at one another.
“And…” prompted Paplov.
“And…” echoed the innkeeper, eyes wide and inviting, palms open to suggestion.
“The incident,” said Paplov.
“Oh yes, the incident, pardon me. It was a most foul murder and theft – and good upstanding Proudfooters they were, falling victim that is – up your way near the split, so I hear. The whole town’s talking. Outlanders, I say.”
Paplov tilted his head at me. His eyebrows raised in all seriousness: “We best keep our heads up and our ears pricked.” He turned back to the innkeeper. “Thanks for the tip,” he said, and flipped the man a coin.
Despite the lizard incident, we had kept good time and so could afford a short rest in our chamber before changing into more formal evening attire. Our itinerary began with dinner at the lord mayor’s house at dusk, over which Paplov would no doubt engage in the usual polite conversation. Meanwhile, I could focus on enjoying a much-needed meal after such a long day of travel, politely nodding when prompted, and sipping last year’s sweet summer wine from the local vineyards.
*
The evening began well, and my culinary visions seemed not far off the mark. We crossed the canal to Proudfoot Manor – the mayor’s house, which was warm and aromatic on the inside from an afternoon of cooking. Immediately, we were greeted by the gracious mayoress and a gracious staff that led us to a hot meal as grand as anything I could have hoped for. Dimly lit lanterns and scented candles on ornate chandeliers set the ambience. I had already helped myself to a fair portion at the mayor’s table before being called upon to take part in the evening’s dialog. I did not even notice the tension building in the air.
Now, Lord Mayor Otis Dagger was known to be a cantankerous and irritable sort, but Paplov was quite masterful in the art of diplomacy. As a councillor, Paplov was adept at building up a trusting relationship in short order, able to break the ice quickly and establish common ground. The way I heard him talk with people, I sometimes made the mistake of thinking he was catching up with an old friend when, in reality, he had just met the person.
As I heaped a second helping of greens onto my plate to “fill in the corners,” the mistress of the household leaned forward from across the table, smiled at me and near whispered: “You carry the same look in your eyes as your mother did.” The woman had the gentlest voice.
“You knew my mother?” I was caught off-guard by the mention of her. Most people avoided the topic altogether.
“Briefly,” she said, “though I would have liked to have known her better.” The mayoress looked at me with an intense gaze as she continued. “Your mother had a warm heart and bright eyes filled with wonder and excitement.” One of her daughters smiled shyly at me from across the table. She had a simple, friendly look to her.
“Yes, she did,” I said. “Thank you.” I recalled the warmth most of all.
The mayoress straightened back into her seat and shot her burly husband a loving smile before sipping more red wine. That was when I noticed the mayor’s stern demeanor, and that his wife’s smile had been wasted on him; to reciprocate might have broken his face.
“Harrow wants the Malevuin Bridge dismantled for larger vessels to pass,” the lord mayor told Paplov. “Stoutville too.” He shook his head. His tone was harsh. “They already have us floating across on the Dim side.”
“Oh?”
The Upper Malevuin Bridge was a landmark in the region that stood as a testimony to the town’s pride and sense of accomplishment. Intricate and overdone in every detail, the bridge received enterprising parties from Fort Abandon and the Bearded Hills, plus business-minded travelers from as far west as Dennington, and in days past, the Star Sands. The Stoutville bridge, on the other hand, was simply practical, especially for farmers and ranchers with land on both sides of the river.
“Naturally, the whole town is up in arms,” Otis went on. “And who will they blame? It could cost me the next election.”
“Most certainly.”
Mayor Otis scowled at Paplov’s response.
My body tensed as I looked to the mayor. His anger was palpable. And as his irritation grew, my outward disdain for Harrow grew along with it. How Paplov could remain so calm was beyond me, especially considering his suspicions. Although he had been careful to keep any such mention of Harrow to a minimum over the years since my parents’ disappearance, the topic managed to creep up every so often. For the most part, we had moved on with our lives, or at least we convinced ourselves that we did.
“Do you know what it costs to run a ferry?!” Mayor Otis raged. “And who wants to wait?! Let Dim Lake pay, I say!” Fists clenched, the toe of his shoe tapped loudly against the floorboards. “And the ferry that we do have is treacherous in the winter… treacherous.” He shook his head, and as he did so, his shoulders dropped. He rubbed his forehead.
“What can I do?” he continued, deflated.
Paplov sighed. “Harrow takes what Harrow wants.”
Otis nodded, but the common saying only added fuel to his fury. He grimaced when he spoke. “I was trying to say ‘there is just no negotiating with Harrow’… before you interrupted!” The mayor’s face became beet red and the tie around his neck looked so tight it seemed his head might pop off. It wasn’t an interruption though. Otis had clearly paused long enough for Paplov to inject a comment.
