by Damien Lake
At one point the group reached a post protruding from the water. There they turned upriver. They walked against the current for several minutes before reaching a second post, where they resumed their journey for the far shore. Near the midpoint they passed another riverman-borne entourage heading the opposite direction.
As much as Marik enjoyed the relaxing sounds from the water and the cool breeze flowing off it, he kept his attention centered on his porters. They did not look to be planning any mischief, yet Maddock would never have put him on his guard for no reason. Chatham might have thought it a funny joke, but not Maddock. At times a riverman on his side would glance at him with an expression falling an inch short of hostility. Marik kept his hand near his hilt. The tension detracted from the pleasant ride.
In spite of Maddock’s warning though, they attained the far side without trouble after half a mark. Upon emerging from the water and setting them down, seven left the travelers, heading straight to a large fire twining the one on the western shore. The final riverman stayed near them until Harlan made good on his promise. Still dripping, the riverman rejoined his comrades, who immediately demanded their share of the coin.
Only one path led away from the rocky shore. They followed it up the low, tree covered hill where they found the road.
A thrill of exhilaration rippled through Marik. It was a sense of having successfully completed his first adventure. “That was interesting! I’ve never heard of fording a river like that.”
“Sure you have, lad-o! You must have heard lots o’ stories in that tavern you fancied. Probably your unworldly mind thought when they said they crossed with the rivermen, it meant the same as being ferried on a nice, safe boat!”
“Probably you’re right,” he replied. It was easier to agree with Chatham than argue the point. The mockery in the man’s acidic comment doused his thrill as if Chatham had upended a bucket over his head. Instead, he asked Maddock, “Why did you tell me be careful?”
Harlan answered in Maddock’s stead. “The rivermen are little better than highwaymen. They charge to cross, but most of the fee goes into the tax collector’s pouch. One of their tricks is to get you out in the middle of the river, then threaten to dump you and all your possessions into the drink if you won’t ‘donate’ a little to help them out. You could probably get to shore except your possessions would be gone downstream forever.”
That astonished Marik. “Then why use them at all? We could have crossed on foot ourselves.”
“One, I like to be dry. Two, if you try crossing without hiring them, they’re likely to cause trouble.”
“Don’t the highwayguards take them to task? That sounds like outright banditry.”
Harlan snorted. “What can they do? Rivermen protect each other and you can’t arrest everyone in the kingdom. There aren’t enough jail cells.”
“Yet,” chimed in Chatham. Harlan glared at him.
Maddock explained, “They’ll prosecute the more outrageous acts, if there is enough evidence or witnesses. Otherwise, they look the other way.”
“Such as?” asked Marik.
“If you’re a woman, you don’t want to cross alone. Use your imagination,” said Harlan.
Marik could and decided not to think about it any longer. Once, several women in Tattersfield had been raped by a bandit gang who had caught them out in the hills. The bandits had later been hunted down by the guardsmen and hung. That did nothing to ease the fears of the women in question, who still refused to go outside the town alone anymore. Those women’s hysterical images, as they were ushered back into town by the miller who discovered them, always resurfaced in his mind whenever talk like this arose. As a result, he held a low opinion regarding men who forced their attentions on unwilling women.
He opened his mouth to share this bit of his past with his new friends when Chatham crowed, “Look how exhausted the poor sun is! Tired from its long an’ never-ending wanderings o’ the azure fields above, it seeks its own hearth an’ home. I, for one, wish to follow its example! Let’s move!”
* * * * *
With the brilliant orange sun slipping behind the horizon, with the dust from the road catching in their throats, the travelers arrived at a large road inn. Its sight surprised Marik; he was beginning to feel accustomed to the sensation. Here they walked along the Southern Road of Galemar with no towns or villages in sight, and suddenly a massive building appeared from nowhere. And to add a new degree of confusion, enough noise drifted through the doors to make one think it housed an entire garrison of crows.
Maddock had taken on a tutorial role in Marik’s life, which the younger man both appreciated and felt embarrassed by. The older road veteran did not wait for the untraveled youth to ask. “There are a handful of small settlements only a few minutes walk away around these hills. This place attracts the locals as well as being the last stop before the ford. During storms, travelers from the east generally wait here until the ford is reopened.”
“Not to mention,” Chatham’s gleeful voice added, “being one o’ the rare places in this benighted kingdom you can call fun! This is one o’ the few stops I look forward to, my stalwart friends.”
“What happened to the ‘rules o’ the road’, you chattering magpie?” Only two days with Chatham had already started to make Marik less careful of the edge he put on his words. Tired from the long candlemarks of walking, the temper which had been on a constant boil for months in Tattersfield flared. “Isn’t it warm enough to camp outside?”
“Rules were made to be broken! Especially in the vicinity o’ the world renowned ‘Randy Unicorn’! Known for leagues for its thoughtful treatment o’ road weary, upstanding citizens it is.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“You never heard o’ rivermen either. Besides, we need to stop by taverns an’ inns now an’ again to catch up on news o’ the wider world beyond, or at least on news o’ the road ahead. So come now, lad-o! It’s time to broaden your education o’ the finer things in life!” With that, he strode off leaving everyone behind.