“I apologize, lord mayor,” said Paplov.
What? Paplov’s not going to buckle under, is he? My head started to throb.
The mayor waved a finger at him. “And you’re next, you know,” he added. “Harrow has spies all over your bog looking for so
me damned ancient battleground. They’ll do anything to find it. And what do you think will happen once they do?”
What? I had heard similar talk before, but this time it really hit me. A new anger arose within, and the implications of the mayor’s heavy words bred like wildfire in my mind. Negative thoughts ignited and multiplied. Consequences pressed against my inner skull, and nearly split through it. The lanterns and candles all flickered.
“Is there a draft in here?” wondered the mayoress. She rubbed her shoulders to ward off the phantom chill.
Mayor Otis’ words still hung in the air. As worked up as ever I’ve seen him, he lifted his right hand a few inches from the table and let out a controlled, yet powerful slam to the hardwood top. I didn’t think his face could turn redder, but I was wrong. He became so angry he started to shake.
Paplov remained calm despite the seriousness of the matter, and looked about curiously at the lamps and the candles. His eyes fell back to the mayor and he looked the man in the eye. “How do you know this?” he said.
“A friend in Harrow, about our size,” he explained. “He works in the entertainment and culinary industries – organizing events, catering and such. He hears things.”
I could not hold my composure any longer. I thought of the vision: the torn up gardens, the fountains toppling…
“We can’t just sit here and take it!” I said. “Why doesn’t someone stand up to Harrow?” The words just spewed out – there was no way to contain them. But really I didn’t want to contain them, and unfortunately for Paplov I didn’t try to hide the disgust I felt in my expression either. He was about to roll over to Mayor Otis the way he rolled over to Harrow years ago.
“Nud! Mind your place,” he said. In the midst of his interjection, the room went dark.
The women all gasped, followed by a long hush.
In good time, Mayor Otis rose from his chair. “A moment,” he said. In near darkness, he fumbled for a match, lit a lantern, and adjusted its dial for intensity.
“Ah, good,” said Paplov. In the new light, he shot me a stern look then turned to the mayor, who was in the midst of igniting the next lantern. “Please excuse my grandson; he is a bit off today. Clearly he is out of line.”
“No, you are,” I said. “Why doesn’t anyone else see it? Harrow—” Paplov cut me off.
“That’s enough out of you!” he said. “Mind your tongue or… or I’ll… you’ll… regret it.”
I felt my jaw tighten. We glared at one another. I opened my mouth to speak, about to say something I would probably regret.
That is when the mistress of the household reached up and gently squeezed her husband’s arm. Her head tilted slightly towards the mayor and when he turned and locked eyes with her, an unspoken kindness transpired between them. I swallowed the words on my tongue. Mayor Otis lowered his head and let out a loud sigh. He sat down beside her. The redness in his face began to dissipate.
“The boy is passionate, I’ll give him that!” he exclaimed, “and with enough hot air to blow out all the lights. He’ll make a fine politician some day.” Everyone laughed. Everyone, that is, except for me.
Turning to Paplov, he went on: “But such words are easier said than done – something experience has taught us both.”
Paplov nodded his head, “Indeed.”
“I suppose they are one in the same with Harrow – want and take,” the mayor said. “We were told to ‘take it down your way or we’ll take it down for you.’ That was the negotiation.”
Biting his upper lip, Paplov shook his head. “Harrow takes what Harrow wants,” he repeated, “always has, always will. There is little anyone can do about it. Proudfooters will know that it isn’t your fault.”
Great, another excuse to do nothing.
The mayor nodded as he met Paplov’s gaze. “Indeed,” he said. Otis sighed and seemed to relax a little. He shook his head quickly – almost a shiver – several times.
Then Otis smashed the table again. His voice boomed. “Give up the swampland, Paplov, or we’ll…”
“Give it up for you?” said Paplov. They both laughed. The comment made more sense when served with wine.
Mayor Otis raised his glass to Paplov, “Our negotiations will take a more civilized route, no doubt,” he said.
“Certainly,” said Paplov, raising his own glass to the mayor’s.
And with that, all the tension between the two fizzled. But it would take more than a toast to drown my emotions on the matter. I reached across the table and helped myself to a pint of ale. Paplov chose to ignore my indulgences and I returned the favor by containing any further outbursts.
“I take it you have full authority in the matter before us?” said Otis.
“Of course,” said Paplov. “I have been fully briefed and empowered by our own lord mayor and council, and I have all the necessary paperwork to prove it.”