Harlan sighed and trudged after him, shaking his head. Marik followed as well, noticing a sign as he walked closer. A large wooden knight’s shield hung from a post extending over the doorway. On it could be seen a carving featuring an exaggeratedly endowed horse with a horn protruding from its head. He imagined it was a unicorn from tales he’d heard, except this was a grayish looking specimen. Weren’t they supposed to be white? As he drew closer, he saw that, in fact, it probably had been white once. Weather and time had stripped most of the paint off. Underneath the rearing hooves were letters which, in all likelihood, spelled out the inn’s name. Since he had never wasted time learning to read, he had no way to tell.
There was and additional floor above the sign and a dozen windows stretching the building’s length. At the far end, a low gate interrupted the stone wall, leading to a stable area. All in all, its sheer size made it look like a prosperous building, despite the deteriorating sign.
After Chatham’s exuberant extolling of the virtues of this particular inn, Marik expected a grand foyer when he entered through the front doors. Instead, a scene remarkably similar to the one whenever he visited Puarri’s Tavern greeted him. A small area with a table for weapons filled the space behind the door. Several pegs for cloaks lined the short wall.
Past the entry, a staircase led to the building’s higher level. To the right was a large common room with several tables and a long bar countertop, behind which several ale kegs rested in various states of readiness. Doors to the kitchen swung open from kicks by platter-laden serving girls. A massive stone fireplace filled most of the far wall. Well, no, not the far wall after all since it crossed only half the room. A matching large area could be seen beyond it. Probably a second common room, Marik assumed. On the Southern Road like this, they must need the extra dining area for all the travelers.
Inside the common room doors stood two huge men, one to either side. They were even bigger and bulkier than
the rivermen, who themselves were the largest men Marik had ever seen. None of the bulk appeared to be fat. When they glanced around the room, they observed all without seeming interested in any particular part. They must be peacekeepers employed by the owner.
Chatham had already landed a table near the fireplace. An impressive accomplishment considering that every other table was already occupied. Were they fellow travelers or locals? Since none wore weapons or packs, he could not tell. Marik started to leave his own blade near the door when Maddock put a hand on his arm and pointed to Harlan. The latter spoke quietly with a half-bald man in a dirty apron. Harlan held Chatham’s blade and pack, Marik noticed.
Harlan had secured lodging for the night. They found the room assigned to them on the second floor. The travelers left their gear in the room and secured the iron lock outside the door with the key the owner gave Harlan, then rejoined Chatham, who started downing his second tankard.
Chatham ignored Harlan’s surly looks. Marik wondered what in the world kept them together as traveling companions. For the sake of conversation, he commented, “I was expecting something grander.”
“Hah! You just wait another mark until full dark. An’ Hanson said a pair o’ minstrels are staying an’ promised to perform later. Since he’s spotting them a room in exchange for services, it should be more than a brief song or two.”
“That’s what so wonderful about this place?”
“As I said, we wait a while longer! You are an impatient fellow, aren’t you?”
Marik refused to rise to Chatham’s baiting. A round of tankards for the group arrived. They were served by a woman in a bodice cut low enough to show off the fact she was nearly as well endowed as the unicorn on the inn’s sign, if not in the same manner. She must have known Chatham since he put his arm around her waist, assaulting her with his flamboyant wit. Laughing, she untangled herself with a smoothness revealing long practice in the maneuver and carried on with her chores.
Chatham glanced at Marik before adding, “But upon deeper consideration, perhaps you’re not ready to appreciate the charms o’ this elegant establishment. What do you think? Hmm?”
“I think I’ll turn in after dinner. I’m still not used to walking all day.”
“A cleaver misdirection! Very well, we’ll leave it at that. But dinner is still a bit off in the future. While we wait, let’s see if we can win our meal!” He rose from the table and tugged at Marik’s arm.
Harlan’s scowl intensified, a feat that impressed Marik. “I said I’m not taking paying this time. I meant it!”
“Fear not, mother hen! Your words have found a home in my heart.”
Harlan’s thoughts on that matter were obvious, yet he let it drop. Chatham led Marik around the corner into the second common area. As Marik had suspected, there were other tables, though this room turned out to be no mere reflection of the first. Noise assaulted him here twice as loudly as across the wall. He could feel his heart beating within his chest from the vibrant noise. A crowd several times that in the first common room had crammed into the back. The pair wound and dodged their way across to the kitchen wall where the people were thickest.
While Marik futilely attempted to shift position from where he was wedged between men, Chatham said, “Watch here, young son. Here’s an opportunity for fun an’ profit unlike any I’ve found elsewhere in the wide open world beyond.”
Marik felt tired of always asking questions. He wanted to figure this situation out himself. On the floor was an area marked out in red paint like a long corridor. The people had lined along the length of this marked area and reminded Marik of the few times in Tattersfield when an important personage would visit. Everyone in town lined the main road, but would never cross the arbitrary line that separated them from the carriage they had come to see. This resulted in a human wall. A similar phenomenon played out here. In this case, rather than watching an impressive carriage role past, they were watching a man throw things.
Apparently the red lines were marked on the floor to keep people from blocking the thrower from his target. A green line marked this end of the aisle as the thrower’s position. At the aisle’s far end, roughly twenty feet away, stood a strange structure. Marik thought it to be a wine rack at first, which held a multitude of bottles in a honeycomb. That was both right and wrong, he realized. What he saw must be a custom-made rack because it held a variety of different sized pots tilted on their side so their mouths opened toward the thrower. This rack had been built in such a way that the mouths were snug against the others. Each pot mouth was a different size, from as big as Marik’s palm to one slightly larger than his thumbnail. Most pots were a muddy brown but a few yellows were scattered around, as well as reds. Three passes of his wandering gaze finally brought his attention to the one in the very center, being the smallest in the lot. It was a bright, silvery gray color. He could find no others so it must be the only one.
The rack stretched six feet wide and from two feet off the floor to the ceiling. On both sides, wooden panels came out from the wall, forming a stall with a short, foot-tall panel across the front. It looked like a booth found at fairs or festivals.
A third well-muscled man stood by another kitchen door, keeping his eye on the crowd. Next to him sat a sour looking man who kept his eye on the thrower.
The crowd’s din escalated while the thrower prepared his next toss. He stood on the green line and turned so his shoulder faced the booth. His arm stretched above his head, gesturing toward the skies, his index and middle fingers pointing while the other fingers were closed in a fist. It took Marik a moment to recognize the object between his fingers as a copper coin.
After holding the pose for a moment, the man took one step forward in a parrying stance. His right leg bent in a crouch while his left extended in a straight line behind him. He curled the arm holding the coin across his chest and suddenly flung it toward the booth. Marik almost missed it, as quickly as the man had flung the coin, and barely glimpsed it hit the lip of one pot, bounce against the wooden booth wall, then fall to the floor. Many spectators laughed, taunting the man. He shook his head at their teasing.
The next man who wanted a turn quickly hustled the first off the line. He also missed, then the man after him managed to land his coin in a brown pot. Several calls and taunts and mixed cheers greeted this accomplishment along the lines of, “See that Philo? At least he can make it in!”
Marik thought most of the details were clear to him so he asked Chatham for the particulars. He responded, “First off, my young inquisitor, you see how all the throwers are throwing the same way? That’s the one rule for playing. You always have to throw with only those two fingers or Clyyde over there disqualifies the throw! He can be a real blighter, but Forrt there next to him keeps us from discussing the finer points o’ fair play for very long. Any coin landing outside the booth can be reclaimed by us poverty stricken hopefuls, but anything landing inside goes into Hanson’s fat pouches. No disputes allowed unless you’ve a talent for discussing matters with Forrt’s longstick there. Land your coin in one o’ those ten yellow pots an’ win ten times the coin you threw. One o’ the five reds gets you twenty-five o’ what you threw, an’ that gray one in the middle will land you a hundred! Think on that a moment! Landing a copper in there gets you a whole silver from Hanson’s grubby paws!”
That was a temptation to think on all right, but Marik debated whether he should test his luck. He watched as man after man tried, including Chatham. The crowd’s shouts passed through his head like a spear thrust and he kept getting jostled by men beside him who jumped or gestured.
Marik only saw one winner. A young man about the same age as himself landed his copper in a yellow pot. The crowd who had jeered when the losers missed erupted with cheers after one of their own triumphed. From comments he overheard, he picked up that the boy lived locally, helping tend the sheep herds they raised collectively.
Clyyde rose from his chair to retrieve the thrown coin. He made a show
of inspecting it thoroughly from weighing it on his open palm to actually biting it. Finally, he pronounced it authentic and reached into his belt pouch, pulling out a ten-copper coin which he handed to the grinning youth. The crowd renewed its enthused cheers. After he reclaimed his seat, Clyyde tossed the copper coin into the pile at the stall’s bottom.
Marik finally took a turn after digging a copper from his purse. He stood on the green line and imitated the pose he had seen the previous men perform. The difficulty in throwing so small an object without using his thumb would be the biggest obstacle. His main priority with this shot, he decided, was to keep from flinging his coin into a bystander’s head. After preparing for the toss, rubbing his fingers back and forth to keep the coin from sticking to his flesh, he flung his arm, sending the coin flying.
He was glad to see the coin fly true along the alley rather than into the crowd, and was amazed as the coin flew straight into one of the yellow pots. His amazement turned slack-jawed when his coin hit the pot’s rear, then bounced straight back out to land in the pile on the ground. The spectators exploded into howling laughter mixed with cheers. Even Clyyde looked as if he wanted to laugh.
“So close, sooo close, lad-o,” Chatham wheezed, crying with laughter. “I thought it was the luck o’ the beginner until you revealed yourself as a devoted follower o’ some god o’ sarcasm!”
This irritated Marik greater than it might have otherwise, coming from Chatham. He decided to return to the table and see how the other two were faring. Caught up in the crowd’s shouts, he had lost track of time. Since he’d watched so many throwers, he felt sure they must have finished their meal and were busy with whatever they might be doing. Marik had never stayed in a road inn with them before so their habits were unknown to him.