“Very good.” Otis motioned to one of his daughters. Paplov looked to me. I fumbled through his carrying bag, eventually producing the relevant documents. The mayor’s daughter came over and I handed them to her.
Now I hadn’t expected official business to be conducted over dinner, but with those words, the dealing began. Paplov and Otis filled and refilled their cups as they spoke of economy and risk, of present and future value, of obligations, balance, taxes, who had devoted what forces to the security of the Triland area, the upkeep of the trail, and the dibbing up of the many concomitant roles and responsibilities that went along with the simple leasing of a parcel of land.
I kept an ear to the conversation, but also made small talk with the misses and her three chatty daughters. The youngest acted very strangely. Giggling, saying weird things and making weird faces. The middle one wasn’t much different. Both were pretty, but I tried to avoid topics that led to input from those two, which mostly resulted in some kind of teasing. Instead, I focused on sensible conversation with the eldest and the misses.
Eventually, the spirit of a deal was hammered out and the two diplomats stood up, wobbled, and shook hands. Otis steadied himself with his other hand on the back of Paplov’s chair.
After a half-pint of ale and a generous serving of desert, I retreated to the mayor’s study with Paplov and Otis where they worked out the finer details of the deal. I was responsible for recording and witnessing the agreed upon arrangements. The mayor’s assistant performed the same duty. She happened to be his eldest daughter, several years my senior, and was the one who had sat across from me at dinner. All I had to do was listen, write, retrieve forms from Paplov’s carrying bag, and quickly draft up any understandings settled upon, organizing their wine-soaked notions into coherent and well meaning sentences.
As negotiations drew to a close and we took to packing away our things, Otis’ daughter – the assistant – made her way over to me, smiling pleasantly.
“Will you be joining us later tonight in the market square for the dancing and entertainment?”
That was unexpected. Apparently, not everyone was afraid to be out at night.
I wondered how I might avoid stepping on her delicate toes.
Oda was friendly, and she was not bearded.
CHAPTER XI
Good company
The journey home was cold, wet, and tiresome. I had been up all night feasting and dancing with Oda and her sisters. Paplov, too stubborn to call for a wagon, would never have made it all the way to the Handlers’ Post without falling over. I carried everything.
Otis had warmed up to Paplov considerably after dinner, behaving like his new best friend before the night was through. They shared stories about all the deal making and underhandedness on the political scene lately, then raided the wine cellar and sang songs until daybreak.
Wyatt looked like a drowned rat by the time he dropped us off at home, past nightfall. Paplov and I were equally drenched. The lizard handler had met us nearly halfway to Proudfoot after we didn’t show up at the post on time. He’d heard the same rumors that the innkeeper had pas
sed on to us, and was worried we might present a tempting target for would-be thieves. Paplov tipped him generously and thanked him profusely.
I slept dead to the world that night and Paplov left me undisturbed. Mid-morning, when I began to wake, my feet and legs ached from the long hike and the soaked-in chill of the rain. When I tried to move, my neck felt cramped from the way I had slept, my head pounded, and my shoulders were terribly sore and chaffed from all the backpacking. I wasted an hour or more just debating whether or not it was worth getting up to eat. Finally, I could no longer ignore the rumbling in my stomach. I rolled out of my night sack and lumbered to the study.
Paplov rested in his favorite chair sipping tea, slowly digesting a book and a biscuit. The tea was a special blend, steeped from young five-finger leaves picked just outside of Proudfoot before we left. Paplov claimed the remedy soothed his throat and eased his aches. He was still in his night robe. A heavy wool blanket lay folded over his lap. I slumped into the chair opposite him.
A few nibbles of biscuit and the occasional handful of wild berries were all he could keep down. We were due to hit the trail soon, so preparations had to start right away.
Paplov knew it too, and he sighed when he looked at me with those tired eyes. He stared for a long minute, as though weighing something within. Then relief washed over him, and without cause for concern, he bade me to gather the arrows made, my wits, and some good company. I was to get myself together, stop at Town Hall to file the land lease records, and take my leave come morning the next day. He insisted I make the journey to my uncle’s cabin with friends this time, saying he wanted me out of the hut until his ailment ran its course.
“Fyorn’s eyes’ll light up like fireflies when he sees some fresh young faces for a change,” he said. “I gather he’s getting plenty tired of that ole coot he sees in the mirror every day, with only one other old coot’s company to look forward too.” Paplov began to laugh, but his laugh became a cough. He had choppy words of advice for me, and a request: “Give him my best
SPARX Incarnation: Mark of the Green Dragon (SPARX Series I Book 1) Page 8
